Demons do not play nice.
Summoning spirits of the darker realm is only half of the battle. Getting them to agree to help her cause is another story entirely. Sure, she'd thought about it, occasionally, how it might be difficult to convince malevolent demons to aid humans, but it was the blatant optimism that kept her working, chipping away at her goal. The little voice in her head - the one that sounds annoyingly too much like Soul these days - reminds her that he so told her so, and Maka balls up her fists in her lap and sits, frustrated, as she chews her lip and contemplates her next course of action.
Communication is difficult. Frankly, she's lucky they speak the same language as her at all. Learning a whole new tongue - the tongue of the underworld, for goodness sake - would be nearly impossible. She's lucky they understand English, or whatever the language of the mind is, but still - still. They're so snarky and tough to get a hold of - some days, the demon is talkative but snide, as if they enjoy playing with their food before eating it, but most they're just unresponsive, and it's the cold shoulder that pisses her off the most.
What is a girl to do, when the world is in ruins at her feet and the only sign of hope is an equally bloodthirsty spirit that doesn't give two shits about humanity? It's as laughable as it is frustrating, and disheartening, and she might actually crack and throw her hands up and wonder why her if she had the time to do so.
Because it's too late now to go back to the drawing boards. One way or another, Maka will just have to find a way to convince the demon bound to her scythe that the greater good is worth their time and power. For her, and for night-time skies and boys with warm eyes and soft hands and stars, too. For the things left undamaged.
.
"You could come in, you know," Maka finds herself saying, jiggling her key in her hand, heart thundering in her throat. "Maybe. If you want."
The look on his face is priceless. He's less sleepy-eyed, reluctant rich boy and more red-eared, nervous-looking child, teetering close to the cookie jar, unsure if he's overstepping boundaries merely by existing in the same plane of being as her. He traps his lip beneath his front teeth and worries the skin, sucking in a breath through his nose, and Maka is annoyingly drawn to the motion of his mouth like a hawk. "Um," he blurts.
"You always drive me home," Maka goes on to say, still waffling on her front steps, as Soul stares up at her, pale hair stark beneath her streetlight. His eyes are so very dark in this light, so unreadable, and Maka's never been very good at leaving a book unturned. "I have some food. And drinks. I think I might have a carton of juice in the back of my fridge somewhere-"
And he smiles, gradually, that crooked grin that makes her cheeks blush, too. "Juice?"
They're a pair of fools, standing outside her home, blushing and grappling at social cues to pull themselves out of the deep end of feelings. If he pulls ahead, Maka hopes he'll be able to save her pitiful existence, too. "Shut up," she huffs, turning on her feet, hurriedly jamming her key into its lock. "Never mind, it was stupid-"
The sound of his boots clank on her metal steps, and he says, "I like juice."
He doesn't kiss her at the door, like she's been lead to believe happens in so many old-fashioned movies she'd stayed up late to watch while her parents bickered. He does keep smiling at her, though, less crooked and more genuine, with a gentle, unassuming look in his eyes, so very warm behind the slow blinking of his sugary lashes. It's enough for her, though, and she's smiling as she nudges her door open and Soul enters her home for the first time.
It's a little funny, watching him stand there with her floral curtains and hand-me-down cushion covers, looking tall and out of place as he fiddles with the switch for her ceiling fan. When dust snows on him, his nose wrinkles and he sneezes, wafting the air in front of him and huffing, "Ugh, god, no-"
"Sorry," she says, laughing, and shuts the door behind her. "Haven't really been home much lately."
"No kidding," Soul mumbles, backing himself out of the center of the room. He's almost polite, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders sloping, pushing himself out of her way.
"Wonder who's fault that is," Maka says, a smile pulling at her lips, and Soul pinks again, more brightly this time. When she aims her smile his way, he only burns brighter, mirroring her, shyly, shyly. "Come on. I'll show you around."
Soul sneezes, again. He blinks blankly, lips parted, brows crooked, and Maka forces herself to look away, heat coiling low in her belly. Inappropriate, she scolds herself. Not to mention creepy, too - she is not her father, reading too deeply into every purse of a partner's lips, wondering what it might be like to watch him lose control in another, more exciting way - but sometimes the Albarn blood has her questioning things. Sometimes she's more her father's daughter than her mother's.
"Dust," he says miserably. "M'allergic."
She could laugh. "The world's falling apart, and you're defeated by dust?"
Soul tugs on one of her pigtails in retaliation. She grabs his wrist and drags him down the hall return. By the time they're rounding her bedroom, he's gone decidedly jelly-legged, like a toddler. He squirms in her grasp, skin warm and clammy beneath her fingers, and blurts, "Uh, I usually like to take a girl out to dinner before she shows me the works-"
"Doesn't lunch count?" She quips, cheekily, pushing her door open with her hip. Soul splutters in response. "Milkshakes, Soul."
There's a wild, lost look in his eye, that she might consider taking the time to decipher, but before she can he's shuffling after her, broad and warm and so very real, swaddled in that leather jacket of his and tight jeans. "You have granny bedding," he says, very low, voice textured with that same interesting something that's brewing in his stare. His wording isn't sexy, not even a little bit, but Maka's spine still straightens out of instinct, shoulders pressed back, as if her body is something worth presenting to him. "Maka."
Drowning in his gaze would be so, so easy. She resists, barely, and takes a deep, cleansing breath, rooting her head back onto the Earth. "I mean-" she starts, watching his expression, his set brows and the pale freckles that stipple over his blinking eyelids. "I don't exactly bring guys home often. I'm a one-scythe kind of girl," she jokes.
He cracks, barely, tilting his head. "Mm."
Christ, are his eyes hot. She might as well have sunburn. "I wanted to show you something," Maka says quickly, blood roaring in her ears, that delicious, exciting heat curling in her abdomen the longer she allows herself to sit and brew. "Not my bed."
That heat of him thaws, just a bit. "No?"
"No." But maybe after. "My turtles."
.
His laugh is, annoyingly, just as pretty as the rest of him. And distracting.
But he doesn't seem disappointed when she shows off her turtle sanctuary with a Vanna White-esque flourish. He just laughs again, nodding his head, stepping toward her when she waves an encouraging hand in his direction. There's nothing assuming in his slumping stature, just a quiet, amused quirk of his lips, and Maka fights the urge to grab his hand in hers and hold tight. There hasn't been a man in her bedroom in years, and the last time she'd let one in - well, it had been Black*Star, and it hadn't been even a little bit flirtatious in nature, and he certainly hadn't held her hand with the same sort of heart-racing affection that Soul favors.
So she smiles, feeling so very comfortable and warm, and says, "Meet Leonardo and Ezio."
His shoulder brushes by hers. "They're neat."
"Neat," Maka echoes, bumping his shoulder right back.
"Handsome?" His fingers brush against her knuckles and the world is so very bright, and her heart feels like the sun, bursting, glowing with hope. "I like the flag by their rock."
As if on cue, Leo pokes his head out and cranes a look in their direction. Maka's heart swells impossibly more, almost hilariously lost in her hope and humor and relief, god, at the easy mood that lulls between them. "They're in love," Maka says, stubbornly, and Soul nods, still grinning, grinning. "So I made them a pride flag when I was sixteen. They're soulmates."
He snorts, fingertips ghosting over hers. "D'you really believe in soulmates?"
"They're in love," she repeats, staring over her shoulder at him. When he meets her gaze, he doesn't flinch away, only looks at her with those deep, bottomless eyes, so very warm beneath his long, pretty lashes. "I don't know if all soulmates are romantic, but yeah, I do. Or I want to believe in them, anyway. The world's lonely enough as is."
"Mmm," he hums, and then he looks away when he links his fingers around hers. There's a pink heat warming the length of his neck. "Sounds pretty hopeful, bookworm."
"Maybe the world needs a little more hope."
"Maybe."
There's a long pause that doesn't feel awkward at all, a moment of time where neither of them feel the need to fill the space with words. It's comfortable, standing there with him in her home, holding his hand, letting him peer into the cracks of her life, spaces left untouched by the horror of the reality they live in. There's an endearing undercurrent of trust that surrounds him, one she hasn't felt in a long time. It makes being with him easy, like tying her shoes or reciting the alphabet.
She wonders if he believes in soulmates, too, and why they gravitate toward each other like opposing ends of a magnet.
.
"Whoa," Soul blurts.
Miserably, Maka looks up from her slump on her desk, pigtails askew, and Soul looks torn between bolting over to make sure she's okay or calling for help. "Demons are the worst."
He crooks a brow and shuts the door behind him. "Would've never guessed that one."
"Shut up," she groans pitifully, rubbing her temples. Her eyes are sore and hot, and if she wasn't so close to crying out of sheer frustration, she might actually look in his general direction. But because she's Maka and she's stubborn, so stubborn, she clenches her jaw and grips her lopsided pigtails irritably. "No 'I told you so's. I'm not in the mood for it."
"I thought everything was going well? You- uh, it's in the scythe, right?"
"Playing hard to get in my scythe," she says through gritted teeth. "I didn't think getting a demon to agree to help slay monsters would be the difficult part of my plan."
Soul snorts, then tugs over a chair and plops down across from her. The fact that there's a second chair for him at all speaks miles, but Maka's not really in the mood for pulse-fluttering flirtation and wonder at the moment, so she whines again and plops her face back down into her hands. The sound of his wordless, thoughtful humming makes her blood burn in both the best and worst way. "Really?"
"I don't want to hear it, Soul."
His fingers drum on her desk as he asks, "What's the issue? They don't like to listen?"
"They don't listen at all!" she vents, finally slamming her hands down on the desk in a fluster. He doesn't flinch, but his brows do raise as he leans back in his seat, the pads of his finger still tapping out a staccato beat on the wood of her desk. "It's like- nothing I say even matters to them. It just goes in one grubby little ear and out the other, and I don't know how to make it any more clear to them that if they don't help, there's not going to be much of a world left for them to ravage later, should they chose to do so."
Soul watches her quietly. Then, he says, "You're trying to reason with evil," as if it's not the most obvious thing in the world, expression blank. "Maybe the two of you just aren't meant to work together. You summoned one demon, can't you just… try another?"
"And leave that one stagnant in our plane?" Maka groans, sliding one hand through a disheveled pigtail. "Not the best idea. I know this one is strong enough. I can sense it, you know? It took a lot of black blood to really glue him within the scythe. If he would just agree to help me..."
"Maybe you're just not compatible?" Soul suggests, and his chair creaks beneath his weight as he shifts, looking loftily over his shoulder. "You've got a lot of goodness, you know? Like you always say, Maka, the bonding of souls is picky business. It took you a long time to catch a demon and bond them to a suitable vessel, right? Maybe your soul just isn't compatible with theirs. Maybe that's the issue. All of your light cancels out their bad. Probably grosses them out. Gives 'em the heebie jeebies."
The setting sun casts an orange glow across him, between breaks of the shadows and panels of her one window. In the late daylight, with the summer breeze the only white noise humming through her lab aside from the steady cadence of his fingers, she realizes, too late, how deep they really are.
Her hand slides over his. His fingers still beneath hers.
"It has to be me," Maka says quietly. "Nobody else. You know how dangerous this is."
He smiles, sad and beautiful, and laces his fingers through the empty spaces between hers. "What if it can't be you?"
"It has to be me!"
"Why?"
Because it is dangerous. Because no one else has spent months - years - researching demonic entities and what little the Gorgons knew of their culture and mindset. Because, because, because no one else should ever have to suffer and it's her burden to bear and no one else's, but her throat is tight and Soul looks so serious, clutching her hand so gingerly, rubbing a thumb along the back of her palm. And for a moment, it's almost easy to sink into his lazy heat, greedily soaking in his steady, quiet affection and take in his reasoning.
But then she thinks of motherless children and sobbing husbands and Black*Star's nails digging so deeply into his palms that he'd drawn blood, and her resolve sets again, sinking deep within her.
"I don't want anyone else to get hurt," she mumbles, and that familiar pressure weighs down on her shoulders again. Maka feels small, like she's sixteen with something left to lose, and Soul holds her hand that little bit tighter. "It's my burden. And my idea. I thought you said it was a bad idea anyway."
There's a shake of his head, and then he's leaning forward, eyes dark and unreadable. "It's a terrible idea."
"And you think I should ask someone else to put their soul on the line?"
The sinking sunlight catches his lashes just right and he's luminous, even through his crinkling nose and squinting eyes. "I don't think you should ask just anyone," he mutters, and Maka feels her fingers curling around his in revolt before he even has a chance to continue.
"No."
"Maka-"
"Absolutely not," she hisses, yanking on his hand. "Are you nuts? I'm not letting you try, you have nothing to do with this-"
He hovers, so close that she can count each fair eyelash that brushes his cheek when he blinks, and Maka goes still, breath caught. "It's important to you," he says, voice equal parts measured and secretive. "And… and it's important to the world, right? Which makes it important to me, too. To all of us."
"Soul, no."
"I'd do it," he admits, and Maka sinks back in her seat, heart thundering in her chest. It beats so violently that it almost hurts, almost cracks her open. "It's not like we have much else of a choice."
She would rather watch the world burn than put him into harm's way. There's something special about him, her pouty little stray, and to have a part in anything that might dim his rare smile would be mutiny. There are things in this world worth protecting - mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters - and Soul is one of them. He's wormed her way into her life, with milkshakes and shy grins and the warmth of his hand, so much so that she doesn't remember what her lab had felt like without his commentary.
"Let me try one more time," she says, voice crinkling like tissue paper. "I can do it."
He lifts her hand to his mouth and presses his lips to the back of her hand, so gently and tenderly that she can barely feel it happen. But she sure watches it happen, with wide, enraptured eyes and a heartbeat that flutters in her chest like a caged bird, and she's so full of this impossible, ravenous affection for him.
It's dangerous stuff, treasuring people. Stuff she hasn't allowed herself to feel in a long, long time.
"It's your research, bookworm," he mumbles, breath warm on her skin. He breaks like dawn and leans back, golden sunlight warming his pale hair as he watches her. "But it doesn't mean you have to endure it alone."
.
Maka's soulspace is bright.
This, she supposes, could very well be an effect of a grigori soul. She effortlessly repels madness; surely that's why looking within herself often feels like staring directly into the sun. There's just a blinding quality about her light, the kind that burns and melts and sure, maybe that's why this prickly demon doesn't favor her the way she needs, and maybe Soul was on to something. If she can't help but shield her eyes from the violent, purifying light of her soul, how is a demon supposed to fare? How can she connect with such a dark, demonic entity and let it suction on to part of her soul like a barnacle if she can't even dim her own light?
They bring a mist with them. It's a black mist, one that rolls in like a fog and curls around her ankles, wispy like smoke. She smells burnt copper and feels the gritty unease, like sand, between her fingertips as their polished dress shoes part her crippling whiteness.
There stands a little red demon before her, dressed impeccably in a sharp, tailored suit. They're a stout little devil, surely not any taller than half of her height, with sharp, curved horns and arms too long to be human. All of their proportions are off, just a bit - a too-big head, too sharp teeth, short legs and beady eyes - all just enough to be disorienting, just enough to remind her of the reality she gambles with. This creature - this demon, whom she has summoned from realms much more twisted, somehow, than her own - is here because of her, only her, and watches her with an unnerving, hawk-like attention.
They tap their foot. One, two, three, four. Snaps their fingers. Then grins, smile full of daggers. "Again, girlie?"
This is the third time they've met. She's welcomed them into her soul already twice before, with disappointing results. But she's lived to tell the tale both times, and that, at least, is a little comforting.
"It's important," she says, clearly, and their smile only grows, wider and wider, splitting their dark face. "My world is ending."
"Tricky things, those kishin," they hum in response. "I bet they think that soul of yours looks good enough to eat. I'd certainly love to have a taste. There's nothing better than slurping down the know-it-all, goodie-two-shoes soul of a grigori. Like taking candy from a baby."
Do not deter. Do not show fear. Maka's hands clench into fists at her side and she stands tall, shoulders dawn, jaw set. Scythe-demon only grins, stifling their mad little giggles with too-big hands, mashing them over their greasy lips. Without a physical form - and without a host, a host with arms and legs and opposable thumbs, surely - they cannot hurt her body. They cannot sink those monstrous teeth into her heart and rip out her soul.
And she is strong. She is capable. He cannot control her, not with a wavelength like hers. Maka is brave - or brave enough, at least, to fight back the tremble of her knees.
"Caaareful, girlie," they snicker into their fingers, "don't want to bite off more than you can chew, hm?"
"I need your help," Maka says, resolve set deep in her throat. "I can't fight back without your help."
"And how's a pretty little thing like you planning on doing that?"
She is a kitten in a dog-eat-dog world. Hands shaking, she hisses, "I'm going to drive my scythe straight through Asura and slice him in half. And then I'm going to find a way to eradicate his evil little soul."
The demon hums, fog coiling around him like snakes. The smoke licks at her skin, hissing and whispering, and Maka shushes it with a firm stomp of her foot.
Their brows raise. "Ambitious, aren't we?"
"I'm going to save the world," Maka replies. "And you're going to help me."
"Hm?" They hum, tilting their head maddeningly, so very aloof and obnoxious. "Am I? I don't see why I should. You trapped me in steel. You bring me in here and blind me, and then demand I lend you power for nothing? You're cruel, girl. And boing. Not very much fun to work with at all."
"I'm not stupid," she hisses back. "You're strong enough to defeat him. I can feel it, with all of this-" she waves a hand at the dark, looming mist that encases them, never close enough to actually suffocate her. There's still so much light streaming through the cracks, bright enough in her blind spots to cast a spotlight on her demonic little guest. "You can help me save the world."
"Boring."
Her brow twitches. "You can help me kill monsters."
"Do you think I'm just mindlessly bloodthirsty?" they ask. "I don't care about that, missy, if I can't do it by my own hands. Do you think I'm happy about being merged into this scythe? You've trapped me," they hiss, and Maka's blood runs cold, just for a moment, as they take a step forward, light flickering beneath each footstep like a screwy bulb. "What, pray tell, can you give me, now that you've got me here? Tell me why I should help you, little girl? What do I get out of it."
And she takes a step toward them, too, fearlessly, as her boot parts the smoke like the red sea. "I'll let you return to your home after you help me."
"I quite like this world," they sing-song, "lots of fun to be had here."
"Not if it's ravaged by madness."
They giggle again, and her skin crawls, uncomfortable, as the mist shrouds them all the more, fingers jammed into their mouth once more as they drool black blood, pooling around them in thick, gooping rivulets. "Eh, we're all a little mad these days. Everyone but you."
.
She wakes with a start, heart slamming in her chest.
It takes her a moment to recollect her bearings. The flickering light isn't the demon waging war with her soul's purity. It's a faulty bulb, hanging above her, humming nosily in the afternoon air. The tiled floor beneath her is cold and her skin is clammy with sweat, but she's not surrounded by a mad fog that threatens to steam her breath. No, that warm, firm presence gripping her shoulders are a pair of hands. Familiar hands, with long, pretty fingers, attached to a boy that regards he with an anxious sort of urgency.
Soul ceases his shaking. His brows are set deep. "Maka," he sighs, voice low. "You're alright."
Her head really sort of hurts. It's not a pounding ache, but more of a dull one, that lurks insistently the longer she really tries to sit and think on the conversation she'd had just moments before in her soul. "Um," she blurts, uselessly, and presses her hands to her face, surprised to find tears prickling in the corner of her eyes. "Sorry, was I out long?"
"Bout an hour," he says, and only settles back when she peeks at him through the cracks of her fingers. Not once, though, does he let her go. "I take it your little deal with the devil didn't go so well?"
"I don't know what to do," she moans pitifully. "We just keep talking around each other. They won't listen."
Soul rubs reassuring circles into her shoulders. For a moment, she wishes she were wearing less, so she could feel his strong, dexterous hands on her bare skin, because it's nearly impossible to remove even half of her deep-seated tension through her shoulder pads. "Sorry," he mutters, and she lets her hands drop to her lap in defeat. "Did they hurt you? Say anything funny?"
"Aside from a bruised ego, I think I'm okay," Maka says, sighing.
"What'd they say?"
Maka finds herself chewing her lip, both in thought and frustration. It's only after she's gnawed on her skin for a good half a minute before she realizes his gaze has dropped to her mouth in the meantime. She stops, and he flickers his stare back up, pinking interestingly.
"... That the whole world's mad, and I shouldn't have bonded them to the scythe if I wanted their help," she says, finally, after Soul stops rubbing her shoulders and lets his own hands drop to his lap. They probably look like a pair of fools, sitting on the ground together, next to a discarded, looming scythe. "I think they're angry at me? But what did they expect for me to do, let them invade my body like a host? Possession isn't exactly on the menu. That would only solve the kishin problem temporarily - soul displacement and body sharing is messy, messy stuff, and it would raise more issues than anything else-"
Soul shakes his head, hands wringing together in his lap. He has this thing about him, she's noticed, where he has to keep his hands busy, be it tapping out beats on her desk, scribbling skulls and scythes in the margin of her notes, or running his fingers through a crooked pigtail or two. "You did what you thought was right," he says reassuringly, and Maka can't fight the urge to take those squirming, writhing hands into her own and holding tight. There is comfort in his heat, one she can't admit to aloud quite yet, but it puts an endearing spark in his eye. "It's not like they're getting out of there any time soon. They're trapped in that scythe, right?"
Maka sighs, nodding. "Yeah, bonded tight with a spell and a hearty helping of black blood. They're not going anywhere, not unless they manage to infect somebody…"
He lifts his free hand to brush her matted bangs from her eyes and smiles, slow and sad. "My turn, then."
"Soul, no."
"What else are we going to do, Maka? You said it yourself - your work is important. The world's ending," he says, as if talking about the weather, something so very cut-and-dry, black-and-white. "What's the worst that can happen, right? You'll be right here to make sure anything bad doesn't happen. You're the professor, bookworm. You trapped them tight. I trust you."
His thumb is so warm on her brow. It burns a hole directly to her heart and she gulps thickly, unable to convey even half of the concerns eating away at her like acid.
"Hey," he says, brushing his thumb along the pursed arch of her brow. "I trust you, Maka. Trust me, too?"
She sucks in a breath, bravely, and asks, "Why are you offering to do this? I thought you hated this idea. You said it was a bad idea in the first place. Why the change of heart?"
Soul shrugs, almost the picture of the care-free, cool guy she knows he likes to pretend he is. But there's a serious set to his brows, and his dark eyes draw her in like a swan song, so very devoted in the way he watches her every breath. "Because the world's ending," he says, and cups her cheek, fingers warm and damp from her pesky tears. "And there are still things worth protecting."
Maka chokes on her ambitions, thick like bile in the back of her throat. She thinks of the word 'we' and how he uses it so often now, how he fills her lab with life and banter and the way he smiles at her, beautiful like nothing else she's ever seen. "Soul, I can do it myself."
"What if you can't?" he asks quietly.
"I have to. You-" she sputters, shaking her head. His thumb brushes the damp heat from the corner of her eye. "It's dangerous, Soul. You know it's dangerous. Demons aren't just-"
"I let you try," Soul mutters, and there's a certain rough quality to his voice that she doesn't quite recognize. "This wasn't your first time, right?"
"Soul."
"Trust me," he says again, and Maka feels fear lace its greedy claws around her chest like a cage. Trust is not easy. Trust me, her father had told her mother so many times before her death. Trust me, her father had told her, so very many times, before coming home late at night, smelling of cheap perfume and sex and cheap bar food.
Trust me says Soul, her best friend, her person, and he might as well be signing his own will. There are stitches that tie her together and keep her whole, that keep her soul sound and her body functioning with a broken heart - and a hand, his hand, that keeps hers warm and her heart a little less lonely - and trust snips them both like a scalpel. Palms shaking, she brings the hand in hers to her mouth and brushes her lips against his knuckles, so very tender and gentle, and Soul's eyes could melt her alive.
She inhales. Exhales. Looks up at him through her lashes and says, "I do trust you."
It's the demon she doesn't trust. The demon, with their greasy hands and pointed horns and sharp, sharp teeth, that could surely rip her bundle of hope apart.
Soul claps a hand over their linked pair and nods solemnly. "Then let me try?"
Bravery is the courage to fight through fear. Maka squeezes his hand tighter, like a lifeline, sets her jaw, and wills him to keep his spark.
.
"So, I just…?"
"Hold tight. And close your eyes. And focus on calling their soul to yours." She taps the center of his chest for emphasis. "Right here."
He squirms for a moment, chewing his lip. He peeks at her through half-lidded eyes. Maka spreads the palm of her hand over his chest like a protective bandage, as if it can guard him from the darkness to come. "Kay," he says, and his Adam's apple bobs. She wishes her hand was on his throat, instead, to feel the rumble of his voice, so very deep, and the way it moves through him. "Any other tips?"
"Don't let them tempt you with anything. You want their assistance, not their control. You are still Soul after all of this, you hear me? Come back as Soul."
He offers her a crooked grin. It doesn't silence the worry scratching away at her own chest like an animal. "Okay, mom."
"Shut up. Close your eyes."
Soul winks and obeys. "See you on the flipside."
.
He's out for nearly two hours. Twice the time she was, and the fact does nothing to soothe her dull headache or the panicky jitter that's taken control of her heart. Her blood feels too warm, her heart too thick, the room too cold. Vaguely, she wonders if maybe they should've given the demon a grace period before attempting to strike a deal again. Maybe they shouldn't have tried to make a miracle happen so quickly after Maka had given them the boot from her own soul. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
It doesn't matter. What's done is done, and now she's forced to live with the consequences. Life does not have a rewind button, and hindsight is 20/20.
All that does matter is Soul coming back in one piece. Soul, victorious or not. Soul, strong enough to ignore temptation and power and come back to her, safe and sound.
Soul. Soul. Soul.
It's like he's all she can think about these days. He's a constant in her life, very much her rock, and without him around for even just two hours, she feels lost, like a child again, grappling for her mother's hand to hold as they cross the street. It's jarring, and there's a space in her chest left empty by his absence.
She hasn't been just Maka in months. Even when she went home, she still had Soul's nightly texts to look forward to. And for the first time in a long time, she allows herself to admit that she's scared. Loneliness is the kind of sadness that tears someone apart little by little, as time goes by, and more than anything else, she doesn't want to be that girl alone with her books and her anger again, hating reality, hating herself for not being strong enough to protect anyone.
Patience was never her virtue.
Maka clutches her fists and stares at his prone form. Watching him go limp and collapse to the floor, still clutching that scythe, had been trying enough on her, but watching him lay there, unconscious, with tense brows and pale, pale skin is something else entirely. She'd taken the necessary precautions - several steps back, to put space between them, just in case something did happen - but it all seems so ludicrous now. Soul would never do anything to hurt her. It goes against his code; he's not malicious, or skeezy, or greedy, like she'd believed men to be for so many years, but instead loyal, and trustworthy, with warm hands and secret smiles and a shoulder to cry on.
Perhaps too loyal for his own good. She's never once seen him speak to anyone else. She's never once expected him to offer his soul as tribute to her cause. She never wanted him to.
And now she waits.
Her entire being races at the first sign of life. His shoulders jerk first, tense, jagged in motion, before he coughs brokenly on her tiled floor. Instincts scream help him, help him, what're you waiting for, stupid girl? but she remains glued to her spot, eyes wide, breath shallow. Soul is alive, and he's moving - albeit slowly - but she still waits, hands trembling at her sides, unsure. She finds herself calling out, "Soul?" cautiously as he sputters all the more. His voice has always been a little low, a little rough, but there's a grit to his coughing that she can't quite place. And not quite in the sexy, mysterious kind of way that he always tries to pull off - but like his body is exhausted, like his throat is rubbed raw, like it's physically taxing for him to force his voice out.
He doesn't answer, so she asks, "Soul?" again, with her heart in her throat. The fluorescent light above them flickers and he groans, elbows looking sharper than ever, fingers splayed across the dusty floor.
And when he finally looks up, his eyes are red.
.
For a while, everything goes right.
Until it doesn't.
.
He looks a lot like Soul, but the way he moves is all off.
Her Soul is king of lazy movement, of soaking up the sun and napping on his arms and moving so gradually, half a step behind her, swinging his keys around his finger while his other hand held on tight to hers. Her Soul whistles while he watches her work, drumming his fingers on his knee, quiet half-smile pulling at his lips every time she glances up from her notes at him. He is kind. He is harmless.
He does not have horns protruding from his soft, messy tuft of hair. He also does not have razor sharp teeth - almost animalistic in nature - and yet there he stands, this disturbing imposter, with a serrated smile that splits his face, still clutching that damned scythe like a lifeline. Only now it's not quite a beacon of hope, not anymore, and Maka feels her heart plunge into her stomach with a discouraging splash.
"S… Soul?" she asks again, tiny, with denial bleeding through her every pore. No, no, no. This can't be happening.
The creature before her tilts his head, licks his lips, his tongue too long, too pointed. "Well," he says, voice thick with reverb, caught halfway between slimey condescendence and the low, warm rumble she dreams about, "that wasn't so hard, now was it?"
Her legs shake, knees lock. "Stop."
"Stop what?" he asks, very nearly cackling. He extends his arms, shifts the scythe, as if testing, considering his options with a massive weapon at his disposal. "Isn't this what you wanted, Maka?"
"Of course this isn't what I wanted! I told you that, I just-"
His grin widens cruelly. "You wanted the power to save the world. Well, now you've got it. Or… I've got it," he purrs, and Maka wouldn't even dream of melting, not now, not ever. "But then again, I've always had it, haven't I? Just needed a body. And now I have one."
She's going to be sick. There's no way around it, not with the guilt and anger and everything else overwhelming her trembling body. Bile bubbles up in her like apologies and one hand cups over her face, revolted, as she watches the devil invading her partner's body run a finger along the magnificent blade of the scythe. The red of the blade glints violently in the flickering light; the only thing more threatening is the shade of his eyes, dark and angry like spilled blood, stained hands.
"He put up a good fight," he hums, "but he's just a little too weak for me, hm? Stupid boy would do anything for you. Told me so himself! And so he did."
"Stop," Maka hisses again, and her blood boils, heartbeat thundering in her ears. Maybe she'll get sick later. Maybe her vomit will melt the demon from Soul's bones. Maybe she'll drop dead and wake up in another time, where all of this is just a nightmare. "Just- stop talking and give him back!"
"He did it for you," the demon says, laughing, laughing, and Maka clutches the sword in her hand, feeling so very impossibly powerless. Steel can only harm the host and not the soul. Steel can only cut and make bleed, and Soul's body is still so very human, so very flesh and bone. One good slice could cut him open, but the demon could still roam free. "How does it feel, knowing your boy risked it all just to make you happy?"
With angry tears streaming down her cheeks, she spits, "Do I look happy?"
He giggles again, and for a moment, she's afraid he'll do that black-bleeding thing again - worried, still, somehow, that the black blood will stain Soul's shirt, will damage his appearance and belongings - but he wobbles on his knees instead, as if still unstable on his land legs. "Ooh, he does hate it when you cry," he says gleefully, "He wants to wipe your tears, but I think I might take a peek at that pretty little soul of yours instead."
The implications are not lost on her, and Maka finds herself gasping, "Soul!" again, loud enough to echo in her otherwise empty lab, loud enough to shake the demon to his stolen bones. He pauses, and Maka takes a brave step forward, only feeling half as commanding as the slam of her boot sounds, but if there is even half a chance that her Soul is in there somewhere, fighting to break free, she won't lay a hand on him. She thinks of his smiling face and warm hands and the roar of his motorcycle beneath her and how free she'd felt, clutching herself to him while the wind whipped through her pigtails, and knows that giving him up is as impossible as accepting defeat.
Maka has tasted loneliness once and won't go back. She can't do back. Not now that she knows what companionship feels like, what unconditional, unwavering loyalty and affection can do to a person.
His mind and body might be sick with a demonic parasite, but the soul is still sound. She has made magic happen once, and she will make it happen again.
"I know you can do this," she finds herself saying, and her boots clatter as she takes another reckless step. That damned scythe is very nearly within swinging distance but she doesn't care - there's a trust she holds for him that goes deeper than any mortal fear. "You're stronger than this! It's your body, and your choice-!"
"My body!" he screeches. "MY body!"
"And nobody else gets to make your decisions but you!" Maka continues, with fire in her veins and her heart on her sleeve. "Where's that boy who told me I didn't have to do this alone? I know he's in there, Soul! I need him! I need you!"
His body quakes with a great moan and the scythe teeters dangerously, the toe of the blade clattering to the floor. Maka doesn't even flinch, too busy staring her demons in the eye, too busy hoping red will give way to safe, warm brown.
"You can-"
"BACK," he roars, one hand ruffled so thoroughly in his mad hair, entire body trembling with effort. "Get back, stupid, you're so stupid-!"
"No-!"
"Maka," he says thickly, shaking all over, and at once she knows this is Soul, her Soul, looking so devastated. Having even just this much control over his own body appears to be painful, and his face screws up in agony as he pulls on his own hair, sweat prickling at his forehead. "Maka, you've got to- get out, you have to-"
She can't move fast enough, and trips over her own feet trying to embrace him. "Soul-"
"No!" he shrieks, clamoring back, taking shallow, rapid breaths. "N-No, you can't- 'M gonna hurt you, Maka, and I can't… you've gotta.."
When it appears he's unable to spit it out and stares, quite pointedly, at the steel in her hands, Maka puts two and two together and says, "No."
"You don't… haaa, you don't have a choice," he says, and doesn't even have the strength to crack that heartwarming grin of his, she realizes. This is a shell of the smiling, laughing boy she's spent so many afternoons with, and it's her fault. It's no one's fault but her own. "You've gotta- 'nd then… scythe, put him back-"
"I'm not hurting you," she says, shaking her head, and oh, there are those tears again, streaming down her cheeks like little waterfalls. They seem to give him control, only for a moment, and he gapes at her before writhing again, quaking, as if taking a breath is physically taxing for him. "I can't-"
"Maka, you have to, you don't have a choice, I don't- please don't let me kill you, please, I can't-"
As if she could cry harder. Who is she to deny a dying man his last wish? Who is she to deny him anything, when he has done so much for her? When he has given up everything for her, just for a chance to make her happy, to make her feel like she's accomplished something?
Choking, she takes a step back and clutches her sword. Soul seems to get it, for a moment, there's a relentless faith in his eyes, rippling through that disheartening shade of red before it cracks and that laugh is bursting from his lips again, mad, and control is lost. Maka knows without a doubt that that look will haunt her for the rest of the life - because even after she's doomed him, he still finds a way to look at her as if she is not damaged goods, as if she isn't evil for dabbling in dangerous witchcraft. He still finds it in him to look at her as if she's something worth protecting, even after she invited a demon to tear him apart.
There are good people who do bad things, and bad people that make good choices, and Maka doesn't know where she falls anymore.
"Your fault, your fault, all your fault," the demon babbles, and Soul's body straightens sickeningly, raising the scythe, ready to reap. Void of his warmth, his eyes are nothing more than windows to the pits of hell, and Maka can't look at him without feeling overwhelming regret melt her resolve. "But it's my turn now, my turn, and it's all thanks to you-"
Maka will not go quietly. For Soul, she races forward, steel deadly in her grip, and he bleeds black as he falls.
.
There's just so much blood, and she goes down with him, unable to maintain the false strength in her legs. Her sword has punctured his chest, and the scythe clatters to the floor, heavy as it slams down. Her knees skid across the tiled floor, bare and rapidly staining with thick, black liquid, goopy and grody. Soul's body shudders as it bleeds, gushes and oozes as Maka's trembling hands grip the handle of the murder weapon and slices down his middle, diagonally, until she's made a clean cut and his chest is wide open.
She doesn't even notice his eyes roll back. She's too busy crying as she claws her way into his chest, blood up to her elbows, sobbing, "I love you, I love you, please don't go, I'm so sorry, Soul, Soul," and clutches the murky blue ball of light in her bloodied hands to her chest.
She's made magic happen once, and she'll do it again.