Author Notes: Two part soul mate au for soma week 2016. Warnings for vague insinuations of self harm and suicidal thoughts, depression

Having a soul mate is a rare thing these days, meeting them even less common. The mechanics of finding the single person with a wavelength to match one's own were little known, only studied by a few historians who tried in vain to trace the patterns across time and space. Besides, the more people spread out, the harder it becomes - among billions of people, how is anyone supposed to find a specific one?

By modern times, soul mates have been reduced to hallway gossip, and between her disregard for such rumors and her disillusionment with the institution of marriage (one messy parental divorce later,) Maka puts no stock in the whole concept. Clearly, people aren't meant to be together forever; they come and go. Of course, she isn't so jaded as to disregard human contact completely - her friends are very important to her, and she would consider dating if she ever came across someone who fit with her life goals of higher education and could match her in ambition.

She'll just never have children so as not to put them through the same thing as her when her relationship inevitably ends like all others do.

But she's not cynical.

She's thoroughly confused when she's stripping down to shower after the first day of the new school year and catches a glimpse of little black stars on her arms. They're rough, as if doodled there in ball point pen, but she has no recollection of drawing them there. She had been wearing long sleeves all day, and doesn't have a habit of drawing on herself to begin with.

"What the hell?" Maka mutters and rubs at the marks. They smear a little, and, encouraged by this fact, she quickly gets in the shower and scrubs at them with soap and water until they're gone. Maybe Tsubaki had drawn on her in class without her noticing. That had to be it.

The next day, she wears a shirt with thumb holes so any of her friends who might be in an artistic mood won't be able to scribble on her without her consent. Yet, when she dresses for bed that night, there's a swirly sort of bracelet drawn around her wrist with little spirals spinning off it.

Her stomach drops. The first thing that comes to mind is that she's being possessed. The second, only slightly more rational explanation is that she must be having fainting spells that she doesn't remember and no one will mention to her, and someone keeps drawing on her in the meantime. It doesn't sit well with her. Another furious scrub is in order to erase the evidence, but this time the marks are harder to remove, as if they've been done in more permanent marker. Determination is Maka's middle name though, and she rubs her skin pink with the washing.

After that, she is vigilant throughout the day, checking the clock every few minutes just to make sure she hasn't missed any time or dozed off. Ms. Azusa gives her a dirty look for it, probably suspecting her of not paying attention in geometry, but Maka is sure to work just as hard, just with frequent reality checks and frequent checks to her skin. Almost the entire day passes without event, until the end of her last class when she catches it in action. Jagged flowers with thorny stems appear stroke by stroke on her forearm. She can't feel any pen, but the lines appear as clear as day. Her chair screeches across the floor as she throws herself back from the desk, yanking her sleeve back down anxiously.

"Maka?" Dr. Stein looks at her over his glasses from the board. "Class isn't over for another ten minutes."

"I'm going to throw up." It's the only lie that comes to mind quickly that will let her leave the room immediately. Her first destination is the girl's bathroom to actually fulfill her prophecy and promptly lose her lunch. Her second destination is the school library. Some rampant internet research is in order, and she will have answers, dammit! A ghastly creaking noise comes from the computer when she mashes the power button and she has to wonder if maybe possession is a serious issue. It's the first thing she googles once the ancient machine wheezes to life and she can button mash her way on to world wide web.

Demon art posession

Ink appearing on arm

Drawings on skin I didn't do

Did you mean: soul mate?

Her hands clatter at on the keyboard in surprise - google is clearly out to get her, but this warrants further searching. The first two pages turn up a lot of new age blogs about finding The One, and how to get the most out of your tattoos. It takes nearly four before she gets anything resembling a scholarly article with cited sources. Now this she can trust.

Research on the subject of so called "Soul Mates," or as I prefer to call them, Gravitated Pairs, has been difficult, as such pairs are difficult to find with today's population growth. There is a fair amount of historic literature and lore on the matter, but without systematic data collection, there's no telling what is fact from what is fiction. Some myths such as those in some East Asian cultures include an invisible red string, but this is but this is both unquantifiable and intangible, and therefore impossible to collect information on.

One common trends that has been examined is the "twin effect," in which marks on the body of one half of the pair will appear on their partner as well. Unfortunately, I have only been able to find two documented studies of cases such as these, and only one of those two has photographic evidence, which can always theoretically be doctored.

Maka scrolls through the rest of the article, which seems to list off reported cases of this apparent soul mate phenomenon, but also refutes the possible flaws or fallacies in the reports - usually just pointing out the lack of proof - leaving her more confused than when she began. One line catches her eye, though, that equally concerns and comforts her.

Many people have tried to seek out their soul mate simply by writing messages on their arms, but this usually fails since one has to have met their match before the process begins. Additionally, some have reported to have had their connection broken after a time, their relationship unable to flourish without encouragement.

Someone she's already met? But, that could be anyone! Nevermind all the people she interacts with on such fleeting occasions as checking out in the grocery store - they had done a classwide icebreaker on the first day of school. Being split into groups, changing groups, she must have met two hundred people that day, but can only remember the names of a spare few. What if there's some stray person who is supposed to be tied to her by fate, floating around the high school without even knowing it?

The only thing keeping her from going insane is the hope that if she ignores it long enough, it will all go away. It should be unable to flourish without encouragement.

Of course, the decision to pretend it isn't happening doesn't stop her from trying to figure out who the perpetrator is. The clear choice is to check her friends, but while Patty tends to doodle on everyone, none of the pictures match, certainly not the style. Her artistic friend carries a plethora of colored markers around with her for creating eccentric designs all over her sister and Tsubaki. Maka used to let Patty draw on her arms, too, before these weird, spiky, not unattractive but certainly not pretty in nature images started popping up. She wears long sleeves these days.

Checking her friends quickly turns into checking everyone she comes across, but it gets tricky when their arms aren't showing for whatever reason. Maka starts to wonder if her other person is looking for her, too. She pulls her sleeves over her hands. She doesn't want to be found.

It's a cloudy Tuesday in October, the first time words appear rather than pictures. Maka had gotten accustomed to the types of designs that would litter her forearms, and is thoroughly taken aback to see writing scrawled on her skin.

THIS SUCKS

Well then. She must be tied to an extreme pessimist - that's just great. Even though she'd taken to leaving the drawings alone, she's not here for this negativity. For the first time in weeks, she fanatically washes her arms in the shower.

Once the notes start, they come in a downpour of self deprecation and a distrust in the system. Maka wonders if her Person (as she has decided to refer to them) had their diary snooped or what, because now their skin is the parchment for all the awful things they have to say about the world, their parents, and certainly themself.

This school is hell

...confirms her suspicion that they must be a student.

Sorry to be the disappointing son

...lets her know her prospective match's sex. She wishes she were more surprised; she'd been hopeful that it would be a girl (not that she intends on ever meeting this person) just to give her an idea of what kind of person she might like. Being fifteen and not particularly interested in anyone isn't easy, especially at sleepovers where the mantra of her friends quickly becomes a cult like chant of 'who do you like?' Maka has always hoped if she did like someone that it wouldn't be a boy - trust is a hard thing to finagle and being male doesn't make it any easier to earn it from her.

There is a truly horrifying saying she'd heard somewhere about girls being attracted to men like their fathers. She doesn't think she could handle the heartbreak.

No matter - knowing some minimal information about her Person doesn't pique her interest at all. Nope. She is not at all curious and definitely not checking the handwriting of her peers to find him.

I wonder if everyone is really as happy as they look

What's the point?

What's my purpose?

Maka wants to be removed, wants to have some snarky internal response about how his arm is not a search engine and can't solve his internal angst for him. Instead, she finds herself wondering if his parents know how depressed he is and if he's getting any sort of help for his early onset existential crisis.

If there was a serial killer in Blake's house he would tackle them instead or hiding in a closet

She chokes. Blake? She knows a Blake, though not one that goes to this school - the one across town is known for their wrestling team and had been the obvious choice for her childhood friend. It couldn't possibly be the same Blake. How would some boy at her school know her next door neighbor? Unless… It was one of his friends and they hadn't met on the first day of school, but the week prior when she'd gone to pick up her next door neighbor from his first practice.

Her soul mate is a wrestler? Life couldn't get any worse.

Gym makes me want to shoot myself in the foot just so I could be maimed enough not to go

A sigh of relief rushes from Maka's mouth before she can consider the dangerous implications of such self destructive thoughts. It crosses her mind that he's funny, and not just terribly down on everything all the time, though his brand of humor is dark, bordering on the macabre. Maka's taste usually falls in the range of sensible, sweet, and things your grandmother would describe as witty, but somehow the notes and observations make her snort to herself.

At some point, five long, parallel lines become a near permanent fixture on her forearm. What they're for, she does not know, but an array of dots mark their way along them, along with a curly mark on one edge and she's back at it with the internet research to discover it's sheet music.

Maka immediately buys a beginner's book for how to read music and shuts herself in the music department's single practice room after school. But, as much as she double and triple checks which notes on the piano she's hitting, it still sounds disjointed, like a broken down music box. Impatient with the fact that the book isn't helping, for once, she storms out in a rage, and then some ass with a bad attitude has the nerve to tell her that she needs more practice on her way out.

Doodles almost fall off the map, replaced entirely with angsty anecdotes and line after line of discordant music. Maka tries her best to make sense of it, but even plugging the notes into a computer program spits out something dark and crashing.

It doesn't make sense. He doesn't make sense. His music certainly doesn't make any sense.

Maka feels like she knows him, in some way. There are things she knows about him that she doesn't know about her friends, but the notion that it's entirely voyeuristic doesn't sit well with her. This person is just writing and drawing and composing on themselves as an artistic outlet - he doesn't even know she's there. So, much as her desire to respond rises, her horror about doing so rises proportionally in three quarter time.

There's not enough courage in the world to come out of hiding.

Some time in December, the music stops altogether. The art stopped a couple weeks before that. Maka's soul mate is silent - for a day. She wishes she was relieved that the connection is broken, but instead she misses it. She misses him.

With that horrifying conclusion fully realized, she wishes she could be relieved when he writes again after twenty four hours of radio silence.

I can't think properly

My brain feels like someone sucked the life out of it

I can't remember the last time I was excited about something

I can't tell anyone

It's hard to be relieved with worry twisting in her gut. Maka finds it hard to eat and sleep without thinking about how her Person is doing, without worrying over how they can feel so alone. Sure, there are parts of herself she doesn't think her friends totally understand, but she still feels like she can tell them things, even if they don't get why she doesn't think she'll ever fall in love or trust anyone.

She finds herself checking constantly to see if He has written anything else. If only she could reveal herself, tell him she does care (against her better judgement and sense of self preservation.) What would he think, though? She knows for one thing he'd think he's crazier than he does already. Her reaction at finding out she was bonded through ink to another person hadn't been exactly calm and rational at the start, and this guy doesn't seem to be the calm and rational type.

January first is the last straw. At the witching hour of four in the morning, all of Maka's habit formed and fire forged girl squad is asleep except for her. She'd even scored the couch in Tsubaki's tiny living room while the others are just in sleeping bags sprawled on the floor. Her soul mate is wide awake still, and so is she. He'd spent the evening in, alone, trying to compose while periodically scribbling it out, washing it off, and lamenting a lack of drive and ability, which Maka knows can't be true. Even if she doesn't know anything about music, she knows he cares about it enough to still be struggling through it amidst a huge depressive episode.

Another arm full of ink is washed away and she swears she can almost feel the tingling from angry scrubbing.

Why do I even bother?

She would scream at him if he were in front of her.

I would've been better off not being born

No one cares. No one would miss me.

Maka rolls off the couch.

"Hmmf?" Her friend Liz peers up groggily from the floor.

"It's nothing, go back to sleep!" Maka hisses, meanwhile making a break for the kitchen. Of course, rifling through kitchen drawers turns up nothing useful - some people actually sort their rooms by uses unlike her scatterbrained papa. Her brain is buzzing danger danger danger. Something has crossed a line. It's not until she barricades herself in Tsubaki's room she can find anything to write with. Top desk drawer only gives her pencils, and try as she might, Maka only ends up scratching herself. A pink highlighter will have to do.

I'M HERE

She writes as big as she can, over the top of the black ink on her skin, she has to make an impression. While waiting with baited breath, she haphazardly searches through the rest of Tsubaki's desk one handed until she finds a black pen, going over the lines again. The damage is done before she can even reiterate her presence though, tiny block letters appear in an empty corner.

What the fuck?

She wishes she hadn't left her phone in the other room and could google how to tell your actual soul mate that they're your actual soul mate. The trusty internet isn't here to help her now, though, so she settles on:

We're connected, I guess, but I'm here

He asks who she is, and she's hesitant to tell him much, lest he seek her out, so she replies simply that she's a person who cares. It's just as embarrassing as she thought it would be to admit that she's known about this for months, but she finds him to be just as flustered as she is, as much as she can tell through words and handwriting.

Did your parents find your diary or something?

...My brother gave it to them, the snitch, how did you know?

You started writing very suddenly and didn't stop

Prying him open is a tough task, but once he gets going, he really gets going, spilling details about his parents and his personal life. All these things, and she doesn't know his name, though she's not really sure she wants to know either. How could she look him in the eye knowing these fears and insecurities are eating him alive?

Maka watches, notes that she's still there and still paying attention, until the sun starts to rise.

I have to go - my friends will be waking up soon, Maka writes hastily.

The response is slow, and when it shows up it only says, Okay.

That doesn't seem okay at all! Maka hastily scribbles, Are you going to be okay by yourself? While putting Tsubaki's desk back in order.

I'll live

Maka wants to scoff but she's too relieved to do anything but sink to the floor with a sigh.

You know, it might be easier to text or something…

No, that would make it too real, too much like they're friends. Friends are people who spend time together and have each other's phone numbers. She gives an excuse, that this is more special anyway, and leaves him with a parting remark about looking up that paper she'd found on the whole subject of gravitated pairs.

The house is quiet when Maka sneaks back downstairs, her friends still fast asleep from their late night of interrogating each other about their crushes. Maka tugs her sleeves down over her wrists, self conscious of the marks there.

In the following weeks, after the initial shock, her Person is very chatty. Of course, he also stops leaving his heart on his sleeve in favor of sending her snarky jokes. Maka worries about him, though, the casually self deprecating comments, the nihilistic attitude - he's clearly not happy. What she doesn't know is at what point it's her place to suggest he talk to someone a little more adept than her.

She drops hints.

Ms. Mjolnir is so nice, she writes, trying to be subtle and probably failing.

Who's that?

Maka doesn't want to just come out and say it, doesn't want to make him feel like there's something wrong with him, just that she's worried about him. She's only actually met the counselor once, on the first day of school, but she certainly had seemed nice in that encounter.

Our guidance counselor, she answers.

Is something wrong? Comes the rushed reply. You can talk to me, you know, especially since I don't even know who you are, it's all anonymous and stuff.

Her heart hurts. She should've known he'd jump to the conclusion that she has something bothering her. Little does he know that what's bothering her is going to sleep each night not knowing if he's alright.

It takes her a month before she admits to him that she's concerned.

Amidst some spiky doodles around her wrist, she cautiously writes, Are you okay? I'm worried about you.

Why would you be worried?

You don't really seem happy

What teenager is well adjusted? I'm fine. Sorry if I complain too much.

She could scream - that's not it at all, but she doesn't have the knowledge or capacity to explain herself, so she just starts lining his doodles in red while she thinks.

Google really is her best friend.

Depression in teens

How to help a friend with depression

How to do an intervention

In the end, Maka goes to Ms. Mjolnir, who quickly tells her to just call her Marie and asks her how school's going. Maka balks. She expected the conversation to start right in with what was bothering her, what was wrong, but Marie just asks her how she likes her classes.

"My classes are fine… I guess. I like studying, so it's usually easy for me," Maka says, drumming her nails on her knee.

"Oh, that's nice. It's your first year here, right? Which middle school did you come from?" Marie asks. She doesn't write anything down, just sits in a chair facing Maka's with a gentle smile on her face.

"Death City," Maka answers in such a rush she has to repeat herself.

The small woman nods. "So you must be used to a big school already then. Has it been a good transition?"

"Marie - school is fine for me," Maka blurts. "I'm worried about a friend."

Sweet blonde eyebrows knit together. "Oh."

"He's just… always down on himself, and seems to have a stressful family situation-"

Marie stops her mid-sentence. "I need to tell you right now, mandatory reporting rules say if there's a situation involving abuse, I'm required by law to-"

"I know how mandatory reporting works. It's not like that, more just having a lot pressure."

"Oh, alright. You know the same thing applies if someone has plans to hurt themselves or others, right?"

Maka nods solemnly. She's done her research. "Yeah I know, I don't think that's an issue. At least, not right now… I was a bit worried before, but mostly I just think he's probably depressed but doesn't know it, and I don't know what to do about it."

"That's tough, trying to help a friend when you're still young yourself and have so much going on in your own life."

Maka startles. "What do you know about my life?" Surely the school wouldn't be keeping records on the state of her parents' marriage, or now the lack of one, though the two different addresses would be on file.

She hadn't meant to sound so accusatory, but Marie clearly looks surprised and backtracks fast. "Nothing, I just meant in general, as a high school student you must have a lot going on."

"Oh, yeah, true." Maka sighs.

"Anyway, about your friend, clearly he must talk to you about some things if you have this insight about his family life. What do you think the reaction would be if you were to bring it up?"

Worst possible scenario, he blows up at her (as much as can be done through writing) or, would it be worse if he ignored her altogether? Yeah, she has to accept the fact that she likes having him in her life in some fashion. Best possible scenario? Maka hasn't even considered how it could go right.

Marie takes Maka's silence as a sign to offer other suggestions. "You can always refer someone to me, too - I know it can be seen as a breach of trust when you've been told something in confidence, but it can be the best thing in the long run."

"No, I can't do that." Maka wrings her hands in her lap. It's her job to be brave and say something, even if it's hard. "I- I'll try talking to him, I guess."

Marie nods. "If that's what you think is best. I certainly can't force you to give someone up, but please feel free to make another appointment with me if anything comes up."

Maka leaves the office with no more insight than when she came in, and her resolve is still low. This connection, which she had once hoped to be fragile, has become very important to her; she doesn't want to do anything to jeopardize it. But, if she cares so much, shouldn't his happiness come first?

When she says she thinks he needs help, he takes it as a joke.

Cart me off to the loony bin

I don't mean that! You just seem really unhappy

Show me a 15 year old who IS happy

He's just so ornery it pisses her off and she goes a little overboard. If he wants it straight, she'll give it to him straight. There's a difference between being unhappy and being depressed

There's nothing for a few minutes. Maka's first instinct to apologize for saying anything, but she's stubborn and she's right. She won't budge. She washes her arm in the school bathroom though, to make sure there's a blank slate just in case he decides to come to his senses.

The rest of the day passes, and Maka has to set a timer while she studies to check for messages every hour to keep herself from checking every minute. At exactly a quarter after ten, he starts writing something. No, she has not been watching the clock. No, she has not been wearing a tank top in the privacy of her room so that she'll be able to catch his dark scrawl out of the corner of her eye. She waits with baited breath.

You might be right

She hadn't expected a concession so early on. To be fair, it has been several hours, but it still surprises her that this is the first thing he says. In all the scenarios she'd run through, he always argued with her, so now when he's saying she's right, she doesn't know what to do.

Sorry I was harsh

I mean, I'm a shit head so…

I care about you

She lets herself think it, lets herself say it. She cares about him.

He writes, I know, and it's probably the most cliched thing Maka has heard, or rather, seen, but it still tugs at her. He doesn't stop there, though.

I just don't know what to do. I've been like this for so long. I don't know if I even could be different

Maka chokes. You could start by talking to someone

I talk to you, he replies.

I don't know what to say to really help though. I'm here for you - but I don't know how to make it better.

It's so frustrating. If only she could just magically make everything better, but that's not really the way it is, and they both know it.

You DO help make things better

Maybe, but it's not enough. You deserve to be happy

Her heart pounds while she waits for his reply. Will he go see Marie for counseling? Or will he just shut down again, shut her out for a few more hours, or a few days, or indefinitely.

What do I do though? I don't want my parents to know

This is a start, a very good start. Maka is rushed when she writes, You can go talk to the counselor, she can't disclose anything to anyone unless someone is hurting you or you're hurting yourself

Oh. Okay, comes the reply. It's not a flat out denial of self destructive behavior, but not an acknowledgement of it either. He probably won't say anything to her about it, but she can at least take some solace in him going to Marie. Now if only it wouldn't be completely unethical to get information about what he says… Wait!

If he goes in and talks to Marie, that would mean the counselor would know who her soul mate is, when she doesn't know herself. What if she sees Marie and she drops his name, or what he looks like. Maka can see it already; she'll run into the counselor in the hallway and the kind, unassuming woman will say, 'Hi Maka, how are you? Saw your friend Dave.'

His name couldn't be Dave, it just couldn't be.

She doesn't want to know. The mystery holds it together; if she finds out his name, she won't be able to resist finding him and then she'll have to face the fact that this is a real thing that's happening.

Will you go and see her? Maka prompts.

I guess… at least once. I'll let you know how it goes.

Maka flops face down onto her bed, emotionally exhausted for the evening, but also reassured. Her Person will be in good hands with Marie.

The next day, she doesn't ask if he's made an appointment, doesn't mention it for a second. Only when he tells her, a week later, that he's gone to see the counselor do they talk about it again at all. He doesn't say much about it, other than that he went, and Maka doesn't want to push. She's learned in the past couple months that he'll talk if he wants to, and most often he does… eventually.

More drawings show up on Maka's arms these days, and she takes it as a good sign. At her request, they'd stopped talking so much during school hours so she could wear shorter sleeves with the warming weather. Spring appears very suddenly. He still doodles though, the same spiky, swirly, abstract designs with feathers and music notes mixed together. Maka borrows Patty's markers during lunch and colors them in, outlines them in blue and green, and draws flowers among the thorns.

"You've been getting so artistic lately," her friend notices, handing over a couple colors during lunch to borrow for the rest of the day.

"I guess," Maka mumbles, embarrassed to say she's only really drawing over the lines that are already there. Her arms will be littered with doodles by the end of the day, but her Person always keeps it washable so they can have a fresh slate to talk on in the evenings.

The weeks pass like this, summer fast approaching on wings of exams and term papers. Maka holes herself up in her room after eating dinner with her dad so she can study, though mostly she just wants to write and receive notes via spirit bond.

Her Person is funny, and charming, and she wishes it was as easy to react to his jokes as when she's texting Liz, but her arms are skinny - limited real estate - and she refuses to write out her laughter.

The things he says though, he has to be trying to make her laugh, and she feels bad leaving him hanging.

You're funny, she writes.

Thank God - I was starting to worry

Maka scoffs. I promise I'm laughing.

It's not a lie, she is laughing. Things have been less strained with her family since her mother moved out, things are good with her friends, things are really good with Him. It could be like this forever and she'd be happy. But, something has to give, and the most terrifying string of words starts appearing on her wrist.

I wish I could hear it.

Or see you smile at least

Nononono. This is all bad. He's getting too close

I want to meet you.

Maka flings open her door, storms into the bathroom, and turns the bathtub faucet on full blast. Ink runs down her arms and rivulets, words disappearing as fast as they can appear. He's trying to ask her something, ask what's going on, but she won't let him get the words down.

Why won't he stop? Why won't he leave her alone?

She's gotten attached. She was so afraid of getting involved but now she cares so much and if he doesn't end up hurting her, she'll certainly end up hurting him; it's in her blood. Maka Albarn is genetically coded for heartbreak and if it's going to happen, she'd like to be the one to pull the trigger. This has to end.

What are you doing?!

The letters appear on her knee, far from the torrent of the bathtub, but directly under the tears she didn't realize were dripping from her chin. The still wet ink smears.

She stumbles back to her room, scrambling for her pen. Her arm is still wet and dripping streaks of tinted water, so she writes carefully under his haphazard words.

This isn't a good idea

Maybe he replies, maybe he doesn't. Maka bundles herself into some sweats and crawls into bed, refusing to look. She'll just go back to ignoring it and everything can go back to normal.

Right?