were it not for you
by. Poisoned Scarlett
The blood is cruel to her.
She rips off her shawl when it catches on something and runs deeper into the bare forest, gnarled branches twisting into each other high above her head. They're so thick she can hardly see the moonlit sky. The night in the forest is pitch dark and it terrifies her because she knows what lurks in the shadows—she can feel the tendrils of madness curl around her ankles as she runs, the soles of her heels squelching in the black mud. She doesn't want to stop and think about what the mud really is, not when the low rumble of laughter follows closely behind.
"Leave me alone," she hisses through her teeth, running faster through the dark brushwood, releasing a strangled groan when twigs cut into her skin and tear her dress. The moon is a dark paper cut-out curtained with a mauve backdrop and every time she looks up, the clouds take the shapes of grins with teeth as sharp as knives. They do not bring her comfort like they usually do. She runs faster and this time the black mud squelches between her toes, slicking her ankles, splattering her knees. She trudges through the swamp of black and whimpers when something jumps in with her, the resounding splash making the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
"Stop," she shouts over her shoulder, grappling desperately at the thickening sludge. It's becoming harder and harder to walk through it; she wants to cry, she's so scared, she knows what's coming and it terrifies her. This is always the part where she gets stuck; this is the ace horror movie scene where the stark white hand plunges out from the swamp of black blood and grabs her elbow.
And Maka shrieks.
And the laughter continues, high and manic and so, so familiar—
"Now, hey, that's no fun!" The Clown laughs goofily, its twisted arms grabbing both of hers with a flourish. He lifts her out of the swamp effortlessly, shakes her and lets black slime run down her body. She can't move; she's petrified. She hates clowns. She hates, hates, hates clowns. "I'm not gonna' hurt you—we're just gonna' have a little fun! How 'bout it, let's have some fuuuuun, Makaaaaa!" His grin is wide, his lips bright red, his eyes half-circle cutouts that remind her of the black, black moon high above them. They narrow and his grin becomes depraved, his laughter darker than the shadows under her eyes, and when she screams, The Clown only twists his head back until a snap thunders and then it laughs uncontrollably—even as bone breaks through skin, cracks again and bleeds heavily the more The Clown twists his head. It's laughing so hard Maka can't keep count of how many times she shrieks to let her GO—
"MAKA! Maka, over here!"
The Clown stops twisting its head around and around, bone flying out from its neck and nearly stabbing through her eye.
"Haaaaah, who's there?" The Clown asks, curiously. "Come out and play with us!"
"Let her go, you bastard—Maka, now!"
Maka manages to slide her arms out of The Clowns grip with help of the black blood, manages to kick and flail enough for The Clown to let her go. But it's not as if The Clown is putting in an effort to keep her—it lets her go, looms over her curiously with its crooked arms and watches her crawl desperately to the edge of the swamp. Maka doesn't care if her knees are scraped, if gravel is cutting through the heel her palms with every desperate grab. She doesn't care that she's crying because she has never made it this far; it always ends when The Clown grabs her, but now it hadn't ended and she's afraid of what follows.
"It's okay—come here, grab my hand, Maka, grab my hand, don't let go!"
She does—she grabs his hand with both of hers, lets him pull her out and onto black and white tiles. She scrambles away from the swamp, away from The Clown who is cranking his neck back into place like Stein cranks his screw when he's thinking. Maka clutches at an ironed suit jacket, she clutches at anything that can keep her away from The Clown and his mind-games and manic laughter.
"That's why you didn't wanna' go to the circus," her savior breathes against the side of her head, holding her against his chest protectively. She shakes; she can't stop heaving for breath, she feels on the verge of a heart attack. "Relax, Maka. Relax—I won't let him hurt you," he backpedals, keeping her between his legs, holding her tightly as The Clown waves quietly at Soul and slowly backs into the dark, dark swamp. "Next time, just come here. I'll be here."
"You weren't here before," she sobs furiously, nearly ripping his dress shirt out of anger and fear. This is new; this has never happened before. Beyond the swamp is not a glade of checkered tiles, there's just darkness and more darkness so why is it different now? "Why are you here now, you weren't here before, I needed you before!"
"I didn't know before," he regrets, caressing her flaxen-colored hair, taking it out of her pigtails. She's so tiny—she's twelve again and frail-looking. She's just a little girl caught in a dark, dark swamp with a monster that thrives under beds and in fairy tales. She's twelve here and the reason doesn't elude him. He understands because Maka told him, once, how she didn't like thinking about her twelve year old self: twelve year old Maka who was always looking at the backs of Black Star and Kid, fisting her hands as people patted her on the head because they didn't trust in her skill; twelve year old Maka who couldn't do anything except rattle off facts and numbers, who only knew theories but not how to apply them.
She's very wrong, but twelve year old Maka is obstinate and the harshest of critics.
"Soul," Maka pleads, hushed, eyes shut, and he holds her so tight that any tighter and she would truly give her last breath. "Why is mine a forest, why can't it be a room like yours?"
"The black blood uses fear against you," Soul answers after a moment. "It uses what you fear the most to control you."
"…You're afraid of that room?"
"I was afraid of what it meant."
"You don't anymore," Maka notices, catching the change of tenses. "How did you…how did you get over it?"
"I didn't," his voice drops even more and he suddenly sounds like twelve year old Soul Eater rather than seventeen year old Soul Evans. "I just…accepted it. It's part of me. I'm part of it. As long as we…it…can work with me, I can endure it."
"…How can you do that?" Maka rasps, bringing her knees in. She wants to completely curl herself into Soul—she wants him to pick her up and drop her in his front pocket, protect her from The Clown that lurks in the shadows behind her. She has never felt so absolutely weak as in the face of madness personified, has never been as stricken with fear as in the Glasgow grin of The Clown. "How can you fight it?"
Seventeen year old Soul Evans hesitates, doesn't know how to break it to her when twelve year old Maka looks up at him with such wide and wounded eyes. He hates how the black blood has infected her so much—a cost from their intense resonation—hates how he can't help her, how the demon gives her the worst of the nightmares because he hates her, hates what she represents to him, hates how much he adores her and how much of himself he has invested in her.
"You helped me fight it," he whispers, pressing his forehead against hers. His smile is tired but genuine. "Your courage is what helped me fight it. Every time I wanted to give up, I thought about you and how you'd smack me with a book and tell me how stupid I was if I did. You'd tell me how pointless it'd be if I didn't try," he holds her cheeks with both his hands, thumbs away tear streaks and smooths the lines that reveal the fear upon her face. "Where's your courage gone, Maka?" he asks her softly.
Twelve year old Maka flinches and shakes her head and says no, nonono he's got it all wrong. She's not courageous, she's actually just hiding behind a front, she's always been so scared—scared of failure, scared of not living up to expectations, scared of practically everything, actually, she's the biggest coward she's ever known.
"Fight it," Soul tells her, hardening his tone. "Fight it, Maka, it's using your fears against you." He grits his teeth, bears the pain of the black blood pulling at his skin—trying to pull him away from her, trying to pull her back into the swamp where The Clown lies in wait. "Maka, you're not weak. You're better than that—you're the best Meister in the DWMA. You've always been so good at whatever you set your mind to. You're the second Meister to make a Deathscythe at fourteen! You got us 200 souls in two years. Do you know how hard that is? Most meister-weapon pairs can barely gather eighty in two years, Maka, you're amazing," he pleads for her to understand. "You're amazing."
"The Clown…"
"Doesn't know what it's talking about," Soul grins for her even though the black blood is reacting negatively—sizzling on his skin, making it feel like he's walked into a furnace and the fire is licking his skin off. "It's literally crazy, it can't see how amazing you are. But I can."
Maka stares at him with a twelve year olds hope. "Y-you do?"
"Yeah, of course I do. I'm your partner," his grin wavers but he only squeezes her arms tighter. "I told you, right? You're the coolest partner ever. You know how many people wanna' partner up with you because of how cool you are?"
"I thought…no one did, because you get all those letters in your locker…"
"I…uh, I empty out your locker of those before school, during the morning," he admits and then quickly adds, "Anyway, most weapons ask me personally to switch with them."
"Personally?" Thirteen year old Maka blinks, scowling at him. "And what do you mean you empty out my locker? How do you even know my combination?!" Fourteen year old Maka shouts, grabbing him by the cuff, glaring daggers into his unrepentant red eyes. "You jerk, I didn't know! Why didn't you tell me, dammit, Soul Eater!"
"Yeah, yeah, I totally broke the rules and raided my Meister's locker coz I didn't want her to… read them."
"The letters?" Fifteen year old Maka demands.
"…Yeah."
Sixteen year old Maka softens her eyes, loosens her grip on seventeen year old Soul Evan's suit jacket. "Why?"
He shifts and she knows why without him telling her, but she asks him again anyway. "Just…didn't want you to think about it. Or…consider it. I'm not the best weapon you can have." He smiles, ruefully. "If I was, this wouldn't be happening. Nothing like this would be happening. We wouldn't be so fucked up we can't sleep at night and you wouldn't be kept up by nightmares and I— this wouldn't be happening!"
"You saved my life," eighteen year old Maka states solidly, her tone brooking no argument. "I could have died that day." The black blood doesn't burn his skin; he can't feel it under his palm anymore. "But I didn't because of you—because you threw yourself in front of me to save me, even though we barely knew each other. You trusted me so much already, Soul, you trusted me the instant you played that song on the piano for me," she smiles so sweetly he wants to envelop her in his arms again. She looks down, studies her bloodless hand. The dark doesn't feel so dark, not when Soul is here with her. The dark just feels empty. "You're mine."
Soul tenses, heat immediately flooding his cheeks. "Wh-what?"
"My reason," Maka continues, overlooking his flush. "My reason to not fall into madness. You're my reason, just like I'm you reason. We're in this together, right?" Maka looks up with new-found courage and Soul eases, his smile both content and adoring.
"Together," he grabs her hand and slides it to her wrist to grip tightly, a reminder of a bond stronger than easily-broken handshakes and promises. He leans down, seventeen year old Soul Evans looking into eighteen year old Maka Albarn's eyes. "Wake up," he grins, mouth full of sharp teeth that make her chest warm.
And a white ceiling welcomes her back and the shadows feel empty and just beyond the cracked door of her bedroom, she can hear Soul's soft snores. She can imagine the faint smile on his face as she sinks back into her pillow, breaths in and allows his soul to comfort hers despite the distance between them. She turns over with new-found relief, falling asleep all at once as their souls nestled together warmly.