The landscape in front of Stein is... unpleasant. The bodies sprawled across his line of vision obscure any other defining characteristics; the sky is appropriately overcast, hiding details in shadow so the only impression left is that of death and pain. There is no sound at all; the silence echoes with the import of the lack of breathing from a thousand still forms. The sound of Stein's own existence hangs heavy around him like a pool of guilty survival. The blood spilled over the ground is so expansive that Stein can't identify the edges of the puddles; the pale brown of the dust is stained a rich, muddy red by the liquid splashed over it.
Stein has never been bothered by death before. Bodies are made up of bones and flesh and skin regardless of whether they are inhabited by consciousness or not; the primary difference is that one is acceptable to experiment upon and the other is not, at least by society's standards. His detachment has served him well, allowed him to succeed in missions and assignments that bring other teams (and his own partner) to their knees.
The problem is the absence of that same partner, and the fact that the meister has no idea where Spirit is in the vast space in front of him. For the first time in Stein's life, the stillness of death around him is sending a tiny prickle of terror down his spine. In the fading light and the tangle of bodies, he can't be sure he'll recognize Spirit. The meister isn't entirely sure his desire to locate his weapon outweighs his fear at what he will find.
Stein makes himself start moving, pulling his feet forward with an effort of will that comes at a great distance from his awareness. His legs weigh too much, his arms barely move at all, and while his body pulls itself forward there is a whimper that is growing to a scream in the back of his mind with every half-familiar face he forces himself to look at.
He doesn't know how long it is before he sees the splash of red in the corner of his eye. Stein goes entirely still. All the movement that he has been managing to achieve drops to nothing as his mind goes blank with paralyzing fear. It is not until the rush of unfamiliar sensation fades into icy resignation that he is able to force himself to turn.
It is Spirit, of course. All the dusty red of the earth can't compete with the living color of the weapon's hair, and the idea that Stein might have not recognized his partner is so ridiculous that for a moment laughter that the meister recognizes as pure hysteria pools at the back of his throat. There is a trickle of wind that shifts Spirit's hair, but there's no other movement, and Stein can't tell if Spirit is breathing and the strength that was barely enough to move him before is gone as if it never was.
"Senpai." The word catches in his chest. He can't hear the sound of his own voice over the ringing in his ears and the hiss of his own breath; he isn't even sure that he manages to speak.
He thinks the motion is just the wind at first. There is too much to lose for him to believe otherwise until he is sure. He doesn't let himself breathe until Spirit has turned to look at him, until the weapon drags an exhausted smile onto his face. When Stein inhales it feels like he hasn't breathed in days and the desolate surroundings become inexplicably beautiful with the fact of Spirit's continued existence.
His feet no longer need to be coaxed; now they are moving forward without any command from his brain at all. Spirit is pushing himself to his feet and Stein's brain is cataloging everything he can see, Spirit's smile and the way he favors his left ankle when he stands and the bloody gouges along his right collarbone and the lopsided way he is holding himself. Part of him is making notes, things to check on later, but the rest of him is singing in relief because everything Spirit does, the limp and the wince when he straightens and the slow trickle of blood over his skin, is saying 'alive' and Stein didn't know he could be this ecstatic.
He walks slowly. The joy in him is too great; it weighs him down into an agonizingly deliberate pace. But the delay gives Spirit time to come to his feet and to center his balance over his injured ankle and it gives Stein time to see the climb of tears in Spirit's blue (alive, so alive) eyes over the smile that is getting damper and happier by the moment. By the time Stein closes with him, Spirit looks like utter hysteria is about to take control of him at any moment, and there is no time for that.
Stein doesn't expect Spirit to react at all, but when the meister reaches out towards his weapon Spirit extends his arms too so Spirit's arms come around Stein's neck as Stein's fingers come into Spirit's hair, and Spirit turns his head to the left at the same time as Stein does the same, and when their lips meet Spirit is just as much the instigator as Stein. There is too much going on, too many crucial pieces to remember - the taste of dust and blood and sweat on Spirit's lips, the sticky softness of red hair, the shift of the weapon's body against Stein's - and the meister can't seem to hold on to any one sensation long enough to save it to memory before the next comes to distract him.
He is never able to determine which of them opened his mouth first. Perhaps they both did simultaneously, as in-sync as they ever have been in fights before. All Stein knows is that his mouth demands all his attention, that the taste of Spirit himself is infinitely more intriguing than the surface layer of his lips, and that he has never, ever given tongues enough credit before. It is also at this point that his attempts to lock down this moment stall out entirely and he gives up the effort, letting his observations fade into the background of physical sensation.
When they separate it's not by much. Neither of them moves their hands; with Spirit's mouth slightly farther away Stein realizes that the older boy's fingers are stroking against the back of his neck. The sensation makes him shiver. When he tries it on Spirit the weapon gasps a shaky laugh against the skin of Stein's neck.
"I thought you were dead," Spirit whispers. Stein isn't sure if he hears the words or interprets them by the braille of air against his skin, but he doesn't have an answer in any case. The echo of the weapon's words is in his mind and on his lips but it sticks against his tongue, so the only thing he can get out is "Senpai," the sound pressed into Spirit's hair like a kiss.
And really, that's all he's ever needed to say.