A/N: Here, have some stream of consciousness word vomit. Yes, it was inspired by a Green Day song.

I'm a victim of my symptom
I am my own worst enemy
You're a victim of your symptom
You are your own worst enemy

As difficult as it was, the Book of Eibon had been a revelation. No, not about what he was attracted to, Soul was already painfully aware of his feelings for his meister, nor about his own lack of self worth, he was also more than aquatinted with that—no, what it had shown him that all the resonance in the world and those few fleeting moments of doubt he had glimpsed never quite had is that at bottom, his meister was just like him.

She didn't feel like she was good enough either. For him, for anyone.

If it was a revelation, it was a painful one. He had always thought her unflappable, a rock that could weather any storm. Sure she had broken down when they were younger and fought Stein, but her soul perception had been so fresh and she'd been understandably overwhelmed. She recovered and he thought nothing of it.

He never realized that it was a peek inside, a glimpse of her inner truth.

That her constant striving was because she never felt good enough.

He'd always taken it for granted that she was strong, she was capable, she belonged. She wasn't like him, the second child, the talentless hack born to a legacy of musical genius. She never had that pressure to be good enough because she'd always been good enough. She was Maka—top of her class, complete badass, his reckless studious perfect meister.

It was easy to forget that she was also Maka Albarn, daughter of the woman who'd made the current Death Scythe into a death weapon, daughter of that death weapon himself, a child of legacy, a child who was expected to be as good as her parents were before her. He'd always thought her drive to make him into a weapon better than her Father was a vindictive one, a product of her feelings of hurt and betrayal. He'd never even considered the fact that maybe, just maybe, it was that she'd never felt adequate, that she'd never believed herself quite up to the legacy of her parents. That maybe, just maybe, they were more alike than he'd ever thought possible.

Perhaps it was because they were both so good at hiding it.

The only difference was, she hadn't run away. Soul had taken the first chance he could to get out, to leave those expectations behind, but not Maka, never Maka. She'd looked those expectations in the eye and stared them down and determined she would be better than she was.

They were the same and yet not. They both wore their chosen masks well, his the mask of apathy, hers of unfailing courage.

Only he had watched her mask crack, had seen the underneath underneath, and there was no going back.

The book had changed everything. Everything.

He remembered all that teasing he had done and knew that for all she doubted she deserved him, he would never deserve her.

But he could try. He would try.

He was trying.

Once he knew, he started to catch her self doubt in subtle little ways, things she'd done that he hadn't seen for what they were. Soul had thought she was just a perfectionist. Now he knew why—she was a perfectionist because she saw only imperfection, afraid that she could never be enough.

The way she would train until she made herself sick, even when they'd long since mastered a skill. The way she studied things she knew well just in case. The way she took mission after mission.

They had hacked their way through ninety nine Kishin eggs before they could resonate properly, long before they were capable of handling a real witch. They were damned lucky it had been Blair when he really considered it, damned lucky it wasn't a real witch who aimed to kill, because they'd have been long since dead. Maka had pushed them to their limits long before they were ready out of sheer determination, the need to prove herself, over and over and over again.

Soul wanted to show her she had nothing to prove. He just wished he knew how.

He'd stopped teasing her about her body. He'd never meant it anyway, had only enjoyed riling her up, had always thought her self esteem was limitless. He wished he'd known better.

So he stopped, though that wasn't nearly enough.

He tried to show her he appreciated her in subtle ways. He cooked for her when it was her turn, offered small compliments, found himself touching her more—nevermind all of that fulfilled a deeper need for him, nevermind it was as selfish as anything else, he didn't know what else he could do, how else to show her that she wasn't just good enough, no, but too good. For him. For anyone.

She was amazing and he was the only one who knew it all, the only one who saw that she did it all inspite of her self doubt, that her courage ran that deep.

She was amazing and she was his meister and she thought she wasn't good enough; it killed him and it made him proud, because if she'd stuck with him this long and she was more than good enough, so much more, then maybe, just maybe, he was good enough, too.

Not long after the book, things got more difficult, the insanity thick and menacing. He tried harder. Instead of snark, when it mattered, he was honest.

Would he help her find Crona?

Yes, of course he would. He would do anything she asked.

Was he with her?

Was that even a question? He would always be with her—he would follow her anywhere.

And then it was over, and they were alive, and Asura was gone and Crona with him, and inspite of all she had done, all they had done together, he could still feel the doubt clawing at her.

He had failed, was still failing.

He had to do more.

He played at the inauguration when Kid asked him to, told her her his past was a part of his future, told her that she was the one who helped him to see that, who helped him stop running and stop doubting, that what he did, the best of him, he did with her, because of her. His music was their music. She made him better just by being her, just by being his partner.

She was good enough.

He had finally shown her courage, had taken off his mask and told the naked truth, had revealed his underneath underneath.

Maybe someday, he would even have the courage to tell her the rest of it.

Maybe someday, he would have the courage to tell her he loved her.

Maybe someday.