Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater, nor the lyrics to Brighter than the Sun by Colbie Caillat.
Away From The Sun
by. Poisoned Scarlett
Oh, this is how it starts, lightening strikes the heart
It goes off like a gun, brighter than the sun
Oh, we could be the stars, falling from the sky
Shining how we want, brighter than the sun...
I swear you hit me like a vision...
But who am I to tell fate where it's supposed to go?
The train is packed today.
Maka Albarn has to fight for her spot by the automatic doors of the subway. She clutches her bag to her side, pressing her foot into the floor when she feels the train decelerate. The doors chime before opening, a crowd of people exiting and more taking their place. In their haste, they nearly pull her out with them, but she stands strong and keeps a tight grip on the pole.
She woke up late today. It doesn't happen very often but when it does she's practically promised trouble like this. The train is more packed today than usual. It's probably rush hour, Maka grumbles to herself. Her eyes catch sight of a couple down into the cart and as the train comes to another stop, she watches as the boy grabs her shoulder to keep her from falling forward; her very own lifeline, preventing her from being swept away by the crowd.
It's not that she can't get one of those – boyfriends, she hasn't used that word in a while – it's that they served as more of a distraction than a benefit. Her friends have had loads. Compared to them, she's pitiful. One or two, that's about it, since high school.
She hasn't been in high school for four years.
The train comes to another stop. This time people come in, threatening her spot by the door again. Just as the doors close, a hand strikes out to stop it. Maka looks up at black headphones hanging around a neck, hoodie flipped over a head of silver white. He manages to squeeze in, a sigh barely audible with all the noise within the train.
She knows him. His name is Soul Evans. He used to go to high school with her, that long time ago. They used to have Trigonometry together and he always asked her for a pencil because he never brought his own. And paper. Don't forget the paper. The only thing he seemed to have on his person was his headphones and his iPod. That he brought faithfully, along with a jacket. It used to be a yellow letterman before he switched it for a more mature, more cool, black leather one that he wore faithfully until they graduated.
She wants to say hello but she doesn't know if she should, since it's been years since they last seen each other.
But he glances at her and does a double-take, recognition flickering through his eyes. They dart down to the textbook pressed tightly to her chest, the low pigtails that fall down her shoulders. The cream knit sweater whose sleeves fall past her wrists, the blue pleated skirt that falls a little short on her thighs.
Maybe she should have said hello, after all.
She thinks she sees a slight grin brief his face but she can't be sure: he's gone ahead and pushed deeper into the train. She realizes it's because, as the train makes another stop and people disembark, he takes a recently vacated seat and flips his headphones back on, slouching the same way she remembered him to.
She guesses some habits die hard.
She tries not to look at him – really, she does try. But it's hard, because he looks like he's hardly changed one bit. Perhaps he's a little taller, a little broader, his chin has squared off and his hair has grown longer than she remembers. But his eyes are as vivid red as she recalls them to be and his teeth are as sharp as everyone believed they were. That hasn't changed.
She wonders if she's changed.
Probably not, she agrees with herself. She no longer wears a red skirt, now its blue and pleated. She's ditched the Oxford shirt for knit sweaters. She's got tons of them in different colors: cream, peach, black, gray, orange, pink. They're always pastel soft, always bigger on her than they should because one thing that hasn't changed about her is her petite size. Some have hoods, some don't. Some hang off her shoulder, some are turtle-neck. But she's taken to wearing them.
Maybe because he's influenced her, even a little bit.
He always wore jackets.
Well, she always wears sweaters.
"…have arrived at the Hawthorn and Vine station…"
Maka prepares to disembark, lost in a thought about his sudden reappearance as she'd heard he'd left for New York after graduation, and when she takes one step, her book falls out of her grasp. But it doesn't so much fall as the lady beside her has knocked it out of her hand. It slides across the gritty floor, getting stepped on once or twice, and when Maka struggles to reenter the train to retrieve it, the doors chime and close—nearly taking her fingers with it.
She swears and looks up and down the station desperately. She looks back through the scratched up windows and her eyes catch red but before she could really focus on them, the train departs – along with her textbook, her homework.
"No—! Damn it!" The train disappears down the tunnel and she groans.
That cost her approximately ninety dollars.
Today was shaping out to be a very bad day.
A/N: I am pleased to announce that this was created in entirely one day (no, not the chapter, the entire story! It's short as it is, so don't be too surprised) and will have a sequel, which I am working on as I speak. The sequel will probably be finished within the next few days. If I finish it quickly enough, you're guaranteed this story will be updated in a daily fashion. But, for now, we'll keep it cool :)