The streets in downtown Seattle were deserted and silent. The moon was obscured by a dense fog, leaving only faint, flickering streetlamps to light up the dark. It was nights like these that made Soul itch for something to hunt.

Maka Albarn-Soul's partner and second shot at the good life-carried him in scythe form slung over her narrow shoulders. Nine months into their partnership, Soul was still surprised at how easily she carted him around, how adeptly her wrists twirled him as if he were a baton and not a heavy weapon with a long, lethal blade.

When they met in front of that dusty piano, Soul didn't really believe Maka when she said she was a scythe meister. He wanted to know the girl who had conspicuously taken residence in his dreams, but he still wasn't sold on taking her on as a partner. All of his doubts evaporated the moment they clasped hands. Her touch was symphonic. In that moment, the discordant humming that constantly buzzed at the back of Soul's brain twisted and stretched until it became a different sound entirely. A crescendo of tenderness and passion, acceptance and homecoming. A new resonance in G.

The experience was familiar, even if the melody was in a different key. He thought it was impossible to hear this song again. What were the chances that a guy like him could find a connection like this twice? Too small to be dumb luck or coincidence, that was for sure.

"I see it," Maka said, bringing Soul out of his thoughts and back to the moment at hand. Her eyes were glassy and focused. Somewhere out in the darkness was a pre-kishin on the prowl. "Let's get this over with. We were supposed to be there by now."

"Being late to something really isn't going to kill you." Though he was still in Maka's hands, Soul twisted his scythe blade so his eye could get a better look at her face. "That kid has concerts all the time. No one would care if we skipped out." There were a thousand other things Soul would rather do after dispatching this kishin, and Desirable Number One on that list was currently gripping his scythe handle.

Maka rolled her eyes. "I was never late to anything, ever, before meeting you, Soul Eater."

"Don't pretend you don't like it."

"Besides, I've never been to one of Nate's concert things. Your brother made it sound like a huge deal." The scythe was prepared to argue that Wes, in fact, made everything remotely related to his son sound like a huge deal, but the sound of knives grating against asphalt caused them both to tense.

Without speaking, Maka lifted Soul of her shoulders and adopted a fighting stance.

The monster was large and meaty, wearing only some skimpy loin cloth, a harness, and a mask capped over its demonic face and scraggly hair. If its jagged teeth and prehensile tongue weren't a big enough indicator, its long, blade-like fingers dragging on the ground confirmed their suspicions. This creature wasn't human, not anymore. It looked at Maka like a hunter scoping out its prey, but it was too stupid to realize that their roles were actually reversed.

"Serial killer Jack the Ripper," Maka said. "Your soul is mine!"

The pre-kishin lunged forward, and Maka deflected its claws with Soul's scythe handle. The ensuing battle was nothing less than a dance of souls, two fighting as one. Soul twirled around Maka's wrist, butting the monster in the face with the blunt end of his blade. It was still reeling when Maka swung her weapon in a long arc, slicing through the monster's belly. Cut completely in two, the monster's body warped inward until there was nothing left but a glowing, dark red soul.

After transforming back into a human, Soul savored the slimey, chilled texture of the kishin-soul. Another night, another name crossed off Lord Death's list, another soul added towards Maka's long-neglected childhood dream to create a deathscythe more powerful than her father.

It was Soul's own fault that he didn't make the connection between his newfound love and the personal weapon of Lord Death. He never bothered to remember that Deathscythe's real name was Spirit Albarn, and he also never cared to make the man like him when Soul was still a student at the DWMA. Now Soul was both dating the elder scythe;s daughter and gunning his position as Deathscythe. What a small world.

Maka yanked his elbow, causing the scythe to slightly choke on the soul sliding down his throat. "Let's go!"

She dragged him back to his bike, parked a couple blocks away. Soul took his time to mount the bike and put the key in the ignition, partly to annoy Maka but also to prolong the sensation of his meister flush against his back, arms wrapped tightly around him as he revved the engine. There was no rush, not for him.

Soul like to call their romance a coup de foudre, a bolt of lightning. One day they were strangers, and the next, two halves of a whole. The change was so sudden and complete, neither of them could fully remember what 'before' even felt like. Despite the instantaneous connection, they explored each other with baby steps. Certains things simply took time to discover, like the happy revelation that Maka was ticklish behind the knees, and the less happy revelation that she didn't enjoy orchestra concerts because they didn't have storylines like her books did. "Dammit woman, the music is the story," he had said to her. Of course, the scythe's inability to come up with five favorite books (that weren't also movies) got on Maka's nerves just as much as her lack of musicality annoyed him.

When they finally arrived there was no line at the auditorium's ticket booth, indicating that most of the audience was probably already inside and filing into their seats. Before entering the building, Maka uncertainly smoothed her pleated skirt.

"I don't have any blood on me do I?" She eyed a couple of older women walking past them, both of whom had opera pearls swinging from their necks. "It's bad enough that I'm under-dressed."

Soul's red eyes gave her the once-over. Admittedly, she was a little out of place for a choir concert. She was wearing her usual fighting uniform-a leather jacket zipped up over a skirt, with steel-toed combat boots protecting her feet.

"Nope, beautiful as usual," Soul said. "But I'm biased."

They got inside just in time for the lights to dim. Holding hands, the partners dashed through the aisles until they spotted a blond, shaggy head towards the front. Maka and Soul had to awkwardly scoot in front of at least a dozen other audience members before reaching two empty seats besides Wes and his wife.

Okay, so maybe Wes was right when he said this concert was a huge deal. Not very eleven-year old boy could sing treble-soprano, and even fewer were good enough to perform alongside the nation's best vocalists. Nate's voice blended with the choir for most of the concert, and they didn't get a chance to hear him sing alone until towards the end. He had a brief solo, singing the first verse of an Italian hymn with the lilt and clarity of a cherub. The dissonance between the angelic Nate onstage and the hellish one he spent nearly a year babysitting was baffling.

"I give him a year before he's bumped up to tenor, eighteen months 'til baritone." Soul whispered to Maka. "That kid's voice is going to drop like a bowling ball."

"Like yours?" Considering how they met, Maka made no secret of her attraction to Soul's voice.

Soul gave her a smug grin. "Oh yeah."

For a chronic sufferer of Little Shit Syndrome, Nate's infuriating shenanigans worked out. Soul's nights were sometimes still sleepless, but it wasn't the shadows of past love or regret that stirred him. It was the steady breathing of the girl beside him, the excitement of a goal within arm's reach, The sight of a new path to travel alongside a new love.

Many times before drifting off to sleep, Soul and Maka attempted to discuss the causality of it all. If Maka wasn't driving home in her car alone, she wouldn't have heard Soul on the radio. If Soul didn't have to make a last minute run to the airport, he wouldn't have seen Maka. And if Nate didn't insist upon catching his mother outside, the lovers wouldn't have met eyes in the street. A thousand tiny acts, accumulating like grains of sand, until lightning struck and transformed those particles into a sculpture of glass. He called it a coup de foudre. She said it was destiny.