Moments Chapter 4: Enter the Struggle: SoKa, a soul eater fanfic

Disclaimer: All original Soul Eater characters, story, and affiliated media are copyright (c) 2004 by Atsushi Okubo. Kashii Ai, Cassie Drey, and any associated names/companies in no way own the Soul Eater series.

The Gift lyrics copyright (c) Seether. Kashii Ai, Cassie Drey, and any associated names/companies do not in any way own these lyrics

Nightmare

"MAKKAAAAA!" Soul stopped breathing as he stared at all the red, red, red, pouring from her body.

She choked up some blood and stared at him, "S—Soul . . ." Her hand scrabbled at his chest. Understanding what she wanted, he found her shaking hand and pressed it to his face.

"You're gonna be okay, Maka, d'you hear me, idiot?"

"I—it's not." She coughed again, and more blood flooded over her lips, "I—I love you. K—kiss me."

Soul did as he was told, tasting bitter iron, "Maka, you'll be fine!" He pressed her to his chest, willing her to stay alive.

"S—say it. I lo—" Her weak voice was cut off with more blood.

"I love you, too." Soul whispered.

Maka smiled at him, stroking his face, and her eyes slowly closed. Soul screamed her name as he felt her pulse die . . .

Awaken

He jolted awake, drowning in bedsheets, his own (normally musically inclined) voice tearing out his vocal chords. His scream died, and he hugged himself (he'd never been so scared), shaking uncontrollably. His body was drenched in sweat.

Tears

For the first time since he was a small boy, he felt hot pricks at the backs of his eyes, and they filled up, and liquid spilled over his cheeks. Years of suppressed sorrow (from his family, his own dark, twisted heart, his fear, anger, negativity) crashed over him, and for once, he let himself cry.

Comfort

His relief had always come in the form of small, pattering feet, the smell of the sun, and big green eyes, and when it (he covered his face with his hands and tried to silence his sobs) opened his bedroom door, he tried to tell himself once again that he wouldn't lose her.

"Soul?" Her voice was pure and soft. He turned his head so she wouldn't see his tears, but a low, cracked sob gave him away.

He heard the rustling of her nightgown and the soft pitter-patter of her feet (which he always found so endearing) as she crossed the room. His bed gave a slight squeak as she sat down beside him.

A small, gentle hand closed around his wrist and pried his hand from his face, "Are you okay?"

Shock

Soul's eyes were downcast, his long, thick gossamer lashes (tear droplets clung to those fair lashes, it was beautiful) brushing his tan cheeks. Maka was flabbergasted; Soul never cried. She had seen him distressed, angry, in pain before, but she never, not once, had seen him cry. It scared her to see him (he looked so broken, so lost, so weak) like this. What freaked her out the most was the shaking; his body quivered as he hugged her head to his chest, his fingers entangling in her hair.

Soul was strong. So why was he shaking and crying like a child?

Maka wiped and kissed (tasting salt and sorrow) away the tears, "Are you okay?" She asked again. He shook his head, and sobbed more.

Maka hugged her distraught weapon, sending him her wavelength, wrapping him in love, comfort, her purity. This seemed to calm him, and he stopped crying (his words were incoherent, his voice thick with tears) enough to talk.

"I—I had a dream. You—you—were . . . . going to . . ." He seemed unable to continue, but Maka understood.

"Shhhh, calm down. It was only a nightmare."

He took a few deep, shaky breaths, then drew back to look at her. His red eyes were tortured (she had never seen so much pain in someone's eyes) and burning, "But it could become very, horribly real."

She kissed him on the forehead, "Don't worry. It won't."

She pushed him back, so that he lay down, and snuggled under the covers next to him. She would stay with him for the rest of the night, so he wouldn't feel scared anymore.

Agony

He was so sick of listening to himself and Maka lie to themselves. It only made him hurt.

"Soul! We'll be okay!" Bright smile. Happy green eyes. Such an easy lie.

"Yeah, Maka. I know." Smiling a smile he didn't feel. His heart would wrench around painfully in his chest. How many times has it been, that he almost lost the love of his life? He'd lost count a long time ago.

Sometimes, Soul wondered if there was something wrong with him. Like his heart was sick. He would put on his visage, pretending everything was okay. He was "cool." For Maka. His friends. Himself. Because, it was easier to say there was nothing wrong with him.

Even though he cringed internally, every time Maka would reassure him ("Everything will be fine, Soul."), and he would try to tell himself the same thing. And then she's reckless. Stupid. Almost dies, again. It kills him to watch her do that to herself.

And so his heart writhes in pain, uncertainty, fear. He knows why (though he's never admitted it to himself) the possibility of losing her bothers him so much. The majority of his life (for his coloring, his shark-teeth, his fascination with the dark), he had been rejected, spit upon, regarded as a freak, for what he had been born as. His father didn't want a monstrous weapon for a son. His brother was an arrogant fool, whose shadow he had lived under most of his life.

Then he met Maka. He poured his dark, twisted heart into that piece he played for her. And she accepted him. No question. No ridicule. No horror.

Just appreciation. He could never forgive himself if she died.

And he couldn't accept the way she lied to herself, to him, because it was easier than facing the harsh, ugly truth.

"We might be dead tomorrow."

Sometimes, he wished she would say it. Just once.

Concern

Maka watched Soul (her weapon, her partner, her best friend, her lover) carefully, only half-listening as Stein pointed things out on a complicated diagram drawn on the blackboard. She had been worried about him lately; his nightmares (he always woke up horrified and lost, drowning in bedsheets) had been getting increasingly worse over the past month. Ever since they had battled that witch, and Maka had almost died. He'd been nightmaring every night, since.

Maka had taken to sleeping in his room, so she could be there when he woke, terrified and drowning in his own horrors. She had even bought him a double bed to replace his twin. Though, this came more out of their romance (they had lost their virginity to each other months ago) than anything else.

Every night, she would invite him to make love (it used to be that they couldn't get enough of each other), hoping it would distract him. Going to bed exhausted might stop his nightmares. But he always said no. The one time she asked why, he muttered something about the fact that he didn't feel too great, and sex would only make him feel empty. This prompted a prying round of questions regarding Soul's well-being. To which he insisted he was fine. Maka was unconvinced, (his eyes had been pleading, begging her not to push) but she didn't ask anymore.

He had been acting very strange lately, too. His normally bright smiles seemed a little strained. He was quieter than usual. He was playing basketball less and less, preferring instead to watch. He didn't make love with her (and he loved her body), even when she tempted him. He laughed a lot less. Soul was becoming increasingly withdrawn, and it was beginning to seriously worry Maka.

"Oi, Maka," He noticed her staring, "What's wrong?"

"Oh . . . Ummm . . . I was wondering if you were okay."

He smiled, but it didn't light up his eyes, "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"I'm worried about you, Soul."

His smile dropped, "Why?"

"You've been really weird, lately. You look like you're in pain when you smile. And you never laugh anymore."

His eyes returned to Stein, "I'm fine, Maka."

"I don't believe you."

"Don't you worry about me, idiot. Worry about yourself."

She stared at him, brows furrowed in confusion. There was obviously something wrong. Just like him to deny it, "Don't lie to me."

He turned and looked at her, and his large, red, smoldering eyes were full of pleading, and something else (it was fathomed and strained and churning) Maka didn't recognize, "I really don't want to talk about it."

He seemed to be convincing himself of something. Like he really wanted to say otherwise. Maka stared. Did he wish he could tell her, but he couldn't for some reason?

"Are you sure there isn't something that you need to talk about?" She asked.

He ripped his rubies away from her emeralds, "No. There's nothing."

Maka hadn't missed the agony in his eyes, before he broke their gaze.

Selfless

Soul wanted (desperately, longingly, painfully) to say something to Maka. He just couldn't. He wouldn't violate her purity with his own dark, raging pain. She was the most precious person to him, her empathy and innocence were his relief.

But, he couldn't tell her. He couldn't make her face the truth, and watch her fall. There had always been that unspoken rift between them, fr4o m the day of their first mission. They might not live to see the next sunrise. One might have to attend (God forbid) the other's funeral after a mission gone horribly, insanely wrong. They both feel it. They never say anything. He knew that if he acknowledged it, it would only make her weep. Because she believed the lie. That everything was guaranteed to be okay. Even though it wasn't.

Yes, he would deny himself even Maka, his tonic, his medicine, his salvation. And he lets himself live with the pain of suppressing his pain, as he watches his Technician's oblivion, which hurts him so.

He just had to be selfless. For Maka.

Volunteer

"Oi, Soul!" The white-haired teen was jolted from his thoughts as his girlfriend waved a clipboard in his face, "How does this one sound?"

They were signing up for volunteer work (much to Soul's displeasure), as several hours of community service where needed in order to graduate Shibusen. Soul read the information sheet that had been shoved in his face, "What the shit are you thinking? I wouldn't be caught dead doing that!"

It was a program to make quilts for retired, elderly Shibusen staff. She snatched the clipboard back, "I thought it looked fun!" She pouted and put the clipboard down, then picked up another, "How about this?"

Soul read it, and nodded, "This'll be fine." It was an after-school camp to teach young children basic Karate. Soul loved young kids (their purity and innocence were a comfort to him), and he thoroughly enjoyed practicing his Karate. He had learned from the best, after all. He smiled (oh, how it hurt to smile) at his instructor and girlfriend, "What are you gonna do?"

"Work in the Shibusen library."

Soul nodded, "Cool."

"Yeah."

Emptiness

Eventually, Soul's constant pain turned to numbness. He supposed it was like a defense (yet it was somehow worse than the pain), in order to keep himself from going crazy from the exhaustion. He still pretended, putting on his normal "coolness." He was so tragically good at being fake. Only Maka could see (but she never said anything, at his insistence) the cracks in his fragile visage beginning to show.

He couldn't play the piano anymore. He would sit there and stare (his eyes would begin to water from not blinking) at the keys for hours, willing some music to come. But it was dead. He was dead. He would tap out a few notes (they were discordant and sour and empty), but he crashed it every time. The musical piece didn't flow. For the first time in his life, the piano (because he had nothing to give, no feelings, no anything) gave him nothing.

Ebony and ivory had never felt so empty.

The Uncanny Child

"That's all for today, guys. Keep up the good work!" Soul watched as his young Karate class began to chatter as they milled about, waiting for Mom or Dad to come pick them up. He had agreed to teach the six-year-old white-belt group.

It gave him relief when they smiled at him, laughed at his (lame) jokes, told him they loved their "Nii-So." They had decided (he had refused to be called "Sensei") on their own to call him that. It made him feel some semblance of something. A few genuine smiles. One or two proud moments. It helped, just a little.

He sighed. He had been wondering lately (and worrying, too) about his mental health. His nightmares were worse than ever, and he didn't feel anything anymore. Goddammit, and he couldn't play the piano, either. It had been his only outlet. And now it didn't even work properly. He was just a broken pianist . . .

"Nii-So?" One of his students (she was a pretty, sweet little girl; beautiful violet eyes and dark, rich brown hair) tugged on his jacket.

Soul crouched to her level, "Yeah, Georgianna?"

"Mommy is here! Bye bye!" She opened her arms, and they hugged, "I love you, Nii-So!"

Soul felt a slight tug at his heart, but nothing more. Dammit, what was wrong with him?

"I love you, too, Georgie." He forced a smile, "Tell your mom you did good today."

"Okay!" She reached up and patted his cheek, cream against apricot, "Nii-So, why are you sad?"

Soul was taken aback, "I—I'm not sad."

"Nii-So is a sad man. Your eyes always cry."

The perception of a child was a great and terrible wonder. Soul sighed and closed his eyes (he was still in awe), then opened them again, "Sometimes, Georgie, grown-ups have to deal with hard things. And it makes them sad."

She tilted her head to the side, huge violet eyes curious, "What makes you sad?"

"Lots of things. Now go, your mom is waiting for you."

She gave him a kiss on the cheek, "I hope you're not sad anymore, Nii-So. Bye bye!"

Soul watched as she waved happily and ran towards her mother, who had her daughter's same beauty. Sometimes, the honest child was so much cannier, realized so much more, than the ponderous adult.

Cut

Soul sighed as he rubbed the paring knife in his hand with a sponge, his hands sudsy. He was home alone this evening. Maka had her own volunteer work, and Blair was working. This left him to eat dinner alone. He felt (and loneliness was his biggest fear) so deprived.

He hoped Maka came home soon, so he could distract himself. It was too much to be alone (because he hated himself, these days) with his own thoughts and feelings. The emptiness was overwhelming (he refused to put this all on Maka), and nothing could save him from it. Right now, he would give something, anything to feel again. Even pain. At least it would be something.

The weapon turned off the water and began to dry the dishes. He was drying a plate when it slipped from his grip and fell. He swore (couldn't he do anything right?) and gathered the fragments of the plate, and threw them away. He then grabbed the vacuum and ran it over the area, to get any little pieces.

He returned to drying the dishes. If only he could play something (he was so desperate) on the piano. He picked up the paring knife and began to dry it. It would help so much. But, when he had no feelings to play, what could he do?

He suddenly stopped, and stared at the knife in his right hand.

He dropped the towel (no, he couldn't), and turned over his left hand to stare at the smooth, bronze skin of his inner forearm. Right now, he would give something (could he really?), anything to feel again.

Even pain.

Soul pressed the blade (he couldn't believe he was actually doing this) into his skin, and dragged it across his flesh. Vivid physical pain, beautifully rich and agonizing, blossomed across his arm. He watched the blood bead along the cut, and the bright red, red, red flow over his saturated golden skin. The pain began to fade after a while, so he moved below the first cut, and opened a second.

It had seemed so long since he had felt something. It was worth it (he knew in his heart that this was unhealthy), even if he had to slice his own arm open again and again.

Distance

Maka hummed happily as she fumbled with the keys to hers and Soul's apartment. Since she had not been home for dinner, she had stopped at the grocery store (maybe this would cheer Soul up, she hoped) and bought ice cream, chocolate syrup, sprinkles, and whipped cream to make sundaes.

She finally found the right key, and unlocked the door, juggling the grocery bag and the stack of books she had checked out from the library. She was particularly happy about that. Markus Zusak was in that stack, in addition to Bram Stoker (she was gonna reread it for the millionth time), Epictetus, Roald Dahl (she still loved him, even at fifteen), Kathe Koja, Anne Rice (she'd been on a vampire trip lately, ever since she read Twilight), and a book on the history and evolution of gothic and symphony rock (Soul had introduced her recently, and she liked it).

Soul was in the kitchen, it looked like he was just finishing cleaning up dinner, "Hey! What did you have?"

Her lover turned from the sink, where he had been drying a dish, "Oi, what's up? Ramen noodles, with veggies. There's some left over in the fridge if you want the rest for lunch tomorrow."

"'Kay." She walked up to the counter beside him and set down the bag, "I had Chinese with Tsubaki. And I bought stuff for ice cream sundaes!"

He leaned over, smiled, (it was painful and fake and strange) and kissed her on the cheek, "Cool. Thanks, babe." Strain on him was visible to her, like a parasite attached to its victim.

"Ha—Have you been okay lately?"

Soul looked up at Maka, then pushed past her to put the dish in the cupboard. He didn't answer her question, but instead pulled out his black iPod and popped the earbuds (red Skull Candies) in. Ugh, she hated it when he avoided her questions like this! Damn smart aleck.

He was wearing a long sleeved shirt for some reason, which was odd. It was almost June in the middle of the Nevada desert. The heat (it was almost 102 degrees) was dreadful today. He must be sweltering! Maka rolled her eyes at her boyfriend's weird tendencies and dropped her satchel and stack of books off in her room.

She paused as she stared at her black bag. What was up with him lately? He had been so . . . distant. And always in pain, it seemed. Or was it something else? He had been majorly withdrawn for the past week. Hell, he hadn't played on his keyboard (it had been his sixteenth birthday gift) all week. And he had practiced and composed every day, up until recently.

She shook her head and made her way back into the living room. He had his volume up so loud, she could hear (how did she recognize this? He had turned her into such a music junkie) that he was listening to Cradle of Filth. She scrunched her nose, she hated screamo. How did he tolerate that stuff?

He was laying on the couch, with his head up on its arm, one of his arms, his left, thrown across his forehead. He had his eyes closed, so his silvery-gossamer eyelashes (they reminded her of spider's silk and ice frost) rested prettily against his skin. Silver fiber against bronze velvet. The deep blue shirt he was wearing (it contrasted beautiful and sharp with his hair and skin) looked good with his coloring.

Maka stood over him, and ran her hand through his hair. He opened one eye, bright blood red (it always made her think of rubies and roses and battle-blood sunsets), and then closed it again. She reached down and plucked out a Skull Candy.

"Don't you want some ice cream?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Get up, then."

He opened his eyes, "In a minute, I will."

The weapon closed his eyes again, slightly head-banging to the beat of his song. He must have had it on shuffle, because Lies by Evanescence was playing, now. She watched him, admiring his open, gentle facial structure. The round face, adorable upturned, button nose, full, luscious lips. He sighed, then got up, and kissed her, "I love you."

This was random, "I—I love you too."

He nodded, and went into the kitchen, "What kind of ice cream did you get?"

"One of your favorites, Neapolitan."

"Cool." He hadn't smiled since she'd asked about his well-being. He only had smiled (it was painful to watch, like a dying butterfly) once since she got home. He should have been much happier than he was acting. He loved ice cream sundaes.

She followed him, and reached for his left forearm, and wrapped her hand around it. He flinched visibly and looked around at her, and for a moment, his eyes were (like a deer-in-the-headlights kind of look) wide and fearful, then he relaxed. Maka raised an eyebrow, he sure was acting funny today, "Are you okay?" She repeated her question from before.

Soul hesitated for a second (he seemed to be indecisive about something) then forced that strange, painful smile, "Yeah. I'm fine, Maka."

He wasn't fine. It was hard for them to lie to each other since they knew every little mannerism, every small habit, of the other person. Soul held her gaze, his eyes pleading her not to ask any more. Maka nodded, "Okay. I was just wondering."

She watched his back as he pulled the groceries out of the bag. He seemed to be moving his left arm gingerly, like it was painful. Was he injured? And why was he so distant and quiet lately? And he couldn't smile properly, anymore.

What was wrong with Soul?

Pretending

Soul was discovering he had a hidden talent for acting. He could laugh with Black Star, show interest as Kid described the latest news from Shinigami-sama, easily discuss the latest movie he and his friends had seen. All while he felt nothing. He had even learned to smile normally. Only Maka saw through him. And even then, her view was partially opaque. He told no one of his cutting (though, he knew he had a serious problem, and probably needed help), and he continued to hide the damage on his arms, sweltering in the May Nevada heat.

Maka kept asking him why he was dressing that way. She had quit wearing her black jacket, and wore only tank tops to school, now, instead of her usual dress shirt and sweater vest. This year, the spring and summer (global warming or whatever, he supposed) where unusually hot.

He watched as his friends laughed. It was free period, and Black Star was in the midst of describing a particularly funny occasion in which he had apparently tried to water Tsubaki's window garden using a Super Soaker gun, with disastrous results.

Soul pretended to laugh and smile (how he wished he could be as carefree as they were), along with his friends. Did they ever notice his laugh sounded a little off? What would they think if they saw all the partially healed scars riddling his arms? Probably be disgusted. Only freaks hurt themselves on purpose, after all. And he had grown up being called a freak. The last thing he wanted was to hear it from his friends.

Kid wiped a few tears from his eyes, "Ahhhhh . . . that's hilarious. How water-damaged was the window seat?"

"Not at all." Tsubaki smiled big, "It was just a really funny moment!"

Maka punched Black Star in the arm, but she was smiling, "You idiot! What were you thinking, using a water gun?"

"The great me always uses a water gun! NYAHAHAHA!!" He laughed manically, then jumped up on the table.

Kid looked up at his friend, "What the hell are you doing?"

"I AM A GOD!! THE GREAT ME HAS AN ETERNAL HALO OVER HIS HEAD! I AM FOREVER—"

Kid facepalmed, then pulled out his textbook (Black Star's back was to him) and jammed it into the backs of Black Star's knees. The assassin meister tripped comically (it was elegantly, beautifully , ridiculous, his arms and legs where everywhere, flailing about) and fell off the table. Everyone laughed as he got up, rubbing his head.

Soul tried to laugh, but he couldn't. He couldn't go on like this (his skin had been having trouble healing of late), lying to his dearest friends all the time, pretending nothing was wrong with him. He felt helpless all the time, as though his emptiness and his nightmares (all he saw, now, when he closed his eyes was Maka's death) where beyond his control. They had been getting worse, to the point where he was afraid to sleep, now.

Maka still slept with him in his room, but he never changed clothing in her presence, and he had begun locking the door during his shower. She had been suspicious of his strange behavior; his sudden refusal to expose his body to her, and had asked him why several times. He made excuses. He wanted more privacy (but they where lovers, she would insist), he was insecure (this only worked for about two seconds, after she ran her eyes over his well-muscled chest) about his body, he wanted more space. She knew there was something wrong (but he could not, would not, burden her with this horrific hell), and she wanted to know what was wrong. It was a significant mark of her respect for Soul's feelings that she didn't ask.

The demon scythe stood abruptly, "Bathroom." he muttered. His friends stared for a second (thank God he was a weapon, he never had to carry a razor blade, knife, or anything), slightly surprised by his sudden need, then went back to chattering. All except Maka and Kid, they both looked concerned. He knew Maka had been telling Kid (they had become good friends, lately, he was like a surrogate brother, she said) about his strange behavior. Maka knew better than to not say anything, but Kid stood up, too, and followed Soul. Dammit, and Kid was perceptive, more so than Maka, he might've guessed Soul's cutting habit.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Kid grabbed his arm, "Um—are you sure? You don't need anyone to come with you?"

Soul gently disengaged himself from his friend, "I'm fine. Don't worry about me."

Kid was still watching as Soul exited the room. He followed.

Discovery

The pain was searing and intoxicating, it burned Soul's skin as he sliced into his flesh. Blood pumped from his open vein, red and luscious and hot, its bitter smell of iron and salt and battle filling his nose. He made himself sick. How much longer would he continue to do this to himself, just to feel something, because he had no emotion, anymore?

Suppressed by pain and nightmares and fear, Soul was reduced to this. Self-mutilation. He had looked it up in the Shibusen library the other day. Apparently, it was an actual psychological disorder, and he wasn't the only twisted monster who inflicted it on themselves. Go figure. He had always been strange, anyway.

He heard the door open, and footsteps. He opened another cut as the pain from the last began to dull, pulling his scythe-arm across his skin. He jumped and gasped, cutting a little deeper than intended, as someone knocked on his door.

"Soul? Are you in there?" It was Kid's voice.

Soul returned his right arm from weapon to human, and grabbed some toilet paper and wrapped his left arm, watching the red lust-blossoms corrupt the pure white.

"I'm fine." He answered, staring at the green stall door, "Why're you so concerned?"

"Are you decent?" Kid asked.

"Yeah, why?"

Soul jumped and hid his arms behind his back as a pale finger appeared around the lock. It crunched horribly as Kid gutted the lock, and swung the door open, Soul's black and yellow coat swinging on the hook. Dammit, why did he dress in layers, today? It was easier to cover things when you were wearing a long sleeved top. He was just in his t-shirt, scars exposed to the world.

Kid stared warily at his friend, "Are you sure you're okay?"

Soul shuffled so his back remained to Kid as he entered the stall, "Yeah."

Before Soul could do anything, the taller boy had slammed him against the wall and grabbed his left arm. Kid stared at the angry blotches of red on snow, and pulled off the toilet paper. Soul couldn't look at him, ashamed.

"Wh—what are you doing to yourself? What the fuck is this?"

Soul snatched his arm back, "I cut, okay?"

Soul had been expecting Kid to recoil, not understanding, but he was surprised. His friend's eyes softened, and he pulled off some more toilet paper and wrapped Soul's arm tightly, "You need help. I had no idea you were hurting so much."

Soul shook his head, and pulled on his jacket, "Not hurting, numb. I do it to feel something."

"What happened to you to make you feel this way?"

"Nightmares."

Kid beckoned to him, "C'mon. We should talk to Dr. Stein."

"I don't want anybody to know. Please, please don't tell anyone."

Kid threw a friendly arm around his friend's shoulder, and made him walk, "It will be confidential. I can't let you keep doing this, you need help, Soul." He pushed the door open, and Soul threw his arm off, annoyed. Kid continued, "And what about Maka? She tries so hard to protect you from the enemy, and now she has to protect you from yourself? What'll she think when she finds out?"

Soul stopped, horrified, "No. You can't tell Maka."

Kid gave him a push in the back, and they started walking again, "Why? She's your Technician, she has every right to know."

Soul shoved a hand through his hair and pulled at it, "Every night, I watch her die, Kid! I live in constant fear, now. I can't even sleep, I'm running on about three hours right now. Nothing but Hell when I close my eyes. I can't do that to her! What can I say, you might be dead tomorrow?"

"She knows that's a risk."

"She lies to herself. She doesn't think about it. She refuses to believe that the next mission will—will be—"

"It's normal to be scared."

"Not when you watch your girlfriend bleed to death every night."

"I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could do."

They stopped outside of Stein's office, "Yeah. So what is medicine gonna do? What do you do, Kid, when your life is living hell, but you don't want to die?"

Kid's face hardened in pain, "I don't know. I'm just an undeveloped shinigami."

"My body isn't sick . . . there's something wrong with my soul. Pills and shit won't do anything." Soul backed away, "I'm going back to class. Don't tell anyone, especially Maka. You can tell Stein if you want, but I'm not dealing with any medical diagnosis crap."

He turned around, but he hadn't missed the stress on the young shinigami's face. Poor Kid. He had just put his friend in a terrible dilemma. Why did Soul only ever hurt the people he cared for?

Ruined

Soul and Maka got home later than usual, because Stein had called Soul after school. The weapon had told his meister (she knew he was lying), that it was for make-up work, as he was behind in weapon biology. She knew he had a B in the class, and loved the subject (strange for him to like school), but she didn't ask any questions. She sighed, they hadn't been communicating much lately.

Maka cracked the spaghetti in half, and dropped it into the roiling pot. Spaghetti and meatballs tonight, one of his favorites. She was hoping she could get him to talk.

She set the pot on low, double-checked the sauce, which was simmering in another pot, and left it and entered the living room, where Soul was watching television and listening to his iPod. He had been doing that a lot lately (as though he couldn't create any music, so he gave it to himself), though he hadn't touched his piano in over a week and a half. He normally listened for inspiration, and stayed up late writing like crazy. She knew to get earplugs when he had those red Skull Candies in all day. His out-of-sorts worried her. Everything about him worried her, these days.

She sat down beside him, "What're you listening to?"

He handed her an earbud, "Here."

She took it and stuck it in her ear, "Ah, How to Save a Life by The Fray. Good song."

He nodded, "Yeah."

She cuddled into his chest, "Mmm."

She turned to kiss (she missed his body so much, she missed the old Soul so much) him, sweet and slow. He exhaled and his arms went around her (it looked like he missed her, too) and he kissed up and down her neck. She smiled and pulled away, and began to unbutton his jacket. Lately, he had been unwilling to be in her presence nude, he always was fully clothed, long sleeves and all. It was unusual. He was allowing her to undress him, for once.

She kissed his mouth again and pulled off his jacket, and ran her hand down his bare arm. He flinched and pulled away as she reached his forearm, which was strangely not smooth. She pulled away.

And stared.

Her breath (no, she wasn't really seeing this) froze in her lungs. His arms had cuts all up and down them. Raw and red, it looked like the wounds (she had never seen anything so ugly) had been reopened repeatedly.

Soul jumped away from her, hiding his arms behind his back, "I—it's nothing. I just—it—it's from our last few missions."

It was a sad lie, even he knew it, "What happened?" She asked.

He cast his eyes down, and studied his socks. He didn't answer her question.

Her eyes burned, filling with tears of fright, afraid of what his answer would be, "What happened, Soul?!" Her voice shook with emotion.

He looked back up at her, and his bright red eyes were empty (it was the emotion from before she hadn't recognized) and tortured, "I—I—did it—" He looked away, "—to myself."

Maka's tears spilled over. She had heard of this. Cutting. She had read about it. People who were in either a lot of pain or numb used it as a form of relief. But, Soul of all people!

WHY?!

"Why?" It shouted in her head, and whispered on her breath.

Soul sat down. If Maka had ever seen a zombie, he was sitting on the couch in front of her.

"Nightmares. They won't stop. And I can't—" His voice caught in his throat, "—I can't stop thinking, every time we go on a mission. It's gonna happen. Come true. But you just . . . never think about it."

"Never think about it?" She walked over and took his damaged arm, "Soul, I think about it every day."

"Yeah." His eyes widened, as though he saw a specter, like he was burning alive, "You don't live in the hell I do."

"Why do you do it?"

His voice was dull and flat. Dead, "The pain became too much. So I feel nothing, now. So I cut. It's the only way I can feel something, physical sensations. And pain is one of the most vivid. So it works."

Maka cried harder (no, this can't be happening) and shook her head, "I can't believe you didn't tell me, Soul! Why didn't you say anything, if these nightmares were bothering you so much?"

"I didn't want to upset you."

Anger suddenly flared, red, hot venom, poisonous and vile. She slapped him (he flinched, and his eyes seemed to fill with more emptiness) across the face, hard. She sobbed and ran into her room.

Upset her. Yeah right.

Too late for that. He was lost to her, now.

She had been wondering

if he felt something

like that.

Cutting. Horrific.

Maka collapsed onto her pillow and cried,

and wondered if this

was what they meant

when they said

living Hell.

The Gift

Soul rubbed his hands over his face. GODDAMMIT! Why the fuck did these things happen? He had had a moment of weakness, lust. Another physical feeling he could enjoy, in order to indulge his dead, exhausted heart. And it had exposed him. He laid on the couch. His iPod blared in his ears. Diary of Jane. Breaking Benjamin. Naming song and artist had become automatic, like a reflex.

He had the music to drown out her sobs. His guilt prevented him from being there for her, apologizing. And it's not like it would matter anyway. Everything he did was fake, now. His apology would have no emotion. Her slap still stung. He didn't even have the energy to cut himself, though he craved the pain, slightly. The slap was enough.

He recognized the opening notes of the next song in his shuffle. The Gift. Seether. It was a good song.

Hold me now I need to feel relief/
Like I never wanted anything/
I suppose I'll let this go and find a reason I'll hold on to/

I'm so ashamed of defeat.

Soul sat up. It was like the song had reached into his soul, and wrenched up all his emptiness, his fear, his fucked up psychology. He began to sing along.

"And I'm out of reason to believe in me/
I'm out of trying to get by."

And the chorus. He sang louder, he loved these lyrics.

"I'm so afraid of the gift you give me/
I don't belong here and I'm not well/
I'm so ashamed of the lie I'm living/
Right on the wrong side of it all."

Maka. Her love. His gift. He had feared her reaction, if he told her about his pain. Because he feared corrupting her. Because, the truth was, he felt he had never deserved her. From the beginning, from the moment they first met. He didn't deserve her.

He was sick of lying. They should acknowledge the rift between them. They might be dead after their next mission. He'll make her say it. He'll make her know it. And she'll fight against it, like she fights against every hard thing that faces her. He'll watch, and fall in love more deeply, because she was his strength, he hers.

"I can't face myself when I wake up/
And look inside a mirror/
I'm so ashamed of that thing/
I suppose I'll let it go/
Until I have something more to say for me/
I'm so afraid of defeat/
And I'm out of reason to believe in me/
I'm out of trying to defy."

He hated himself right now. With a passion. And he was afraid of losing everything, including the beautiful, crying girl in the next room, whom he had hurt so, so much. She would give everything she had, he knew, if it meant making him right again. He sung as the chorus came on again. And then he harmonized, with the next verse, it was one of the best lines, yet. He should sing it to Maka.

"Hold me now I need to feel complete/
Like I matter to the one I need."

Maka had always made him feel the most complete, the most whole. She was the tonic that filled him, when nothing else could.

"I'm so afraid of the gift you give me/
I don't belong here and I'm not well/
I'm so ashamed of the lie I'm living/
Right on the wrong side of it all."

Soul was done,

exhausted.

He supposed that

most people had things

figured out.

But

not him.

He didn't

want to die.

But his life

had become

a torture.

What did you

when you just

floated?

Death was

A defeat,

But living

was such a

scary

thing

to do.

"Even if everything is in vain, I . . . I can't stop my beating heart!"

-Mitsuki Koyama, Full Moon wo Sagashite

A/N: I'm very sorry if this was hard to read. It was hard for me to write. Soul and Maka are both in a difficult place, right now.

A FEW CLARIFICATIONS:

Soul is NOT suicidal. There is a major difference between the psychologies of suicidism and self-mutilation. Suicidism is the desire to die, which Soul does not have, and that is specified in the story.

The reason I included such a serious subject in this story is NOT because it is "cool," or a "fad," or "emo." I have never understood how people can believe that, especially since it's obvious from this story that it's a very ugly place to be. Cutting/self-harm is a serious problem that many teenagers face, and it is also something I have personally faced. Though I have fortunately never acted on those desires, and have never actually hurt myself. This is a heavy issue misunderstood by many people, and I wanted to shed light on it.

Soul also seems OOC, but he his also not himself right now. He's having a human moment. He'll be better in the next chapter. Also, just because someone cuts, does not mean they are associated with emo/dark culture. Likewise, participants in this culture do not all necessarily cut.

Next chapter will be a MaKi, serious like this, one, though I don't think as serious as this. From now on, because of the seriousness of the story, I will refrain from posting author's notes at the beginning and the end, other than a "Please review" and a notification of the couple the next chapter will include.

Please review, I very much appreciate it.