Two
What do you do when your partner is drifting away?
At what point is the distance too great, and the bonds can never be repaired?
Maka has been getting hurt in battles more often now than ever, and it has not escaped Soul's attention.
Fourteen months and over 280 souls after their fight with the kishin, Maka sits in the living room, her nose bandaged and her leg elevated. Soul brings her a cup of tea. She murmurs a "thank you" without looking up from her book. Soul rolls his eyes and sets down the tea on the bedside table.
"Anything else you want?"
"Mn-mnn."
"I'll take that as a no." Soul makes sure to close the door behind him. In the hall, he slumps back against the wall. His head feels heavy, so het lets it sag between his shoulders. He pretends he can feel his brain sliding forward in his skull.
He returns to the kitchen and empties the kettle. Blair, perched on the counter next to him, licks the back of one of her paws, her eyes unfocused, as if deep in thought.
"What's bothering you, Soul?" she says, causing Soul to flinch a bit at the sudden noise.
"Nothing. Just a lot on my mind." He forces a grin for the obviously unconvinced cat.
"A lot of whaaaaat?" she purrs, leaping onto his shoulder as he turns and shuts out the light.
"A lot of shut the hell up," he responds, but he is too tired to put any venom behind it.
"Humph. Well that wasn't very nice!" Blair pouts. Soul walks into his room, and she hops off of his shoulder, landing on the bed. She resumes licking her paws. Soul stares at her for a second. She pauses (pawses).
"What?"
"I gotta change."
"Go right ahead." Lick.
"Changing is kind of a thing I prefer to do without an audience."
"Okay." Lick.
"Blair."
"Whaaat?"
"Leave."
"Oh, you're no fun!" Blair hops off of the bed and sticks her tongue out at him. She struts away, probably headed for Maka's room. Soul sighs.
He pulls off his shirt. Out of habit he glances down, and runs his finger over his scar. After the fight with the kishin, the stitches were removed. Now a pale slash crosses his torso. He doesn't have to think very hard to remember the burning pain that accompanied the body art. He shivers at the memory. He tries to keep his cool in front of Maka, as she probably suffered more from the event than he did. But really, it was terrifying. Seeing his own blood hovering in the air. Smelling it. Feeling his wet clothes heavy against his chest. The world bending and waving before his eyes as he went unconscious.
But the worst part was hearing Maka's screams. Horrible, desperate screams that he hopes he will never have to hear again.
Soul shakes his head, trying to rid his mind of these memories. He is supposed to be stronger than this.
He is supposed to be prepared to die for his meister.
That night, Soul dreams.
He is in the black and red room. The demon is nowhere to be found, but Soul can't shake the feeling that it might show up at any time.
The song. It sounds so familiar. Soul, you know this. Come on.
But he doesn't. So he lets his head lean back against the red velvet of his chair. His eyelids feel heavy, as if he is even tired in his dream.
And then he hears her.
"I'm sorry." Maka!
"You should be." Who is that?
"I know. I'm sorry." Sorry for what?
"You're just not good enough." The voices are coming from behind him. Soul stands and turns around, and he is in an entirely different place.
The room is dark, just like the other one. The floor is heavily polished, and he can see himself reflected in it. High bookshelves line the walls. Books litter the floor. They are ripped apart, the pages scattered around the room, the covers peeling, the spines broken and split. Books are piled in dunes. Soul still hears the voices.
"You could be so much better."
"I know!"
"You could be prettier. You could be less awkward."
"I know."
"But what are you? Smart?" There is no response. Soul tiptoes toward the voices, examining the piles of mutilated books around him. He notices that there are no words, only streaks and blobs and stains of ink, like a madman flung black pigment at paper and bound it into books.
"Brave? You're not brave. You aren't even standing up to me! Pathetic." Still no response. "Pathetic, ugly, awkward creature." The voice is so familiar, but Soul still can't put his finger on it. He hears Maka sniffling. She's crying.
Soul starts maneuvering through the dunes more quickly, planning on disemboweling whoever made Maka cry. But, no matter how far he runs, the voices do not sound any closer. "Maka!" he shouts.
"Soul?" her voice sounds more bewildered than relieved. "How did you—"
Soul slips on a scrap of paper and goes flying. Just before his head is about to get real friendly with the polished floor he wakes up.
His legs are tangled in his duvet, and his pillow is a few inches from his head. His body feels sticky and cold. His heart beats a mile a minute. He waits for his breathing to slow.
It is five forty nine.
It is a Sunday.
Somehow Soul doesn't feel like going back to sleep.