He hates his reflection

But he's not vocal about it. He doesn't talk about how much he doesn't like the darkness that stains his undereye, doesn't mention how much he hates his cheek bones and bony shoulders and he definitely doesn't bring up how much he looks like his brother (he's looking more and more like Wes everyday — but an unattractive, satanic Wes, with sharp teeth and sickly red eyes). There's always something new to hate about himself — hair, nose, neck, throat. Soul's never been outwardly open with his insecurities and demons so he doesn't say a thing, never brings it up.

He hushes his disgust under his mask of indifference when Maka pads her way into the bathroom in the morning and leans over him to grab her tooth brush. She's just rolled out of bed and she's adorable, pigtails lopsided (he's told her a thousand times not to sleep with her hair up) and eyes droopy with exhaustion. Her eyes are murkier than ever in the mornings, which is good for him, because she's less observant and she won't look twice if his expression slips and he outwardly grimaces at the man staring back at him in the mirror.

He looks like a freak.

His hair is stark white. His skin is tanned but not tanned enough, an awful, sickly shade that reminds him of dirty mustard and the stale pre-kishin sweat that stains Maka's blouses. He looks like a stoner. He looks like a failed science experiment, and he's not one, because the only time he's ever let Stein near him with a scalpel was when the good doctor stitched him up, good as new.

His shoulders slope. His smile is uneven. His teeth belong to monsters and boogey men, things that go bump in the night and scare small children.

He hates his reflection but can't bring himself to tell Maka, because Maka has faith in him and she looks at him like he's sunshine when he's not; he's cracks on the sidewalk and stained hems of ripped jeans, he's nothing like her. She's an engulfing heat and he's so lucky to be allowed to stand so close to anyone as radiant and kind as her.

Maka is pretty. He's long since accepted his attraction to his meister as a whole. He sneaks more peeks at the slope of her neck and her mouth as she sips milkshakes through straws than he'd ever admit to her. She's lovely, wholesome, kickass, and even standing in her shadow is too bright and dazzling for him.

So he slouches. And he mumbles his answers to things and frowns more, because it hides his teeth beneath his lips and Wes never fucking frowned. He could build his own identity if he stopped looking so goddamn much like his brother, stopped living in Wes' shadow and stopped putting a damper on Maka's future.

But he's a death scythe, for fuck's sake. He should act more like it. He should straighten out his spine and push his shoulders back like Maka tells him to, like she's still telling him to as she straightens out the lapels of his jacket and stands on her toes to press a kiss to his chin. He pinks and grumbles. The physical affection is new, very new, and he's still caught off guard whenever she kisses him or squeezes his shoulder.

"Chin up," she reminds him sweetly. Her hands cup his jaw and he feels like a giant compared to her, his tiny little meister.

They used to be the same height. When did he get so tall? When did he turn into a giant? He's so obvious next to her, long limbs and lanky legs, and she's cute and petite even when she's wobbling in her kitten heels. She's adorable, with her lips painted pink and hair clipped back. She's a pretty girl and he's a scary looking guy, and when she stands next to him and holds his hand as she leads him into parties, he wonders what a girl like her sees in a guy like him.

Because he understands her soul deep, he does, but he also knows himself and knows that a girl like Maka can do better. She can do better than a too-tall manchild with body image issues, with family issues, with issues in general; she's not perfect but she's considerably less fucked up than he is. Her recklessness doesn't haunt her reflection. Her body is beautiful, skin creamy and milky and soft and her eyes are otherworldly. She's a go-getter, she's determined and ambitious. She could lead anyone into battle and still come out victorious. Does she really need him like he needs her?

She squeezes his hand, because Maka's always just known when he needs a little more support than normal, and her smile is so warm that he feels like melting.

He breaks out into a cold sweat. His palms are clammy against the cold porcelain of the sink. His arms are shaking and he's quivering.

Nightmares draw him out of his bed at three AM. It's fuck o'clock and every time he closes his eyes he sees the darkness and the jaunts, taunting words and not good enough, never good enough. He's too tall. He's going to rip her apart with his teeth. He's going to taint her, muck her up, or she's going to realize what a loser he actually is and leave him.

He exalts a shaky breath; no, Maka never leaves anyone behind. That's not who she is. Not selfless, angelic Maka. She gave her everything to save Crona.

He wonders if Crona looks in the mirror and hates their reflection too. He wonders if anyone else looks in the mirror and wants to get sick, because who could love anyone with a face like his? He's not attractive. He's not smart. He's not even funny — he's rude and snarky and not good enough, never good enough.

He feels Maka before he sees her. He hears the bathroom door shut behind her, hears her little gasp of surprise and horror. He feels her soul reach out to him, feels her calming wavelengths coil around him before her arms even read around his waist. She presses herself against his bare back and hugs him. Her lips find the center of his back and she mumbles his name.

He barely registers that he's crying, but he wipes his face and growls out excuses but she never budges. She's steady against him, so small but so sure and easy for him to lean into.

Soul can't remember the last time he's cried. It certainly was never in front of his meister.

But he's a mess of trembling limbs and the sour taste of his vomit. His cheeks are sunken in and he's gross, sweaty and feels like death, but her limbs are cool from the autumn night and she presses her palm against the center of his scar. It's only then that she hesitates even for a moment.

Her fingers trace down the raised, jagged flesh and she kisses his back again. She whispers sweet nothings and reassurances, that he's wonderful, that she loves him so much and why are you crying, Soul? Talk to her, please talk to her, she's known that he wasn't happy for a long time. Is it the relationship?

"Don't be stupid," he croaks. He has the strength to shut that one down — it's not her love that scares him, it's not her love that he hates. He just wants to be worthy to stand in her light.

Her fingers slid along his scar — ugly, stitched flesh that she blames herself for but he doesn't. It's arguably the ugliest part of his body and it's the only part he doesn't hate himself. It's his badge of honor, proof that he's alive and (mildly) well, proof that he's not a total fuck up of a partner because he'd saved her.

Her voice is tender and soft when she whispers "I love you," against his shoulder blade. He can feel it echo in his bones.

Shaking hands cup over hers and she nestles her forehead against him. He has to believe her, he knows that, but some days it's hard to do when he doesn't even like himself.

His fingers link between hers and he breathes her name. His voice is cracked and wobbly and she doesn't budge. He knows she never will.