#maple writes

Edward Elric has never been a man of faith—even calling himself 'spiritual' would be a stretch. He most certainly would never call himself 'religious,' lest some teenage version of him keel over from humiliation. Still, as he nears the age of thirty, he can't deny the appeal of the beautiful cathedrals he wanders past each afternoon. One day, years and years ago, he even stumbled into one during some special Mass.

Half-drunk, half-angry, belligerent and inconsoleable once the liquor had distilled itself into tears, he tripped over his own leg and sprawled like a starfish in the aisle between the pews. The parishioners ranged from disgusted to empathetic, but all Edward had wanted was a fight. He'd wanted to shout, and curse, and beat the very God that had trapped him here—had trapped them all with false promises of better days to come.

"Don't you see?!" he wailed as some kind stranger rolled him onto his back. "What does it matter? What's the point?" No one answered him, really. He was scooped up and dragged to the priest's own lodgings for the night.

In the morning, he left drenched in sweat and shame, but not before the priest offered him an opportunity to confess any sins that may have been plaguing him at the time. Edward refused and told the man that he honestly thought that religion was pointless, a complete waste of time only intended to fool the masses and keep precious few in power.

He returned that night to use the confessional, anyway.

"Tell me, child, what troubles you?" the priest said from the other side of the partition.

Edward shook his head and cleared his throat, sure that the smell of alcohol had to be seeping through the holes in the screen between them. "I don't think…you won't believe me," he finally said, dropping his head back against the wall behind him. "'S'all bad. Everything I've ever done." The priest offered a hum of acknowledgement, and Edward felt stupid for even entering the church in the first place. There was no anonymity here—what other drunks had been offered refuge and comfort recently?

"Do you have…examples, maybe?" the other man asked, and Edward barked out a laugh.

"Oh, boy. Lots of 'em, I'm sure, but you'll think I'm crazy." Edward closed his eyes in the dark and took a deep breath, trying to focus more on its sound than the scent of incense that seemed baked onto every single surfance.

"We live in times of madness, my friend. I doubt your sins are much worse than anyone else's."

Ed paused his self-flagellation only briefly before letting out a long sigh. "I killed my mom. And my brother. And my dad." Silence rang between them, and he cleared his throat as discreetly as he could manage.

"Did you?" the man asked, "Or do you simply blame yourself?"

Edward thought hard about the question—harder than he probably should have, honestly, because he ended up vomiting all over the floor on his side of the partition.

For the second night in a row, Edward slept in the priest's spare bed, and for the second morning, he left the cathedral stinking of booze and regret.

Now, as Edward crosses the same threshold five years later, he can't help the way his entire being relaxes. He understands, as he does with most things these days, that religion is not some monolith of dishonesty as he once believed. He ducks his head in greeting when he sees the priest in the hallway, who offers him a kind smile in return.

"Edward! It's good to see you, son. Will you be staying for Evening Mass?" he asks, reaching for a handshake.

Edward chuckles wryly and clasps the other man's hand, grasping his arm with a grin. "I think you know the answer to that one, Father," he responds, a gentle denial that he's expressed dozens, hundreds of times before. "I'll clear out before people start filing in, don't worry."

"You don't have to, you know," the priest counters, tone as light and friendly as ever, and Edward simply shakes his head.

"I think it's for the best, Mike. I'm sure plenty of folks remember me well enough as the drunkard who spoiled your first Christmas here." Ed nods in toward the double doors that lead to the nave. "I'll only be a few minutes."

"Alright," Mike sighs, the noise exaggerated as he rolls his eyes good-naturedly, and Edward laughs. Mike releases Edward's hand and motions as if to usher him inside. "Be careful if you head up to the pulpit. We have someone here working on the altar."

"Finally getting a new one?" Ed asks as he places a hand on one of the doors and leans into it.

"Sister Violet was kind enough to offer the funds," Mike says, though his tone belies some underlying gossip that Edward would be all too happy to indulge in were he not so eager to leave before the service, "and to suggest a lovely young lady with the right talents to install it."

Ed laughs as he pushes his way into the chapel. "You'll have to tell me about it next time."

Mike pats him on the back with a laugh of his own and agrees, "Next time!" before continuing his path toward his quarters and leaving Ed alone.

Once inside, Edward takes a slow breath and closes his eyes, basking in the quiet that follows the sound of Mike's receding footsteps. When he opens his eyes again, though, the air in his lungs turns to lead. There, stood just in front of the altar, is probably the last person in the world who would want to see him right now. Before he can turn to leave, she lifts her gaze and pins him to his spot as recognition, then anger, then annoyance work their way across her face.

"Edward," she says curtly, turning back to her work with a speed that makes his head spin. "I thought you were anti-religion, or whatever." She holds a rag to the lip of a bottle and turns it to soak up some of its contents. Stain? Varnish, maybe?

He swallows around the lump that's settled at the back of his tongue, dropping his eyes to the floor and clearing his throat. "Y-yeah. I mean, I still…still am…but it's peaceful here, so…" He swears he can hear her roll her eyes. "I—look, I can go."

She sighs. "You're so dramatic." He looks up to see her facing him again, hands on her hips. "It's a public building."

He can already feel his cheeks flushing as he nods and glances away again, the thirty feet of space between them feeling both miniscule and insurmountable. "Right…"

When he meets her eyes once more, she gestures to the dozens of pews that line the aisle. "Well? Don't let me stop you." Edward ducks his head once in acknowledgement and makes his way to a seat as far from her place in the sanctuary as he can get.

There's an extended stretch of relative silence, but his thoughts are far too loud for him to enjoy it as he usually would. He studies the stained glass window closest to his chosen seat as his mind races in the least productive way possible. Before long, there's a hand on his shoulder that sends him scrambling over the raised bit of wood at the end of the pew, struggling to get his feet under him and turning to face whatever made the contact in the first place. When he finds her there, both hands raised in an effort to pacify him, his shoulders immediately slump.

"It's just me," she offers gently, and he sighs and runs his left hand through his hair. "I just wanted to…" she drops her gaze and lets her hands fall to the seat of the pew with a shrug, "…check in, I guess? Since you kind of disappeared on me."

Ed drags both hands down face before shoving them into his pockets with a slow exhale. "I'm…I've been okay," he replies, and for the first time in his life, he's pretty sure it's true. "Listen, Winnie, I'm sorry—"

She scoffs, but Ed's heart soars at the sound because at least she isn't crying. "It's not your fault," she mutters with a shrug. "I'm not her."

A pit settles in Edward's stomach. "And I'm not him," he says softly. There's a long pause as he stands and she sits. Soon enough, the first members of the congregation start to filter in, and Ed looks toward the entrance as the doors creak open and a couple of deacons kick doorstops beneath them. "You wanna get out of here?" he asks after a moment, and he's almost surprised when she agrees.

"Yeah, sure," she says, tone noncommittal even as she stands and rubs her hands up and down her thighs. "Let me just…pack up. I'll meet you outside?"

He nearly offers to help, but she's already halfway down the length of the pew before he can force out the words. Awkwardly, he strides toward the vestibule as slowly as he can and barely keeps himself from watching her as she moves. He manages to exit the building without being recognized or stopped again—Father Mike must be somewhere else, donning his robes, or saying his prayers, or whatever he does to prepare for Mass. After glancing up and down the street, he takes the steps down to the sidewalk and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, then the lighter she had given him for their first anniversary.

"You still have that?"

He turns at the sound of her voice, then looks down at the gift with a wry laugh. "Ah, yeah…I'm a sucker for nostalgia," he says with a shake of his head, then pulls out a cigarette for himself and holds out the pack. "Smoke?"

She raises a brow, but takes one from him anyway. "Since when?" She adjusts the bag slung over her shoulder and checks her pocket for a lighter of her own, but Edward strikes the flint on his and holds it up for her. She places the cigarette between her lips and leans forward to catch his flame, then straightens and takes a slow drag that leaves her in a sigh as she raises a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. "Thought your vice was booze."

Ed shrugs as he eyes her for a moment, then lights his own cigarette before tucking the pack and the lighter away. "Two? Three years? This is cheaper," he replies, though it's not entirely the truth. "Takes up less space, too. A carton of cigarettes is way smaller than the mountains of bottles I used to rack up." He takes a pull and shakes his head a tad. "Al got pretty fed up with the mess, so."

"I recall," she hums. "I thought I was gonna marry you, remember?"

He raises the smoke to his lips and inhales as his heart twists in his chest, and a strange silence settles between them. "What a mess that would have been," he mumbles, trying for humor where they both know there is none.

"You're telling me," she grouses. "You probably would've spent the wedding leaning on the altar." Edward feels sick.

"I really am sorry, Winnifred," he tries for a second time, and she sighs and reaches up to scratch at the scar above her eyebrow with her pinkie, cigarette held gracefully between her index and middle fingers.

"I know, Ed. I know you are." She steps back to allow a man past them, and Edward does the same. "So am I." She meets his eyes for the second time since he entered the church, and he feels just a little bit lighter for it. At least until she looks down again and scuffs her shoe against the ground. "Like I said, I…I'm not her. I'll never be her. And it wasn't…fair of me, I guess, to push things like I did."

Edward starts shaking his head before she's even finished speaking. "Winn, no. Okay? You're not—what I did to you was wrong. You're not some stand-in, alright? And I never should have treated you like one."

She wraps her arms around herself as a gust of wind rushes past them and gives him a conciliatory nod, though her shoulders find her ears in a stilted shrug. "I…appreciate that," she finally says, and Edward nods as she reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear. "Well—hey, I've gotta get back, so…" She looks up at him again, and Edward feels like he's drowning. "It was good seeing you."

"I…y-yeah," he manages, ducking his head and flicking the ash from his cigarette as he eyes its dull ember. "You, too, Winnie."

There's a pause before she huffs, and when he looks up, she's digging through her bag for something. He blinks, and she's handing him a small piece of cardstock. "If you need anything fixed." Her eyes flit to his automail and back up, a silent reminder that they really are so similar.

"What—?"

"You're limping," she deadpans.

Ed's brows raise a tad, though he isn't sure why he's surprised by her perceptiveness. "It's the weather," he excuses, but he takes her card anyway. "But thank you. For the offer."

She squints, obviously skeptical. "The weather?"

"It rained all last week!"

She sighs and takes another drag of her cigarette as she considers him. "And that's all it is?"

"That's all it is," he confirms. He doesn't tell her about the broken elevator in his building, which has only exasperated the issue. He's been so sore for so long that he hardly notices the pain anymore, but she knows that. He tucks her card into the pocket in the inner lining of his coat.

"Well, I guess we were wrong, then." She wraps her hands around the shoulder strap of her bag. Edward must make a face that betrays his confusion, because she continues, "You don't need me."

The pit from earlier returns and somehow manages to simultaneously lodge itself in his throat and drop so hard into his stomach that he nearly doubles over. "I don't…Winn, that isn't—"

She shakes her head, and he stops talking. "No, it's good," she assures him. "That's a good thing." She lifts onto her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek before he can even process that she's moved and says, "You look good, Ed." She pats him on the chest, right over her card, right over his heart. "I've gotta go, but give me a call? We should catch up sometime."

Edward's hand covers his cheek as she walks away, and he can't hardly believe it. He finishes his cigarette on his own walk home, his pulse pounding in his ears as he replays the interaction again and again. By the time he reaches the apartment he shares with his brother, he's almost glad to find it empty. Once he's toed off his shoes and removed his coat, he takes a brief moment to consider her final words. He swallows down his anxiety, reaches into the inner lining, and pulls out the small card with little more than her name scrawled in her own handwriting.

General Repairs and Handiwork Freddie Rockwell Be sure to ask the operator!

Jedediah is, and always has been, a prideful man.  Sure, pride is one of those "seven deadly sins," but, well…shit—he always thought that must’ve been some sort of exaggeration, honestly.  How many men really died from greed?  Or lust, of all things?!  He's always just…assumed it was all a big scare tactic of sorts.  Something the church said to keep pants on the teenagers and keep folks from sticking their fingers in too many pies!  Keep them focused on what they're supposed to do, in a way.

No, Jedediah never did think his pride would be what killed him, but damn if he didn't leave for Santa Fe with a lick and a promise.  They’re a month and a half in, their canteens have dried up, and there’s been no rain for weeks.

He sighs as he stares down at the map laid out before him.  He reads his own script and reaches up to rub his forehead.  He presses his palms to the small desk, leaning over it as thoughts race through his mind.  He grinds his teeth, jaw flexing, and shakes his head as he pushes himself to stand, snatching his hat from its place at the edge of the map.  He's about to leave his tent when his brother enters, skin somehow both pale and flushed.

"Jedediah—" he starts, and Jed simply shakes his head.

"Now, look—I know it ain't lookin' great right now, but we're about a day'n a half from the Cimarron," Jedediah says, plopping his hat into place.  "We can't all make that trip with folks this parched, but there's a clearin' off the trail aways, and I might find water there."

"Jed, you don't—"

"Pete, you gotta trust me here if we wanna keep above snakes," Jed insists, clapping his brother on the shoulder with a gloved hand.  "I'll leave the map—hell, I made the damn thing, so it ain't like I need it."

The tent flap opens again while Jed speaks, revealing a third Smith brother.  "Jedediah, that map ain't gonna be doin' us any good anyway," Austin interrupts, looking about as pale as Peter.

Jed's brows furrow.  "The hell's that s'posed t' mean?" he asks.

"Get out here," is all Austin says before leaving the tent.

Peter squeezes himself between Jedediah and the canvas of the cramped tent to usher the cartographer out ahead of him, and Jed gets ready to air out his lungs as he's shoved out into the sunlight.  What he's met with, though, has him swallowing his pre-loaded curses.  There's a very long, very pregnant pause before Jedediah clears his throat and says, "That map really ain't gonna be doin' us any good then, is it?"

The vast countryside is gone—well, most of it, it seems—and the heavy heat along with it.  He sends his gaze toward the sky, gripping the brim of his hat as he squints up at where the sun ought to be.  "...What in the name'a…?"

"Jed…" he hears from next to him.

He reaches to his right without looking, smacking blindly at Austin's arm.  "C'n y'all tell me how many suns're s'posed t' be up right now?"

Another pause.

He feels Peter's hand on his left shoulder.  "Jed, the sun ain't really our biggest problem at present."

Jed's gaze snaps to him, his reaction near-visceral.  "The shit you mean it ain't?!  Sun rises in the East, sets in the West—what the hell're we meant to do with four of 'em?!  How're we s'posed t' know?!"

"Jed, he means The Dropoff," Austin says, and Jedediah looks to him and feels an impressive need to sit down.  "And walls—Wyatt says there's walls—"

Jed looks out toward The Dropoff, and his stomach seems to leap from it.  He remembers learning in school that people used to think the world was like that—with an edge you could fall off of.  His knees buckle, and he distantly hears his own spurs ring as his rear end hits the ground.  "We ain't got water…we ain't got a river…"

There's a moment of quiet as they all process what this means.  Jedediah takes in the noise of the campsite before them, or rather the lack thereof.  Where there would normally be shouts and idle chatter, there's nothing but a tense, awed silence.  Only the horses dare to nicker amongst themselves.  The campsite feels desolate.

"A buncha folks headed over to the edge to have a look," Austin says, placing a hand on Jedediah's shoulder.  "Wyatt says he thinks there's people out there."

"People, huh?"  Jed reaches up to rub his jaw as it flexes.  "You two stick around here, alright?"  He moves to stand, turns back to the tent, and heads inside to grab a few things.

"Jed, what are you thinking?" Peter calls from outside the tent before whipping one of the flaps open.

"I'm thinkin', Pete," Jed retorts, "that I'm the oldest here, 'n' seein' as y'all're only here on account'a me—"

"Jed, that's not true," Peter insists, but Jed's guilt only worsens.

"It damn well is true, Pete!" he shouts back, grabbing his satchel and jamming his fist into it to keep it open on his bedroll.  He kneels to grab his Bible from its place in his blankets.  Peter doesn't know the horrors of pioneering the way Jed does―doesn't know how quickly things can go wrong.  "Now, listen.  I promised Mama I'd keep y'all safe, an' now we're stuck without options."

Peter enters the small tent, and Austin opens the other tent flap.  "That ain't your fault, Jed," Austin tries.  "Lack'a rain ain't got nothin' t' do with you.  Ain't you the one always sayin' God's got—"

"—His reasons, yeah, I know," Jed snaps.  He grabs his journal and adds it to the satchel, also shoving his canteen inside.  "Ain't mean I gotta agree with 'em."  He snags some dried rabbit meat and places it inside as well.  "Testin' us—testin' my patience, more like," he grumbles, running a hand through his dark hair.

"You've gotten out of tougher spots;" Peter tries, "you were attacked by a bear!"

Jed glares at him over his shoulder before turning back to close his bag.  "Yeah, well, ya can't trick a drought."  He stands and pulls the bag's strap across his body.

He shoves past his brothers and considers heading for his horse.  No good.  Bad riding terrain if there's a drop.  He hears their footsteps behind him as he strides toward The Dropoff.

"Jed, you really don't have—"

Jed quickly cuts Peter off.  "Austin, you're in charge.  I want everyone lookin' f’r cactus, got it?  I know it's early in the growin' season, but it's our best shot."  He can almost hear the silent conversation his brothers share behind him.

"Got it," Austin confirms after a moment as the three of them approach the murmuring crowd at the edge of…everything.

Jed reaches up to grab the brim of his hat and shoulders his way through the crowd, and his heart stops when he reaches the front.  “Shit…” he breathes.  He looks over the edge and swallows thickly.  It’s gotta be…

“How far’s that, d’ya think?” someone asks next to him. Jed briefly thinks the kid must have read his mind.  “‘Bout a hundred feet?”

Jed shakes his head minutely.  “Not, uh…not quite.  I’d say…fifty?  Seventy-five, maybe?”  Sure as hell looks like a hundred, though.

“Mr. Smith, you ain’t thinkin’ about goin’ down there, are ya?” the same voice asks.  Jed looks over and finds Wyatt, the young man who had apparently relayed the information about the walls.  “Young man,” is a stretch, really; the kid’s not much older than his brother Ben, no more than 19.

“We’re outta water…and outta luck,” he replies, dropping his gaze to the ground below.  He takes a deep breath and steps back from the edge, turning toward the campsite.  “I’m the only one with map makin’ know-how,” he notices that a fair few of the crowd members have stepped back from the ledge and are looking at him now, “so it only makes sense that I’m the one t’ stick my neck out.”  A few mumbles begin, and he shakes his head minutely.  “I don’t want anyone givin’ up, you understand?  Ev’ryone’s gonna keep lookin’ for alternative water sources, alright?  Cactus, streams, mud, anything.  If you find wet dirt or sand, dig down.”  He wraps a hand around the strap across his body and pulls it tight to his chest.  “May not taste great, but it’s better than shrivelin’ up out here.”  He takes a breath and releases his bag.  “Now, I need someone to lower me down.”

When he reaches the ground below, he’s surprised to find it hard and completely smooth, clearly man-made.  He lets out a whistle, long and low, and takes a few steps forward before turning back to the ledge he’s just left.  He considers climbing back up the rope still hanging down, considers returning to his brothers, to the group he’s been with for a month now.

He shakes his head minutely, dropping his gaze to the floor beneath him, then resituates his hat atop his head.  “Gonna be a long walk,” he mumbles to himself.  He turns around again and squares his shoulders, his brows furrowing as he takes a moment to actually study his surroundings.  He recognizes the large structure in the center of the room as a bench, briefly wondering who on Earth could possibly sit there.  He walks out toward it, and now that he’s away from the noise of the campsite, other sounds begin to filter down to him.  When he hears loud shouting coming from behind him, he quickly turns around and stops dead in his tracks.

“Wyatt says he thinks there’s people out there.”

Above him are two windows, and he feels the tension in his chest ease for a reason he can’t quite place.  He can’t quite tell what’s in either of the windows from this angle, especially since each display is lined with a crowd of its own, but he knows that the one on his right is the one he’s just climbed out of.  He jogs toward the other one and cups his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice.

“Y’all got any water?!” he shouts.  The crowd of strangers has yet to calm down, all waving quite excitedly.  He waves back, gesturing wildly to try and get them to quiet down, but his gestures are met with more frantic waving, now accompanied by pointing in the direction of the large bench behind him.  He turns yet again, and he just about soils himself.

In front of him is…well, he can only describe it as a giant.  It’s all the way across the room, and something in its eyes is frantic and terrified.  “Oh―shit!” it shouts.  It disappears momentarily, and Jed can move again.  “Guys!  The dioramas!” the giant roars from somewhere, but Jedediah isn’t listening anymore.

He looks back toward the crowd of strangers above him, and a lasso has been lowered for him before he can even ask for help.  He runs for the rope, his boots slipping on the smooth flooring, and manages to grab it just as the giant rounds the doorway again with two others.  He turns to look over his shoulder as their footsteps thunder into the room, and he can feel the impact of them in the way the floor shakes beneath him.  He looks back down at the lasso and uses the loop as a foothold, cinching it around his boot and grabbing the spoke with both hands.  He pulls on it twice, glancing over his shoulder again as his heart pounds against his ribs, and he feels himself immediately being hauled up toward the ledge full of strangers.

Bile rises in the back of his throat as the giants scramble to close off another window he didn’t notice before; it looks like it has a pyramid in it, he thinks.  He blanches as he hears tiny shouting and screams, watching as the giants stoop down before throwing people back into the recess.  He turns his head away, swallowing down the vomit that threatens to leave him.  He can hear the thundering of more footsteps approaching him, and he forces himself to open his eyes and look toward where the giants last were.  Before he can even process the knee in front of his face, the lasso he’s using as a foothold is yanked by fingers the size of his entire body.  His leg slips through the loop, and he falls until his groin catches him, his vision fading to white as pain radiates up his right hip and down his thigh.

The next thing he knows, he’s gasping for breath on the ground, completely winded and extremely sore.  He blinks up at a stark blue sky, blurry figures fading in and out of his periphery as he forces himself to focus on his own gasping.

This ain’t nothin’, he lies to himself.  Been scalped before.  Got outta that one okay.

His lungs feel like they’re about to explode, and he (with immense effort) rolls onto his side and coughs, his eyes shutting as yet more air rushes into him by way of gasping.  His ears ring, head pounding even as he suddenly feels hands on his shoulder and smacking his back.  He cries out, another gasp following immediately after.  Someone shouts above him, and he thinks he hears someone shouting about his spine.

Spine’s just fine! he wants to shout.  It’s my damn ribs that’re the issue―

He shouts again as someone tries to sit him up.

“Hip!” someone yells.  Maybe it’s Jed.  “His hip―careful of his hip.”  Okay, maybe it’s not

He sucks down another gasp when he realizes his lungs have emptied themselves, white-hot misery crystal clear as he’s laid back down.  He can feel someone grabbing his right knee, can hear shouting again before someone else grabs his shoulders, and then he can’t hear anything except for his own howling followed by a loud POP.  The back of his head hits the hard ground beneath him, and the voice of a stranger floats before him as he feels his own tears dripping into his ears.

He’s trying to work out what was said when he feels a harsh knock to the top of his head.  The pain fades to a dull ache, and everything goes quiet.

Matthew opened the backdoor to the house, a hefty bundle of firewood tucked under his arm. The Canadian had spent a majority of the day in the woods in his backyard chopping up firewood while his significant other stayed in the house. Before Matthew could announce that he was back, he was stopped by the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard coming from the other room. 

He carefully set down the firewood as he slowly crept his way farther into the house, following the enchanting cadence. Matthew abruptly stopped before he entered the kitchen, deciding instead to silently watch from the doorway as you focused on washing the dishes, singing along to the music that played on your phone, blissfully unaware that your boyfriend was listening to you. 

Matthew had no idea that you could sing like that, feeling as if he was a sailor being lured in by a siren’s song. He was unaware that he had let out a sharp breath, alerting you to his presence. You turned towards the doorway and saw Matthew standing there, watching you blissfully. You gasped loudly in shock, almost dropping the bowl you’d been washing, immediately ceasing the divine melody. 

“M-Mattie! Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in!” You stammered through your embarrassment.

“No No! It’s alright! I-um-I should have said something but….” Matthew fumbled through his words before he said, “ (Y/N), why did you never tell me you could sing like that?”

You looked away from Matthew, your mood changing at his question. He noticed your sudden shift in mood, immediately feeling guilty that he may have hit as sore spot. He walked over to you, gently placing a hand on your head.

“I’m-I’m sorry if I….you don’t have to answer. I just…..you sound so beautiful.” Matthew whispered in a tender voice. 

You leaned forward into Matthew’s chest, wrapping your arms around him. Matthew was taken aback for a moment before wrapping his arms around you, pulling you closer into him.

“It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean anything bad by it.” You said to his chest, “I just, I don’t like people hearing me sing. The thought of people standing around…watching me….it makes my anxiety skyrocket.”

“Oh Maple, It’s alright…”Matthew lifted a hand to stroke your hair, “You don’t have to feel guilty about having performance anxiety.” 

Matthew’s reassurance and understanding made you feel tears begin to form in your eyes. You had been so used to people in the past dismissing your performance anxiety and forcing you into positions you didn’t want to be in that you had finally just decided to quit singing altogether, along with not telling people you even could sing if they were preciously unaware. 

You looked up and Matthew, leaning in carefully until your lips found Matthew’s. Matthew pressed his lips up against yours, allowing yourselves to meld into a loving embrace. You two could have stayed locked together for the rest of eternity, but your need for air eventually forced you two apart. When you finally broke apart, you looked at Matthew once more, a smile plastered wide across your face.

“I love you Matthew.” You whispered to him.

“I love you too (Y/N).” Matthew whispered in return.

You paused for a moment before finally saying to him, “Maybe….maybe I can sing around the house more often….” You said softly.

Matthew was taken aback slightly, “Are you sure Maple? I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

You nodded in reassurance, “I want to…for you. The look you gave me when you were listening earlier, it made me happy. I want to make you happy like that again.”

“Of course,” she answered, rising to her feet. “It’s vital for us to solve what’s going on in this school, isn’t it?”

“Y-Yeah, it’s just…” Makoto paused and scratched his cheek—a habit, she had learned, that meant he was unsure of whether to speak his mind. She prompted him silently with a small tilt of her head. He played with the zip of his hoodie, cleared his throat, and continued, “Well, everyone else has stopped for lunch, so I thought…”

He trailed off, but Kyoko could easily tell what was left unsaid, and she hummed in response. It was just like him to check to make sure no one was unaware of the plans of the group. She could feel the beginning of an empty feeling in her stomach, but… “I’m not hungry, so I will be continuing my investigation.”

She did just that, sliding one of the drawers out, all the way until it completely separated from the cabinet. She placed it carefully on the top and peered into the open space. Kyoko could no longer see what Makoto was doing, but she figured by his stammering that he wasn’t going to leave just yet. “Sure, but, um… Even if you’re not going to eat anything…”

“There’s not much point in me joining everyone,” she pointed out. She squinted, trying to discern anything abnormal about the cabinet’s insides. “I’m not in the mood for socializing.”

“Actually, I was just going to ask if you wanted to take a break with me.”

That… shouldn’t really have surprised her as much as it did, given his character, but surprise her it did. She blinked a bit, dismissing the strain her eyes had accumulated, and looked over at him. “Take a break?”

“Yeah, you know, that thing where you don’t push yourself so hard?” A smile flashed across his face as his attempted joke, but it was just as quickly replaced with open concern. “If you’re not cleaning or looking for materials, you’re always off by yourself, looking over all the rooms again and again. I… kinda get the feeling you get pretty absorbed in whatever you’re doing, so… I just want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself.” Makoto abruptly glanced down and studied his feet, before his head shot back up. “A-As long as that’s all right with you, of course!”

The look on his face was quickly changing into something comparable to a begging puppy, and Kyoko found she had to avert her gaze in order concentrate long enough to make her decision. She knew that discovering the secrets behind the academy and the bizarre bear was her top priority—uncovering them could help her answer her own personal mysteries. But with such little avenues of investigation available to her, she had to make do with looking over the rooms they had access to. Surely there had to be something they could offer her?

“I don’t think—”

“Please?” he urged. She made the mistake of meeting his gaze again and inwardly grimaced. Yeah, puppy was an accurate comparison. “It won’t be a waste of your time, I promise! And if it is, I won’t try and do this again!”

A part of her had a strong feeling he would come back and insist she rest, even if he didn’t involve himself in the equation. But still, she felt an itch in her bones, a whisper in her ear that insisted she continued looking, that if she kept looking she would find what she needed to know—

“I don’t know what exactly you’re looking for, but you don’t have to rush, you know?” Makoto spoke suddenly, as if he knew the thoughts running through her head. He gave her a warm smile. “There’s nothing wrong with waiting for the right opportunity to come around.”

Kyoko met his gaze, mulling over what he said. And she found that, as she listened more to his words, that little incessant voice got quieter and quieter. Her thoughts felt a little clearer, her head a little lighter, and her heart a little warmer.

At last, a small smile made its way onto her face. “Perhaps your words hold some merit. Very well, I’ll join you on this occasion.”

“A-Ah, that’s great, Kiri!” Makoto’s grin grew wide as she walked over to him at the entrance to the classroom. “Since everyone’s eating, we have free rein of the school! I was thinking we could go to the dojo, it’ll be pretty peaceful there!”