Maka doesn't leave her bed for three days.
No matter how many times she scrubs her hands and cries and gets sick, she can't seem to get the blood off her hands. Her hands are rubbed raw and pink but she can't unsee the thick darkness painting her arms, can't unsee his bones and his heart, torn open by the clumsy blunt of her blade. It takes her hours to get the blood out from beneath her fingernails. It takes her only seconds to watch a soulless body disintegrate. It will take her a lifetime to forget the look on Soul's face when she plunged the blade deep.
It wasn't Soul, she tells herself. It was not Soul that she murdered, was not Soul that was in charge of his body, and was not Soul that spit such terrible things at her in a direct attempt to tear her apart. And yet it doesn't lessen her guilt. It certainly doesn't make her feel less like a murderer.
The last time she was that close to a corpse, it was her mother. The last time she saw a human soul, it was her mother's, as it was ripped out of her by a kishin.
The warmth of Soul's still buzzes through her trauma-stained fingers.
Maka pulls her blanket over herself and wonders if it would be better to waste away or turn herself in. Surely there's a fate worse than death? Because she deserves it - eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, but Maka would rather someone rip her soul out and devour it nosily than to simply disappear altogether. After the carnage she's caused, it might be poetic, karmic justice to offer herself up to the monsters that prowl the dark, abandoned streets at night. She doubts her soul is even a little bit tasty anymore, doubts that even monsters that make a living off of the theft of life would want her.
Soul was an important person. Not just because he was unusually kind, or because he told bad jokes and drove a stupid, gaudy motorcycle and had a bit of a sweet tooth, but because he was an Evans. He was the son of the man who funded her entire project, and she took his body from him and put a sword through his damned chest. Soul could have gone on to have a happy life. He could have married a wealthy, powerful girl and lived on. He could have helped save the world. Soul still had the world at his fingertips, hadn't felt loss firsthand, hadn't known what it felt like to be broken and angry and sick to his stomach with grief.
And she loved him. She loved him, she loved him, she loved him. More than she's ever loved anybody else. He'd had such a way of making her feel safe, of making her feel like just a normal girl amidst the end of the world. He had no expectations, no wandering eyes, no ill intentions. Soul was loyal. Soul might've - she thought he might've - no, no, he could've loved her back, and she'd taken his option away before he'd even had the chance to tell her himself.
Maka thinks having her soul eaten clean out of her chest would hurt worse than this.
Every time she closes her eyes, it's like she can still see him, smiling at her through the late afternoon sun. He's nothing but a ghost of the past, thriving only in her memories, and in her dreams, where he's only the demon who towers over her with bloodlust in his eyes half of the time. Only his kindness doesn't hurt any less. Somehow, she thinks it hurts more.
Her stomach complains nosily at her negligence. Maka kicks her feet over the side of her bed and stands, shakily, dizzy with hunger and exhaustion, as she pads her way to her bedroom door. When she flicks her light on, the scythe seems to glow beneath her crooked, wobbling ceiling fan.
Of course she brought it home with her. Was she supposed to leave it at the scene of the crime? Leave her soul-bound regret on the lab floor, surrounded by all of her notes and work? It felt wrong. And after everything, she still feels attachment to the damn weapon. The demon is inside of it. Part of Soul, by extension, is inside of it.
She might get sick again. Maka waddles over by her turtle tank to fish out another shopping back. On her way back up, color catches her eye.
There's a rainbow on the back of Leo's shell.
Soul painted her turtles.
Her knees hit the floor and she dry heaves into the crinkled plastic back, nose leaking, her tears hot on the raw, scrubbed skin beneath her eyes.
.
Just when she thinks she can't cry anymore, she's mistaken.
Her pity party lasts for two more days, until the voice in the back of her head (that sounds eerily like her no-nonsense mama) reminds her that eating more than just a packet of instant ramen a day is necessary and laying around feeling bad for herself won't stop the monsters under her bed from running rampant and Maka forces herself to her feet. It is no easy task, hauling herself for a shower, or brushing her teeth, but it has to be done, and Mama didn't raise no quitter.
She might've raised a killer, but she didn't raise a quitter.
Maka spits her toothpaste into the sink, turns on the faucet, and wonders when her face got so thin. Wonders, too, if Soul would think she was pretty with dark circles under her eyes and limp hair and a spattering of stray toothpaste on her upper lip, but thoughts like that are toxic and make the dread curl deeper in her stomach.
The rest of her routine is pure muscle memory. Brush her hair. Tie it into twin pigtails so it's out of her face. Yes, good. Don't think about the scythe you'll be lugging to your lab today. Don't think about the crippling silence and how his motorcycle is still probably still parked outside your door, whatever you do.
Mama's brave little girl is more of a fuckup than originally intended. Maka stuffs toast down her throat mindlessly and robotically makes a grab for her scythe.
Her entire body buzzes with contact. The metal is cold, but her soul feels warm, and before she even has a chance to gather her bearings, the devil is whispering, "Murderer," in her ear, only he sounds a lot like Soul and she's wholly unprepared to hear his voice so soon after his passing. It's almost revolting, how much she's missed the sound of his voice, but not like this, never like this.
Maka closes her eyes, opens her soul, and everything goes dark.
.
When she wakes up, she's in her soulspace again, only it's a lot less bright and the dim fog is licking her ankles before the demon has made an appearance. Whatever that means, it probably can't be good.
"Don't look so righteous anymore, do you?" he hisses, in Soul's voice, and Maka squeezes her eyes shut. Footsteps echo beside her and stop only once she feels the presence before her. It's funny, but she almost feels like the demon is taller, now, and bigger, and- Maka cracks her eyes open to find a twisted, serrated smile donning her partner's face. "Hey there, braniac."
Maka sucks in a thick breath, and says, "Don't call me that."
"But you used to blush whenever I called you that."
"When he called me that," she hisses, hands shaking, "not you. Cut the act and go back to normal, this is cruel-"
"No," he says, stepping forward, and Maka finds herself moving back in tandem. "Do you know what's cruel? Tricking me into playing guinea pig for you, Maka. What's a poor boy to do when he's being manipulated into playing with fire? Give in, of course. He doesn't know any better. He doesn't know how cruel humanity can be."
"I wasn't-"
"Wasn't what?" he sneers, voice callous, and he's so close, closer than he's ever been before, warm breath on her parted lips. He steals her breath with an angry curl of his lips, nose pressed to hers. "You're not the only one with a life. You're not the only one with something to lose."
Tenacious, angry Maka pushes him back with shaking hands. Her bravery is a front, but it's all she has, and in this mad, mad world, there is nothing left to latch onto but her sheer power of will. And this monster - only part man, surely, and part demon, horns and claws and all - will not break her, cannot break her, no matter how sweet his voice and how familiar his form. This is not the Soul she allowed mercy. This is not the Soul that asked her to finish him off, so the roles weren't reversed, so he wasn't standing over her dead body with blood on his hands.
But still - it's hard, and demon Soul drags his pointed tongue over his lips, looking her over like she's dinner. "You just couldn't let me go, could you, Maka? Couldn't have let me rest in peace?"
"Stop it," she says, tears bleeding through her venom. "You're not him."
"How do you know who I am anymore?" he asks, and his hands are still agonizingly beautiful as he holds one out to her, smile twisted. His palm lays flat and Maka doesn't dare accept the invitation. "I'm him and he's me. One can't exist without the other."
"You're just angry that I didn't let you roam free," Maka finds herself hissing back, half bravado, half temper. "You're in the scythe again, and-"
"And so is Soul," the demon says, almost gleefully, in their own voice, and there's a shining, gleaming moment where he is all monster, teeth glinting violently in the brightness of her soul. "He's here, too. Don't you feel him? You need us. You still need my help if you want to get anything done. The world is in ruins, Maka. What's it going to be?"
His hand never wavers. And Maka doesn't flinch, even for a second, even though the ice in her veins and the painful twisting in her stomach.
"I don't understand," she mutters.
The demon smiles and Soul takes a step forward. "I can't work with relentless heroism," he says, woefully both monster and man, "but this? This will be interesting. I can definitely work with whatever's going on in your soul now, bookworm."
It's an offer, Maka realizes belatedly, An offer of power. Her mind whizzes, cogs turning almost frantically - the power to cut through madness and insanity is welcoming her with open arms, but at what cost? The devil smiles at her like a lover, with teeth sharper than ever, eyes the color of bloodlust, and she's sure if her mama could see her now, she wouldn't be smiling. What, pray tell, has her brilliant little girl gotten herself into? These are not the kinds of situations good girls get themselves into. This is not the reality morally sound people live.
Her soul burns brighter, and for a moment, they're both blind. It's only when Maka feels his fingers - the same long, pretty fingers she's held hundreds of times - slide between her own that she knows she's doomed herself for life.
.
One scythe down, plenty more weapons to go. There's a whole army, after all, and only so many months left before the smog of madness starts to infect even safe places like Shibusen.
.
With great power comes great responsibility.
The demon is both an ally and a foe. His wit is great, and she's never had quite such a brilliant strategist whispering in her ear. For all of his malice and poison, he is wise, and sharp, and knows more about the anatomy of a soul than any of Arachne's notes and Eibon's works combined. Maka might be inclined to think this partnership is actually a blessing - if, of course, it didn't come at the cost of her most important person's life. It is both bitter and sweet, having such knowledge rumbling menacingly in the back of her mind - but mostly bitter.
Binding demons to weapons isn't even a struggle anymore. After doing it once, the rest is as easy as 1-2-3. It seems as though dark entities flock toward her now, and she's not sure what that says about her as a person - her soul had once served as her internal lighthouse, blinding the monsters that prowl on the wicked, twisted things that underlay human fundamentality, but now it's as though her light has dimmed to a glow. Whatever it means, it certainly can't be good, but if it means making deals with devils a breeze, she's in no position to complain.
Everything is different. It's like all life has been drained from her lab - like the colors have dimmed, like the sunspray along the corner of her desk has become nothing more than stale, faded highlighter, smudged along her margins, neglected notespace.
Sometimes, Maka thinks in another life they could've been lovers. The demon - Soul, he is Soul, now- thinks she should shut her mouth before she damns anyone else.
There is malice. There is anger. Above all else, there is contempt, festering like a wound, and a voice in her head reminding her that this whole mess is her fault and she's a terrible, terrible person. As if she needed the reminder - there's nothing else in her head but guilt and an almost obsessive determination to finish what she's started. She owes it to him, after all. Soul's sacrifice can't go in vain.
"Wouldn't have been a sacrifice at all if you weren't so needy," he hisses. "You shouldn't have made me do it."
Maka bites her lip and draws blood. I didn't want this, she thinks. How could you even think I wanted this? How could anyone want this?
He simpers for a moment. "You chose this, didn't you? Sorry if your reality isn't so pretty anymore. Want to take a walk in my shoes for a bit and see how it feels to be crammed in a scythe all day? Or worse, your brain - fuck, all you ever do is think about science and whine and cry, I'm sick of it-"
She deserves this. She knows she does. But it doesn't make swallowing it down any easier. Had it been anyone else's voice tearing her down, she probably could've grinned and beared it - but it's Soul's, and they'd almost been something special for a brief, fleeting moment in time, and now they're very not. Or maybe they are, depending on how one might look at it. He'll be with her forever. Soul is always there.
Soul makes a retching sound. "There's better company than a know-it-all witch like you." A pause, and then, "Not even a good witch."
"Good enough to save you," she grits, pencil clutched tight in her hand.
"Define save."
Maka forces breath through her nose. "You're not dead. You… you h-have a body-"
"I have a fucking hunk of metal, Maka. I can't even move on my own. Can't eat. Can't sleep. Have to listen to your whining all day, and you snot everywhere when you cry. Try not to get it on the blade next time."
Maka shakes her head in a vain attempt to scare away the thoughts swarming like flies, but it's to no avail - how can she escape someone who is tied to her very soul? And how can she want to, when he still sounds the same when he laughs? He snorts at her but shuts up, and Maka bites her own lip as she scoots around the desk and tries not to focus on the empty chair sitting on the other side.
Soul thinks about planting his ass there and kicking his feet up while he watches her work, and Maka's not sure what to make of it. He's composed of such opposing ends; most of the time, he is the snarling, malicious devil on her shoulder, simultaneously building her up with wisdom and tearing her self worth down with his truths, but sometimes he has shining moments where he is the quiet, introspective boy he'd once been. Sometimes, she feels his overwhelming warmth in her chest, helplessly allowing him to tangle as he wishes, and sometimes - like now - she's hit with his softer thoughts, his sobering memories of motorcycle rides and the feeling of lips on the back of her hand.
But she cannot split him in two. He is still Soul deep down, whether she likes it or not, and she owes him the salvation of the world. She owes him to live on in his stead and finish what they'd started.
.
A postcard comes for her a week later, with crude, sprawling lettering taking up half of the space and careful cursive decorating the other.
(Demonic) Soul mocks her for the excited fluttering in her chest. Maka buries her feelings deep and brushes her thumb over the ink thoughtfully, as if trying to commit the shapes of the words and feelings behind them to memory. "Who's it from, your side guys?"
"Don't be dumb," she huffs. "It's just from my dad and my old neighbor."
"Hell," he says lowly, and something rumbles in her chest, "childhood lovers. Gross."
With a click of her tongue, Maka flips over the card to admire the image. She figures Papa picked out the card, because it's a picture of the Eiffel tower, and in her youth she'd always sort of wanted to travel. What an old card. She wonders what he would've gone through to get it. She also wonders how Black*Star managed to leave his mark, too, and fight off her father's exuberant affection to get a word in. For a moment, she's impressed - and flattered, oddly.
It's been months since she's last seen her Papa. And regardless of the terms they'd been on when he left - and regardless of whether or not she'd approved of his vices (women and sex, lots of sex) - he was her father, her only living parent, and sometimes it was nice to fall back on the one person who she new loved her regardless. And Black*Star, no matter how obnoxious, still always found time for her, be it vigorous, stress-relieving workouts or staying up late together to watch the news, bone-tired and delirious on 5-hour-energy.
To say she didn't miss them would be a lie. But with Soul around, she'd found a way to focus less on the bad (and the missing) and instead channel her energy into other things, like late-night motorcycle rides and the giddy, excited tingling in her fingers when he first walked her to her door. Silly teenage things she'd never really had the chance to experience before.
Soul snorts again. "Didn't know you had a boyfriend in the military."
She presses the card to her chest and breathes out, slowly, slowly. "Why would I need one of those? I don't have time for boys."
It's like she can see him quirking that sharp grin of his, dark eyes wild beneath the mask of his hair. She doesn't want to think on how deeply she's internalized every maddening crook of his lips, and how she'd never gotten the chance to see if they tasted like malt and vanilla. Soul doesn't have a physical form anymore. Soul can't write her letters or hold her hand. He can only hold her heart in a vice and squeeze tighter and tighter until she finally pops.
He laughs lowly, and Maka presses the postcard closer to her chest, as if she can hide it away and save it for later, as if she'll ever have a moment of peace again. "Had enough time for me."
"You're special," she blurts.
His radio silence is telling. Maka slips the postcard into her desk and tries not to think on which half of Soul heard that.
.
Some days are worse than others.
Without Soul to ground her, Maka works harder than ever before. It's like the safety lock has been broken, and stubborn, workaholic Maka has evolved into mindless machine Maka, who does nothing but ration out vials of black blood and summon questionable demons into the mortal world. Some days - the bad days - she skips meals to get more done, doesn't think about the repercussions of pulling all-nighters, works until her eyes hurt and she can't function anymore.
Her actions might be questionable, but her righteous sense of duty rings louder than anything else. It's just another late night. Just another demon sword.
"Hey," Soul murmurs. It's hard to focus on anything else but his voice, so crisp in the murky haze of the night. She blinks sleepily, halfway to dreamland. "Maka."
"I'm awake," she says.
"Maka, go to bed."
"What do you care," Maka huffs, pressing her hands to her face. She drags her fingers down her cheeks, pushes her bangs from her eyes, haphazardly tries to straighten her tangled pigtails. Realistically, she knows he's right - she's finally getting a chance to step out onto the battlefield tomorrow and put all of her hard work to good use, and it'd be much safer to engage in combat while she's well rested - but lulls in work allows the guilt to seep through.
It's almost startling how clear his voice is. "I'm worried about you."
He's polarizing. It sort of makes her head spin, and there's a terrible hurt trying to claw through her chest. "Soul," she breathes, and he makes a sort of sad humming in response, somewhere deep in her soul. It sounds like she's talking to herself, and nobody else is in the room - but it's okay, because she's kind of not okay and there hasn't been anyone else in her lab since he bled out on her floor. Maybe he's damned the place. Maybe he's christened it, and her, too, and she's the one who did the damning.
He's quiet for a moment, and she takes the chance to snivel and whimper and scrub the damp heat from her eyes. Patient. He's so very patient, and then, finally, he mutters, "I'm sorry."
"You're-? I did this!" she gasps. I did this to you. It was my work that did this to you.
Her thoughts are not her own anymore. Soul hears everything these days, whether she wants him to or not, whether he's in control or if his black-blood induced infection speaks for him. It's invasive. It's uncomfortable, especially, but there's nothing that can be done to remedy it.
Maka hears him grunt. "There's something you can do."
"No."
"It's okay, you know," he says, and he's so hushed, devoid of all pretenses and jokes. She misses that smiling boy with ice cream smudged on his lip. "It's okay. You didn't mean for this to happen. You told me not to and I didn't listen. It's my own fault I wasn't strong enough."
Laughable. Maka chokes on the absurdity of it - he's her cracked foundation, and no matter the damage, he'll always be the one thing holding her up. Even now, with his rubble at her feet and her home in shambles, her heart still finds a way to gather his pieces and find strength. Soul is quite literally in her head, in her very soul - doesn't he know he's the strongest person in her life? Doesn't he know the bravery he inspires in her?
Soul snorts. "Like you need me to be brave, Maka. You could kick ass with or without me."
But she wants it with him. She wants a lot of things with him. Things she can't have anymore.
She doesn't blush. The days of flustered, excitable crushes are long gone. She doesn't have that right anymore, not after what she'd done to him. Perhaps she's her father's daughter after all, doomed to murder any semblance of romance - perhaps she's an Albarn through and through, and she should keep her unreasonable desires to herself. Letting herself trust him had lead onto to his demise. Letting herself want him had only lead to a broken heart and the ghost in her head.
Her thoughts seem to sober him. Soul goes quiet for a long moment, and for a second, she's afraid he's lost control again, that he is all malice and twisted words again, but then he mumbles her name and she knows he's still her Soul. "I heard it, you know," he says slowly, and despite it all, Maka feels her face heat. "When you were crying. I heard what you said."
The tears are hot and she blinks them away. "I did a lot of that."
It's a fact he can't argue. Maka sorts her notes into folders and shuts her notebook, stuffs her pens into her desk, switches the light off. The darkness is almost comforting, but the warm metal of his handle is a constant anchor, cold and tangible in her palm.
Soul whispers, "Me too, you know," and she clutches him that much tighter. Love you too.
.
Fighting is therapeutic.
There is relief in throwing herself into the heat of battle. Every time she takes a hit it grounds her, steels her, and it's almost like she's been looking for punishment in her own way. Training will make her stronger. Putting herself in danger will relieve the anxiety tearing at her tissue-paper nerves, if only for the time being. It's a lot of adrenaline, a lot of constant motion, a lot of distraction, and demon Soul snarls in the back of her head, reminding her to dodge left, pull right, get your stupid face out of the way, moron, you'll look even less attractive with a black eye.
Her world might have come to a crumbling close, but the kishin Asura still slurps down another militant soul twice a day, and she doesn't have any more time to sit around and feel sorry for herself. There's a heroic urge in her, one that shouts and screams and takes every one of Soul's combat-driven suggestions in consideration as she moves. This is her work, after all. This is what she was granted money and space to do. This is what she has thrown away her life for.
For Mama. For Black*Star and Papa, wherever they are, and all of the other little girls with parents, teetering on the brink of disaster and still clinging desperately for a sense of normality.
For Soul.
Soul growls. "Head out of the clouds, missy."
He's right. He's always right. Stupid girl.
.
She's twenty-three when she kills her first kishin.
It's on her birthday. There's no cake, no candles, no presents clothed in glittery wrapping paper or ribbons. There is blood staining her steel-toed boots, blood rimming the hem of her ironed skirt, blood turning the ashy gold of her hair a stale, crinkled red. She smells like a graveyard, and probably looks a little bit like she belongs in one, too. Her scythe's blade drips red. The demon inside giggles gleefully, tipsy on madness and bloodlust and murder, probably. There's such a mishmash of desires coming from him - a brew of moremoremore and stray thoughts of the scrape on her thigh, where the kishin's claws had caught tender skin.
Her age is less of a celebration than the kill is. Maka is certainly not the first to kill a kishin, not nearly - but she's the first to hold a tainted soul in her hands, sticky and scarlet. It seems to fizz, Maka notes clinically, and vibrates in her grasp the way Soul's hadn't quite. Temptation whispers like a devil over her shoulder, and the scientist in her wonders what it would taste like - what is so delicious about a soul, what is so empowering about a murderous lifeforce condensed into spirit in her palms? - but she locks the thought away tight and blames the monster in her weapon.
It's like she can hear him licking his lips. "Taking down Asura would be real easy if we slurped that one down."
"Don't be dumb," Maka says. "You know we can't do that. It's not right."
He seems to simper. "And locking someone away in a heap of metal is? What's embracing a little demonhood if you're already a little bit witch, huh?"
It's not what Soul would want and she knows it. It's not what Mama would want, either, and not what Maka wants, but the soul still burns a spot in the fabric of her gloves and she sets it free. It floats like a paper lantern, glowing, glowing as it flutters higher and higher. Soon it's only a pinprick of tainted light in the sky, stray fireflies, and Maka lets her thumb brush over the blood staining the arch of Soul's blade.
He chuffs. "Waste of a perfectly good soul."
"You and I both know that was not a good soul," Maka retorts. "You need a bath."
"Gonna sponge bathe me, sweetheart?"
She very nearly curls inward. "Don't call me that."
He chortles, but she can hear the echo of apologies in the quiet between his laughter. She would reply, if only to settle things, but someone else says her name - someone with flesh and bone - and Maka looks up instinctively, eyes wide.
What blue eyes he has. More importantly, though, are what nice cheekbones he has, and how much he shockingly resembles Soul. Maka decides, as he offers her a practiced, polite smile, that this man is most definitely an Evans, and Soul's resulting scoff solidifies her assumption. But god, does looking at him break open something raw in her, like a cracked egg on a countertop. He's missing Soul's dimples and Soul's dark eyes, but it's impossible to deny the similarities. It's like Soul has been brought back to life in a slightly taller, slightly broader body, with firm shoulders and a confident air about him that had been absent in his past incarnation.
Soul's double offers a hand to her. "Congratulations on your first kill, Albarn."
Not her first kill, the demon hisses.
Maka mentally swats him like a fly. "I, oh," she stumbles eloquently. She goes to take his hand, but looks down and catches the blood all over her gloves and backtracks, flinching. "Thank you."
He smiles and wiggles his fingers. "Wearing gloves too. It's alright, I'm not afraid of a little grime. I'm Wes. My father sent me to keep an eye on you and see how your research was coming along."
His hands are warm and his fingers long, just like his brother's. Soul's brother. Maka's stomach curls and she swallows thickly, wondering if the guilt will finally swallow her alive and spew her truths like venom. She manages to keep a grasp on herself and shakes his hand firmly. "Maka," she says hesitantly. "My name is Maka. I don't like going by my father's name."
Wes blinks, and for a moment, that mega-watt smile and gleaming air about him dims. Before she has a chance to analyze, he hums, low, and tucks his hands back into his pockets. "You sound just like my brother."
"Ah," Maka blurts. "You have a brother?"
He nods, and Soul rumbles in reply as well, tone almost mournful. "He's gone missing," Wes admits, though he's only half of the dazzling Evans heir she'd witnessed only moments before.
Vaguely, she remembers the bits and pieces of Soul's family that he'd told her about. Mostly he'd spoken of his parents - namely his father - and how he'd hated the mistreatment, the scorn, the expectations that came with being the second born son. Sometimes, though, he spoke of his mother, and - even more rarely - his brother. In life, Soul had been private with his thoughts, private with his desires and anxieties alike. It's almost ironic that now he's the loudest thing in her head.
Of course people are looking for Soul. He was never a nobody, no matter how deeply he'd believed it himself; he had a reputation, a name - and a brother who cares, clearly, judging by the crease between Wes' brows and his voice's sobering concern. Soul Evans is a missing person, a privileged boy whose family can afford to look for him, whose death could never go unheard, and there's not even a body to uncover. Maka cleaved his soul clean out. She'd not only taken his life but his soul away, and a body can never exist without the life force that powers it.
Maka clutches her scythe tighter and wonders if Wes can see the blood she'll never been able to scrub clean. "I'm so sorry," she mumbles, voice thick.
It's not like I would've amounted to anything anyway, Soul hisses in her ear. She doesn't know which side of him is in control anymore, but she swallows and brushes her thumb along the length of his handle anyway, as if it can possible soothe him or quiet his thoughts. They only care because a missing son looks bad. Makes them look weak. Like they can't control their own family.
Wes sighs deeply. "If you see him," he begins, contradictory to the belligerent voice in her head, "could you let me know? You don't have to go to my father or anything, just tell me. I promise I won't tell anyone and I promise you won't get in trouble."
She bites her lip until she tastes the tang of blood. "Of course," Maka finds herself muttering, bones chilled, heart racing in her chest. Soul purrs something about getting away with murder. "I mean, I don't know what I would- I'm in my lab a lot of the time, and when I'm not, I'm- I'm doing this," she says, gesturing to the kishin blood on her clothes, dripping from her scythe.
"You never know," Wes says. "He could be anywhere."
He doesn't know the half of it.
.
Maka doesn't sleep soundly that night.
It's like being asleep but also not. Her body is resting, sure, but her mind is awake, alive with insecurity and anxiety and the white-hot guilt that seems to serve as her blood nowadays, pumping to keep her alive. Everything is dark around her, lightless, and it almost feels like she's floating, floating off of her stale bedsheets and into this haze of bleariness. Maka could choke on it.
She tosses and turns but there's nowhere to go. It's like she's in a dream but not, simultaneously aware of everything and unable to decide how, exactly, she can exist like this. Like soul-hopping, soul-speaking, soul resonance, even - and before anything else comes to fruition, there's a faint glow of a lamp and the click of dress shoes on tiled floor. Her bones become tangible, muscles working, and Maka pulls herself to sit just in time to watch a flicker of a man part red curtains.
He's dressed to the nines. Cufflinks, pinstriped suit, blood red shirt, looking broad and tall in ways she'd missed so dearly. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, and Maka watches him slide his hands into his pockets.
It's not real. It can't be real. She's dreaming, she's dreaming, but he's here, smiling nervously and sadly in the murky light of his soul, sharp teeth reluctant daggers in his grin.
Mindful of boundaries, Soul keeps his distance, a careful three feet away from the edge of the bed where she sits, heeled feet pressed flat to the floor.
His soul is a little funny, a little musty, a little twisted. The decor is dark but still cheesy, somehow, all reds and blacks and dark shades, checkered tile and long, billowing curtains the color of blood. It smells a little like ink, a little like paper - and it's so damn dim, like he's afraid she won't like what she sees and forcefully shrouds himself, but she still knows it's him. How can it be anyone else, after all? Who has access to her soul this way?
She wonders what it would be like to touch him. She wonders if she even could. He lost his physical form months ago.
He clears his throat. "Uh. Hey."
Maka presses her palms into her lap, feeling the silk of her dress between her gloved fingers. What an odd thing to wear in her demon's soul. What an odd thing for him to dream her in. It's a mature dress, sleek and black and silky, thin, fluttering to her ankles and fluttering out to expose strappy heels and the pale skin peeking out beneath. Her shoulders are cold and bare, and his gaze lingers a little too long on the shape of her collarbone, the curve of her neck.
She purses her lips. There are tears prickling away at her strength and Maka can only give so much before the wall surely crumbles. "I can't sleep."
He smiles, a little sweetly, a little sadly. "My fault?"
"Nothing's your fault."
It's clear he wants to say more but doesn't. She feels the same. She wants to ask how she's here, how he's managed to wrangle her into his soul space, where he can still maintain some sort of a body, some sort of false skin - and more than anything else, she wants to know why she's here, why now, why he isn't angry with her and spitting venom like his demon half.
Instead, he shifts his weight. "I don't know about that."
"Soul," she says, unable to help it. "You're dead."
He licks his lips, perhaps out of habit, but that pointed tongue is a grim reminder of his fate, and Maka feels a hiccup of a sob bubble in her chest. "I guess."
"You are," Maka blurts damply. "And I killed you-"
"Hey, hey," he says, voice soothing, as he rounds her, hands careful and gentle as they cup her bare shoulders. His skin is heat but only because she dreams it so, only because it's what she wants, because his pretty hands are gone and his blood still stains her skin whenever she looks in the mirror. "Stop it. You didn't make me do anything, alright? I wanted to help you and so I tried. But I failed, got it? Not you. I was the one who wasn't strong enough, and you took care of me before I could hurt you. You gave me my last wish."
She sucks in a breath. "I-"
"You killed me because I asked you to," Soul says firmly. "I asked you to. No matter what I say now, no matter what that demon tries to drill into your head- I chose this. You let me make that choice. Nobody's ever let me make choices before."
His eyes are so demanding in red. Something curls within her, something low, rooted in the pit of her belly.
Still, she gathers the silk of her skirt in her hand and says, "I let you die."
"You let me die before I hurt you. You kept me from hurting you," Soul breathes, and his voice goes low, hushed, as he presses his forehead to hers. "I couldn't- I couldn't control him. I still can't always control him. If I had done something to hurt you, I don't- I don't think I could've lived with myself."
She knows the feeling well. She lives with it every day, his voice a constant, looming reminder of the mess she's made. How am I supposed to live with myself?
Soul exhales and she feels his whole self deflate. Slouching shoulders. Crooked brows. Soft hands. "You're special."
"I hurt you."
He leans back, sitting on his knees, hands sliding to rest over hers, cupping her knees. "You saved me," he says, as if it's been obvious all along. More than anything else, she wants to feel his fingers in the spaces between hers, wants to know what it would be like to kiss him, to be held, to feel safe, again, if even just for a moment. She wonders what he looks like under that sharp suit of his, wonders if his skin is marred from the incision she'd made. Wonders if he wants the same from her.
But this is his soul, and they're connected, so of course he hears everything she broadcasts for him like a siren's call. He's cute when he blushes, this demonic looking boy with the same pretty, sad eyes, just tinted a different color, and they're all a little twisted nowadays, so what's the harm?
He leans up and she presses his hands into her lap more firmly. "Maka."
Please? her soul says. I want to feel something. I want to feel you.
The moment she feels his soul's hum of agreement, she grabs his tie and tugs him over her. He has control, if he wants it. He can have all the control he wants if it makes him feel alive, if it tricks her into feeling alive again. And it will.. And it has to. And Soul's eyes are wildfires, dark and burning as he leans over her, knees digging into the bed, running his fingers through her hair.
"Maka," he says again, combing through her pigtail, thoughtfully tugging on the ribbon. "You should let me go, Maka."
A real boy, not a ghost in your head. Can't make you happy. I'm hurting you. I'm hurting you every time you wake up.
Stupid. He's stupid. He should know she doesn't want anyone but him. He should know she can't let him go, not while he has moments like this, not while he's still Soul half of the time, underneath the snarling demon she's buried him under. How can she kill what's left of him?
She answers him with a kiss. Stop talking, Soul, I don't want to think right now.
She just wants to pretend his mouth is real and run her tongue along his teeth and drown herself in him, even if just for a moment. Kissing him is all sensation, all warm tongue and soft lips, things she's sure she's idealizing at this point but can't bring herself to worry about. Maka's spent way too long thinking about what it might be like to kiss him to stop now. This might be her last chance.
Soul's hands cradle her, blushing, damp cheeks and tangled hair, and he kisses her mouth again, only to trail his lips over her jaw, down her chin, tucking himself so nearly into the crook of her neck, muttering his affection like a prayer. His teeth are a reminder of reality, but he's extra careful with them as he grazes the length of her throat, tongue lingering in their wake.
It's too warm. They're wearing too many clothes. The silk might melt off of her and she might just die if she doesn't get to feel him soon. It's bittersweet torture, and Maka winds her fingers through his hair and tugs desperately.
A whine resonates deep in his throat. He sits up and yanks at his tie, both eager to be free and reluctant to distance himself from her at all. Lonely boy. Maka's fingers widdle away at the buttons of his shirt while he shrugs off his jacket, parting deep crimson to reveal more and more of his skin. And his scar, oh. Everlong proof of her mistake, marring the reflection of his skin, bisecting his chest in half, stitched crudely together by her shoddy witchcraft.
He kisses her hard. Or as hard as Soul can, she thinks, without a real mouth, but surely enough to distract her from his wound. There's no more blood, she tells herself. He can't bleed anymore. He has no more blood to give.
So he gives what he can. There's no body - not really, despite what their buzzing souls have dreamed up - but there is a heart, still, pumping despite his stained reality, and it's hers if she wants it. He doesn't have to say it out loud for her to know. It's legible in every breath he takes, every low-lidded look he gives her as she peels her gloves from her hands. With him, she takes and takes and takes, until he's running his hands down her sides and holding her hips in his hands.
He's murky in the low light. Mood lighting, probably; leave it to Soul to take aesthetic to heart even in the most dire of times. Doesn't he know that this is life or death? Doesn't he know he's keeping her alive with every flicker of his lashes, every kiss he dots along her jaw?
Maka guides his hands to the zipper on the seam of her dress. Soul licks his lips. He's warm, but his gaze is even warmer, and soon she's wearing nothing more than a pair of lace panties and her strappy heels.
It's the first time she's been naked in front of a boy, she thinks. And he is honored. And he is sad. And more importantly, he's scooting back, nestling himself between her thighs, unbearably warm as he presses opened-mouthed kisses to her ankle.
Soul takes his time slipping her heels from her feet. "You're beautiful, you know," he admits, sliding his hands down her calves, pressing himself between her thighs with deep reverence. "The most beautiful thing I've ever seen. You throw yourself into everything you do. It's like the world rolled up what was left of the sunshine and made you. "
It's too much, and Maka lets out a low whine, tossing her head aside to press her face into her arm. He can't look at her like that. It'll break her heart. She hiccups through a strangled sob when he rocks against her, hot and hard despite the slim layers between them. It's only when he notices she's crying does he drop her legs, just to brush the tears from her blushing face and kiss her until it hurts a little less.
She doesn't feel like sunshine. She feels like spiraling storm clouds and thunderous nightmares, but Soul still kisses her like she's worth something. Soul still brushes his finger over her slick clit and mutters her name when she bucks up against him.
"I love you," he rumbles, "I love you, I love you, I love you-"
Maka cries out as he fills her. Pretty fingers. Pretty, pretty fingers, reducing her to whimpering rubble. His hands are so pretty, meant for music and art and to be admired - not to please her, never to please her, but he seems to disagree and sinks deeper into her heat, feeling, shuddering. He kisses her, wet and messy on her mouth as she trembles, legs linking tight around his hips.
And he knows just how she likes it, knows just when to curl his fingers, knows how to stroke just around her clit so that she's a quivering, gasping mess. Soul's in her head again, poking about in little pockets of information, and she lets him in without a second thought.
"Don't want to hurt you anymore," Soul says, one hand on her thigh, untangling her legs just to spread her wide. "I just- I want to see you happy, Maka."
She throws her head back into the pillows, helpless to his lead. "Soul."
He seems mesmerized by the feel of her skin, the way her muscles in her thigh tense and move and work as she writhes beneath him. "Wish I was half as strong as you are," he blurts, so much more vocal than he'd been in life. "Wish I could've- would've-"
"Your pants, Soul," she breathes, fingers curling in his sheets. "Please, please."
"I don't-"
I want to feel you, she thinks, and something in him clicks. His skin is false but tantalizing, still, and she's not sure if the body in which he makes love to her with is a mirror of his former self or her idealized version but she doesn't care. He's perfect no matter the shape and size. He's everything because he's Soul, her Soul, and that's it, that's him, right there.
He's just right. It doesn't hurt. She might be projecting, but he's perfect, arms trembling around her as he surely adjusts to her heat, twitching and throbbing with the galloping of her heart. Every breath he takes is a little bit more sacred, as if any moment he could stop and be gone, again, surrendered to the foul demon that lurks the halls. The thought makes him lean over her and cage her in, long arms curling around her protectively, as he draws his hips back and sinks deep within her.
And ah. Ah. This must be it. This must be what forever feels like. This must be what made Mama so stupid about Papa. Maka feels a little stupid, too, but mostly she feels important and sad and clingy and in love, so in love, all at once.
It's her first. It could be her last, so she holds on tight, gripping his hair and working hard to memorize the feeling of his tongue.
Soul exhales audibly when she pulls his hair. He groans even louder than that when she digs her nails into his shoulders and bites his lip. There isn't a moment where she's not grasping for him, where he's not kissing some part of her or nibbling her earlobe - and not a moment goes by where Soul isn't actively trying to make her come undone and she's not trying to make him stay. She cries out, both because it's too great and because she wants him to hear her wanting him, and if his cheek feels a little damp on hers she doesn't say anything at all. She just gasps his name again, and again, and again, until he's pumping into her more desperately, his breath a broken mantra, hot on her neck.
Because she's a glutton for punishment, she asks for more. And he gives with a hand between her legs, all the while he leads her into frenzy. It's like dancing, only she's never been very good at that - but he's the picture of grace, all soft kisses to her throat and long strokes.
Something snaps, inevitably, and the thunderous, curling heat in low in her tummy shatters in an instant. It's like she's melting, or maybe he's the one melting - and then she's breaking, torn wide open, heart in her throat and Soul's over her in an instant, as if he can kiss her better. She's vulnerable, thighs trembling, the light foggy and false around her, and the last thing she sees before she finally blacks out is Soul, still mumbling that he loves her over and over again.
.
She wakes up to an empty bed and a scythe leaning on her bedroom wall.
Maka wonders why she hoped for anything different.
.
Letting him go isn't an option.
It's not simple. Yes, half of the time, Soul is a blood-thirsty demon, and sometimes his commentary strikes a little too close to home and Maka is forced to scrub the tears from her eyes and pretend like everything is alright. And yes, half of the time, Soul calls her names and reminds her that everything is her fault, reminds her that she's dabbled in witchcraft and forbidden practices.
But half of the time he is not.
Half of the time he's the same Soul, if not a little more sad, a little more nostalgic. He reminds her to eat and tells her that it's not her fault, that he asked for this, that he loves her. Morality isn't black and white. He is not just black and white. He's gray, now, simultaneously both a demon and a lover. Two parts to a whole. One can no longer exist without the other, and she is forced to accept that.
She's gray now, too.
It's why she can't let him go. Releasing his soul from the scythe and purifying him would allow him to depart and move on. She knows very well what she should do, but actually going through with it is a whole another thing altogether. There isn't much left in the world worth protecting. Her father, her childhood friends, the potted cactus sitting in her lab's windowsill - distant things, faraway things that pull at her heart strings, like the end of a movie or a get-well soon card.
She's selfish. Lonely. And if Soul still has moments where he is sane and can make her feel a little less broken in this hell she calls a life, how is she supposed to let him go? She's already disposed of his body. Disposing of his soul will have to wait until there's nothing left to save.
Because she's codependant, too. One can no longer exist without the other.
.
"Your soul doesn't taste the same," he says to her one night, while she is tending to a bite mark on her shoulder and the scythe lays on the bathroom tile. The ointment stings, and he hisses with her as she dabs at the wound. "Fffh- it's not as sweet."
More concerned with the dual rows of teeth that tore her skin, Maka says, "That's impossible. It was never sweet to begin with."
"Said your soul, not your personality," he says bitingly. Maka ignores that, instead electing to begin winding the bandage around her haphazardly. Wouldn't it be nice to have a second pair of hands to help, she hears, and ignores that, too. "Pretty little grigori isn't such an angel anymore. You taste like witch. It's weird."
Maka snorts humorlessly. "I'm weird. You tell me that all the time. This isn't news."
"You're weird for fucking the voice in your head. Bet you haven't written your dear ol' Papa about that one, huh? Kind of hard to bring me home to the folks. You're a lot more fucked up than you give yourself credit."
She sits, shirtless, on the edge of her tub and tenses as she tries to roll her shoulder. Her muscles are tight, and the bite still sort of stings, but she'll live. She's endured worse, and Maka knows, without a doubt, there is still more to come. Putting herself on the frontline of battle is decidedly more dangerous than experimenting with weapons and witchcraft. Sure, one might've altered her soul a little, but the other puts her face-to-face with deformed, ravenous monsters, and she's still a grigori to the end. She's still the cherry popsicle in the back of the freezer.
Either way, she's fucked. Either way, she's still single-handedly produced nearly a dozen demon-powered weapons and handed them off to defense officials. She's still the only one who can ever wield Soul.
Maka sighs and yanks her pigtails out. "I think I give myself plenty of credit," she grunts, flinging her tangled elastics toward the sink.
She's the shining star, after all. The big hero. Local brainiac girl helps save mankind with her game-changing discovery. Because of her, kishin have been slain with minimal human casualties. There is a plausible resistance. The sky isn't so gloomy anymore. Madness-suppressing medication isn't taken in (daily) double doses quite so often. Hope is palpable for the first time in months - maybe even years - and all Maka can think about is the soldiers she's doomed by putting a demon in their hands. She thinks of Soul, alive and well, with his whole life ahead of him and how his demon had managed to so easily snap his will.
And Soul was just the first. Soul was just the guinea pig. There will be more Souls, inevitably, as time goes on. And there will be more Makas, left to clean the blood off their hands.
There will be Maka herself, with Asura's head at her feet. There will be Maka herself, forced to look her father in the eye and pretend like she hadn't essentially committed a murder, pretend like she has nothing to do with the missing Evans boy.
She will have to pretend like she's okay with tearing families apart. Loved ones. Mothers, fathers, daughters, sons. For the greater good, she'll say, and they will believe her, because they won't know of the turmoil she'd went through to bond that first demon to a scythe. They won't know the damaging properties of witchcraft on a human soul because she won't tell them. Demons were a necessary evil.
She sleeps on her sore shoulder and props Soul next to her bed. He doesn't reach out and she doesn't ask him to. They both know she needs rest.
.
Papa is just as she remembers him.
Somehow his hair hasn't grayed, despite all of the time he's spent fighting in the war. Spirit Albarn is still a vibrant crimson in the daylight, an obnoxious tint that cannot exist without a box of hair dye. Still, he's never let it deter him before, and even with the lines of his face grown more sullen and the wrinkles of his forehead more dramatic, he still finds a way to be the brightest thing in the room.
He cries when he first sees her. Then he drops down and hugs her, squeezing so tightly that it bothers her aching ribs, only to clasp her face in his hands and smother her in parental kisses. It's the sort of attention she'd dreaded as a teenager - Spirit has always been a helicopter parent - but Maka feels her stone heart sink deeper in her chest like a dead weight.
She swats his face away and steels her stance. "Papa," she greets, carefully neutral.
He practically glows. "My baby girl. A genius."
The sinking in her chest becomes a full-blown nosedive. Maka clenches her scythe in her hands and takes a deep, cleansing breath. "It's not over yet, you know. Asura's still out there-"
"And just Asura. And some low level threats," Spirit amends, only beneath the weight of her stare. He waves it off with a flip of his hand and goes right back to gushing over her, plopping both of his hands on her steady shoulders. "Look at you. You look just like your mother."
If it wasn't for the steel of her scythe, she might not be standing. Maka has grown strong in the days she's been forced to walk alone, but the guilt is almost too much to bear. "Papa," she tries, cracking, splintering.
He smooches her right on her forehead. "She'd be so proud. All of your hard work paid off, angel."
Her demon hisses, swelling in her hands impossibly, louder than anything else in her head. He's such a constant white noise. It's hard to think of anything else but his constant chatter, the way he's begun to tear her down, even now, while her papa crowns her in such praise. It's jarring, being caught between two such polarizing ends, and Maka opts to force bored neutrality over showing weakness.
She is brave. She is strong. She is her mother's daughter, and she will not back down. Not yet. Not while her clock is still ticking - not even when she's approaching the end of her countdown. Like a time bomb, Maka will persevere until the bitter, explosive end.
So she bucks up, stares her father in the eye, and says, "I'm going to finish this."
There's a chink in his armor, just for a moment, where he is less a grinning, proud parent and more a scared, concerned father sending his daughter off to war. Her papa really is getting older, she supposes; his blue eyes are damp with tears but he doesn't blubber, just nods and squeezes her shoulders.
Papa knows loneliness too. After all, Maka wasn't the only one who lost someone when Mama died. In a weird way, she sort of hopes Papa finds someone to make a new home with after all of this is over.
.
Arachne had been the last witch to die.
It had been all over the news. Radio, TV, covered in class discussions and podcasts alike; it was a big deal, for the mother of modern witchcraft to have been murdered, but for her soul to have been stolen and eaten like a commodity by a kishin was treated like an actual tragedy. And maybe it was; she had been the oldest living witch, the strongest, the most tenacious - her soul was potent with magic and energy alike, and Asura had slurped her down like she was nothing.
There's a certain karmic poeticness to taking him on with a demon weapon. It had been Arachne's life work first, after all. Maka had done nothing more than commandeer the plan and further Medusa Gorgon's research on black blood.
Asura will fall to the combined work of two witches and one scorned little girl.
Big girl, Soul reminds helpfully, lingering somewhere in between heaven and hell. Big girl who's in way over her head.
Each step closer to the kishin is threaded with more and more madness. It's like a fog, wafting off of him in a thick, smothering smog, and if Maka were any weaker willed, she might be swayed. But if not even Soul can tempt her to dampen what's left of her, Asura doesn't stand a chance. He can try drowning her in as potent a madness wavelength as he wants, he won't get anywhere. It'll just be more stress on his mangled body.
And mangled it is. For someone - something - so powerful and terrifying, it's disturbing how thin his body is. Scrawny ankles, bony wrists, jutting ribs. Once upon a time, this man had been handsome, rich, privileged. Once upon a time, this man had been someone important, someone loved - now only to reek of rotting flesh and stale blood, to chew on the souls of the good while his skin sags from his sunken-in cheeks, melting off of him in patches.
The most striking part of him are his eyes.
She's biased, though, and his eyes are red and remind her of her own personal demon, the one buzzing in her hands with bloodlust and vigor. It doesn't matter, though, because she refuses to let herself linger on it. There's no more time for comparisons, no more time for feeling sorry for herself and the consequences of her actions. There is only the kishin - the strongest kishin, practically the last kishin - mere strides away, chewing on his fingers, scuttling about, looking mad, unnatural.
How, she wonders, had this creature managed to defeat Arachne? He is all bones, jutting edges and marrow poking through rotting flesh. He raises his bulbous head, much too big for his scrawny neck to support, and hisses. "You smell like witch," he says, sniffing.
Maka tightens her grip on her scythe. "Try again."
He smiles at her, sharp like razor blades. "And human. And… grigori, is it? You're rare," Asura says quietly, hushed, all in excited, eager tones. She is a treat, after all. Not quite a witch but not quite a human anymore, caught somewhere in between. For him, she must be a delight. Such a rare soul for him to feast upon. Such a treat.
She wants to carve his soul out of his chest and see how he likes being looked at like he's dinner. Maka shifts her weight to her toes and lets her scythe fall in front of her, clutched tight in her grasp. There is no fear when the demon is on her side. He would never let her fall, not while she is his only chance for escape. He needs her, just like she needs him, and it's just as comforting as it is disturbing. In battle, he is her closest ally. In battle, sometimes he's the only thing keeping her alive.
"This one's big," Soul mutters.
Maka hums and watches Asura's knees wobble as he stands. So many bones. So many ribs. It's unnatural, and he rolls his ankle as he takes a rickety step toward her. "It's the last one," Maka replies.
Soul whines. "I'm hungry."
"It's the last one," she says again, firmly. "It'll be all over after this."
She feels his attitude pitch and he emits a pleased purr, rumbling through his demonsteel. It vibrates through her chest, too, and Maka bites her lip as Soul says, "You're gonna let me have this one?"
His buzzing sort of hurts her hands. Maka chokes up on his handle. "You won't be hungry anymore after this. I promise."
Soul won't hurt anymore after this. Soul won't be bound to a life he never chose, bound to her weapon, bound to a demon's will.
It's the thought of setting him free alone that gives her the strength to meet Asura's eye as he unwinds his fingers from his fists, claws long and slanting in the foggy light. The smog reminds her of deals with the devil and little onis, clicking their heels on the tiled floor while she struggles to drown him out with her light. This is not the worst pain she has felt. There has been worse. Much worse. Pain a heartless monster like Asura could never fathom, could never understand.
He licks his slimy lips and lurches forward; Maka blocks, scythe lifting out of instinct, blade glinting red in the fog. "Your weapon has a soul," Asura says, salivating, nails screeching down the steel of Soul's pole. "You weapon has a demon soul."
Her weapon has a lot more than just that. He has a heart, too. He has his memories.
Maka kicks the kishin back and leaps forward. For as weak as he appears, he is still dangerous - he is still the monster that plummeted the Earth into darkness, after all - and even a moment's hesitation could prove fatal. His strength is not in his decaying body; his soul is ripe with raw power, pulsing with a lust for blood, an insatiable hunger for energy, poisoned with insanity. His soul is a vibrant red, just as deformed as the body he walks, spider legs sprawling out and wriggling around in his chest. Compliments of Arachne, she suspects. It's what he gets for devouring the power of a spider witch.
Keep it clinical, she tells herself. Do not give in to his mind games. It's how he wins.
Soul's giggling reminds her just how susceptible demons are to madness. It's like he's feasting on all of this bad juju, as if he's thriving off of the tainted land. No doubt he would have a field day, should she let him roam free in her body. No doubt he could demolish Asura with a good swipe of his scythe and leave the kishin's head rolling on the floor.
He'll just have to settle for being her weapon. I can't do that, she thinks. He cackles again, cooing, poking around at the soft spots in her chest that she's never been able to guard, not around him.
Let me in, let me in. I can win. I can kill him, he chants. And he can. She knows that without a doubt, Soul could sink his teeth right into the kishin's chest and rip his soul out.
But so can she. So can she.
.
A sound soul dwells within a sound mind and a sound body.
The kishin Asura is none of these things. He is wanted for countless crimes against humanity. He has eaten the souls of innocent humans and witches alike. He has pillaged cities, crushed civilization, feasted on the hopeless demise in the hearts of many. Asura has gone so against his genetic coding that his body has begun eroding, skin melting and peeling to give away to raw muscle and animalistic claws. It's changing him.
He is weak. He is dying. He is doomed, just as much a ticking bomb as she is. Eventually, his body will give way, and he will be nothing more than a poisonous entity. Eventually, he will be forced to possess others in order to continue his work.
He's fucked the hell up, as Soul would say.
Maka doesn't think about how she's changing, too, as she swings her scythe right past his knobby knees. She doesn't think about the blood staining her soul or the demon that resonates with her hourly and what that might be doing to her. She doesn't think about her stone heart or the constant noise in her head, the buzz that keeps her up at night and constantly checked out of most conversations.
She's not so sound anymore either. Soon, her body will start to give away, too. Soon, there will be more demon walking in her skin than human. Without the drive to keep the world safe from madness, Soul will have no problem convincing her to let him do as he pleases.
It has to end. For both of them. Maka hefts her scythe high, lets the scream festering deep in her chest free and drives her scythe straight through Asura's chest. Bone slices like butter, and skin like paper, and he gets as far as wrapping his claws around her throat before she really digs the scythe in and cuts him free, his soul nothing more than a paper lantern in the sky.
Flesh disintegrates. Soul roars in her hands, displeased at his escaping meal, and Maka drops him at her feet. He hits the ground with a noisy clatter as she pants loudly, heart thundering in her chest, blood clapping like waves in her ears.
Her neck bleeds and stains her collared shirt. She barely notices. Above her, the clouds break.
.
"I thought you said you'd let me eat him!" Soul growls, voice rough. It's like the demon is fighting to keep control; without the kishin's madness infesting the area, it must be a great deal harder for him to maintain control over Soul's will, Soul's voice. "What the fuck. What's even the point of robbing his soul if you're just going to let him float away?! We c-could have used that... we could have gotten stronger, could have-"
The ground stings her bloody knees. Maka works almost mechanically, pressing her palm flat to the face of his blade, sucking in a deep breath and allowing the storm within her to pass. Clouds curl and gray coils deeper, still, dulling the halo of her soul. All the while, she hears the demon hiss and snarl, still trying so intently to maintain control, to ask her what the fuck she thinks she's doing - until there's a snap, and Maka feels the switch between them instinctually.
She exhales. Close. She's so close. Soon, soon-
"You're bleeding," Soul says quietly.
Maka blinks.
"Your neck. He had his claws around you," he says, "you should patch that up before it gets infected. It looks pretty bad. And you've got your knees in the dirt, I can't imagine that'll be good-"
Does he not realize what she's doing? She laughs out of sheer emotional whiplash, shoulders quaking. The laughter becomes tears soon after, and Soul thaws even more, asking, "What's wrong? You did it, Maka. You did it."
She paints little red fingerprints on the black of his blade with her blood. She's left her mark on him, both physically and emotionally, and the thought isn't as comforting as she would have hoped. Still, she finds herself brushing her thumb over the shape of his blade, over the sharp edges, even as the scythe breaks skin and splits her thumb open. If it hurts, she barely notices; it's hard to feel anything else but the overwhelming exhaustion weighing her bones.
"Maka!" he yelps. "Hey, cut that out-"
Shut up, Soul. Can't you see I'm trying to set you free?
She's more than a little bit witch now. Witchcraft for the sake of building a defense was an excuse to tread in dangerous waters. Witchcraft to bind her dead lover to steel had been stalling for time. And now, witchcraft is a means to release Soul from his imprisonment. Witchcraft is a chance at freedom and redemption.
Soul goes quiet. It's good; it's hard to focus on incantations and channeling her energy and ignoring her aching ribs when he's telling her he loves her, even after all of this time. Stupid. She loves him too. That's why she has to do this.
The demon still chatters, and when his soul is warm in her hands, she can still feel his influence. Even without the madness, the demon is still part of who he is, now, soul-deep. He smells of black blood and experimentation. He is no longer merely just a human boy, just an innocent, human boy. He is part demon now. He is mad.
But she's part witch. She's part murderer, too, so she can't judge. She can do nothing more than hold his soul to her chest and feel his warmth, just one last time, warm her to her toes. His loyalty, his admiration, his smiles - she feels it all, much in the way one remembers an old friend, written deep into her heart.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers. His soul bubbles like liquid between her fingers and she cradles him more gently, afraid to squeeze too tightly and burst him like a bubble. "I'll be with you soon. Wait for me."
And he will. He doesn't need words for her to know that he will.
His soul is red as it leaves her grasp. Textbook definitions say blue means good and red means bad, but Maka thinks there's a lot of good caught in between. Victims of circumstance. Good people who have done bad things, made bad choices but are still so fundamentally good and honest at their core. Regardless, he's the prettiest star as he floats out of her reach, twinkling like a supernova as he fades through the sunrise.
And it is quiet. Her head is empty. The silence is almost jarring, after months of constant chatter, after months of Soul and demons alike.
It's not like she'll have to deal with it for long. Maka sighs and clutches the empty weapon, arms heavy like lead. Only now, without Soul around to pester her, does she allow the weight of her fatigue to set in. But just a little more, she thinks. Just a little more. Before Papa gets here and has to watch it happen. Before Black*Star sprints over and she loses her nerve. Before she has to continue on pretending like nothing is wrong.
They'll be okay. They're safe now. She slayed the monsters hiding in the closets and underneath the bed. There will be other people to fill their life, other girls, other daughters and friends. This one is broken anyways. They deserve a newer model, a Maka who doesn't dirty her hands and obsess over the ghost of what once was. Papa will find women to comfort him. Black*Star will find companionship, too. They will be alright.
But she won't. She'll never be alright again. Not without Soul. One cannot exist without the other.
The scythe is cold as she drives it through her chest. It hurts in the best way, and Maka chokes through a mouthful of blood. Ah, that's it, just a little more, don't look into the light yet - there's her soul, right there.
Be with you soon.