Black blood beaded between the cracks in the brick, before cutting eerie paths down the walls like blood in a murder scene. Soul clenched the sides of his head, bent over, with scarlet eyes squeezed shut. He groaned, jagged teeth clenched. Go away, he thought. You're not real. Images of the black and red room flashed through the weapon's mind, before fading back beneath the surface of his thoughts. Soul opened one eye, to glance at the apartment walls, now bare and plastered with bright white light from the moon peering in from outside.
"Not cool," he grumbled, straightening up and glancing around the room. Everything was just as it had been left. Messy and untidy. He had told himself Maka would get it. It didn't look that way any time soon. Soul sauntered into his bedroom, legs giving way as he sat on the edge of the bed, fumbling with his dress shirt buttons.
Maka and he had fought a witch in France only about a week ago. Both had been injured in the fight, Maka more so than himself. The black blood Soul used in the fight allowed his injuries to heal much faster. However, it also prohibited Soul from discerning whether his experiences he saw and heard were reality or if they were warped by the black blood. The DWMA had taken Maka away, sent her off with a new weapon, believing Soul to be too unstable to fight with Maka anymore.
And he had believed her to be gone the whole time. Soul had done some crazy things to try to get her back, things he regretted looking back on it. Mere minutes ago he had agreed to remain under the radar for a while, in return for his death scythe status returned and pardon from previous wrong-doings.
The crimson shirt dropped to the floor silently, as the shoes he had worn clattered when he tossed them, hitting the wall. Soul had agreed to acting docile and quiet for a while, but, when he was not allowed to see his meister ever again, how could he? There were plans behind all his actions. All of them. And if everything followed through like it was supposed to, then Maka would be back to him soon. Soul collapsed back into his pillow, staring at the ceiling. He had said that phrase numerous times, repeated it to himself constantly in his head, but it felt different after the events of that night, fighting Kid in Hook Cemetery.
Soul rolled over, facing the only window in his bedroom. It was still and quiet outside, which was quite normal for midnight. Blair would be home soon, and if she knew he was awake, then the weapon would likely get smothered in another mass of fabric and cleavage. The latter dominating. Soul closed his eyes. Tomorrow was when the Maka Recovery Plan began.