FFN keeps taking away the double dashes, you guys can't believe how frustrated I get over this.

The next few chapters haven't gone through beta revision, I'll be revising the whole fic after my brain cools down.

Enjoy!

There are few buses doing the connection between Death City and- well, pretty much anywhere else. For one, because very few people want to visit a city where they are nearly constantly in life-or-death situations, and those who have chosen to settle down don't have anywhere else to go. The old Shinigami had decreed that only the minimal number of buses were to be used; the risk of a kishin entering one and ending up in a defenseless city was far too great. As such, the buses connecting to the nearest city came twice a month, there being a few more during the time the school year for the DWMA starts, but mostly on the low numbers. Airplane companies in Death City, Nevada make good money.

It isn't either the beginning of a school semester or a business trip for the man stepping out of the empty bus, though. He breathes in the air, cleaner than in most cities he's visited, and immediately wishes he had packed more summer clothing. He knew that the city was situated near the desert, but he had never realized how hot it would be.

The heavy backpack hangs from one hand as he spies the academy in the distance, the other hand over his eyes to shield them from the glaring, laughing sun. A shiver manages to run down his spine even in the blazing desert heat, leaving behind the kind of foreboding feeling reserved only for when you enter a new, unknown place that defies the laws of what you've known so far in life.

There is a little kid with short blond hair staring at him, perched on her bike seat, mouth hanging slightly open - just enough for the lollipop she had been sucking on to fall down on the pebbled road.

"Wow," the little girl says, and her eyes are open so wide that he can distinguish her eye colour even from this distance. "Are you Soul Eater?"

The man adjusts his violin case against the material of the backpack, and his lips draw out a rueful grin - the one his little brother had gotten from him.

"No," he says, chuckling. "But if you show me where I can find him, I'll introduce you both."

"Awesome," says the kid, and Wes Evans takes her hand as she leads him through the twisting streets of Death City and towards his brother.

The block on her abilities is gone; the Soul Perception returns to her via millions of souls bursting behind her eyelids like stars in the night sky. And above all, there is one that burns brighter than the rest, one that calls for her; the one she thought she had lost. Her eyes flutter open as she turns, steeling her heart, not daring to hope.

But he is there, and she wants to cry.

"Soul?"

He hates to see her like this, but it's better than not seeing her at all. Her lashes are dark with tears, clinging wetly to each other as she blinks disbelievingly.

Soul has a mouth, he thinks. He hasn't really tried it yet, not when anyone who mattered could hear him, and certainly not for anything other than curses and demands and threats and half-uttered Maka, I love you's, so he wonders if her name at least will make it past through his lips without being sullied.

It does. It curls lovingly around each letter, tasting each delicious portion with longing. It's the most beautiful word in existence, one he wants to repeat again and again and again until it's all he can hear and smell and taste.

"You fucking asshole!"

She tries to reach for him; whether to hug him or hit him, he isn't sure which, but then the worst happens.

Maka, hair of cornfields and eyes of all-seeing forest, goes through him.

He can hear his own heart breaking - it's not the sound of broken glass or of tearing organs. Instead, it's the sound of a missed G in a scale, spiralling into fractals of ripped lace and undertow. Maka looks as devastated as he feels, hands clutched tightly to her jacket's fabric, near her chest, as if to keep the feeling of dematerialization away.

"You left me," she whispers, tiny and fragile and angry and wrecked all in one body, and he wants to hold her. Death, he wants to hold her, but he doesn't think he can handle trying and failing to do so again.

Soul shakes his head emphatically, willing words to come back to the forefront of his mind, buts it's a jumble of thoughts and things he has never had the courage to say before, so he settles on their Resonance, the one constant he can fall back on.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, their souls flare back to life. Together.

"Well, you still don't have a body."

They are standing uncomfortably in front of one another, not sure how to proceed from this. This is unfamiliar territory; they've never been apart for this long after partnering up, and having someone - or something - take over the other's place while they are gone certainly throws even greater complications into the matter.

Though it's terribly awkward - more so than any situations they've got into so far, barring perhaps those two or three times where accidental flashing made their resonance go wacky for a couple of weeks -, Maka can't help but feel more relaxed than she's been in weeks, their resonance buzzing through every nerve; she's hypersensitive, feeling almost like she's trapped in a dream - a wonderful, beautiful dream from which she doesn't want to ever wake up from.

He wants to touch her. He's missed her presence, her warmth, the contact of her skin against his. He wants to caress her cheek - before he realizes it, his hand is nearly there, a breath away from her cheekbone. It pains him that he can't touch her; the skin looks so soft and pure in the light of their apartment - he longs for it.

"Soul," she breathes, pupils blown wide and dark. The part of her face that he's nearly touching flares with colour; it's mesmerizing. He wonders if the same will happen to her lips if he caresses them them as well.

The words take their time to come out; half of his mind is still trapped in the Other sea of wandering souls. "We can't do this right now," he rasps out. "Maka, I can't touch you. I can't."

Thankfully, she doesn't misunderstand the meaning of his words like she has the tendency to do. He watches as she closes her eyes in defeat, bowing her head towards him as if the one remaining barrier between them would cease to exist and she'd finally, finally feel his skin against hers.

"You're right." She swallows, and he notices that even with her lovely, silky skin, there are dark circles under her eyes, bruised smudges deriven from unrest and sleepless nights. "I've missed you."

"You too," he sighs, and feels the overwhelming desire to rest his head against hers. "I've missed you too, I mean. Far too much. It's not healthy."

"I don't care," she breathes out. "I can feel it, you know? You think it's obsessive, and awful, and that you should keep it bottled up - but you shouldn't. We've been in way too many situations that justify it. I feel the same as you."

"You do?" He's incredulous, self-doubt twisting with happiness and dread in his soul; she feels it all.

"I do," she confesses. "We're far too dependent on each other, and I know it's not healthy, but after all this is over, we'll talk it out. We'll make it better. We've grown so much with each other, this is just another step of the way."

"But first we have to go after the phoenix." He watches her closely, memorizing the myriad of small shapes she is made of, so unclear when he had been lost in the Other fog.

Her eyes stay closed as she relishes in being close to her partner for a few more moments; she's exhausted after spending weeks overwhelmingly tense without knowing why, but now she can uncoil and take a deep breath for the first time in a long while.

"First we have to go after the phoenix."

It's not over, though, and they both know that. They can't rest just yet.