Spirit is shaking by the time he reaches the Death Room. His palms are damp with nervous perspiration, in spite of several swipes at the fabric of his pants in the last few minutes, and his throat is so closed up over his swooping stomach that he can barely breathe. Having tea with Lord Death upon his arrival four days ago had been bad enough, but this promises to be much, much worse than his initial introduction.
He reaches out to push the door open and it flies away from his fingertips, Lord Death throwing it back before he even touches the unidentifiable metallic surface. Spirit jumps and all the air trapped behind the tightness in his throat bursts out of him in a squeaking gasp. It will be very embarrassing as soon as there is space for anything but panic in his mind.
"Mr. Albarn!" Lord Death's voice is startlingly high; Spirit wonders briefly if it's an act to calm his nerves, but it's effective even if it is deliberate. He is able to get a breath past the back of his mouth and even manages a weak smile while Death pats his shoulder expansively, his hand large enough to entirely span Spirit's shoulders. "May I call you Spirit?" He doesn't wait for a response before going on. "It's great to have a scythe in the Academy again. You know it's been quite a while since the last one and I am a traditionalist at heart. I have great hopes for you!"
That seems to require some sort of response. "Thank you?" Spirit manages the words but not the tone. His panic is still beating frantically in his chest. Lord Death pats his torso a few more times. He seems to be aiming for comfort, and judging from Spirit's newly rediscovered ability to breathe this seems to be working as well.
Lord Death steps to the side. "Well, it's time to say hello!"
Spirit's throat closes back up. He only has the briefest impression of grey and white and glasses before his eyes obey the force of gravity and shyness and attach themselves to the red toes of his sneakers.
Lord Death is unfazed. "Spirit, this is Franken Stein." Spirit becomes aware of the weight of the huge hand on his back. He feels like he might crumple to the floor, smashed flat between the pressure of the hand and the solidity of the earth beneath his feet.
"Stein, meet Spirit. You'll make a great team, I can tell!" A very distant part of Spirit's mind is impressed by Lord Death's indefatigability in the face of his own terror and the icy silence from the other boy in the room. There hasn't been any sound at all, no scuffling feet or huffed sighs or rustle of clothes. As far as Spirit can hear, he and Lord Death are entirely alone.
"Come on now!" The impossible weight at his back is pushing forward. Spirit angles forward until gravity and reflexes forces his feet to move under his center of mass. He stumbles and almost falls. His gaze comes up as he trips forward and he properly sees the boy selected as his meister.
Stein is small, much smaller than Spirit in that way that can only ever occur in the first handful of years of puberty. Spirit is all arms and legs and perpetually short cuffs showing off his ankles and wrists; Stein is still short, body compact and comfortable in a way that sends envy burning through Spirit even as he wonders how on earth this child is going to wield him in scythe form. His expression is just as calm and unthinkingly self-confident as he is in his body. Even with inches to look up at Spirit's face, his steely green eyes are coolly comfortable behind the protection of unfashionable but functional glasses. Spirit's pride in his new six inches of height flags and fails under that stare.
If Spirit had any nerve left at all after Stein's distant consideration and Lord Death's blithely cheerful introduction, he'd turn and demand that there has been a mistake. Anyone can see that he is the last person who would be compatible with this compact, cool, reserved boy. Lord Death has screwed up, has misread his soul wavelength or perhaps Stein's and put them together. But his will is gone. All he can see is the impending doom of years of suffering as a result of this moment, of his silence at this crucial juncture, and all the saliva in his mouth is gone and he cannot form the words to tell Lord Death that he had made a mistake for the first time in known history.
"That's that then!" Death has not noticed or is perhaps ignoring the fact that neither boy has made any sort of move towards the other. "You'll want to get acquainted, and I'd hate to stand in your way!"
There is nothing else to do. The moment for rebellion is gone, and even as the strength to speak reawakens in Spirit he knows it is only the romantic fire of a lost cause that gives power to his voice again. His tongue has never been manageable by logic, though, and sounds are emerging from his throat without his intention.
"Lord Death, I think there's been-"
"Spirit Albarn." The meister's voice cuts through Spirit's. Spirit's throat closes immediately in response to the command in that tone.
"It's good to meet you." Spirit stares at the other boy. It is impossible to tell if the flat tone is sarcastic or sincere, and his stare is just as inscrutable. "Let's go."
Spirit's feet are following with no command from his brain at all, trailing after his new...acquaintance while he tries to regain enough control over his throat to breathe. The door to the Death Room closes behind them. The other boy doesn't say anything, just continues walking down the corridor without looking back, like he knows Spirit will follow him for lack of further instruction.
Spirit wishes briefly that he is wrong.
