Alright it's been over a year since I updated this, and for those who are actually following this story, I am SO sorry. I get pretty scatterbrained, but I'm hoping to make some more progress on this in the coming months. A thank you to Professor Maka, cause she's an excellent beta, friend, and motivator. As always, I don't own Soul Eater, only my own thoughts. It's a bit short, but I hope you guys enjoy all the same.
"I gotta pee."
Lord almighty, this kid is proving to have some terrible timing.
"Cantcha wait? I can feel the train comin' you know, why don't you just piss off the side once we're on it?"
The scrawny boy fixes him with a glare, though he can hardly see it through that mop of ashy hair, and repeats himself with a little whine in his voice that sounds hilariously feminine.
"Solomon, I gotta pee. I'm usin' the bushes."
Soul snorts, amused by the boy's modesty.
"If you ain't here when it comes, I'm hoppin it without you!"
Marco huffs and scurries off into the greenery, mumbling about god knows what, and Soul can't help but smile a little. Nice to be around someone so lively.
"You damn well better call me if it's comin'!"
Soul chuckles to himself, despite himself, and calls out,
"Yeahhh yeah. What's your problem anyhow, ain't ever pissed outside before? Cause you're gonna haveta get over that real fast."
He hears Marco huff and shout from the bushes,
"I've gone outside damnit, just not off the side of a moving train."
Soul can hear some rustling leaves, a long string of creative expletives, and his lip twitches, as if moving without any regard for his wish to remain cool and calm. He feels the urge to punch said lip for betraying him, but he's positive he would look insane, probably insane enough to scare off his new companion, and unfortunately that really isn't something he wants.
Instead he stuffs his hands in his dreadfully small pockets and waits, listening for struggles and whistling steam, thankfully finding he hears neither.
But a few minutes go by, and he hears fabric tearing, panic seizing his heart painfully. He turns to see if Marco has emerged from the bushes, but at that exact moment, the tracks start rattling under his feet.
Shit.
He spots the billowing clouds of sickly black exhaust, tastes the stench of it on his painfully parched tongue, his palms sweaty and his stomach twisted into knots in a way that is entirely unrelated to the painful hunger, and entirely due to the unnaturally frightening idea of being alone again.
He tries to keep the desperate tone out of his voice when he calls out, but he can tell he fails.
"Oi! Marco! You're gonna miss our ride!"
He pauses and listens, but gets no response.
Now he's terrified.
He tries again, his voice cracking in a way that might've been comical in any other situation.
"Hey now, this ain't the time for hide 'n' seek! The train is comin' now!"
Relief floods him, the air returning to his lungs when he hears more of those creative, foundering insults, followed by more tearing sounds.
"I'll be there in a sec!"
Soul keeps his mouth shut and waits. It's not like he'd be the one getting left behind anyway, so it's no real loss for him if the ninny can't stuff his dick back in his pants fast enough.
That's what Soul says to himself in his mind, anyway, palms still sweating and clammy, hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He pulls his hands from his pockets to wipe them on his tattered slacks.
Just incase he has to tug that idiot into a compartment.
The train comes into view, still off a ways, but moving a bit too fast for his comfort. He turns back to the bushes, fingers tapping impatiently on his thigh as he opens his mouth to shout at Marco to get his scrawny ass moving, but Marco is already almost caught up, one pant leg noticeably cut off at the knee.
Soul just has to laugh at the sight, that shaggy hair all askew, lopsided pants, scowl on the boy's lips and hat tugged tight over his ears. Soul risks with a little smirk,
"Ain't no time to be takin' a shit Marc, yanno?"
Marco lodges a frighteningly boney elbow into Soul's ribs, forcing a wheezy cough from him.
"Shut it, asshole, I wasn't!"
Soul catches his breath just to taunt,
"Oh? Then what in the hell took you so damn lo-"
"Get ready, it's gonna be here soon!"
Soul bristles at the interruption, but Marco is right, so he'll disregard the shady behaviour for the time being.
"Right. I take it you've hopped a couple few trains, yeah?"
"Uhhhh…"
Soul sighs heavily. Fuckin' course not.
"That's just dandy, ain't it. Ahhhlright, I'm gonna hop on first so I can pull you up into the box car. You run a few yards down that way so you ain't gotta run as much to catch up. Go, now! She's gettin' close!"
Marco nods and starts booking down the tracks, gravel slipping dangerously underneath his feet, and Soul worries he might snap an ankle clumsily, but surprisingly enough, he seems sturdy on his feet, ankles strong and loyal.
Soul takes a few steps closer to the tracks, staring intently at them as they chatter and quake. The sound of the mechanical beast is almost deafening now, bearing down on them quickly, but it's somehow musical in it's rhythm. He looks toward the tops of the trees that line the other side of the rails, their spindly, barren branches skeletal and aggressive in how they reach for the migrating flocks and gouge at the ominous clouds.
An ebony bird perches itself on the highest branch of the tallest tree, overlooking so much, touched by so little.
Soul envies the creature.
There's some hollering in the distance, but the train is upon them and he hasn't any hope of hearing the words. He just stares at the bird until the train obstructs his view.
He tries to watch each car as it flicks past him, but it's all just a blur; he's standing far too close for it to be anything but. Trying to read the words on the carts brings him a wonderful, all encompassing feeling of disorientation, like his blood has been magnetizes just enough to pull him to his toes.
He feels weightless.
"Solomon what the hell?!"
It's nearly screeched in his ear, voice comically high and frantic. Soul notes it for later banter, if such a thing is to ever come about. His heart feels heavy in his chest. That blissful weightlessness has left him as quickly as it came. Soul closes his eyes, still feeling the train moving beyond his eyelids.
He's yanked backward, hard, by his right wrist, and he topples over, luckily not on Marco, who looks furious enough as it is.
Soul's ears ring.
God, he's just so tired.
There're more girlish shrieks -far less amusing than the others- reverberating in his head.
"Get up you dumbass, what the hell was that?! We're gonna miss the damn train and you won't be able to blame it on me!"
Soul's blood chills in his veins. Where had he gone? What the hell had gotten into him?
Marco apparently has zero time for Soul's mini existential crisis.
"GET. UP."
Marco tugs his arm again, and this time it's enough to snap him out of his strange almost-trance.
"Shit." Soul scrambles to his feet, running as fast as his atrophied legs will allow, now leading, tugging Marco behind him. He counts himself lucky that it's a cargo train, long and less likely to get them into trouble.
He wills his mind into silence, listens as hard as he can for his pulse throbbing in his ears.
He will not let them miss this train.
He refuses.
"Same plan! You run ahead and I'll find a compartment! Whatever you do don't let it pass you! It's a whole mess easier gettin' in one comin' for you, not runnin' away! GO!"
Soul doesn't watch him run, just searches for a compartment he can get at. Six carts down, he sees one open and pushes to the limit of his strength, ignoring the way his raw blisters rub and muscles ache.
Breath in.
He leaps.
The breath is forcefully shoved from his lungs when his ribcage slams into the floor of the cart, fingernails tugging painfully as he searches for purchase in the paneling. The smell of rot and stale piss assaults his senses, and he revels in the irony of the fact that it smells so similar to what he had run from so many years ago.
Not much has changed, he supposes.
"Solomon!"
No, Soul thinks.
Everything has changed.
His muscles scream in protest, splinters burrowing beneath his nails and into his calloused palms as he summons all the strength he possesses to clamour into what he hopes can be a temporary safe haven. His toes drag painfully, and he grits his teeth so hard that he hears something crunch, but he pulls himself up all the same, ignoring the pain.
He's catching his breath, just about to turn around to help the other boy on, when he hears a painful thump, and the woosh of air being forced from lungs.
"Hey," cough, "little help here?"
Marco remains remarkably calm as Soul gathers his wits.
Soul braces a foot on either side of the opening to the compartment, grabbing onto Marco's forearms and pulling like one might tear their soul back from the vice grip of the devil.
The black hole of a tunnel rushes closer by the second, and when Marco grips Soul's arms, it's with sweaty, panicked palms.
Marco cries out, desperate but demanding.
"Don't let go!"
It slips from Soul's lips unbidden.
"Never."
And with a final tug, just before the tunnel is upon them, Soul yanks his friend to safety.
Marco half falls atop Solomon with a dull thud and an oomf, face and torso smacked into the unforgiving floor. He laughs into the wooden planks that smell of rot and piss, and Soul freezes up beneath him for a moment before relaxing and letting out an awkward chuckle himself.
Marco flops over onto his back beside his friend, nudging his ribs,
"That was fun."
Soul laughs outright, his teeth bared in a grin, and he looks to Marco, checking to see if he's frightened, but he does something that make's Soul's heart skip.
He smiles back.
Why does this feel so familiar?
Marco sighs, returning his gaze to the ceiling of the car and sighing,
"We coulda died."
Soul scoffs.
"Uh huh."
"You pulled me up."
"Wasn't gonna let you become roadkill, ya dope. I'm offended that you'd assume that of me."
"You know, I just noticed, you sure got a well developed vocabulary for a drifter."
Soul sighs deeply, tiredly, hopeful that someone alive in this world could still be so ignorant to the reality of the situation. It's not a rarity for hard working people to end up where they are, not by a longshot.
"Kid, there's doctors and scientists and all sorta folk out here. Men from the stock market who didn't have the courage to fly but had no where else to go. Not everyone was born unfortunate. Most of em just ended up here."
Marco's face grows grave, jaw clenched and fists balled. He mumbles,
"I should know that better than anyone by now."
Soul feels sick.
"Sorry Marc. Really. I know it ain't always been like this for you."
Marco scoffs bitterly,
"Yeah? How's that?"
Soul says it before he can stop himself.
"Your hands." His face heats drastically the moment the words leave his lips. Marco just looks confused, eyes hidden but mouth downturned.
His tone is a little mistrustful.
"What about em?"
Soul reluctantly pulls himself into a sitting position and gestures for Marco to do the same, which he does, though not without overly dramatic groaning that makes Soul smirk just a little.
"Give em here."
Soul's heart speeds to an embarrassing rate when Marco doesn't question him, just places both hands in Soul's open palms. Soul almost flinches at the chill of them, but refrains.
He runs a finger lightly over the fresh blisters on Marco's palms, chuckles a little at the hiss the boy lets out.
"If you'd been out here long, you'd be used to these by now. Prolly have some good callouses on ya," Soul tells him, content to inspect the lines and wounds. Marco's fingers twitch.
"...That obvious, huh?"
"Only if you're payin' attention."
God almighty help him, that sounded so weird.
But Marco makes no mention of it, simply twists his hands around in Soul's, now inspecting his palms. Soul averts his gaze, not wanting to see the reaction, the disgust, the fear.
"You were burned." It's not a question.
"Occupational hazard." Soul feels the way his joints ache to clench into a fist, but he stays perfectly still, almost holding his breath, jostled only by the way the rails zip by below them. He doesn't know why this has him so on edge.
Neither boy says anything more, but Marco doesn't let go of Soul's hands, and Soul hates himself for not pulling away.
It's dangerous to care.
He knows.
"Fireman?"
Soul snorts.
"Not exactly. Nobody'd hire me for a real job."
He can just see the bottom lashes of Marco's eyes peeking from beneath the fringe of his hair, and goddamnit communication would be so much easier if this idiot would just cut that damn mop.
"So then, how'd you get burned so bad?"
He thinks of the way the flames had rained down all around him, the ignition fluid bitter on his tongue. He thinks of his foolishness, the way his sullied hands sizzled as he screamed. Liz had told him to wash his hands every time he handled the stuff. He never had been a good listener.
"S'not important. I'm fine."
There's a profound sense of loss that strikes Soul hard when Marco lets go of his hands, crossing his arms haughtily.
"You're a liar."
Soul just sighs, tired and cold and feeling more alone than he had started, leans back to inspect the ceiling again and mutters.
"Ain't we all?"
Marco doesn't answer. Soul just tries to forget that feeling of hope, so brief, so warm.
It is foolish to hope.