Day 5: Red String of Destiny
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It didn't usually take long for mail to get from Soul's town to Maka's, not when she lived so close to the border. She hadn't been expecting to receive a response, but there it was in her mailbox a few days after she'd sent her own. Something deeply selfish inside Maka was disappointed that he didn't immediately proclaim his love for her and demand that she come back to resolve their issues and start a revolution against society by kissing a lot.
That was a bit hypocritical, wasn't it? This would be better for him all along. Maka shoved his letter in a drawer. Though he was annoyed with her choice of words, clearly Soul agreed that she was right, so she had nothing to complain about. They would both be safe, living separate lives.
Days passed, each one a fruitless attempt at finding distractions. In a little over a week, even her focus at work was slipping. When a student pointed it out, Maka decided she had to wander back to their usual training ground, the small grassy clearing where they'd always been able to go to be alone.
This was not a day when they would usually meet; she doubted Soul would come here at all anymore, but he would certainly not be here at such an odd time, so she could safely assume she would not be found. She told herself it was for closure, but as she came across the place where they stood in the rain, that started to feel less and less possible.
Maka sat down and cried, not for the first time and - she feared - not for the last.
Some sixth sense told her someone was nearby, within a mile or so, as if there were a light shining just out of her field of vision. She couldn't bring herself to worry about someone who would probably never cross her path, until she actually heard footsteps. Maka panicked, standing abruptly and facing her unknown visitor despite her face, still red from crying and wet from the tears. If someone was going to yell at her for trespassing, she could at least explain herself, and-
It was Soul.
"Maka?!"
It was Soul.
"Ah! Um...hi," she said, waving and making a valiant attempt at a grin. A single tear fell from her jawline.
He jogged to her side, eyes and voice full of concern. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she lied.
Soul fixed her with a level stare. "You're a horrible liar."
She tucked her hands behind her back and shrugged, afraid to meet his eyes. "I missed you. Was just trying to get...closure, I guess."
Though Maka wasn't looking at his face, she saw his head nod. "Me, too," he answered. At this, she looked up again.
"But I'd rather still be friends." She added, biting her lip and watching him for reactions.
"Obviously," he murmured, lifting his arms ever-so-subtly. She strode over and hugged him, this time breathing deeply instead of planting another kiss as she wanted to. He smelled like the usual assortment of deodorant and laundry detergent he usually used, but there was something else. He smelled like bandages.
"What's under your shirt?" she asked, suddenly aware of an angry red line of flesh that intersected with the dip of his collar. Soul glanced at it and winced, as if doing an displeased double-take.
"Ah! Um, it's - it's nothing, really. I just got a - a scratch the other day, but it's healing. Nothing to worry about."
Something was not right. How do you get a 'scratch' there, anyway? She couldn't be sure, but as far as she knew, Soul didn't walk around shirtless too often, and even if he did, what would he, the delicate pianist, be doing that would cause a chest injury?
"Did you treat that properly?" Maka asked, skeptical.
"Yeah, obviously," Soul scoffed.
"Let me see," she demanded.
"No. It's perfectly fine, Maka, it's healing. It was bandaged for a couple days but now it's time to let it breathe. If you keep dwelling on it you're just gonna get all upset."
"It'll be better than just imagining. I'm not gonna forget about it, I'm just going to keep trying to figure out what it is, Soul. Tell me what's going on for once!"
He stared at her, waiting for her to give in, finally sighing when she refused to look away again. "Fine, whatever. But really, I'm okay! It's not serious."
He tugged the collar of his shirt down and she stood on her tiptoes, the better to see underneath.
An angry cut, long and thin like a taut red string, stretched from chest to shoulder, the flesh held together with neat stitches.