--
This is what you get.
It was a conclusion, not an answer, not a prayer.
"Who's that kid playing the piano?"
"It's that weapon…"
A monotonous song strung along the chords of the dark-skinned instrument. The beat matched the record of a certain "Little Demon."
It was impossible.
Those were his first thoughts; the first stage of grief.
Denial.
Slowly, his nightmares morphed.
She'd be kneeling, her legs plastered on the ground, blood pouring from her fingers. Black blood. She turned. Blood sputtered out like a broken fountain:
"Something's wrong with me."
He'd wake up each time cold and in the midst of a heart attack, his soul screaming.
But, when he woke up, the nightmare simply shifted again.
This nightmare consisted of nothing. His meister was gone. And this was the real world.
He was supposed to be the greatest death scythe; swallowing the 99 malicious souls and 1 of a witch. But the last soul he cradled was her own.
Blue. A relaxing color. It had held unto a fluttering motion for the tiniest heart beat; those weak wings refusing to believe it either. That its shell was gone. But then they stopped, stopped completely; falling silently.
For the longest time he could only hold this bodiless, lifeless orb. He remembered darkness falling thick and black, and he could only see by the blue radiance of Maka Albarn's departed soul.
An hour had crept by. The soul could not sustain itself any longer. It had burst.
This was a world of cruelty, of magic, of death. Expecting happily-ever-after's was like wishing his family hadn't cursed his fate as forever a disappointment, was like wishing he actually didn't care about others' judgment, like wishing he was a cool guy; undaunted and hard-hearted.
He hated her for opening his shell; for exposing this gaping wound in his chest to pain and loss and suffering again. But this time, it was all over someone else.
He hated himself for bearing the black blood that finally won. He hated the world because he had made it out and she hadn't. He hated Spirit for bringing Maka into the world. He hated Shinigami for ruling over death.
Slowly, he would be looking at the world through spite again.
"I told you it was us who would win."
Soul ended his despicable song.
He also hated himself for not being able to cry. His new life would soon rid him of that regret.
--
ANGST! Dun-dun-dun. Obviously an alternate time piece. This one-shot morphed from death ideas, boredom, and desperation. Ta-da.