Disclaimer: I don't own Soul Eater, nor do I own any of the (few) quotes from the show that are included in this one-shot!
Author's Note: So... this isn't a Hybrid Theory update, and for that I am sorry :P This was originally something I was throwing together for SoMa week, but now it's just a thing 'cause oops... that was two weeks ago. How did that happen? But here, have this. I've always found this to be a super intense scene, and I've been dying to take a peek inside their heads, so here you go! Warning: the POV changes are numerous and this is my first one-shot ever so please let me know what your feelings are. Rated T for language, because if you've been keeping up with HT, you know that I ship SoulxProfanity pretty damn hard. Enjoy~
They're losing.
If he's honest, they've been losing since the beginning - ever since he'd decided to be the hero without examining the potential consequences of breaking and entering through suspicious windows. He'd realized mid-sprawl into Blair's bathtub that he is, in fact, a dumbass. Then he'd found himself wedged face-first into that damned witch's bosom as punishment for his stupidity.
That's why he can't even be pissed. He has only himself to blame, he thinks as Maka goes crashing into the pavement for the hundredth time, rolling against the force of yet another cannon blast. The clang of his blade scrapes against the concrete, sharp and grating and cringe-inducing.
It doesn't make sense that anything with a name as benign as 'Halloween cannon' could possibly be this destructive. And he never wants to see or hear about pumpkins ever again, he thinks as Maka peels herself off of the ground. His favorite holiday is forever ruined.
They'd overestimated themselves. He knows they're stronger than this. They're losing because they're losing focus. The real problem, he admits, is the fact that all of his fighting instincts seem to have been replaced by raging hormones, to the point where his nose erupts like a geyser every time the witch gets anywhere near them.
Her outfit certainly doesn't help either, he mentally groans. Regardless, she's strong. Too strong. They can't win if they keep fighting this way.
He braces himself for impact as Maka lands on the roof, using his blade to steady herself. When she asks him what they should try next, he's silent and useless and wants to tell her that they should go find another witch's soul to steal, preferably one with an infinitely more modest wardrobe.
But no, Maka won't give up. He's sure of that, just as he's sure of the fact that Blair won't stop trying to trick him into that goddamn claw-footed bathtub a second time.
"Why don't you forget about her and come be mine?" she'd said.
… And suddenly, he knows exactly what to do.
-ɸ-
They can't lose. She won't let them, she thinks, as she bends her knees to lessen the impact of the roof beneath her feet. She's just caught her balance when another blast sends her careening across the roof and shingles go flying haphazardly into space. Each glimpse of stone sends her mind reeling as she flies.
It's too much to process at all once, but she must. She has to take everything in, assess every cue that her body gives. She racks her brain for anything that could help them win this fight.
Despite his unhelpfulness in terms of strategy, Soul's handle remains her only physical support, and she clings to it for dear life as the blade sinks deeper and deeper into the stone. Suddenly mere inches of metal are all that separates her from threat of open air as her boots slide off the side of the roof.
She hangs there, still a little miffed that Soul hasn't said anything in the past few minutes, and hopes fervently that he's not thinking about Blair's assets instead of how to exploit her weaknesses. With a jolt, she realizes how much that would bother her. When she asks, she doesn't mean to sound as scared as she does:
"Soul, what's going on? I don't understand why you haven't been answering me."
But then he does answer. And relief floods her with an intensity that doesn't make sense, her eyebrows raising with surprise at the need she'd been holding in as she waited for his response. They're a young pair, she knows. They're clumsy, and they're still getting used to one other, but the connection she can already feel surging between them is strong. Too strong.
"There you are," she murmurs. The words are a poorly concealed testament to the strange, quiet longing she can feel humming in her veins.
-ɸ-
He finds himself perched precariously on the side of the roof in his human form. He feels like Black*Star, climbing on top of shit so that people look smaller. Only it doesn't work. She doesn't look smaller at all. If anything, she feels even closer than usual, with her hand wrapped so tightly around his. It kills him, the way she's bearing her soul to him with those eyes so full of trust, even though she's dangling one finger-slip away from certain death or at least a couple of broken ribs or something.
No, he can't do this, he thinks as he starts to pry their clasped fingers apart, releasing his hold on her. Her hand slides downward, and he almost lunges forward to grab her, so instinctual is his need to protect her from harm. He swallows his self-hatred as her hand starts to slip.
He can't do this, but he must, and he hates that trickery and lies are the foundation on which this final piece of the puzzle they've been assembling together will be built. Even though it's a charade, he can taste the forbidden fruit of betrayal as it springs from his lips, bitter and acidic as it flows between them.
"Stop talking," he says, his tongue like lead as it slithers along the words.
In this moment, he's never been more sure that he's going to hell. It's the only suitable punishment for letting an angel drop from the sky.
-ɸ-
She doesn't understand. The feel of gravity is somewhat alien to her, but it's also familiar, in a way. He's never dropped her before, never, and the air rushing through her ears is bewildering.
The fact that she's hurtling toward the earth takes a backseat to the fact that the fabric of her glove is far too light when it's not cradled against his hand. Above her, his hunched form is sliding away with a detached finality that scares her.
It's only once the soft slide of plastic registers against her skin that she remembers why gravity strikes a chord.
This has happened before. It's the same tug, that same imperative, demanding feeling she'd experienced when she first heard him play. He'd drawn her to him; consciously or unconsciously, she doesn't know, but the pull was undeniable. Now, the poles are reversed. Suddenly, it's gravity tugging her swiftly away from him, and it's on Soul's terms.
Suddenly, she's livid.
-ɸ-
He knew she'd be angry. He was well-acquainted with her temper, after all.
It would only get worse when he carried out the rest of his plan, he knew. He now realizes he's a dumbass and a coward, so he turns from her because he can't bear to see her face when he drops the bomb. Blair's not watching him carefully enough, so he screws up his eyes and lets the chips fall.
"I don't think we should be partners anymore, Maka."
He hopes that she doesn't pop a blood vessel, because he'll feel really shitty if the emotional whiplash she's about to endure carries any lasting damage to her vital organs. When he mentions Blair, he's not sure she's going to make it. For a moment, he wonders why it is that Blair's name is the thing that really sets her off. He allows the small seed of hope that blooms to fuel the false shine that glows from his eyes. Hands clasped, he pretends to gush over an entirely different person than the one he'd really like to curl his arm around.
And then Maka points at Blair, and accuses her of witchcraft, as if any potion she could possibly concoct could break him of his dedication to the girl that pulled him to her with her strange, perfect acceptance of his melody even though she understands nothing about music whatsoever. He's almost visibly offended that she could think so little of him, until he remembers that he has a mask he needs to wear, and throws it on.
He is indifferent. Wait, he has to be more than that, he thinks, adjusting his expression to fit the role he's about to play. He has to be so much more: cold, disconnected, the epitome of shallowness and condescension. Everything she hates. Everything that reminds her of her father.
"You really are stupid."
But he's lying. Can't she tell? She's the smartest person he knows, and not only because he spends the majority of his time with incurable idiots like Black*Star.
The comments about her flat chest are seasoned fare for them, but it's the first time that he's said them when he's not standing by her side. The final blow feels like the last drop of poison rolling off his tongue, and he secretly hopes that she'll call him on his bluff as he utters the words.
"She didn't have to trick me to make me pick her instead of you."
-ɸ-
This can't be happening. He was different. Wasn't he? Oh god, it hurts, this rejection, this feeling that she's never been enough to keep all of the men in her life around.
They all leave, all leave her out to dry like last week's laundry that Soul never brought in, never folded, and never took the time to put away. It's still weighing down the line, she knows, mocking the way both her heart and her resolve seem to sag, unable to hold themselves up any longer.
Her mind flashes back to all of the other times she's felt this alone. This couldn't be right. It was her father that was like this, not Soul. Not the one whose music had dragged her so effortlessly into his life, drawing her in because he was intriguing instead of predictable, pensive instead of crass and loud about the things he was passionate about. She'd listened; she'd taken the leap and grasped his hand in that gold-framed room. She'd put her faith in him.
Evidently, she'd been wrong. They were all the same.
Usually, she prides herself on the fact that she can analyze anything. Under normal circumstances, she'd figure out the most improbable, ingenious way to win this fight, weapon or no weapon. But she can't, not this time. It hurts too much. The only thing she can do is curl up and scream. The ends of her fingers twitch, and she can't stop the tears that slide down her cheeks.
I wish you all would just die! she cries, and she means it.
Soul says she makes wild assumptions, but her expectations don't feel so off-base when he's proving them right.
As his eyes settle on her, narrowed and apathetic, she knows she's not going to win this time.
-ɸ-
He knows he's hurting her. He watches the pain shine out of her eyes like one watches the final scene of a play. It's too accurate of an analogy: the climax is coming, and this can't go on, but it's like the curtains are being drawn too early. He can feel her trust in him slipping. But he still has one last twist to throw in, and he prays that he'll salvage everything in time for the final bow.
Almost done, he tells himself, trying to quell the disgust that engulfs him as he plasters the slimiest grin on his face that he can muster. He forces out a short laugh and he hates himself even more as he gives her the answer that he hopes she'll understand as a clue:
"How am I supposed to know? I can't answer that."
The flash of his blade as it curls around Blair could be perceived as possessive, it's true. Anyone else would probably see it that way, he thinks, but not Maka. On a normal day, Maka would find it bizarre that he'd used his weapon form as a symbol of attraction, cautious as he was about throwing his blade around when it wasn't necessary. He hopes that she can figure it out.
But it's not a normal day. She stays angry, understandably so, and he knows that it's time. His heart lifts as he lets the smallest of genuine grins take over his lips. He's startled by how much he anticipates being back in her grasp.
"After all, cool men don't cheat on their partners, do they?"
-ɸ-
Maka stills and slowly lifts her eyes to meet Soul's, not understanding, not daring to believe him. But then his hand is flung wildly out to meet hers, and he's shouting her name like it's the last thing he'll ever scream and in a sudden burst of clarity, she realizes what he's done.
Instinct takes over as the warmth of his weapon form comes to rest in her hand once more. Her boots skid along the ground, and the slash of blue that accompanies the blow happens so fast that she almost misses it. Before them, the witch's soul, the final soul comes unraveled, Blair's form spinning into nothingness, accompanied by the whispery threads of Soul's lie.
Maka's not surprised that the simple "good job" Soul gives her is his only excuse for his behavior. In fact, she sort of loves that – the fact that he doesn't need to say anything. She smiles hesitantly as he smirks at Blair's soul, knowing that he feels like an absolute genius for being able to come up with such a plan.
… Until about five seconds later, when all of their celebrations come to an abrupt halt as his exclamations of "I can feel incredible power!" turn into the inevitable "… or not" and they're back to where they started from.
Despite the irritated guise she adopts as they walk home, she really doesn't mind. They'll grow stronger than they've ever been, because she knows he'll stick around long enough for them to gather their next 99 souls.
She thinks of what he's done for her, the dedication he'd shown her. If she's honest, it meant so much more to her than making him a Death Scythe ever would. He's already surpassed her father in one regard.
-ɸ-
That night, Maka drifts contentedly off to sleep, basking in the solace she finds in Soul's voice forming the words "the shape and form don't matter."
Soul lies awake and wonders how the hell she could have believed him so easily.
Aaaand there you have it. Do let me know what you think! Much love to ErisandDysnomia for her help with this! You are the most wonderful!