Soul likes the way she looks in his clothes. One hand in his pockets, the fingers of his other hand intertwined with hers, he walks comfortably, her strides matching his lazy ones easily. It's windy here, and the breeze tosses strands of her hair around her face in that adorable way. He wants to reach out and brush them away from her face, tuck them behind her ear. They're near to the docks away from the beach - it's deeper waters here, and a little further from the main town. The soft bustle of activity from the neighbourhood nearby is comforting and homey. It's part of why he's always liked this place. Away from people, amongst people - it's a paradox he enjoys.
She laughs and punches his shoulder.
"Is that really how you should be treating the guy who drove you away from the worst decision you could have made in your life?" he snarks, shark-toothed grin on his face.
They come to a stop and she tries to stifle a grin, biting her lip. They're comfortable enough now - it's been a few weeks - to discuss her escape attempt, even with the lingering backlash of abandoning her wedding. He likes how she looks so much happier now, her cheeks coloured a pretty shade of pink. His clothes look so familiar on her - like a sight he's seen, but definitely hasn't before. Déjà vu, maybe. It makes her his Maka, and he can't help but think that she looks beautiful in pretty much anything - even his sloppy, grey clothing. The grin softens into a smile.
She thinks back to when they'd first arrived at his apartment, having driven a long way from where the wedding was supposed to be held. When she'd lightly run her fingertips over the black blob in the middle of those red and black paintings, streaks and shadows of violence and pain. The little black blob that was supposed to be Soul. Her Soul.
She remembers how he looked then - the bags he carried under his eyes, hair in disarray, messy white stubble on his chin, a collage of loose, crumpled clothing. The dull of his eyes, apologetic, but not at the same time. Sorry, because if it had been any later, she would have been too late, and she wouldn't have had anyone to save her from the biggest mistake of her life. But not, because if she hadn't come, he wouldn't have been able to find reasons to stay.
He looks alive now. He's not that black blob in a mess of shadows and blood and red and horror and despair. His eyes shine, vibrant red - like she's always loved them - and while the perennial eye bags persist, he doesn't look as tired, doesn't look as hallowed out. His head is held high, his jaw strong with his chin up. He's her Soul.
He offers her that gentle crooked smile, and she thinks maybe some of what was on her mind had shown in her expression (which is something she'd absolutely forbidden herself from doing since her parents got divorced) but it's okay if it makes him look like that.
Happy, at peace, content.
(It's Soul, anyway. Her Soul.)
The same feeling she hadn't understood before agreeing to marry Hiro - the refreshing warmth and calm blooming in her chest - returns. It's something she can only feel being around Soul, a feeling that consumes her when he holds her so close and so tightly that all of the broken bits of her secretly fragile mind, fragile body, concealed and disjointed, fit back together to make her whole again.
She understands now. She knows what it is.
Lost in her thoughts, she jerks as a loud sound shatters her train of thought, and she watches Soul flinch and start to fall, something red spraying between them. Her brows furrow - this doesn't make sense to her peaceful feelings (what was that sound? She must have imagined it) and she feels her gut go cold with dread. Her brows furrow in confusion and another loud pop cracks through the air.
Blood. It's blood, she realises.
And that's when the pain comes.
- In my dreams I meet the ghosts of all the people who've come and gone. -
Briefly he remembers her face, beautiful and everything, just looking at him as though the world finally made sense, and then pain pain pain. A flash of red sparks in his memory, a loud burst of sound that doesn't have any right being in his safe place, in this place he's brought her. Loud, jarring, destructive.
It reminds him of the pain that gripped and strangled his heart when she'd said yes to that man. It steals his breath, and he knows that whatever is ripping through his gut and spreading fire from the point of contact, there is nothing illusory about this.
He flinches, just catching the change in Maka's expression and crumples, hand instinctively reaching for the pain that flares out from his stomach, but losing consciousness before he can reach it.
- Memories - they seem to show up so quick, but leave you far too soon. -
He's not sure if this is how he's supposed to feel.
It felt good when he shot the white-haired bastard. The crawling under his skin stopped, replaced by an immeasurable calm he hasn't felt since the wedding disaster.
But his resolve wavers as he aims at her, the same petite features pretty in pink and joy that he'd never managed to elicit from her. The way she'd been before everything, the beautiful flower he'd wanted for himself - the same flower that had wilted when he'd plucked it out of the ground and deprived it of the soil it needed to grow and live.
His finger is on the trigger and pulling ever so slightly before he can stop himself, and the recoil jerks him back into reality. His expression crumbles into despair as she falls to the ground.
He runs.
What has he done?
- Naïve, I was just staring at the barrel of a gun. -
In that brief moment of darkness he remembers how he hugged Maka on the beach in the dark, dim light from the pier casting shallow shadows across their faces. Even in the low light her eyes had sparkled as she'd pulled him close and held him like he was the single most important thing in the world. He'd pulled her in, needing to hug all of her, wishing that he could just hold her and keep her safe in his arms forever - away from the mess of her wedding and that manipulative abusive bastard.
He remembers how she'd smiled when he laughed - it was so rare that she told a good joke - and he'd been unable to control the curl of his lips. How long it had been since he'd laughed.
Another blast - a shot, he realises, a shot from a rifle - and he's torn out of the dark because Maka Maka Maka. He struggles with heavy eyelids and can't open them nearly wide enough - all he sees are mere slits of light - but he hears her nearby, gasping, breaths shallow and slowing, and tries to crawl in that direction because his feet are not working dammit. He pulls himself forward by the arms, the burn stretching between his back and his stomach incapacitating, and he feels himself losing consciousness, dizzy to the loss of his lifeblood.
But all he can hear is Maka, and as her breathing slows to an almost silence, he panics. She can't die. Not now. Not after everything. It's selfish, but even if he goes she can't die. She deserves more than this.
The adrenaline boost propels him forward, the pain forgotten. He leaves a lake of blood in his wake. She's too far away. Even as they'd stood mere feet apart, it's an ocean between them and they're drowning.
He manages to pry his eyelids open just enough to see her lying still on the ground before they're blown wide open with shock. There's blood all over her stomach and blood streaming out of her mouth and blood on his hands and blood everywhere. He doesn't see the lake of blood that trails behind him in some convoluted pattern, doesn't notice the shuddering gasps of his own breath. He only knows that he has to reach her.
Finally, finally, after crawling for what feels like hours too long, her hand is within reach. His bloodied hands are trembling with his exertions, but desperation drives him forwards, past the black spots dancing in his vision. He grasps her hand, vision darkening, fingers uncoordinated and shaking.
Her small hand is still warm. Her fingers curl around his, and hope sparks to life within him. It tightens painfully in his chest in anticipation.
Her eyes blink open, the same way they had that morning when they woke - slow and gentle. He almost can't believe it's still the same day. She blinks weakly at him before her eyelids flutter closed with a slow exhale, like the final beats of a dying butterfly's wings. Her body shudders, and she stills. Her grip loosens.
Soul feels the hope drain from every fibre of his being with her dying breaths as he fights the inevitable darkness. His strength leaves with his hopes, and deserted by the only thing keeping him conscious, he succumbs to the dark.
Maka.
- And I do believe that. -
He awakens on his back, to the smell of antiseptic and death and sterilised sheets. Despite his track record he's never been hospitalised before and the smell and bright grey light that lingers beyond his closed eyelids is cold and daunting. His consciousness is driven by only one thought.
Maka.
Slowly he gathers the strength to lift drooping eyelids - since when were the damn things so heavy - and finds himself looking at a bed across from his just beyond the folds of a blanket that must be hiding his feet. In his direct line of sight, a nurse is making the bed, and she smiles that awkward service-with-a-smile half grimace that he hates and he feels the anxiety build up inside his chest painfully.
It looks like false reassurance.
He tries to read the little clipboard thing at the foot of the bed opposite him, but it's too far and all he can see is Maka Albarn in every available space and he can't figure out if what his head is telling him is real or not.
She can't be gone. She can't.
He's exhausted, but the panic is unyielding and he feels the world starting to crumble once more. His hands fist in the sheets, painfully tight, and the wound in his abdomen starts to throb. His heart starts to race and his lungs are ripping themselves out of his chest and before he realises what's going on around him, suddenly there are too many unfamiliar faces in his blurring, spinning vision and he can't breathe, and then something sharp pricks his skin and he makes an uncomfortable sound.
Where is she? Where is Maka? Is she alive?
He tries to get up, brushing their hands aside. An invisible force restrains him - something deep and burning in his abdomen. He struggles against their hold until he can't breathe - he needs to get up. He needs to find her. Someone is yelling, and Soul almost wishes they would shut up because those same thoughts are loud enough in his head. His blood seeps through the bandages, and he's heaving and gasping for air, rasping breaths tearing from his throat. He's choking on air.
He doesn't realise he's the one screeching.
But then he's calm suddenly - his body is still - and everything slowing down, his eyelids drooping of their own volition, heavy with sedatives. His thoughts calm and he feels himself submit to the pull of sleep.
Her name is a whisper in the air.