For the Teenage Soul

By craziestanimefan

Soul heard the annoying buzz of his alarm clock ringing in his ears and promptly decided to throw the damn thing at the wall. He groaned as his body protested against the action, his shoulder and elbow aching from the simple motion. It was not a good way to start his Friday morning.

He was tired, felt horrible and hot, and was in no mood to go to school. His mind was hazy, drifting between alertness and sleep. Burrowing his throwing arm back into the warmth of the blankets, Soul stared with bleary eyes at the motorcycle calendar on his wall, the large numbers and comments written in pen blurring together in a gray jumble of scribbles.

It had been about three and a half months since the start of the school year, two weeks since he had met Maka Albarn, and two weeks since they decided to become partners.

Funny how two weeks could feel like two agonizing years if spent with the wrong person.

There were many things about Maka that irritated him. He hated how she never seemed to take her nose out of her novels and how she was bossy. On the weekends she had a nasty tendency to stop by his apartment at 6:30 in the frigging morning, far too early for a teenage boy to even consider getting up on the weekend, in order to train in Shibusen's gym. That definitely had to go, or at least it would have to be pushed back. He needed his sleep, dammit! Grudgingly, he admitted that he deserved it, after he let a comment slip that he probably shouldn't have regarding her lack of a bust.

Also, there was the matter of who would live where that aggravated him. Many meister-weapon pairs found it easiest to live together for the sake of training regimens or constant vigilance, or even for the simple joy of companionship. From what he'd gathered about Maka over the last two weeks, living together sounded like a disaster. She had a meticulous personality that would clash with his natural laziness and the haphazard style of his man cave. Imagine all the nagging and demanding and – ugh, it made him shudder just thinking about it. If he wanted to feel imprisoned, he would just go back to his old life. He enjoyed – no, relished - this feeling of freedom and independence, and so far Maka had not done or said anything that would give the slightest inkling of that continuing if they lived together.

But their soul wavelengths matched, at a rate that was surprising to both of them: 74%. Considering how long they'd known each other and how utterly swimmingly they got along, it was a high statistic, high enough to keep them together and work things out. After all, would there be another meister that he synced that well with in such a short time? If there was one thing he wanted most it was to be cool, and Death Scythes were definitely cool. Maka would be able to make him a Death Scythe; her parents had certainly done it, so why couldn't she?

And she liked his music. The song he'd been playing when they first met was rather dark, but she said she liked it. He supposed those were two pros he could add to the ever growing list of cons.

Soul rolled over. He was at his apartment and thinking of his relationship with his meister when he could be doing more productive things on his day off, like sleep. Settling comfortably in his bed, he was determined to get better, or at least enjoy the rare day off. Composing random, soothing lullabies in his mind, he eventually fell into a fitful sleep.

There were several knocks at the door, and they were loud and insistent enough to rouse him out of sleep and out of bed. Ruffling his hair with a tired yawn, Soul shuffled towards the front door when the lock suddenly clicked and the door swung wide open.

She stood in his doorway with a wicker basket tucked into her elbow, her mouth open in a surprised 'o' shape. She held up the copy of his key that she wrangled him into giving her and said a cordial "Hello."

Soul was more than shocked, to say the least.

He was a loner by nature, despite having friends and – God help him – a fan club. Life outside of school was pretty solitary except for the occasional game of hoops with Black Star or chats with the mechanics at the local garage about his dream bike, and that lifestyle suited him just fine. So, when he abstained from school because of a burning fever, aching joints, and a sore throat he honestly hadn't expected for anyone to care enough to show up at his apartment.

"M-maka?"

She frowned at him. "What are you doing? Back to bed with you! Come on!"

Her long fingers encircled his wrist firmly, and she guided him back to his bed. He was sick enough to allow her drag him around his own apartment, not even bothering to mention that she was the reason he even left his haven of blankets and pillows to begin with. He eased himself onto his worn mattress and slowly sank into a comfortable position. Through half-lidded eyes he saw her busy about, shifting pillows and spreading blankets like she owned the place. He sighed in relief when she exited his room, but then she started towards the kitchen…

"Don't burn my apartment down," he called hoarsely. The words seemed to scratch their way out of his throat, and he wisely decided to limit his talking.

"Trust me, you'll thank me for this," she replied. After a few beeps, Soul heard the familiar hum of the microwave. Lulled by the soft sound, he closed his eyes for a few minutes of peace. The smell of chicken and garlic soon wafted into his room, and Soul felt something flat and cold being set on his lap.

It was a tray, one that he didn't recall ever owning. Or maybe it was the old, beat up, dirt-colored one in the back of his cupboard that was now washed and polished to a shiny silver. On said tray was a large bowl of warm soup and a glass of ice cold water. He saw chunks of chicken, carrots, celery, and even some zucchini floating in the broth, and he was pleasantly surprised to see rice instead of potatoes or pasta. Soul recalled mentioning his love of Middle Eastern and Asian cuisine earlier on in their partnership. It was a detail so minute he didn't honestly expect her to remember it, and yet she did.

Maka sat on the foot of his bed, waiting patiently while he stared. "Aren't you going to eat it?" she prompted. His stomach rumbled, and Soul didn't need to be told again.

It was decent…

Okay, so it was more than decent. It was delicious! It had a great mix of flavors that weren't too strong as to overcome one another or completely upset his stomach, yet they complimented each other nicely. He could taste some hints of onion and lemongrass and parsley – this was so good! Soul was a decent cook in his own right, but only to the point that his food was healthy and savory enough for him to subsist on. He could feel himself eating with a renewed vigor.

"I take it you like it," she said, pleased with herself.

Damn, he forgot she was there with him. His cool guy persona was quickly dissipating, especially as he was shoveling the soup into his mouth as rapidly as he could. Swallowing a mouthful and noting how much better his throat felt, he nodded and said as suavely as possible, "It's decent."

Maka snorted. "Liar. It's got a great mix of complimentary flavors that are delicate enough for a sick stomach. You know it's better than decent."

Wow, that was exactly along the lines of his own thoughts, and she called him on his bluff. Definitely not cool. Time to switch topics.

"How did you know I was sick?" he asked, scooping another spoonful of soup into his mouth.

Maka shrugged. "I could just tell."

He raised a white eyebrow in skepticism.

"I could!" she retorted. "I noticed that you don't like wearing scarves, and you prefer leather jackets to wool despite the cold weather. You were bound to get sick enough to not go to school, and you've been sniffling for the past four days. It wasn't a matter of how but when," she finished matter-of-factly.

Soul's spoon froze in front of his mouth. Was she stalking him, or was she really that perceptive? According to his source (a.k.a Black Star), winters in Nevada didn't last that long and were mostly mild (because they couldn't stand up to his godliness), though this year they were particularly chilly. He figured that he'd be okay for the duration of it, but Maka did have a point. He hated wool coats, mostly because they always reminded him of his wealthier life, nor did he like scarves, though that was due to the fact that he was nearly strangled by one when it got caught in a bush and he, then an unknowing and innocent seven year old, simply continued walking.

He silently recalled all the moments Maka glanced at his clothes with a disapproving look, and it dawned upon him that it wasn't because she didn't like the style. Everyone knew that his clothes were undeniably badass, but not quite weather appropriate. He really was just asking to be sick.

How uncool.

"Oh."

That was all he could think of to say in response. Noticing the spoon hovering awkwardly in front of his face, he shoved the utensil into his mouth.

Maka huffed but continued to sit at the foot of his bed. "Black Star told me that you live alone, and I can't have my partner getting sick on me." Was it just him and his fever, or did her eyes just soften a bit? "It's my duty to take care of you."

Soul couldn't help but feel bad about his earlier thoughts of his meister. It wasn't to say that she wasn't bossy or temperamental or flat-chested, but there were other traits about Maka that made her likeable. The more that Soul thought about it, the more he recognized that for all of her flaws, Maka was actually pretty cool. She cared, and that was more than enough.

As they sat in silence he finished the bowl of soup and then transferred the glass of water to his bedside table to finish later. Maka took the tray, ordering him in that bossy tone to stay in bed and recover.

It was touchingly domestic, he thought as he reclined. He heard the soft sounds of water streaming through the leaky faucet, the refrigerator door being opened and closed, the clink of dirty dishes in the sink being moved and washed. Maybe this was what he'd been looking for – a life where he wasn't Soul Evans, self-exiled piano prodigy, or Soul Eater the Demon Scythe, but just Soul.

Despite all his previous reservations about living with Maka, this was actually quite pleasant. The sounds of his apartment being lived in, of being a home instead of just a roof over his head…they were nice. He sat there, content with the faint music of the homely sounds, until he felt himself getting tired once again. Maka appeared in the doorway with a now-empty wicker basket in her hands.

"I've got to get going, Soul. I guess I'll see you later?"

He nodded sleepily, the temptation of sleep too powerful to overcome. He began drifting off into the world of sleep and didn't notice her soft smile as she shut the door behind her.

Soul woke up feeling better than ever.

He stretched his arms, noting with a yawn how they no longer felt as stiff as before. His head no longer pounded, his throat was not scratchy albeit a little parched, and his body temperature was back to normal. That soup of Maka's was some kind of miracle cure, because he simply felt great!

Though it did hit his ego a little bit to know that he was downed by a measly sickness and subsequently taken care of by a girl. But it wasn't too big a deal.

Soul glanced at his desk, looking to his clock for the time before remembering that it broke into pieces when he hurled it at the wall earlier. He also saw the glass of water that he never drank, which he began to chug quickly. Looking out the window he saw a stillness uncharacteristic for the usually busy Death City, indicating that it was probably early Saturday morning. Further investigation led to the revelation of rays of light peeking over the horizon, effectively putting the time at around 5 AM, give or take ten minutes.

Soul continued stretching his arms, getting out of bed to make his way to the kitchen. All this recuperation made him hungry. The microwave clock affirmed his deductions as '5: 09' glared at him with bright yellow numerals. He rubbed his eyes and opened the refrigerator door, planning to grab some milk and cereal. Instead, he found a large bowl filled with Maka's delectable soup, topped with plastic wrap and a note.

'Extras. Heat it up in a microwave safe bowl for four minutes on high. Hope you get better soon. Call my cell if you need anything. ~Maka'

"Huh." A rare smile came over Soul's face. Soon after eating a delicious breakfast and taking a quick shower, he changed into loose sweats and layered a hoodie and his leather jacket over his tee before picking up his phone to check the time. 5:40.

Perfect. See her later indeed.

It took him 25 minutes to walk to Maka's apartment door. Ten seconds precisely before 6:05 he knocked twice, knuckles lightly rapping on the wood, and waited.

Ten seconds later she opened the door, and Soul could tell visibly that she was taken aback. She was all dressed for her – no, their- weekend morning workout, her clothes loose and hair tied neatly back into the familiar pigtails.

"Hi Soul."

"Hey there…partner." He grinned roguishly. She smiled in return. "You ready?"

Maka scoffed, though this time there was undisguised mirth in her expression. "Of course. Are you?"

"Totally."

Her eyes roved over him, and she nodded in approval.

"Looks good. But…" She held out a water bottle, which Soul then realized he had completely forgotten in his efforts to be punctual.

"Right. Gotta stay hydrated."

"I don't want you getting sick on me, do you hear me, Soul?" she teased.

"Yes ma'am."

Yeah, Maka was cool, he concluded. As they walked the remainder of the way to Shibusen, there was a thought in the back of his mind that hoped the past few weeks, no matter how terrible he initially thought they were, would be only a few of the many that they'd share together.

A/N: So, my first foray into the Soul Eater fandom. Feedback is much appreciated; I'm still trying to get their characterization down. I do have plans for this to become a series, though, so updates in the future are definitely plausible.

Anyhow, I'm hoping no one else has done this pun yet, because I couldn't resist. I hope you enjoyed the story!

crazy.