Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater nor any of its characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people.
Chapter 10:
Shoes.
They are all around, in stacked rows and neat columns of different colors and brands and styles. Comfortable, sleek, minimalist and gaudy; they surround the two crouching in the aisle, like friendly giants offering pass through an impossible canyon. It is like a dream come true. At least, it is if the ones you were used to were worn and useless, or not even in existence. Which, in both teen's case, yes. Just, yes.
Somehow, both pinkette and blonde managed entrance in hush, ducking behind ostentatious, flashy displays and racks of overly expensive clothes, house-wares and bedding, finally arriving at the dream-laden shelves, beyond the visions of watchful associates. The camera's, on the other hand, is a different story entirely. But in all honestly, Maka isn't worrying about that right now.
Because, if they wanted to arrest her, they would have sent security to pick her up by now. But they won't, it would cause a scene and probably dramatically affect sales and profit. They see her as a walking disease, a plague and scar on society. It doesn't bother the blonde, not with this boy at her side looking in wonder at the footwear in his surround. Crona is with her and she will make sure he has a set of Sven he can call his own.
Carpet fibers of wiry coal and red dig at the girl's bent knees as she stretches, reaching out and choosing a selection of thick, flat-soled onyx skate shoes with splashes of achromic, stretch laces and matching design plaques on either side; sizes ranging upward from nine plus. Mostly, the colors seem to pair with the boy naturally, so she goes with gut instinct, gathering boxes as the foot-shields clonk and thump, rustling wrapped in pallid paper inside cardboard cages.
The blonde is eager to see his reaction to the simple comforts a good pair of shoes can give, memories of trying on new pairs for school and such over the years flood her mind... It makes Maka sad that he's never gotten to experience such a small joy. She wants to give him this much, at least. She wants him to feel what it is like to wear clothes, to not feel like he is so exposed, constantly at ready to have his vitals taken, or whatever else his 'doctor' performed on the boy.
She is not his mother. The female will never intentionally hurt him, he is not a project. Crona is a person, a wonderful one at that. She wants him to feel safe, secure... Complacent. And in a sense, that starts from the outside, working its way in. If she's being completely honest, this... This guarding assurance into commonness... It's just as much for her, as well.
It feels good to help this boy, nice to have a companion in which to converse. Amiable company that doesn't run for the hills at the sight of her. He makes her feel whole, more than just the shell of a girl everyone else left to rot.
"Try some on, see which ones fit." She says with a genuine smile as his cerulean orbs stare at her in helpless confusion, like that of a puppy in the huge, wide-world for the first time. Timid, adorable and curious all rolled into an innocent expression that one can only call, 'Crona.'
"Here." Realizing that he probably has no clue where to start, Maka takes the initiative with one palm pushing the teen's chest, knocking him from his kneel into a plopping, forced sit while the other tugs at one of his sandals, removing it with smooth ease. His toes curl and unravel a few times, undoubtedly reacting to the chilly air's sudden blast upon foam-warmed pads. His chest heats immediately beneath her fingertips as he yips at the impact.
The blonde whips her head around, pigtails like whips at her face as she scans the heights, looking dutifully for that tell-tale box, finding it soon after, above. Ripping it from its wired cinctures, she pulls from the flimsy pack two sheer stocking socks and tosses the thick, paper container behind without caution. She doesn't care about the mess she may make nor the looks of reproach the girl would get if she's caught. She's far beyond that now; it seems such a frivolous vexation that Maka can't quite grasp.
Digits like conscientious lightening, the blonde slips one sorry excuse for a sock onto the boy's petite foot and gestures for the other to be given over to her service, to which, in jittering scramble, he obliges. His own hand plucking the flip-flop from its perch in preparation of her silky covering.
When she opens the first box of sneakers and tries to slither it over the rosette's delicate human hooves, it doesn't fit. Shoe after shoe, half-sizes up fail one after the other until the one gleaming moment shines, much like a fairy tale, the foot-covering slips on with ease, victory blazing in the form of parted lips and brightened eyes. Quickly, the other sole is decorated in its pair.
"Stand up and tell me how they feel, okay?" She's trying not to grin like an idiot but it is still happening. Seeing the look of unfettered, wondrous bliss sparkling in those azure depths is quite the sight to behold. Silly, cute and ultimately nostalgic. Absently, she runs an index digit along the ridges of Sven, remembering that refreshing feel of cloud and godly hands caressing the strain from her soles.
"Oh-Ohhh~!" The pink-haired teen seems to purr as he makes his wobbly way into a stand. Maka flushes scarlet down to her pits at the sensualized sound, so very velvety and different from his usual shaky tone.
The sandals were nice feeling, don't get him wrong, but this... This is on an entirely different level. Masses of cushion beneath both ball and sole, even the tender arch is being wrapped in downy support, sending hot and cool sparks straight from his root to the boy's very core and cascading falls of shivers down his spine make him feel like he is melting, thawing as if going from frigid capacity into direct sunlight. There are really no comprehensible words to describe this incredible sensation, just the pleasurable moans that escape his lips without thought.
Tapping and testing the footwear only cements this assessment, his orbs roll in greet to the backs of their sockets. Only a small cough catches his attention, to which he flinches, puffing out a lingering happy sigh in short squeal. Maka kneels in front of him, so small from his vantage, red in the face with emerald pools everywhere but on him.
She almost can't get enough of his sounds. The way they click and roll in his throat, breathy and deep, yet grit and barely there. She can't look. She can't otherwise she would end up staring, probably drooling and honestly, that doesn't sound too appealing. So, Maka just listens. Closely. Body ten degrees hotter than it was when it was just the flip-flops.
"I-I didn't do anything strange did I?" Suddenly Crona spouts, hopping back into a quick sit to inspect the girl's countenance further. "Are you okay? Is this too much? We can go back if you want."
The female nearly falls over when he addresses her and those delicious little moans disappear in a wave of his frantic concern. Does she look like she has a fever or something? Well, maybe it is a little true. She is still, by all accounts, a hormonal teen that has not been intimate in any sense of the word since... Ahem, too long to remember clearly. Even her smut reading was cut short!
Don't judge her.
"No, no. Everything is fine." It is, oh it is. She's a bit heady from the experience, maybe a little woozy, but alright none-the less. "So..." Finally granting herself sight of the pinkette, Maka ticks a brow and purses her lips in a knowing question, wanting to hear in his own words how he feels about the sneakers. "Do they fit well?"
"Oh yes." His answer leaves him in breathy repose, inciting a snicker from the blonde to which he gives a tottering grin.
What is it about this guy that is so cute? Is it his inexperience? His innocently straight forward answers? The way he stutters and stumbles over his responses? Those sadly expressive eyes and those pouty lips? All of this? Yeah, most likely.
He is unlike anyone Maka has ever met, which is a good thing. He is real; true to himself, to her. He hasn't had a reason to develop deceptive double sides like everyone else. He has never needed to. His pureness is... precious. Refreshing.
"Haha, Come on." Stealthily but shaking from captive giggles, Maka collects Crona's discarded flip-flops from the rough matting, replacing them in her bag for safe keeping before crawling off toward the end of the aisle, heels of her palms and knees moving in tandem while the boy takes cue and matches pace as they leave behind toppling boxes in disarray.
The blonde doesn't know exactly where she is going, but she doesn't care. Crona is behind her, following her and... isn't it nice just to be spontaneous? Shouldn't they just do that, move until they find something interesting and then jump at the opportunity. Besides, it is almost enough just to have the boy near. After all the crap she has had to bear alone, just having someone she can turn and see is worth more to her than all the free food in the world or cool air or clean beds. So onward they go, in search of excitement. An adventure in the mall.
Avoiding the suspicions of teens standing around at their first jobs, once more they camouflage themselves behind event displays depicting summer time play things and designer fashions for affordable prices, at the sides of mattresses and through circular curtains of tiny infant clothing that is so cute and miniature that it should be illegal. Finally, they reach one of the store's alternative egress, flattening at its outer wall and toeing sideways until clear of the place.
Somehow, without any real directional inspiration the exit leads the two to a wide-spread, fairly packed hall, wafting and swirling with a cornucopia of mouth-watering scents that tickle and tease the nose and stomach.
"Mmm." The blonde hums her approval absently, feet moving of their own will as she follows the tip of her sniffer. A hand at her own keeps her from going any further and only then does she notice anything aside from the delicious smell.
"Maka?" Nervously, the rosette's shaky timbre reaches her ears. There is a crowd of bodies, forming what looks to be a human wall; once-passing shoppers halt in their pace to stop and stare, their whispers loud and overlapping, like an evil chant or prelude to contact with spirits in a horror flick.
It's horrifying, how they stand in unity, no spaces left between torso and limb as sets upon sets of eyes bore into them. Angry greys and fearful brown, accusing blues and nauseated greens, hazels of all shade filled with a motley of burning emotions that run icy chills down the girl's back.
It shouldn't bother her. Hell, they just dealt with this less than a couple hours ago! But this is unnerving, they stare at them both, spreading whatever gossip they want in screaming quiet, stopped dead in the halls. Waiting for something, expecting some sort of freakshow they are all so sure that she will deliver.
Should she give them what they want? Would it do any good to say something? Yell at the top of her lungs the things they won't listen to anyway? They are all so keen to hear what the others have to say, her words are meaningless; they would fall on selectively deaf ears.
Pulling her arm upward and catching the boy's hand instead, Maka grasps him tight, hoping that the contact will give her some sort of ease; something other than the growing nausea and tunnel vision or the phantom stinging pricks present all along her flesh.
Fuck the food and this crowd. The girl just wants to leave, to be free of this judgement and crippling snarls. She doesn't want to be here anymore, what fun could have been had is now gone with this horde's presence. The adventure has fled from this place and the two must move on.
He squeezes back, it lacks a definite amount of pressure and feels more like gripping a pulse but still, it reminds her that he is there. Crona is there and even with these people at her opposition, they both stand against this disgruntled group.
The blonde has to fight through her shock, she has to battle these demons in which every one of those ignorant bodies thinks she possesses. Maka has to have courage to face this head on. Not tucking her chin, not looking to the ground, not with self-pity and certainly not with blame.
No.
One footfall in front of the other. Boys and girls, men and women, teens and their pre's, they all mesh, running together in messy lines and spidery blotches, but she walks on, head held high without a blink in sight. All she needs is the heat of this palm squeezing her own and the breathing breezes that puff at the hair of her nape.
The closer they get, the more this wall disperses, centimeters and inches, weaknesses exposed as the whispered rumors begin to roar and this flash mob becomes a rally of nescience and misunderstanding.
"Whore!" Some scream, voices breaking as other hiss in disgust. "Nasty, stupid slut!"
"Worthless!" Hatred spews in broken sentences among the dense pandemonium.
"Waste of fucking space!" Only by inches do they back in unison, parting enough not to make contact, leaving just enough room for her to hear them clearly.
"...Leech!" They are hurting her ears, this rabbling turbulence from all around. It's hard to think, difficult to afford anything but her stride.
"...danger to children!" Every buzzing fracas, every accusation, every glare and sneer... Why? Why is she the scapegoat for her father or the slut that condemned him. Why is this hostile enmity for her and her alone? There are others, right? Others that actually have what they think she carries?
"You should be ashamed!" She is ashamed. She's ashamed that her Papa was unfaithful to Mama. She's embarrassed that her mother left her to deal with all of this. She's humiliated that her childhood friends would not stand by her side, not one would stand up for her. She's guilty of a meaningless life in which these people can so easily blame her to some how make themselves feel better. Maka is mortified that she lives in a world where people target others instead of discovering and rectifying the root of the issue.
"Your family ruined my life!" Well, the blonde's family ruined her life too.
"You killed my uncle!" Guilty by association, for the wrongs of the dead are passed on to their successors. Should she accept this as truth? Had she followed Spirit around, had she been more concerned with his whereabouts maybe he... Maybe he wouldn't be dead now. Maybe Kami would still be around. Maybe the old clique would still look at her without shying away, without ignoring her needs. 'Maybe' is pointless in itself. This is her fate, to be burned at the metaphorical stake.
"How could you?!" The girl's lips twitch, trying to hold back the emotions, to conceal the despair that has been eating away, taking more and more of herself every single day since the Papa's diagnosis as every swing of her legs begins to feel more wobbly and emerald pools become flooded with sheets, welling in salt which she wills not to fall. The now-blank faces and anonymous town folk still whisper, they still call out. It's all she can do just to get away.
Eventually they fade but she's blinded by their hate, consumed by their rage and the tears it has caused her. Maka's stomach clenches around the tight, heavy knot in which they created with some words even she doesn't understand. She can't help the tremors that wrack her body or the silent, hyper sobs that replace her respiration. The blonde can't help how she stumbles or the fact that her knees are weak with nerves, utter confusion rampant.
What should she do? How can this be solved? Can it? No... She's never done anything to anyone and yet the blame is her's and her's alone.
Maka has lost her mother, her father, friends and the rest of her relatives. She's lost her home and any chance to further her education. Everything that was once so accessible, at her very fingertips has been yanked away, opportunity placed behind an impenetrable barrier. The blonde has been refused job after job, living in a scorching hot park or dirty, abandoned house. She has to steal to survive.
She hates herself because everyone hates her. She hates herself because they blame her. Maka hates herself for the morals set so deep within herself that makes it impossible to feel any other way. It's the only way for her to feel. Her whole life revolved around the praises given toward her knowledge, the words of thanks handed to her by those she's helped with community service or support to her former peers.
When they pulled away and word spread through the city, when her mother left without word and her father was carted off to the hospital... When people came to reclaim everything within the house... They all took a part of her, tore a piece savagely from her until all that was left was this. A veneer of emptiness, a brittle mask covering the hollow ache; she is numbed from all the horrible things she feels at these emotions all coincide, leaving her frigid.
And for the first time, she lets the anguish that lay dormant in the frozen hollow within scald her face in slick sheets; a part of her melting, this one emotion singled out and allowing itself to be felt. Public, be damned.
They do not care about facts, they only care about themselves. Sheep that follow the displays of others in order to stand for a cause they know nothing about. They don't truly know who she is, only a name and description. They don't care about her past, they think they know everything already. Word of mouth is both an unreliable but powerful thing.
She is alone.
Her hand is dropped and vaguely she feels a palm cupping the back of her head, drawing the girl toward warmth, combating the cold. An arm snakes around her small waist and she is being pulled close to firm, flat yet sharp curves that do not belong to herself.
No. She isn't alone.
Weakly, the blonde slides her limbs around and behind Crona's shoulders. Lax is the embrace because she just can't muster anymore but she buries her face in this boy's chest, not caring that they only just met or that the rest of this mall's occupants are steadily shooting the pair dirty looks and still hollering obscenities about her life.
No. Instead, the girl lets the scents of new cotton and astringent soap, vanilla, chocolate and coffee fill her weeping senses and an undertone of brisk musk lull her. Because it is him. This boy holding onto her pathetic physique in the face of adversity. It is his scent, clean and sweet that drives the shakes from her bones and makes the bad words fall to muffled static even as he himself jitters but his rhythmic breathing guides her own into a calm that helps to shut out anyone else until all that is left is him.
He is like therapy, each contact he gives and she takes little by little repairs the damage done by the rest of the world. This budding relationship a skinship in which she needs, for no one else will touch her. No one else will hold her but him. Maka hadn't realized how vital this is; simple touches just to remind her that she is human. And by the way this diffident boy has allowed her into his personal space, no matter how skittish of anyone else he said he is...
She is the difference, an exception. She is his ease. He makes this so simple to understand, with the way his own shaking ceases; the way he breathes deep, allowing her this part of him.
She is Maka and he is Crona. This is their silent understanding. Touch and pain do not come hand in hand with each other and together they stand against an empty existence. Kindred souls in a sea of anonymous faces. His connection to life beyond the operating table and hers to her own humanity.
Crona's new shirt is soaked, sticking flat against his collar, but he doesn't seem to mind much when she finally pulls away, catching his azure depths and the darkness that has fallen over them.
"I'm sorry about that." She steps back, removing her hold so that she can wipe the embarrassing trails from her face.
"You shouldn't be." He takes back her hand, claiming her fingers with his own laced into the gaps as his flat, unnervingly calm voice sends shivers down her spine. "They will be sorry. They will all pay." Something about his words awaken a hidden excitement, an anxiousness rolled with dismay and thrilling adrenaline that coaxes a wide simper across her dampened face.
Because, he is right. One day, they all will learn and they will suffer the consequences. That's how karma works, right?
A blush paints her cheeks as her shoes tap in succession across the checkering tiles when his fingertips whisper ticklishly against the ridges and swirling lines of her palm; glass doors and concrete of the building's exit visible in full when they slide their open and the cacophony of the city beyond plays its own dissonant tune. Tires upon concrete, yelling and road rage of pulsing car horns.
None of it matters. Not the lack of color in the town or the ominous buildings filled with assholes behind glinting windows, only looking for a quick dollar. It doesn't matter that the once-united torsos and glares follow the two, pressing up against the glass in scoff as the two make their leave into the grey-scale and deep blue of sky above, toward rivers of ebon street and pale, rough sidewalk.
None of it matters because they are only feeling the speeding of beats in their chests as their digits wrap tightly, finding home in the empty spaces of the other's hand as they squeeze; a wordless reminder to the other that they are there to fill the gaps.
As the pair fade from sight, turning out of view behind wall and onto path, only one lone woman backs away from the glass with a grin upon her face. She was right. All of her apprehensions up until this very moment proved unfounded, because that girl... She found it. She found her strength and her future.
The woman is sure of this, it is how it was for herself when she was younger. That look in Maka's eye and the pacifying effect the boy had on her, it was like looking love in its purest form. It was how she and her husband used to be before... Well, just before.
She sweeps auburn locks of her wig behind her ear, strolling along the busy corridors of the shopping center and pulling a sleek cellphone from the pocket of her jeans. Her friend is bound to know already but it wouldn't hurt to call. It is almost time, anyway.
~O~O~O~
"What impeccable timing you have, darling!" Cutting off the obnoxious ringtone with a mere swipe and quick greeting, braid swinging as she stands from her chair and tucks an arm across her chest, the woman smiles into her words, glancing away from the metal table housing her unconscious lover. "I was getting rather bored."
"I see one of your boys has been granted leave, Usa! Such a sweet looking thing, too!" Squealing from Doctor Gorgon's speaker, the other line gushes making the blonde pull the flat device from her ear a ways.
"You've seen Crona?" Brushing off the horrid nick-name she never liked and the pitch that makes her cringe, Medusa asks in a breath. Try as she might, she couldn't shake the unease of knowing her child was out there, unused to outsiders' mannerisms and the way of social conduct beyond his room.
She's been curious. Of course, he did carry out a project for her and in hindsight, she really hadn't prepared him for such, so accustomed to his lacking attire, she hadn't thought to provide him with much else. He's lived his life as an anonymous entity in this city and to her, a subject constantly readying for alterations.
Is he getting by alright? Crona is practically invincible, so she cares not for potential bodily hazards. No. What she wants to know is if he is able to mesh with the crowds, how the boy is at adapting.
"-Usssssaaaaaaa! Hello? You there?" Lost in her own thoughts, the doctor vaguely remembers that she is on a call whose line is buzzing with words trying to get her attention.
"Oh goodness, I'm sorry. What was that?" Lips tilting in her hitch of ineptitude, she apologizes sincerely. "I didn't really catch all of that." Drum filling with a comforting laughter, small tensions in her neck relax.
"It's alright." Voice still trilled with giggles at the other woman's rare mental absence, she continues. "I was just surprised I recognized him at the mall. I mean, I only just saw your forward of his patient bio, so... Even more so when I saw him with Maka."
"He's with her?" How fitting, Medusa muses to herself as her simper brims with amusement.
"Yeah, I know! I just... I wanted to let you know in case you were curious. And, It's almost that time, so I'll be stopping by the hospital once Franken is back, to get my booster." The lady on the line pauses, a wave of veritable unease discernible by the shuffling sound no doubt coming from her lips being bitten and blotted. "It's begun, hasn't it? Full swing, it's growing, slowly taking over this town... They're getting scared, you know."
"I'm glad you remain on my side with this. I can't imagine what I would do if you were to fall ill as well." The braided blonde drops her arm, it hangs by her side, a loose fist grasping at nothing. "It's for a good cause. If we don't weed out the weak, the gaffe and blunders of our generation and those that came before, there can be no progress." Medusa sighs. "Humanity as a whole has proven inhumane. You know that all I want is to fix it."
"I know, Usa. I know. That's why I'm still here." The auburn bewigged female puffs out a breath before grinning into her words. "So Maka looks like she'll be the first, huh?"
"I guess so." She laughs, unable to deny such a pleasant turn of events. "But let's not jump to conclusions, they're both still young after all."
"We can still hope. Besides, I was young too~." Teasingly, the woman sings into her ear.
"You do have a point." Surrendering to a false fight she surely wouldn't win, the doctor just agrees with a shake of her pixie-styled dome.
"Hm hm!" A victorious snicker makes Medusa roll her eyes, but her simper grows. "Anyway, I've got to go for now! When Frank wakes up from the annual doo-hickey thing, tell him I'll see him for the usual, 'kay?"
"Yes, will do. Take care of yourself, dear. Stay hidden."
"Alright, alright! Don't get sappy." With that, the line goes silent.
Placing the disconnected phone back into her white coat, Medusa pads barefoot across her and her faux-brother's lab. Stein won't wake for another few hours, if her charts and hypothesis prove correct, so she has time to slip into the kitchen and start up a meal. Maybe she should prepare more than usual? Or... would that tip her son off?
Key sliding into the old lock and turning, she makes her way up the darkened stair and back into light where she navigates the curves of her home's corridors and into that lovely, clean, steel-decorated kitchen. She'll think of something, give him and his secretive guest a gift.
~O~O~O~
Sometimes his friends are amazing, Soul admits to himself with a pointed grin as he looks up at the ceiling from his lay on couch cushions. And other times, they suck. But in a good way, if that makes any damn sense.
Sharing laughs about the past, experiences with Maka from other perspectives... It's nice, but leaves behind a sour taste. Seriously, what kind of people can enjoy a person so much and then just... Abandon her. Who the hell does that?
They do. But that answer doesn't sit well with him. Though, he is helpless to do anything about it. What can he do, really? Sliding a lazy hand through his fluffy mane of white, the boy shuts scarlet pools.
He doesn't want to get sick and he doesn't want to die. Soul has too much to live for, so much left to achieve. He can't abandon his dreams, can't risk the others. He can't be like her.
That in itself makes his stomach turn in vicious spins. He will never live up to the type of student the girl was. He will never be the one to give inspirational talks or advice beyond 'dude, think about it.' He is useless and by forsaking Maka, Soul has proven to himself that he is not a man. He is not cool.
He is lacking.
His hands are bound by proper decorum, fingers meant for the piano and orchestral selections. He has university to attend and a life to live. He can't get caught up in this... Even though by walking the path ahead would mean he is following a fate that the girl helped him to achieve with her cheers and coaxes, her constant positivity when all he wanted to do was give up.
Would that be what she wants? Would continuing on be some sort of small comfort for Maka? Would it make her feel like she has accomplished something even while all her own hard work has washed away? Or, would this hurt her more? More than the group's severing of ties, more than the loneliness that this community has thrust upon her?
A growl rattles low, deep in his chest as he grits his incisorous jaw until his teeth scrape against each other with the pressure.
They have hurt her. He has hurt her. And, no matter which way it is looked at, that can never be okay. Soul can't forgive himself for something so huge, so contemptible.
But... What can he do?
When he thinks about consequences on either side, his chest aches, heart pummeling his ribs in rapid beats that feel wrong, as if pumping backward. He can't catch a breath, no matter how deep or how fast he inhales.
There is no way to fix what has been done. It is hopeless.
o.o.o
"This shit is un-fucking-real!" Huffing, Soul shouts, walking circles in the tan and black patchwork rug in the girl's living room. "I mean, I slaved over that piece! I worked night and day, and what do they say? Definitely nothing like 'Nice job!' or 'You're improving, that's great!' NO! They just HAVE to compare me to him. 'Wesley mastered that selection in kindergarten.' 'Why do you constantly run in Wesley's shadow? Be your own person.' GOD DAMN IT! I'm trying, don't they see that? And then, just fucking icing on top of the not-good-enough cake, 'Why did you get an eighty percent on this test?'... Really?!"
"That's too harsh. You studied hard for that quiz... I know, I was there." Maka's hand juts out, stopping his pacing in place. "And that arrangement was brilliant. It was a twittering happy song, but you put such a deeper emotion to it, like each stroke had a perfectly balanced bitter-sweet feel. You changed the song from one of fluffy frolicks to a contemplative piece of enjoyment of overcoming obstacles. That is a talent among itself. You make music, you don't just play it, Soul. Don't let them make you feel like less than your brother."
In that very moment, sincere emerald captures troubled crimson, holding him prisoner. Incapacitating the boy of much more than the lingering sigh and sharply clamped jaw.
"They don't understand me, Maka. They never will." The albino teen surrenders the words, defeated by his parents, his brother... Himself. He can't believe her words, because he has been less than his elder brother from the beginning. A failure. His weaknesses and flaws have been broadcast to his entire family lines, ingraining humiliation into his very being. No matter how much the snowy-haired boy struggles, it is not enough, will never be enough.
His condition is a mark of shame. He is not a perfect child. He is wrong, a genetic screw up that caused his parents nothing but torment among the upper echelon. Soul is not meant for the life of an aristocrat, misplaced in the world of business and money. He is inadequate.
"They want me to give up and that is just what I am going to do. I can't take it anymore... I-" It's hard to speak beyond the lump in his throat or through the burning sob that he'll be damned to unleash, so he swallows, a cleansing inhale to re-invoke the clarity that he was side-tracked from. "I just came to say good bye."
"Like hell am I going to let you leave like that. It's pathetic. YOU are SOUL. YOU don't give up. It isn't in your nature, and... WHAT the hell do they matter? Yeah, granted, they gave you life. That is about all the sway they have IN YOUR life and YOUR future. Shit, even people like I can understand your music. There are people like I whom can appreciate a deviation from the notes written on a page. There are others that can recognize when you are doing your best, because you are... FOR YOU."
"But you don't under-"
"NO! Of course I don't understand YOUR perspective. It makes sense because I AM NOT YOU. NEITHER ARE THEY, SOUL!" There is a fire in the girl's depths that cut any more of his possible excuses at the quick and he is forced into submission. She looks rabid, a snarl marring that pretty face, but even twisted, fierce and ugly as she is making it look, his heart betrays his shell-shocked mind, beating heavily for her. "Besides," the lines etched in her brow and mouth melt as she calms, softening as she lets go of the empathetic rage that burrowed within. "where are you going to go? Do you even have a plan, or were you just going to slum it on the streets?"
Well, shit. She hit the nail on the head with that one and he can't stop the embarrassed pink from painting his cheeks.
"Soul? Soul! You weren't seriously going to be a box-guy, were you? You aren't the type to survive in tossed refrigerator cardboard." Those green orbs widen as she gives a disbelieving playful shove to his middle. "God, don't be stupid. You have friends, even if your family gives you shit, dude! Ask for help! I'm here, Black Star, Kid... Some one WILL help you!"
"But-"
"Damn it, Soul, NO!" She's annoyed now, a little crease in her brow deepens as she absently pulls the boy down to the cushions of her couch. She's thinking and he knows it as she stares blankly at the powered off television and her mouth purses, taking a sideways pull. "We'll figure it out. Let me help, okay?"
o.o.o
His breathing has just barely rectified and his chest hurts. Soul feels like death, a disgrace as he lays on the couch that Maka's allowance gifted him, in the apartment that his claimed trust fund and her legal knowledge secured. He is emancipated, free of his parents' judgement and on a path destined to prove that he is his own person and not in his brother's shadow... Because of her.
He is trash. "God, don't be stupid. You have friends, even if your family gives you shit, dude! Ask for help! I'm here, Black Star, Kid... Some one WILL help you!" And in her friends' case toward her, no matter how much faith she had in them all... She was wrong. They are all to blame for the blonde's downfall, himself most of all.
A/N: And there we have it Part 2 of chapter 9... Now a short chapter 10. Whatever. lol. I hope you enjoyed it! 'Til next time, lovelies!