Chapter Five: If Hell Is My Heaven

Wes constantly found himself asking how much of the crazy in his little brother's head was art, and how much was just pure insanity.

He hadn't seen Soul once the sun went down for the better part of a week now, and he was starting to get slightly worried. He knew that his little brother had finally covered over Angel's wings enough that he had a background for whatever the main thing he was working on was, and that it wasn't the stupid shit he'd been doing before. Wes could tell the difference; Soul hadn't done a big piece in a while. It had mostly just been street signs designed to give Wes heart attacks on his way to work and maybe his tag here and there. But it had been several months since Soul had started a project and Wes had almost forgotten just how completely immersed in his art Soul could be.

He wasn't even sure Soul had been eating. That didn't fly in Wes' house, because he knew if Soul got too thin their mother, by some terrible Italian instinct, would be able to sense it, and would show up at their door with groceries and stuff them so fucking full they wouldn't be able to move for hours. No, Wes was not putting up with another one of those impromptu visits. Which was why he found himself sitting on top of said little brother in the middle of their living room, while Soul tried desperately to throw him off. Unfortunately, Soul might be taller by an inch, but Wes had more muscle on his frame, and his lanky little brother couldn't get free.

"Oh my God, get off me, fat ass!" Soul growled from underneath Wes, his face shoved into the rug by his big brother's foot resting against his head.

"You have to agree to eat, at the table, like a human being, first."

"I'll agree my foot right up your ass if you don't let me go! Come on, I need to get back to my wall!"

"Your wall isn't going anywhere! It's a wall! That's its job! To not go anywhere! You can eat, and it will still be there."

"It's not about the wall running away! It's about…doing…and things…and-I-fuck-GET OFF OF ME"

"You have to agree to eat your dinner like a civilized person."

"Says the bastard sitting on top of me."

"Hey, don't talk about me like I'm the one at fault here, little brother; you're the one who hasn't eaten anything for the last week."

"I've eaten!"

"Barely! Come on Soul, it's not like I'm asking for your kidney, I'm asking to see you eat something."

"I can't give you my kidney! You're fucking sitting on it. It's dead now. I only have one good one. Let's hope that rampant drinking thing you have doesn't get much worse."

"That would be my liver, dumb ass, and fuck you very much."

"Get off, Wes! Art!"

"Food, Soul. Food."

Soul finally sighed, and shook his head so Wes' foot fell off, and landed on the rug instead. "Fine, just get the fuck off of me!" Wes finally relented, and rolled off of his brother, more groans and swears following him as he did. Soul pulled himself up to his knees and popped his back. "Dude I can't believe you sat on me."

"I didn't know what else to do, normally feeding you isn't difficult." Wes shook his head and pointed to the box of pizza on the table. "Seriously bro, you just gotta eat, I'm not asking for much here."

"No, I gotta work! Come on Wes! I'm…I'm doing a thing! And I need to finish my piece!"

"The thing can wait until you stuff your face. Good grief, stop bitching."

Soul stood up, and walked over to the table, grabbed a piece of pizza, shoved half of it into his mouth, and shot his brother a pointed look. Wes rolled his eyes, grabbed a can of soda before tossing it at his brother's face. Soul caught it, chugged half, and finished the pizza. "Can I go now?"

"You're a child."

"Wes! Art!" Soul threw his hands up in the air. "Art!"

"Fine, go. Take more pizza with you, and go. Be back before morning!" Wes ordered as Soul practically sprinted towards the door.

"Yeah, morning, got it." A slammed door followed quickly and Wes shook his head. He found himself hoping that his little battle with Angel ended at this piece. Whatever the hell Soul was working on, he obviously cared about it, so having it be covered would probably suck for his brother. Then again, it was entirely possible that Soul cared about Angel more than he did this piece too, Wes wasn't sure. All he knew was that they needed Angel's real name by the end of the summer, or both he and his brother would be ready to sell their souls for some information.

Or, in Wes' case, he could sell his Soul.

Finally, a use for his little brother. With no one around to enjoy that pun, Wes groaned and headed back towards his room. Maybe his mother was right, maybe it was time to go out and meet someone again.

He hated it.

He hated the cobwebby look of the black that dripped and ran from the main piece, as if it were trying to get away as much as he wanted to get away from it. The black ran down in lines, dripping lethargically, running as slowly as blood from a barely healed cut. The black swirled in places with the Royal Red, creating an even darker red born from the conjoined colors. It crept across the wall, tendrils of spider webs and nightmares and the terrifying things that live in the back of everyone's head over taking Angel's wings and smothering them. It was hideous and gave him the chills each time he stepped back to check on his progress.

God, he could barely look at it.

He hated it, God he hated it more than he could justify. The piece that now covered his and Angel's wall taunted him as the wet paint shone in the early morning light. It was still dark enough to remind him of the years spent suffering sleepless nights and shy knocks on his brother's door at three in the morning because he couldn't sleep.

Wes never complained. Wes never complained, or turned Soul away, or told him to go wake up his parents. No, Wes would simply roll out of bed, grab his blanket and follow Soul out the living room, where they would sit in silence watching Iron Chef America for an hour, before Soul would finally break and tell his brother about the nightmares, about the demons that wouldn't let him sleep, and how much he fucking hated the medication his parents insisted he'd try. Njo, he hadn't needed to bother Wes with nightmares since he was 16.

So Wes would stay up with him and listen to his sleep deprived little brother mutter about demons with massive grins, monsters that crawled out of the sea of black blood that drowned his dreams, puppets created in his image, black faces screaming to be heard until Soul finally fell asleep against his brother's side, long line of drool and disgustedly messy bedhead the only indications that he had finally fallen asleep.

He hated thinking about the demon; it just brought him back to those stupid fucking nights where he pulled Wes from sleep and pretended not to cry while they watched Iron Chief. He hated the demon, hated everything the demon stood for.

And he had painted it for Angel.

Growling in his throat, Soul threw the empty can of black spray paint at the wall, and pulled his beanie off of his head, running his hand through his hair quickly. "What the fuck am I doing!? The fuck am I doing!? Real nice dumbass, your first real piece in months, a piece that is going to be seen by people, and it's the fucking monster under the bed. Are you trying to scare her off!?"

Scowl only getting deeper, Soul grabbed his backpack and shoved his beanie back on his head, turning his back to the demon on the wall. He was a fucking idiot for shoving his nightmare into Angel's face. He could barely stomach being around his stupid piece, refusing to stay here any longer than he needed to. Fuck the damn thing, fuck the wall, and fuck it all, he just wanted to go home.

So he did.

He snuck into his house well after two in the morning, and dropped his backpack by the door. Soul slipped into his room and tugged off his shirt, scratching idly at the tattoos on his shoulders. Jumping out of his jeans and tossing his beanie to the side, he crawled into his massive bed, hiding him from the dark and demons best he could.

It was three thirty in the morning when Wes heard the knocking.

His first thought is that the cops are at his door, telling him that his brother is dead, or hurt again. That panic was enough to make him fly from sleep, eyes darting around his room quickly. The knocking happened again, and Wes let himself relax when he realized the knock was on his door, already in the apartment.

Trying to rub sleep off his face, he opened his door, and smiled at his brother. Soul couldn't meet his eyes, only scratched at his head. They were both silent for a moment before his brother finally sighed. "Can't, uh…can't sleep. I'm not…I couldn't…I had a nightmare." Soul stuttered; face slowly turning red as he admitted as much to his brother. Wes was surprised; Soul hadn't dragged him out of bed for a nightmare in almost four years. But, Wes was also an old pro at this, so he nodded, and jerked his head towards the living room. Soul smiled gratefully, returned to his room to grab the comforter off of his bed, and then joined his big brother on the couch while Wes searched through the channels for Iron Chef.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" Wes lifted an eyebrow, and Soul growled.

"I painted the, you know, the thing."

"Sorry?"

"The Thing." Soul covered his face with his hands, and sighed while the people on TV fought over what dish to make. "Remember The Thing?"

"Oh, yes. I remember the thing." Wes sighed along with his brother. The Thing was the little creature Soul had used to tell him lived in his head. "Why did you draw that?"

"Well, I didn't start out drawing that…it just happened."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I might be trying to scare Angel away."

"What?! Why would you do that? I thought you liked her."

"So did I." Soul grumbled, and wrapped his blanket around him again, making Wes' overgrown little brother look like the tiny little shrimp he had been when he was little. "But, you know, I'm me. So…you know?"

"…Soul, she'll cover your piece, you know that right?"

"Good. Let her fucking cover it, let her cover the damn thing in flowers, or rainbows or fucking ponies, let it scare her so fucking much she never wants to come back to my fucking wall and-"

Wes brought his hand on top of his brother's head, and Soul stopped his ranting. "Okay, breathe Soul. Breathe…are you breathing?"

"Yes."

"Okay, little brother, you don't want to scare this girl away do you?"

"Doesn't matter now, does it? It's already up on the wall, and I can't get it back down." Soul muttered, sinking lower into his blanket, his knees up against his chest and he rested his chin on them. Wes frowned, and threw his arm around his younger brother.

"It'll be okay, you know? You're gonna be okay."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks Wes."

"Anytime little brother." Wes smiled and returned to the TV. An hour later, he found himself half nodding off while Bobby Flay did amazing things with potatoes and he shifted slightly. He looked down next to him, and smiled when he saw his brother's face smashed into his shoulder, line of drool from his mouth to his pillow. Wes snorted as he reached for the remote, and shut the TV off. He felt bad that his brother couldn't sleep, and that he'd been having his nightmares again, but he was kind of glad that four years later, his little brother still trusted him enough to come to him with the nightmare and Soul's old demon.

Wes yawned himself, and settled back into the couch for what would be the sorest neck he'd ever have in the morning, but as long as Soul stayed asleep, he didn't really care. "Guess I'll never have to worry about you outgrowing me huh, little brother."

The stagnant wind that pushed through Death City almost made the cobwebs on the wall move.

Maka knew she had been standing there too long, eyeing the demon that had taken up residence on her wall. It was terrifying, the creature giggling at her while the wind only seemed to give a logical reason for the sudden chill down her spine. Slowly Maka pushed her bangs off of her forehead, and tugged on the braid that fell over her shoulder. Hesitantly, she reached towards the wall, and traced the cobwebby design around the demon with her fingers.

Artistically, she was absolutely impressed with the piece Eater had shown on his wall. The jagged lines, the blending of color between black, and red she wasn't sure she had ever seen before. The art was amazing, there was no denying that, but there was something off in this specific piece that made her nearly tremble when she looked at it.

Maka didn't grow up scared of monsters under the bed; she didn't grow up scared of robbers, or kidnappers, she was too smart for that. She was too smart for a few different ghost stories, but she did have a healthy fear of evil. Not the kind that stemmed from the Brothers Grimm, but rather the kind of evil that had caused the bags under her father's eyes, and the sleepless nights he often had, nursing a drink in his hand. Evil that humanity was capable of, that's what scared Maka. The things that people could do to their brothers, that's what scared Maka. Women who killed their children, and showed no remorse, men that forced girls into the sex industry, under the guise of trying to help them, boys that beat their friends and recorded it so that people on the internet could laugh. The evil that men do, the evil that they had never been taught, and the demon on the wall seemed to encompass every single evil she had ever feared.

The demon smiled. He smiled like he knew something terrible. It made her unjustifiably angry, the smirk on his face, and she found herself calculating ways to make it stop, to make it disappear. She just wanted him silenced, the laughing she heard in her head had to be silenced.

Covering him would do nothing. The demon would still exist, evil always existed even when it couldn't be seen; he would always exist. Evil couldn't be killed. The darkness in men's hearts would always outlast the very people it hid inside. The demon, he would still survive under the paint, hiding in the shadows, the demon would still be in Eater's head. Maka wouldn't wish that on anyone. She knew from what little her father would tell her about her cases that covering evil didn't make it any better, evil needed to be countered with hope, or understanding. The good that people were capable of.

Covering this demon would do nothing.

But that didn't mean she was going to do nothing.

That was the third time that night she had sent her father away after he had come to check on her.

Apparently her "creative process" for her response to Eater wasn't as internal as she had thought if her father's worried face when he popped his head into her room was any indication. He'd only looked at her confused, and she had sighed, explaining how she was trying to come up with something to scare the demons away. Her father, for his credit, hadn't sent her to the nuthouse. Instead, he came back to her room with three cookies, handed them to her, and went about his business. It was kind of him, since it probably wasn't the last time Maka would throw her sketchbook across the room, ranting about demons. It was tonight though, she couldn't handle this anymore. The quick sketch she had done on the paper of Eater's demon wasn't nearly as terrifying as his, but it still made her shudder. She ran her fingers over her tiny demon on the paper, and slammed the sketchbook closed. It was keeping her up, and she couldn't even imagine how Eater was handling it. The stupid thing lived in his head.

Maka wondered about that too, what kind of man Eater was. She had only met him once and all he had done was insult her height and tell her to be careful on her way home. He was usually prompt about answering their sticky note conversations and he had promised that he was her friend; as unconventional as their friendship was. But then he carried around something like that in his head. What kind of man could carry that around and not go crazy?

Man's inhumanity towards man.

The artist had studied that extensively, in both her philosophy classes and in her conversations with her father when he was a little too drunk to care about separating his home life from his work life. She'd spent a million conversations with professors and classmates about what people could do to other people. And...everyone carried it. Everyone carried this evil in their heads, and Maka knew that Eater would be no different. In fact, it seemed that he had isolated that evil, he knew it was real. That was more than a lot of people could say.

"Fuck," She groaned, and leaned over her bed to toss the sketchbook under it. her fingers jammed into a heavy tome, and she whimpered, trying to shake the pain out of her hand. "Come here you." Maka muttered as she pulled the old book out from under her bed. The yellowed pages looked dull in her room and she held it against her chest. It had been her mother's book and she had given it to Maka when she had left to see the world. Inside were yellowed characters and scribbled English translations next to them, each one depicting the meaning of a certain flowers.

Looking up from the book to her walls, Maka eyed the several pressed flowers she had encased in glass and silver frames. Some of them were older, done when her mother had still lived at home, and she had insisted Maka learn Ikebana, or flower arranging. It was something her mother had loved to do with her mother back in Japan, and she wanted her daughter to have that piece of culture with her.

Every flower on her wall meant something different. Most of the were from the flowers Maka's mother had left on her bed before she left. Fond wishes, maternal affection, bonds, intellect. The flowers her mother had left her painted a love note, topped off with a peony at the very top. Maka had wrinkled her nose at the peony. It had meant masculinity last she had checked, but written in the old book that she currently held in her hands, Maka's mother had penned the word "bravery, shame, bashfulness" next to the japanese writing, along with a tiny message for her daughter.

Always be brave, Maka girl. Never choose shame over courage.

Maka ran her hand over the old cover of the book and smiled faintly. That was how her mother showed love, it was how her mother had been able to best bond with her daughter. Flowers. She wondered about her mother often, wondered what flowers she had been able to collect during her never ending vacation.

That very first piece she did, nearly two months ago, the flowers over the broken city...she had drawn those flowers because she missed her mother. She missed her mother so much, and that was the easiest way she could think to do it. Four giant flowers that helped warm the cold patch in their home her mother had caused when she had left them.

And Eater had covered them, like it was some kind of game.

It had been a raw hurt, to see them gone like that. But Eater had more than paid his pound of flesh for that by putting his demon on the wall. He might not have realized it, but Maka bared her soul to the world with those flowers, and he'd selfishly covered them. Now, he was vulnerable and Maka had no desire to hurt him. She just wanted to help him, bring him some peace. She just didn't know how-

The book in her hand was suddenly heavy. Her breathing stopped and she could've beaten herself over the head with the book in her hand. Flipping rapidly through the pages, she looked for the characters she needed, her mother's slanted handwriting right next to it.

"Perfect." she smiled to herself, and reached back under her bed, ripping the sketchbook back out.

It was perfect, and it was the best she could do for the demon, and for Eater.

Now, she just needed to find that same red Eater used.

Thanks for being patient! I'm sorry it took so long to get this out here! Blame my two jobs! I hope you enjoy! Really! Also, sorry I couldn't respond to the reviews, but really!? 91!? thank you all SO SO SO MUCH!

-Eris