warning for vomit; references to minor divorce trauma, preteens being derpy

You'll be thirteen in two days, and you suddenly realize you've never seen your father be sick. You'd never thought about it before just now, while catching a fleeting glimpse of the sickly pallor of your partner right before he slams the bathroom door. You've never heard your father make that noise, either (unless he's ridiculously happy and does that joybarfing thing).

Shifting from one socked foot to the other, hovering outside the bathroom door as your partner struggles to catch his breath between hurls that make you feel queasy, you nervously call for him. What can you expect in reply, though? It's not like he's going to reassure you and say he's fine.

But he does croak, "Donworryboutit," in one rushed slur before he retches again.

You worry about it.

You've never taken care of anyone but yourself, before. Your mother was a respectful meister with every aspect of her life in strict regulation— balanced diet, exercise routine, hygiene bordering on the religious, supplements, supplements, supplements— and if she ever fell ill, she kept it to herself and disallowed you to come near.

Your best friend growing up would occasionally come to school sick, snot running down his nose and sneezing on anyone just for kicks until his guardians forcibly dragged him home, but you never really knew where Black Star lived so you've never done that Here, I've Brought You Some Soup act after school.

And you've never seen your father be sick. In fact, you'd always somewhat believed that weapons were sturdy folk who simply didn't bend to mere things like human illness. You're a pedigree Death Child— demon weapons, witches, magic, and gods of death are commonplace to you, and being the daughter of both a talented meister and a Death Scythe had plopped you only a half-skip away from Shinigami's throne more often than not. You had faith in your knowledge of How Things Are.

You're twelve years old and you are wrong. You believed weapons to be some kind of different species? After living with your partner for a few months, you should have realized it by now. If you ignore the teeth and the blades he sometimes sprouts when he's startled, Soul Eater appears to be every bit like a human boy, complete with a chronic case of Trying Too Hard.

You ask if you can get him anything. He groans in response. You worry about it.

Oozing away from the door, you scuttle over to the telephone. The phone is an old rotary thing— a D-city antique that had been a constant fixture and reference point in your life— and the stylized skull spins round as you dial your old home.

It rings once. Spirit Albarn answers uncomfortably quickly, having memorized your phone number. You don't register what he says, only hearing the frenetic, simpering tone of voice, which is all he ever sounds like anymore. (Maybe they are a different species.) Your eyes glaze over, feeling numb. This was a dumb idea; the papers had been finalized just last week. Without saying anything, you hang up.

Plan B is to recall the times you were sick when you were younger. Or time, singular. You only remember that one time you had the flu when you were eight. Your most crisp memories are of your mother shoving as much liquid you could stomach down your throat and topping it off with saltines; of your father telling you to stay in the bath to cool off.

You run the water in the kitchen, holding a cheap plastic cup under the tap because one of the biggest things you and your partner have in common is refusing financial help from your parents. Miraculously, you find saltines in the cupboard, but you're halfway certain you bought these last winter and if they're not stale by now, they should be. You have nothing else to offer, though, so you unroll the already-opened sleeve and pour half a dozen crackers into a matching cheap plastic bowl.

You don't know if any of this is useful. You wonder if you know anything useful at all.

Outside the bathroom door, you again perform that nervous dance, unsure if your aloof weapon will be angry with you for interfering— if a boy is okay with a girl seeing him barf uncooly into a toilet.

You're his meister, though, and it's your duty to take care of him. You then wonder if that's why you've never seen your father be sick— if maybe Papa's meisters have taken better care their weapon than you have with yours. Uselessness crashes into you like a wave, but you persevere.

"I'm coming in," you say right as he's clearing his throat, so he can't tell you to 'fuck off, Maka'.

The tile is cold under your knobby knees when you settle in beside him. You focus on this instead of the acrid smell of vomit. Your partner is wrapped around the toilet, face cradled between his forearms, fingers laced behind his head— it looks either like a form of prayer or an earthquake drill reenactment. All he wears are basketball shorts, which seem to be the only thing boys ever wear, and his sweaty back is puckered with goosebumps.

You attempt to sound like you're not worrying about it. "You alive?" Your voice is too loud, and he cringes.

"I dunno." He sounds tired. Not like fake-tired, but the real, pity-inspiring kind. It's novel and scary. "Errythin' sucks."

With more care for your volume, you softly ask, "What did you eat today?"

He glares weakly at you through a keyhole space over his elbow. "Whatever you ate," he accuses, as if you are at fault for not fighting with him for the privilege of barfing in your one bathroom. You make a sour face in reply, but do not comment. You're grumpy when you're sick, too.

You feel fine, in any case. "I brought you stuff."

When he lifts his head to check out your measly offerings, he's interrupted by his own sickness. He retches— it looks mostly like bile from what you can tell— and you kind of want to pat him on the back or something. All the strain is making his spine stick out a little. You're afraid if you touch him, though, he'll be startled enough to skewer you. Plus he's a boy. That's too many unknown factors.

He spits when he's done, looking both annoyed and somewhat apologetic. The he sees the water and crackers. Teetering the opposite direction, he grimaces. "Pass."

You channel your mother when you give him what you hope is a disappointed sneer. "At least drink the water."

Without missing a beat, he replies, "What are you, my mom?"

You scoot away from him— retreat, really— leaving the cup and bowl behind so you can lean against the bathtub. "No, I'm your meister," you grumble, tucking your knees under your chin. You might also be his friend, maybe, but he at least can't argue the former, and you don't want to give him the opportunity to dispute the latter. You add, "Except I didn't even think weapons could get sick." Some meister you are.

"Really?" Soul's head lifts a little, and you prepare for standard mockery, yet he slumps even further over the toilet, instead. "Maybe something's wrong with me," he says, voice barely a whisper, but it echoes in the bowl and you catch it.

"N-no! That's not what I— I lived with Papa and I never saw him get sick before, so I thought…" You sigh. "I mean, obviously I'm… mistaken."

"Don't let Ford hear you say that," he says to the toilet.

You scoff. "…Anyway. Mama's a real health nut, you know? Granola. Omega-3's. Antioxidants. I didn't think about it until now, but she was always watching Papa ate— gave him vitamins at breakfast. I thought it was just a mom-thing, but maybe… it was a meister thing?"

Soul groans. "Look, I'll chew a pill or two if I'm dying, but I'm totally not eating Grape Nuts just 'cause you pull a meister card on me." He makes some gross noises in the back of his throat and spits again. "Y'already beat me to death with a spatula first thing in the morning."

"Well if you'd wake up on time—"

"I felt like shit, okay?"

You roll your eyes— ever since he turned thirteen he'd been throwing swear words around like some delinquent. "What I'm trying to say is, um," you turn your head, resting the side of your face on your knees as if it helps your bashfulness, "I guess I thought you were invincible to this stuff. So. I'm sorry." You mumble your next words quietly, but he's so silent that there's no way around it. "I shoulda taken care of you."

You'll be thirteen in two days. Thirteen seems like a much bigger number than twelve. Twelve-year-olds are children. Thirteen-year-olds probably know how to take care of people.

You remember the surprise on Soul's face when you'd been assigned an apartment together— apparently people your age simply didn't live without a guardian of some sort out in the 'real world'. It's different in Death City, though— you've been practicing with weapon replicas since grade two; been learning death god politics in front of a mirror with Papa since birth. You've mastered good and evil, microwaved eggs, and how to pour the gallon jug of milk by yourself without spilling it everywhere. You've learned how to tell when a man is lying just by squinting at his soul, how to fold your laundry, and how to vault off a wall to kick Black Star in the face.

In the time you spent in your family home, you've learned how to take care of yourself— but not anyone else. Maybe that's why twelve year olds outside Death City stay with their parents so long. You're a little jealous. You miss your mother. (And even if it makes you angry, you miss your father too— though if given the choice between a hug and a nutshot, you'd knee him in the nads without a second thought.)

Mostly though, you're scared with your lack of knowledge. How do you take care of someone else? How do you keep your weapon from getting sick in the first place? How do you prevent your weapon from startling like a blowfish every time you catch him off guard?

You wish you had thought of these questions before your mother had moved away.

Soul's torso shifts and his breath hitches like he's going to heave again, but it passes. You wonder if he's done or if he's just keeping it in for your sake, because he's weird like that.

"Don't worry about it," he tells you for the second time today, and you have to wonder if he doesn't have just the tiniest bit of Perception, leaving you feeling as open as a public phone book. "S'not your fault I got si— Shit, you know, some NOT kid sneezed on me at practice day before last." You watch as he extends a shaky arm to the cup and takes a grudging sip before putting it back down. "I'll kick his ass," he growls, but the way he curls his arm around himself makes you think otherwise.

Watching him attempt to hide how his stomach hurts makes your own tangle up in knots. You stand and go to your room, digging in your nightstand for some painkillers you borrowed from Tsubaki because periods are apparently worse than sparring matches with Black Star. (She'd started at twelve, too, which was relieving. She also has boobs, which gives you a little hope for yourself, if only to spite your partner.) You pour a dose in your hand and return to the bathroom.

He looks up at you like you've sprouted an extra head. "I'm not dying."

The Disappointed Sneer is pure reflex, but you attempt to buff it down to something less condescending. "It hurts, doesn't it?" you ask, pointing at his stomach. He shies away from your finger like a surly cat. "Seriously?" you blurt.

"I can see up your shorts, idiot."

You kneel to the floor so fast it stings. He makes a huff that sounds like he might have intended to laugh, but was too tired for the follow-through. You're too flustered to say anything, so you thrust the pills to him with an insistent fist.

He lets you know just how uncool everything is with his dry stare, but he holds out his hand, petulant. You carefully deposit the pills without touching his boy-palm— only four months ahead of you but it still dwarfs yours by a landslide. You sit back, listening to the painkillers clack against his strange teeth when he pops them into his mouth. You offer the cup of water, and watch as his wrist wobbles. His cheeks flush when he has to take the cup in both hands to avoid making a mess.

When he swallows the pills, he knocks his head back like the adults do. It's weird. The knob on his throat visits his the bottom of his neck before floating back up again. Your hands, held tightly in your lap, are ready to catch the cup just in case, but he manages to put it back down without disaster and without you embarrassing him further.

You see his arms are still speckled with goosebumps, and before you realize what you're doing, you reach up and navigate his messy fringe to put your hand on his forehead. You remember belatedly that it should be the back of your hand, so you flip it over. You remember belatedly that you are touching your partner and he probably doesn't like that and is about to go hedgehog on you.

Instead of shock or sprouting blades, you see him slowly hood his eyes, and some of the tightness in his cheekbones relaxes, somehow. This isn't nearly what you'd expected. His skin is toasty, and your hand appears to soothe him.

Carefully, as to not disturb his strange complacence, you reach with your other hand to feel your own forehead. You can't discern much of a difference because you're nervous and you're still twelve for two more days and thus have no idea what you're supposed to be feeling, but it's what your father used to do for you so you keep doing it. "You should, um, take a bath. To help with the fever." You pull your hands away.

Soul briefly touches his forehead with the edge of his hand in quiet surprise. He flushes the toilet like an afterthought. "Oh."

Well, that hadn't been a 'no', so you stand and sit on the edge of the tiny bathtub to start the water. You remember watching Papa test the water with his arm until he was satisfied, so you do that too. You adjust and adjust and adjust until the temperature of the water is the same as you and seems to melt and disappear as it courses over your skin. You let the tub fill.

By the time you turn around, Soul is sitting on the shut lid of the toilet, eyeing the cheap plastic bowl of stale saltines like they've tried to assassinate him.

"Eat them," you try. He doesn't even bother with a response— merely shuts his eyes tightly enough to scrunch the bridge of his nose.

"You should get out," he says, voice low.

That stings, which is dumb because he's right. "I wasn't gonna stay like some creep," you squeak defensively, standing up.

He finally looks up at you, eyebrows furrowed. "Wha?" A beat passes, and then his ears turn a little pink. "Not that— I meant. You know. So you don't catch it."

"Oh." You pivot bashfully on the ball of one foot to head to the linen closet. You dig out one of several hand-me-down towels— none of which match— and forgo tossing it to him and instead simply walk it over to give it personally. "I think I'll be alright. The last time I was sick, I was eight."

He takes the towel. "Geeze. Maybe it's not a weapon or a meister thing. Albarn thing."

You almost think you know what he's saying, but you can't quite put it together fast enough before your head tilts to one side in confusion. "Huh?"

"Being invincible. …Or whatever."

For some reason, your mouth is suddenly sporting a surprised and unguarded grin. You don't know if your partner is joking or giving you a compliment, but either way you can't stop smiling. You have no response for that, so you turn to leave him in peace with a little bounce in your step you feel silly for having yet can't muster the urge to stifle.

Before you're out the door, he says, "Still. It'd suck if got I got you sick for your birthday. Pretty lame for a weapon."

You think that might be a weird-teenaged-boy form of thanks. "It'd be lame if you were sick on my birthday so get in the tub. And eat the crackers. Um. If you can, anyway. They're kinda… old."

The distrustful look he'd given to the saltines is now full-blast on you. You shut the door in self-defense.

Less than two minutes later he's yowling at you from across the apartment for trying to freeze him to death with ice water. You yell back, "It's the same as me, you just gotta fever, stupid!"

"Gross, so this is like… Maka Soup?!"

You screech into your hands and hate, hate, hate thirteen-year-old boys.

While your partner is soaking, you attempt to study for next week's Tactics quiz. You don't know how long he's in there, but you eventually hear the door click open. He quietly retreats to his room and squirrels himself away. You hadn't heard any more barfing noises, so you think he may be feeling a little better, now.

You really, really need to pee, and upon entering the bathroom, you find the plastic bowl and cup next to the tub. Your partner is lazy, but he's also sick so you'll refrain from bashing his skull in this one time.

When you look, you realize the cup is mostly empty. Surprisingly, so is the bowl, save for one saltine at the bottom keeping some crumbs company.

You're not sure why you do it, but you definitely do it. You bite into the last cracker and discover with displeasure that it is stale enough to be considered chewy. You force it down, amazed Soul had eaten as many as he had. He'd probably made dumb faces the entire time.

It kind of makes you happy, though. You eat the rest of the cracker and make a dumb face, because you're an invincible Albarn. Maybe your parents had taught you how to take care of someone else, after all.

You're thirteen and your weapon holds back your hair as you puke birthday cake. Thirteen feels exactly like twelve, and everything sucks.

"Sorry," you groan.

"Yeah, well. Least I know what to do, now."

You make a confused noise into the toilet, which reflects back into your face so loud you cringe.

"I was clueless the other day. Didn't even know I had a fever." His fingers are chilly on the back of your neck, and it's nice. There's no blowfish backlash, no boy versus girl forcefield. "So. Thanks. Sorry you caught it."

You shrug, because saying 'I only did what Mama and Papa showed me' is too long of a sentence when your mouth has a high potential of depositing used-to-be-cake into a toilet any time you open it.

"Anyway, the weap— I'm s'posed to take care of you, too. Goes both ways, you know?" He has to have some kind of Perception. Being happy while puking is really weird and frustrating.

You're thirteen, and you think you know a little more than you did at twelve.