There was a knock at the door.

"S'open," she called from the couch, her eyes not leaving her book. She wasn't in her usual hostess-y mood. Fuck it. Fuck everything.

Black Star poked his head in, giving the apartment the once over before entering. "Soul home?"

"No," she said. His voice needled under her skin. It set her on edge.

He came in anyway, plopping down beside her and draping a black shirt over her thigh. "He left this at my place."

She dug her fingers into the material, half-wishing she could burn through it with the power of thought alone. "Thanks."

Their transaction was over, but he didn't leave. He leaned back and put his feet up. When she could stand it no longer, she peered into his face. His eyes were distant, unfocused. She knew the feeling. They all did.

It'd been three months and the screams still echoed. They'd lost people. Friends. Miss Marie.

Her papa.

The scars were still fresh on Black Star's arms, raised and red. He hadn't been fast enough, and she knew it killed him. He'd never say it, but he hated leaving kids without parents. He might not have been the one to land the deathblow, but he didn't stop it, and in his mind, that was the same thing. Marie's daughter would grow up without a mother.

She put a hand on his arm. It was enough to shake him out of his reverie and he stood to leave. Her fingers traced down scar tissue until she found his hand. When she didn't let go, he turned to look down at her.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. There was an image in her memory, floating just below the surface. Black Star and her, alone and isolated, finding shelter in the desert, separated from their weapons. Her entire body wracked with grief, her father's blood still on her hands. They didn't know who'd made it out. They didn't know anything but screaming agony, and they'd tried to silence it in each other.

It was stupid. It was a mistake. But it was done, and nothing was the same.

Star's eyebrows were knit together, his face grim and painfully free of his usual mirth. He couldn't even wear his mask anymore.

"You can stay with me tonight," she whispered. "If you want."

He yanked his hand free of her. "Don't turn into a needy bitch, Maka. It doesn't suit you."

Then she was standing, her book connecting with his skull. "Screw you. I don't want you to be my fucking boyfriend. You know better."

"So do you," he yelled at her. "You know we can't."

"Why?" she said, throwing the book across the room. "He's not here. He's never here. He signs up for missions with every other compatible meister. We haven't worked a mission together in weeks." Her voice broke. "He already hates me, and I can't stand it."

Black Star scowled deeply, loathe to comfort her. "He doesn't hate you. That's the fucking problem."

"It doesn't matter," she said. "I just need someone around who doesn't refuse to look at me. Just for a while. Just for a minute."

And he did look at her, his jaw muscle twitching. "I'm not your guy." He turned to leave.

Her voice cracked behind him. "Why was this shirt at your place?"

He froze. "He left it last time he crashed, probably."

"Yeah?" She came around to stand in front of him, waving the shirt in his face. "That was two weeks ago. You just found this today?"

He grit his teeth and didn't respond.

Her eyes brimmed with tears. "Where's Tsubaki tonight?"

"Don't," he warned, voice low and threatening.

"Is she waiting at home for you? Or did she go out? Urgent errand for a friend?"

"Don't," he yelled, pushing her away.

Maka tossed the shirt away in disgust. "You won't admit it, but you know." She pushed him back. "You. Know. What else could we possibly expect to happen?"

They stood toe to toe, shaking with rage and sorrow in the pathetic low light from her reading lamp.

"Fuck," he breathed as he fell into her, resolve worn away.

She jumped up to wrap her legs around him and he caught her easily, backing them both into the nearest wall, hard. Their mouths were hot, demanding, taking. His fingers dug painfully into her hips and her nails raked over his arms and shoulders. It wasn't tender. It wasn't kind. It was furious and maddening, like howling frantically at the blackened moon, hoping someone could hear and knowing no one ever would.

She crushed her eyes closed and twisted her fingers in his hair, desperately imagining the color drained away. When she yanked his head back to expose his neck, he growled as her teeth met skin and she pretended the growl was throatier, more like a purr and less like a wild animal. He tore her blouse open, buttons flying every which way.

Everything tasted like salt. Sweat or tears, it didn't matter. It was all salt, leaving burning thirst in its wake. Nothing they did would quench it, not really, but they were going to try anyway.

Tsubaki shifted up to sitting, her bare back pale in the fading daylight as she pulled her top on over her head. She perched on the edge of the bed like a cautious bird, ready to take flight at the slightest noise.

Soul traced his fingers along her lower back before she pulled her shirt down far enough. She didn't react under his touch. She never did, after. He needed her to react. He needed it so badly.

He sat up and wrapped his arms around her, stopping her from reaching the rest of her clothes. Very softly, he nuzzled her neck. But there was no real love in it, no passion, and she pried his arms loose.

"I have to get back," she said. "He'll probably be home soon."

Soul flopped back down on the mattress, staring at the carefully pattered ceiling above the bed. Kid's guest house also fell prey to the Death God's symmetrical aesthetic, unsurprisingly. He listened to her dress and he hated everything. Most of all himself.

"We have to stop," she whispered in the twilight. "We can't keep doing this. Not to them. Not to ourselves."

"Fuck 'em," he said, not for the first time. "They don't own us."

"No they don't," she responded, tears behind her words. "But we belong to them, and you know it."

She moved to stand and he grabbed her wrist. The room was still light enough that he could see her turn to look at him.

He hated hurting this much. He hated feeling like he'd been hollowed out with his own blade. He hated the hesitation in his meister's hand when she wielded him, the way their trust had turned into cracked, thinning ice, ready to plunge them into blackness any moment. He hated, he hated, he hated. He didn't want to hate tonight.

"Stay with me," he heard himself say. "Just stay, Tsu. Please."

She hesitated. He must've looked incredibly pathetic, because it only took a minute for her to slip back into bed beside him. They weren't lovers, not really, but they were friends, and she never left a wounded friend behind.

Their foreheads touched. They didn't kiss, they didn't hold hands. They just laid together and felt a little less alone.

When Soul pulled his bike up at their apartment in the mid-morning sunlight, his mouth tasted terrible. No toothbrushes in the guest bathroom. He swung himself off the motorcycle and walked with his head down, so preoccupied with his own stray thoughts that he and Black Star collided before he'd even realized the guy was there.

"Sorry, man," he said. "Didn't see you."

"Yeah," Star agreed. He looked like shit. Shadows under his eyes, angry scratches along his biceps. "I just swung by to drop off your shirt. Found it behind the couch."

"Oh. Right. Must've forgotten it from..."

"... last time you crashed. Yeah."

Black Star's stance felt off, like he was tensed for a fight and trying not to show it. The air between them felt charged. Soul cleared his throat and gestured at Star's arms. "The fuck happened to you?"

"Attacked by a tiny tiger," he said. There was no humor in his voice.

"Sounds like you. I'll see ya." He clapped his friend on the back and moved toward the stairs.

"You're wearing one of her headbands, you know."

Soul's heart leaped to his throat and he quickly swallowed it back down. He expected a fist to the back of the head. Welcomed it, in fact. None came, and when he turned, all he saw was the retreating figure of Black Star, rolling his shoulders and refusing to look back.

He took off his jacket and pulled the band from his hair. Had he been that obvious? His mouth twisted. Did it fucking matter?

He pushed his way into their apartment, fully intending to go straight to the shower, but he looked up and stopped. There she was, standing in the kitchen and wearing nothing but his shirt. The one he'd left at Black Star's. Her eyes shifted from the eggs she was beating, meeting his, her mouth open a little in surprise.

"You're home," she said, voice flat.

"I do still live here," he gritted out, walking past her toward his room. He stopped halfway there, grinding his teeth and itching for a fight, blood still thrumming from Black Star's words.

He threw his jacket down and rounded back on her. "I've told you a thousand times to stop taking my shit. You'd better wash that."

The chopsticks she was using slammed down on the counter and she met him head on. "I'll wash the hell out of it, don't worry."

"Just stay out of my stuff and don't be an asshole!"

"I wasn't in your stuff." She grabbed a fistful of the shirt. "Black Star brought this by last night."

"Last n-" He stopped. They were yelling at each other in the hall in front of her bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. He turned his head to look inside and saw her usually perfectly-made bed full of twisted sheets.

He looked at her, struggling with everything he had to cover his cracked-open wounds with anger and disgust. "I guess that makes you the tiny fucking tiger, huh?" he sneered at her. He hoped she'd shatter.

She just stood there. Sad, impassive, done.

"Poor Soul, loyal to a fault, right?" she whispered. "You smell like her."

He was crumbling. He made an inhuman noise somewhere deep in his chest and tore himself away, slamming his door behind him. He slid down its length, his legs folding on the floor beneath him. He buried the heels of his hands in his eyes until they hurt.

He caught his cry in his throat and held it there, trapped.