He had eventually shooed her back to her dad last night, seeing as it was his retirement party she'd also missed. The whole thing was equal parts sad and hopeful and awkward, and he'd been overwhelmed in at least twelve different ways, but when she went back up the steps of Shibusen he stayed until she reached the very top, where she in turn stayed and watched until he left the parking lot.

And when she came home later that evening, she cautiously climbed into bed with him and the cat, the three of them in one place for the first time in a long time.

He technically sleeps in late - his schedule today is a faculty-wide meet and greet with a bunch of big wig politicians and reporters as a follow up from yesterday's ceremony - but it's still only dawn, so he's surprised he's not the first one awake.

Maka is still beside him, the skin around her eyes irritated because she'd likely cried even more after they parted ways last night (and his probably don't look much better, to be honest). It's Blair who's missing.

There's no obvious sign of her, though. The most pressing matter right now is getting this gross-ass gel out of his hair and returning to octopus-head status. Liz being hired for Shibusen PR had been, overall, a good move, but she has a thing for making people photoready with the yakuza gangster look and it's not ideal.

Soul hunts for his duffel bag, because all his bathroom stuff is in it from overnighting at the school so much. He stumbles down the hallway, through the living room to the front door, which is where he'd dumped it last night, but it has vanished.

Blearily blinking as he surveys the apartment, he doesn't see it anywhere else obvious, either. He rubs his eyes for a long moment, and yeah, they're a little angry from all the abuse. He sighs. Then he sees his deodorant on the kitchen table in his peripheral.

In fact, all the contents of his bag have been dumped on the table, as well as a mish-mash of other things like scissors, sewing odds and ends, and an extra large bottle of purple glitter glue. Context clues are ringing loud alarm bells in his head, and Soul pulls out a dining chair from beneath the table and finds his yellow and black duffel bag in the seat.

The shoulder strap has been reinforced with thick zig-zag stitches. Around the edges of the bag itself, where wear and tear had worn the fabric threadbare, various pumpkin-shaped patches have been sewed on, all of them with purple-glitter variations of his little sharp-toothed soul doodle.

From his bedroom doorway, Maka hoarsely says, "Where'd everybody go?"

Soul catches her attention, silently waving her over. She shuffles along with her socks and peers down at the chair.

The duffel has reached such a superb level of ugly that he's instantly in love. Inside the bag, Blair is kitty-snoring, curled into a donut.

"It's perfect," he quietly says, without a trace of sarcasm.

Maka nods, hiding a close-lipped smile behind a hand. When she looks back at him, her eyes go straight to his hair.

"Don't," he says before she can comment. He picks out some of the junk from his bathroom pile. "I'mma shower. Are you… um." It's still weird to be here with her, to have the air between them feel nothing like before but for that difference to not feel entirely wrong, either. He hasn't sorted out his emotions; about how to proceed.

Maka figures it out, though. "You wanna ride together to the faculty thing?"

He does. And after a couple of showers, some magically-prepared coffee, and burnt toast, they do. It's almost like going to class, but not quite. He parks in the Reserved for Death Scythe space in the already-crammed lot, for starters. His face topped with that terrible weasel hair is now on a little plaque by the faculty lounge, which he promptly scythes off the wall. But they walk together to the auditorium, the loud murmur of a crowd spilling out the open doors.

The next hour and a half separates them, with Soul standing next to Death for the bulk of it, and Maka with the rest of the lower-ranking faculty as politicians and reporters make their rounds, the sound of camera shutters a constant backdrop. He's still not great at engaging in interviews, though he does a decent job at translating some of the things Kid says into concepts that normal people can grasp. But when someone asks if Death had always been his meister, Kid points out, "No, my personal weapons are the Thompson sisters. Maka Albarn is Soul's meister."

This gets a whole slew of people in line to talk to Maka, which he almost feels bad about, but it gives him a minute to lean over and say to Death, "Um. Aren't you my meister now?"

"By virtue of being a shinigami, I'm technically any weapon's meister." Kid takes a moment to tug on the cuffs of his dress shirt, displaying them more neatly outside the sleeves of the Hot Topic blazer. "But it's good that you bring this up. You seem to have this idea that you must be a Death Scythe while removing any trace of Maka in your experience. That is not the case."

"Wh-" That was both an answer and topic-switch he had not expected whatsoever. He leans even closer, hissing, "Well, wait, during resonance, weren't you were all up in my head yelling at me to accept 'Maka's not here?'"

Kid rolls his golden eyes before turning and leveling Soul with a look that makes him feel much shorter than he actually is. "I was not yelling; you are merely oversensitive to anything that isn't delivered sarcastically."

That doesn't explain anything. It also makes him hunch over defensively, feeling like the underwear of his personality is on display.

"His Highness Mister Lord Death Sir," someone interrupts, and the two of them quickly return to more socially dignified postures.

Under his breath, Kid says, "Patricia, please," though there's a percentage of a smile creeping into his voice.

Patti smiles broad and bright. "The cameras are in position for the circus."

"Excellent. Ahem," he says, clearing his throat. One of his Sanzu lines begins to shimmer as he takes in a breath and announces in a creepy-resonant death god voice, "If everyone will please be seated, we shall begin the official demonstration."

Watching unprepared civilians experience that voice for the first time never gets old. Patti helps knee-shaking reporters take their seats, a few other faculty members doing the same. Soul hears Tsubaki translating for the chairman of the Japanese branch of Shibusen.

Standing over by Maka are Kilik, the Pots, and Angela, the latter of whom waving her green arm with excitement. He can't stop from smiling back.

Kid slips on a pair of black gloves - recommended by Maka - and holds out a hand to the side. Soul becomes the scythe, falling neatly into his grasp. The rest is pure choreographed garbage that Liz had concocted, knowing the flashiest demonstrations bring in the most generous sponsorships. Once they start resonating, he doesn't even really have to think about anything apart from ignoring the urge to check the mental fridge.

Which is perfect. [ Okay so, for a refresher, what the hell am I supposed to be doing as Death Scythe? You tell me to accept Maka isn't my meister, but then you tell everyone else she is? I don't get you. ]

The wavelength equivalent of an irritated sigh reverberates between them. [ You are a weapon. I wield you. That's it. If my brother coalesces, or some clan of witch-ninjas starts an uprising and I need to cut them down, that is your job. Without such times, I suppose you are simply...a very overpowered bodyguard? ]

It gets a little complicated trying to parse all of that and shift into Demon Hunter at the same time, and Soul has to concentrate on holding resonance at such a frequency.

Kid has such over-engineered reserves of power that he hardly has to consider any of it. [ As for Maka, I suppose I owe you something of an apology. I merely wanted you to stop doing...that thing you are literally doing right now! It's annoying. ]

Wait, what? [ But I'm not even doing it! I think. ] If anything, it's almost easier to not constantly reach for Maka because he logically knows she's here in the room with them, even if he can't feel her.

The gears turn inside Death's head as he guides Soul into Kishin Hunter. [ I see. ]

[ See what? ]

[ I see you are both annoying. ] Another sigh. [ I have an idea. Take this. ]

If Soul had to explain in relatable terms what the actual hell Death the Kid does right then, the best he could come up with would be something like: a hand reaching into the back of the fridge, but it's not his fridge, it's Kid's, and pulling out some forgotten box of Chinese food because Kid eats way better things than this on the regular. Soul is handed these leftovers, and then he instantly has a level of Perception that makes his brain explode.

After some consideration, Kid then takes about half of the Chinese food back. [ Okay so, this appears to be a lot. For you. But do you hear that? That sound? ]

Soul makes a mental noise like a screaming motorcycle engine for a moment, trying to tune out the sixty-odd wavelengths of all the people in the room to focus on the one Kid is talking about. Then he recognizes it for what it really is.

[ That, ] says Kid, [ is the exact thing you do when you're looking for her, despite yourself. I don't know what's been going on between you the past year, but I fear you've been overthinking things. ]

He certainly fits the profile. The 'noise' that Kid can't stand is a little blip-blink of G on the piano, like a satellite searching for a reply. It's changed from how his soul remembers it, but it's still undeniably Maka in a way that no one else can ever be her.

[ Exactly. Things change. Time carves us, so the ways we know each other eventually look different. But you've said it since we were kids, haven't you? That the shape doesn't matter. ]

The demonstration comes to an end, and while Death addresses the audience and answers several questions, he still holds the resonance open in a weirdly supportive kind of way. Soul feels Maka reaching for him, and he reads her soul in a way he's never been able to, before.

[ ...Have you been watching Kung Fu with everyone else? ] Soul absently asks.

Kid's wavelength makes an evasive kind of lurch. [ It matters not. Are you two still partners or aren't you? ]

He doesn't know, but he wants to find out. He unfurls his heart. Reaches.

[ O-oh! Um? Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean- this was really accidental! ]

While answering another reporter's question, Kid exerts a significant amount of energy to hide the twitch in his eye, which comes through to both Soul and Maka loud and clear. [ Are you serious. Are you both so spiritually touch-starved that you just fell into my resonance? I'm- ]

Wow, when was the last time he'd even resonated with Maka? He honestly can't remember.

Death's soul akin to nails on a chalkboard, he says, [ The music is so much louder with BOTH of you, why must you be this way? ]

Offstage, Maka turns a near-fluorescent shade of red, privy to the echoes of Soul's sentimental affection.

Then things just get out of hand. [ Hey what the hell is going on over there, ] says Black*Star, his wavelength as rowdy and feral as ever. [ I get jealous easy - woah, what's with the tunes? Soul are you jamming in here, bro? ]

Patti and Liz join the resonance in unison. [ We're boorrred, ] says Patti, while her sister sighs out a lazy, [ Can we get outta here sometime? I got all the media we need and I'm missin' D-City 99. ]

[ Hey. Maka. Let's actually talk later, yeah? ]

She nods from across the room, biting her lip to stifle a smile. [ 'Kay. ]

[ All of you are lucky none of these politicians have an ounce of Perception. Now the that whole faculty is in here, get the hell out of my resonance or I will begin discussing the budget for the fourth quarter. ]

Tsubaki soothingly cuts in with, [ Okay, but I think I just scored a bunch of really, really good sake from the chairman, so… ]

[ Yeah, ] Kilik says. [ Ox just texted: free BBQ at the station tonight for the D99 finale. Harv's fryin' wings. Bring the sake. ]

Half the resonance chimes in with excited cheering.

[ Fine, ] says Kid, pulling his notecards out of his blazer. [ I'll wrap this up, but will the power couple please shut up, the music you make together is driving me mad. ]

"Exhale," she says. His breath hisses, ricocheting off the cushioned massage table. "It's weird to see your hair up."

Soul scoffs, which melts into a groan. "Would it be better in pigtails?"

She digs her elbow into his back. "I was thinking horns. Like Ford back in the day."

"Please no, not cool."

Maka laughs. "Sooo, I was thinking about moving," she says, and Soul remains silent, but his wavelength is attentive. "Maybe closer to the school? Exhale."

After another groan, he says, "I'm down. We can try to get the same schedules, too. Talked to Blair?"

"Not yet. I'll text her." She looks over her shoulder to ask, "Papa, can we borrow your car for moving our stuff?"

Dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and equally loud Bermuda shorts, Spirit Albarn reclines in one of the infirmary beds with Angela, Thunder, Fire, and Shelley dogpiled around him. He holds Kid's tablet for all of them to watch more Kung Fu. Without looking away from the screen, he says, "Do I get a spare key?"

"No," she and Soul say.

"Death Scythe gets to shave his head."

"Aw come on, dude."

"El-em-ay-oh."

that's all, folks. hope you enjoyed. i'd love your thoughts.

special thanks to the somazine 2018 crew, and especially chaoticlivi for inspiring all of us with 'the music we made together.'

big thanks to victoriapyrrhi for what ended up becoming the theme of the whole story.

and thanks as always to my slew of betas, you support me more than i can express.