Title: Sharp Secrets

Authors: A Cannibalistic Skittle(Original Author) and Seijuku Ceremony(Co-Author)

Rating: M

Warnings: Self-Harm, cursing, gore, and possible future smut

Pairing: Black Star x Soul (SoulStar)

Disclaimer: None of us own Soul Eater which probably would have been the best gift of our lives. But it ended and out came Soul Eater NOT. Bleh.

Author's Notes: This story was origated from A Cannibalistic Skittle and I decided to continue it. The first four chapters are done by A Cannibalistic Skittle and I didn't change the story at all. I hope to do well to the end! ^^

Enjoy!

Soul Eater Evans has some self destructive tendencies. Or, should I say, a LOT of self destructive tendencies. Along with this comes a lot of secrets. Black Star, in all his 'greater than god' glory, is taken down a notch when he discovers what his seemingly normal best friend has been doing to himself. WARNINGS: Slash, self harm, possibly triggering, smut in later chapters

There was only one thing Soul hated more than himself.

His scars.

Self inflicted, his arms had seen years of pain. His whole body had seen his pain.

Nothing, though, more than his mind.

If you could ever guess what he felt in a moment like this, you wouldn't want to ever look him in the face again. The pain, the hate, the passion... It was a disturbing sight. In a time like this, his arm dangling from his lap, onto the hard tile floor, the blood smeared clothes and skin, the vacant, empty eyes, void of any emotion. The only thing Soul felt was the pain, but it wasn't enough. The pain from his arm was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. He knew his own self worth was nothing. What did he deserve in life?

Nothing.

He knew he was uncool; worthless. He felt like an empty shell, just taking up space. There was nothing he could do about it, either. Except avoid it. And that is exactly what he was doing at the moment.

Avoiding it.

But he couldn't help it, he just had to do it. The pain, the physical at least, was good. It was addicting. The sting. The blade. The blood.:

Oh so addicting.

His head lulled to the side, and he couldn't quite make his eyes focus on the tiled wall. He didn't have the energy. He didn't have much of anything anymore. His eyes carried down of their own free will, to his arm. Thousands of white lines, horizontally decorating his arm in a sickening fashion. There were the faded ones, the newer, pink ones, the red open ones he had only just inflicted. The blood, smeared over the scars. The sight was poetic in his mind, the red so vibrant against his pale skin. He watched as the blood oozed slowly, sliding down his arm and onto the floor. The slow drip.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He swore he could hear the sound of it, if he listened closely enough. Or maybe it was just his imagination, but it soothed him. His arm started to numb, and he collected the energy to frown. The numb wasn't good, because it dulled the pain. He needed the pain. It was all he had.
He didn't know how long he sat there, as his eyes went out of focus and his mind slowed down. It could have been minutes or hours or days, for all he knew. His mind was blank. He didn't feel time. He didn't feel anything.

And he liked it.

Though, as they say, all good things come to an end. After a while, he could feel himself start to slip back into reality. He would have fought it, had he not known that it was useless. He would be on some level of alertness soon, no matter how much he wished to be ignorant to the world.
The cutting was cowardly; Soul knew he was a coward. But it was more than just the way out. It was a necessity for his being. It was an addiction. It was as much as an addiction as the white powder to a cocaine addict, or the drink to the alcoholic. The kill to the murder; the hit to the abuser. He had to have it.

And he did.

When his conscious mind was fully awake, he sighed. At some point he had closed his eyes, and he didn't want to open them. He knew that he had to, though. But he took a few minutes to himself before he did. After a moment of the quiet, he opened his eyes and lifted his head up, stretching the stiff muscles in his neck. He must have been sitting there for a few hours at one arm to push himself up, he rose wobbly to his feet. His other arm stayed limp at his side, as he wanted to refuse to look at it. He felt shame. This was an often cycle he felt when the world just became too much for him. The worry, then the panic, then the sting, then the bliss, then the shame. The shame was by far the worst part. He was disgusted with himself. Spilling his own blood, what right did he have? There was probably someone out there right now that needed blood, and Soul was wasting what he had. There were people who had it way worse than he did, and when he thought about it, his problems paled in comparison. He felt like a baby.

A whiny, ungrateful, stupid little baby.

It was disgusting.

Walking over to the sink, he gave a long, empty stare at the mirror. What he saw, no matter how cliche it was, was not himself. The empty eyes, the same crimson color as the blood, dark and bloodshot, surrounded by bags that seemed to be getting darker and darker as time wore on. The pretty face, ruined by the burdens of life. He looked fifty at only fifteen. His full lips, cracked and dry, from the constant biting of his sharp teeth. His once lively, full cheeks, now hollow and sunken in. He looked like a ghost of his former self. Which was exactly what he was. A ghost. He wasn't really living, but he certainly wasn't dead. His eyes trailed to his hair, half covering his face, it's harsh white color matching almost perfectly with his pale, paper like skin. It reached halfway down his neck without his headband, sticking out in all odd directions, naturally. His neck, leading down into his sunken collar bones, which disappeared into his tee-shirt, the bones jutting out in a way that said 'I'm starved, and he won't feed me'. His eyes then trailed to his shoulders...

And he flinched. the blood ran all the way up his arm, dirtying his sleeves. With slow, mechanical movements he removed his shirt, looking for a few more seconds of avoidance of looking at his forearm.

Though, the sight of his torso did him no better. Hundreds and hundreds of scars lining his body, down his sides and across his chest. All kinds, straight from the blades, jagged and zigzag from the makeshift ones when he couldn't find a razor. The less exact, repeated ones from where he clawed at himself, as if he could tear his own skin right of. Then there was the most noticeable one, splayed across his stomach, which he had carved with an exacto knife. It read 'worthless' with curved, smooth letters, as if he had been just handwriting. The space around it was clear, as if only to draw attention to the word. His stomach itself was thin, to the point where his hip bones protruded out an inch or two than even first considered unhealthy. His eating habits were almost as bad as the cutting ones. He was never hungry, and he never ate. He couldn't remember his last meal. And he liked it that way. He deserved to be so thin, so disgusting. He was worthless, after all. Why should he get to eat? Who was he to eat food, knowing someone else out there could probably need it more?
He wanted to look away, but he knew he couldn't. He deserved to see himself, see his ugliness. And he knew he had to look at his arm.

So he finally did.

Bile rose in his throat, but he forced it down. His pale skin, now crusted with dark brown, dried blood, all leading from a central point on his forearm. It was a deep gash, a thin layer crusted over it. It had split in one place, and driblets of crimson liquid were peaking out. It looked as if a bloody massacre had taken place, worse than it was probably even possible to make special-effects makeup look. The gash, deeper than any others surrounding it, swelled, the skin around it puffing. With a look of agony of his eyes, he forced himself to touch his arm, trailing slowly from his elbow to the cut, careful to not to apply any more pressure than a feather would. He touched it as if it were a delicate child, though it was different. The cut held no innocents what so ever a child would possess. This got Soul every time. He did the damage, but once it was done he couldn't bear himself. Each scar was filled with a hate; a hate so passionate it would make death itself cautious to approach. Though, along with the hate, there was something different. It was a feeling that Soul couldn't explain; one that made him not want the scars to go away. They were there, and they were a part of him. If he didn't have the scars, he was nothing. They were who he was. If he had the choice, he would keep them. They weren't necessarily something he was proud of, but they were his. It was a very intimate feeling. It was passionate.

His motions became mechanical once again as he went through the motions of removing the blood with some paper towels, forcing himself to look away from the arm in the mirror. His eyes instantly fell on his real arm, never deriving from the cut. He stared with such an intensity, it felt like nobody could ever tear his eyes away. Even as he washed the blood off, he was careful to not touch it, and to never glance somewhere else. He felt blindly under the sink for the first aid supplies, and got the tape and bandages ready. He treated the cut with such gentleness and carefulness, as he stared transfixed.
It was just a feeling that was indescribable to anyone who had never experienced it. If you were to ask Soul to even describe a fraction of it, he wouldn't have the right words. Having something you hate so much be so close, not wanting to let it go. It sounded confusing, but it was just the feeling. Sometimes feelings can't be described through words, and it was as simple as that.

If you were to put it in an analogy, it would be like alcohol to an alcoholic. The alcoholic would see it, and want it, and need it. But he also knew there were other things that needed him more, maybe he had family, or some obligation.
Soon, the alcohol would become his friend, along with his worst enemy. He would want it so bad, but hate it at the same time.
It was an addiction, and it was really a love/hate disease you couldn't cure.
That was the feeling Soul had. A love/hate one. He knew it was so uncool to have these emotions, but it wasn't something he could bare.

A loud banging came at the door, and Soul jumped, a quick moment of panic before realizing he locked the door.

" Soul, I'm home, and I brought dinner!" Maka yelled through the thick wood, and then he could hear her retreating footsteps. Soul sighed, finished bandaging, and cleaned up the rest of the blood. The razor he had used was still on the bathroom floor, and he used a paper towel to pick it up and throw it in the trash bin, not wanting to touch it, as if it were poison.

Slipping his jacket on, he exited the bathroom. Maka was in the kitchen, unboxing various different foods she had picked up from what looked to be KFC. Soul's stomach let out a silent ache, but he knew he wouldn't eat. She handed him a plate and he started to fix himself a plate, taking as minimal as possible, as he hated wasting.
It was ironic, really, he wasted so much already. The blood, the air he breathed. What difference did it matter if it was food?
Taking his normal seat at the dinning table, he grabbed his fork immediately and started to shove the food around, placing it in a way to make it look as if there was less there. It was an art he was expert at.

" How was your day?" Maka asked, taking her seat across from him as usual. She had ben out all day, planning with Tsubaki. They were organizing a huge sleep over that everyone in their group would attend, taking place at Kidd's house.

" Cool, I guess," he said, putting a bit of mashed potatoes into his mouth and pretending to swallow before spitting it into his napkin. The food was like rubber on his tongue.

" That's good. We're all set for the get together tomorrow. It'll be us, Tsubaki and BlackStar, and Liz and Patti and Kidd at his place," she informed him.

" Sleepovers are so uncool," Soul mumbled, taking a sip of his water.

" It will be good for us! All of us rarely get together at the same time, it will be good to spend time together," she replied. Soul 'hmm'ed and continued on pushing his food around, then getting up to go to the kitchen and dumping the food into the garbage can, moments before Maka entered. He put his plate in the sink and disappeared off into his room. He didn't catch the worried look Maka sent his way when she threw her own leftovers in the garbage, seeing his food piled on top of the trash.
He immediately went over to his bed, exhausted. His emotional breakdown had cost him, he was out within minutes. There had been no real trigger in his sudden panic, he had just been sitting and watching some crime show on TV, when he felt it coming on. The need to cut was random, and snuck up on him at the most random and innocent of times.

Before he drifted off he mentally calculated. That was the third time he'd lapsed within the last week.

It was getting worse.

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