Thank you fabulousanima and makapedia for looking over this!
He'd said not to touch him, and that was the only warning she'd get. He'd told her to always knock, no matter what, to always alert him of her presence, and he wouldn't say it again. Soul had told her a lot of things—like not to ask about his name, his family, how he'd gotten here—and Death, she should have listened.
Maka flinched—not the best choice of words.
They'd just finished up a mission. She'd gripped his shaft and with one fluid swing, his blade cut through the demon; the scythe real, tangible, touchable. He ate the creature's soul, breathing a sigh, and gave her a thumbs up.
"Nice work," Soul said with a friendly smirk, falling into step beside her. The moon hung low, dark and luminous, and the sparse light did funny things with his hair. It was almost—it was white, definitely, but faded. She hadn't noticed.
He'd turned then, brows raised and eyes shimmering. They were luminescent, redredred, and perhaps her favorite thing in the world. Dangerous-looking, yes, just like his teeth—but Soul would never lay a finger on her.
Then again, he wouldn't let her come closer than a foot.
"-ka. Maka. Maka."
"Hm?"
"You're acting spacey."
The meister hummed; he'd caught her, again. Maka wondered how he read her like an open book, how he found it so easy to gloss over his own emotions. "Just thinking. It happens, especially at times like this." To the confused comma between his brows, she said, "Late at night, and after a mission."
"Ah." Her partner turned quiet. Her boots clicked against the pavement, while his steps were padded and light. She was the trained fighter, so why was his walk a mere whisper?
"Soul, what—"
"There's something I—"
The two halted. Stared. When had they grown so awkward with each other? Soul had been notoriously closed off from the beginning, sure, but this was just strange. Their conversations felt forced.
"You first," Maka insisted, and he shook his head.
"Not important. Go."
Her breath left in a rush—this was ridiculous. He'd danced around her questions the past week, but now he was stepping back from his own words. His gaze was imploring, bright as fire, so she snapped, "Fine. What are you?"
Maka almost missed the way his wavelength stilled, almost didn't see his jaw tighten and his eyes flicker. "A weapon," Soul said automatically, but he looked as though he wanted to say more. "Your weapon."
"That's not—"
"Look, do you trust me or not?" His voice cut through any coherent thought she had—sharp, accusing, and if she listened to his soul, pleading.
"How did this turn into…"
The wind toyed mercilessly with his hair—silver, light-bending, beautiful. His skin glowed, too, and he didn't appear tan so much as—
"Don't scream!"
Maka snapped her mouth shut, but the damage had been done. "You wanted to tell me something. What are you?"
A weapon. Hers.
He held his hands up—either a sign of surrender or a silent "calm down," she wasn't sure.
Not completely human.
He didn't speak. When she reached forward, breath caught in her throat, he didn't pull away, not even when her fingers passed through what was supposed to be flesh.
Not real.