A/N: I am not French, not do I study French. All French is taken from my schoolgirl French I learnt two years ago. Likewise, I do not understand music. Any mistakes I make in the course of this ficlet will probably be ridiculously stupid, and honestly, I have no regrets, damnit. Let me pretend to be intelligent.

Paris; the cultural hub of the world, a home to artists, inventors, poets and lovers.

In a boulevard of soaring dreams stood a library. Above ground, a city of books and dust and days gone by; below, a symphonic cavern of the night. A staircase was the only portal between these two worlds, and the creatures from down below would linger there, cigarette smoke and gossip trickling from their lips. And the creatures from above would linger too, curiosity piqued, minds awhir with the possibility of a world so unlike their own.

Maka Albarn was a skinny girl with breasts as flat as her purse. She had uninteresting hair of an indiscriminate colour, yet her eyes were watchful and sharp. Her hands were stronger and lither than they should have been, and were marred by scribbled words and inky scars. She lived among the dusty tomes of the upper reaches of the building, pored over Latin and foreign dynasties, absolved herself in fantasy and legend, studied algebra and quantum physics. A self-made beacon of knowledge, her friends and neighbours flocked to her for advice and answers. Every morning just after dawn, she would enter those hallowed halls and by nightfall, she would be gone. She was never there to watch the creatures of the night come or go.

Soul Evans was a boy with a slouch born from a lifetime without cares. His eyes were heavy, his gaze lazy. His hair, pale enough to be considered white, was neglected and stood erect from days without brushing, yet his clothes betrayed his wealth and status. He was a creator; he could bind sounds to his will, coax songs from strings and keys, transform a mere whisper into a masterpiece. His sound was not one of renown, yet those who had heard it flocked to him for another melody. Every evening, just after the set of the sun, he would enter the subterranean palace and by sunrise, he would be gone. He was never there to watch the spirits of the day come or go.

They weren't supposed to meet. A juxtaposition of their two worlds was incomprehensible.

They say Paris is sweetest in the springtime, when the trees guarding the precious tower burst into life, and the sun remembers its previous intentions, shining down on the city with rekindled zeal. The birdsong is cheerier, the streets busier, the parties wilder.

And so it was that Soul Evans stayed long past his usual hours, returning to the streets with resiual ash from his cigarette on the one shoulder, and a violin case filled with crumpled notes slung over the other. Maka's shoulders were equally weighed down with the books she was due to return, and it was pure coincidence that these two shoulders bumped.

Maka couldn't help but blush a little; partly because of his intense gaze, partly because of her own clumsiness. She mumbled a quick, "Excusez-moi, monsieur," and hurried away.

Soul Evans didn't know much French, and surrounded himself with those who could speak his own tongue, but these garbled words were some of the few he understood. He made no reply, however, since the girl was too far away, and his head was still throbbing, his mouth incapable of forming coherent sounds. And so it was that he only grunted dismissively, heading in the other direction.

Maka slipped into her second home, her world of literature, taking care to wipe her shoes on the mat provided. The librarian was almost like a sister to her and they exchanged smiles as Maka reached into her bag to withdraw the books. But her fingers touched something that wasn't paper, and she recoiled slightly. It was a lighter.

Books advocated both liberty and conformity, were torn between democracy and monarchy, and could not conclude the happenings of the future, yet all agreed that smoking was a vice. She could list the implements of the tar and toxins stored within each roll of paper- the only use of paper that was not for good- and offer a million arguments for rehabilitation. The fact that a lighter had wormed its way into her possession was absurd.

"Mademoiselle?" the librarian enquired.

"Oui," she said, with a shake of her head to clear her head of the rogue information, and passed the books over the counter.

She would get rid of the lighter as soon as she was done for the day, she promised herself, settling down in an alcove overlooking the river. Although the view was beautiful, her mind turned to the Nile and the secrets hidden in the silt of its banks. The words took hold of her and time became a insubstantial whisper of memories and dreams. But she was not in Cairo, but in Paris, and here the days were shorter and the nights darker, the stars suffocated by tungsten and neon. It was later than usual, and Maka found she did not have the time to scavenge for more to read. She got up to leave, her bag empty, save for the lighter.

Soul had not compensated for his late departure that morning and was in the library at his usual time, mingling with his kind, his pack of nocturnal lyricists. There they stood, on the staircase, dragons breathing smoke and song, surrounded by a thrall of eager adolescents. He lapped up the attention, whispering sweet nothings into the girls' ears so that they would giggle and press closer, never mind that they didn't understand his English tongue. Sometimes, he would push the boundaries and murmur obscenities, but they were lost within the tide of his compliments and poetry. The French girls never knew the difference anyway.

When Maka saw him, lips pressed tight against another cigarette, about to descend back into his musical abyss, a spark of recognition ignited in her brain, and the mystery of the lighter was solved.

"Arretez, monsieur!" she called, reaching out to halt him.

Soul turned, glanced first at the hand on his shoulder, the hand that bore inked hieroglyphs, then at her face, and through the smoke of his mind, he recalled that morning.

"Tu as oublie cette."

None of those words made sense to him, but the extended lighter did, and he gave her a lazy smile and a heavily accented, "Merci, belle."

Unlike most other girls, she didn't seem at all fazed by the compliment. She gave a demure smile as acknowledgement and turned on her heel to leave, calling a, "Bonne nuit, madame," over to the librarian as she left the building.

Soul watched her go, and entered the living night.