Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater, nor the title which is taken from Screen by Twenty One Pilots.

there's a screen on my chest
by. Poisoned Scarlett

i.

In the dead heat of the desert, she raises her binoculars and looks out in the distance, waiting on her parents to return from their mission. The return to the cracked, dry land that surrounded Death City has always been her favorite. She sits on the ledge of an old grocery store by the edge of town, near the entrance of Death City. She sits there long enough for two city busses to come and go, swinging her legs idly and wiping the sheen of sweat off her forehead from basking under the hot Nevada sun for so long.

Another bus comes, but this time with a passenger.

"Hm," Maka hums, glancing down at the boy who stands by the bus bench awkwardly, suitcases piled beside him. New neighbor, Maka perks up curiously, watching him dial something on his phone. She wonders why he decided to move to Death City for a second, then realizes that he's young—about as young as her, she decides, her eyes taking in his boyish features and—sharp teeth? This makes her sit up, attention finally grabbed. He has sharp teeth, could he be a demon weapon? There's no way any normal civilian would have teeth like this, they're common in blade types. What if he's a scythe? Then again, judging by his age, she supposed he was here as a DWMA student. She doesn't think she's wrong; all the signs are there. Meister classes begin earlier—she's already attending them with her childhood friend, Black Star—but weapon classes do not officially begin until they have been paired with a meister.

Maybe she can befriend him!

"Town is that way—less than a mile away!" Maka shouts helpfully, watching the white-haired boy tense and look around for her voice. He's not very bright, she decides with a frown, watching him scramble for a few more seconds before she puts him out of his misery, "Up here!"

He snaps his head up and she's met with large aviator glasses and a plain t-shirt, a jacket thrown over him. She's not sure what he's doing, dressed down so thickly in the sweltering, Nevada, heat, but she won't question him. She's met stranger individuals as a native to Death City. Plus, if he was a weapon, there was no way something like heat was going to distress him. After all, if one planned to join the DWMA, they had to have some sort of toughness to them. "What are you doing up there?" the boy shouts back, alarmed. She's sitting on the ledge of the building, gangly legs dangling and all. "That's dangerous! You could fall!"

"I'm waiting for someone!" she answers and, before she can inquire his name and his reason for being here (while Death City did receive many tourists, she was certain he was here as a student), a distracting sparkle of light has her jumping up on the ledge, binoculars at the ready.

She tilts dangerously forward and the boy below squawks.

"Whoa, be careful!"

"It's fine! This is nothing," she grins down, but that grin is quickly wiped away when she sees her mother jump off the back of a jeep driving at full speed, the sleek, black, staff of her father in his scythe form cutting through the air—that is, cutting through the air to stab into solid concrete a few meters away from the entrance because her mother just boomeranged her father into the street.

"I can't believe you!" her mother screams, fists clenched at her side. Her cheeks are puffed in fury, sweaty, and there's some rips in her clothes that weren't there before. It was a tough mission, it seemed. The possible demon weapon boy steps back, and Maka is sure that the sweat on his brow has nothing to do with the heat now. Her mother could be scary when angry. "You BASTARD! We nearly died back there and you just, ugh, what is your problem?"

"We had it covered! C'mon—she fell onto my hand! She fell onto my hand, sweetheart! It wasn't my fault, it's not like I was trying to grope her!" The scythe wails, then, in a flash of light, transforms to reveal a handsome red-haired man who is rubbing his arm, pouting. His green eyes are sheepish but definitely guilty. Maka growls and looks away sharply in disgust; her father will never learn, he's always digging himself into deeper graves when he tries to explain himself.

"LIAR! You can go crash with Stein because you will not be stepping foot inside my house!"

"Kasumi, please, listen—!"

"Leave," she snarls, but Spirit only clutches to her hips and shakes his head violently, burying his face in her thighs in meek subservience.

"No, no, don't make me stay with him, you know what he does…at night! He's insane!" Spirit gulps, sweating bullets. "Kasumi, please, please," and Maka watches, quietly, as her mother's eyes soften the slightest bit before hardening again. She looks away, huffs in annoyance, but spits out:

"You can take the couch then."

"Wha—what? Not the couch, it's springy! Ka—oi, Kasumi, wait up, you have to believe me—!"

And her mother is gone in a cloud of dust and muttered curses, leaving her husband on his knees in the middle of nowhere.

Maka turns her sights back to the white-haired boy, who has comfortably slumped on the bus bench and had his headphones perched over his head. Whoever he was, she's sure she'll be able to be better acquainted with him at the Weapon-Meister convention—

"Maka? Maka, is that you? PAPA MISSED YOU SO MUCH, HONEY—!"

"But first, escape," Maka nods gravely, running across the rooftop to another one before her father could catch up to her. "Mamaaaa!" Maka calls instead, perking up when her mother's running falters and she looks over her shoulder, gray eyes crinkling in affection at the sight of her daughter.

Below, the demon-weapon boy flickers his eyes down to the gravelly road under his feet after watching Maka escape. He wonders who she is and, with a slight curl of his lip, if she's as strong as she looked, sitting up there, the sun casting her into shadows with its brightness—promising something he doesn't yet understand.

ii.

It's hot—and Soul finds all at once that he does not particularly mind the heat. He stretches his arms over his head under the bright sunlight and smiles a little, grateful he had taken one of the short-sleeved button-up shirts he found bundled up in the back of his closet. It's crosshatch in design, light blue, and comfortable as he steps out of the hotel. The DWMA did not host its annual Weapon-Meister convention until much later in the week; so, until then, he had been given a voucher to stay in one of the designated hotels for potential students and, should push come to shove, reside there for the rest of his term in the DWMA.

That'd be so lame, if they don't wanna' live with me, Soul sighs, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and retracing his steps to the convenience store he spotted during his first tour of the city. Normally, weapon's and meister's dorm together. That's to build up confidence in one another…which is also lame, he sighs again, longer this time. I guess living in a hotel isn't so bad. I don't want some guy to be sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. If I can become a Deathscythe without needing to interact with my meister any more than necessary, that'd be great.

"HEY, THERE, YOUNG MAN!"

"Wha—!" Soul chokes, the hairs on his body standing up straight when he's face to face with a spooky—cartoon skeleton mask? Soul's eye twitches. "What the hell is this?"

"In honor of Lord Death's 899th birthday, we're giving away free masks and a raffle ticket which can earn you the chance to win a brand-spanking-new 600CC DEATHCYCLE COMPLETE WITH A COOLEST WAYS TO DIE HANDBOOK! Helmet not included," the lady adds with a loud, piercing, cackle and Soul can't help but gape when the words finally register in his mind.

"A handbook…on how to die cool?" Soul repeats, stricken but intrigued. Ever since coming to Death City, his ideas on cool and possibly risky endeavors have converged. "Are you serious?"

"Why, of course!" The woman blinks her eyes rapidly behind the eyeholes of the mask, bending down to his level. She is very tall, spindly like a spider with long, thin legs and even longer arms. She has an eerily perfect angled bob cut, her hair a dark shade of orange. She almost looks disproportional when she bends down this way, peering at him as if she can smell the tourist in him. Whether she did or not, she did not let him know. "Why would a Death Child lie in the face of Death? Here you go!" She hands him a cheap plastic cartoon mask and a raffle ticket, which flutters in the blow of hot air and sand. "We'll be announcing the winner in five days, on the day of the Weapon-Meister Convention, so keep your ears open and your eyes peeled," she pauses, then giggles. "Peeled," she repeats, stepping back and away from Soul's uncertain gaze, "Haha, what a bloody expression!"

Soul quickly crosses the street to avoid any other weird natives—only to run into a burly man in a suit wearing a freakishly huge bunny mask over his head, then two small girls who were frighteningly identical and who grinned to reveal sharp canines, their mauve colored eyes glinting predatorily at Soul.

"Sorry," he mumbles, bypassing them without another glance. He looks up again when he catches a shadow in the sky and finds a giant blimp hovering overhead. If he squints, he can see Death's mask plastered cheerfully among the gloom of the blimp, which is painted black and seems to hunch in the sky as if a giant weight were pressing down on its sides.

"Lord Death, huh…" he thinks aloud, clutching the mask in both his hands. His brother said that the best way to fit in with the residents was to take everything in stride and not think lesser of anyone he comes into contact with. He has to relax and basically act like he always acts when he's with his brother: like a normal person. But Wes had also warned him that the natives of Death City were renowned for their strangeness and he should read up on the customs so he doesn't insult anyone accidentally. Not that Soul particularly cares about insulting someone. But still, Wes doesn't want to have to receive a phone call declaring his little brother a total douchebag with no cultural sensitivity whatsoever.

Though, Soul doesn't think it'd be a huge problem. He googled Death City, and mostly just found it bizarre in a calming way. Everything people said was weird or downright taboo, Soul thought was cool. Soul's always had an affinity to strangeness—it's what isolated from his home-life, after all. However, his strangeness did not compare to this strangeness.

Here, he practically fits in—his stark white hair, spiked wildly, his dull red eyes, his shark teeth. He's no stranger than the spider woman who gave him the raffle ticket. He's no stranger than the man with the bunny helmet, the twin girls with unnerving madness lurking in their eyes.

I fit in, Soul realizes, suddenly. It's like an uncomfortable weight has been lifted, one he didn't think he had been sporting for so long. He can breathe easier now, and he doesn't feel the need to hide under his bangs any longer. I'm not weird here. Everyone…everyone here's even weirder than I am! If anything, I'm pretty normal—

"His hair is white—it's cool," he hears some guys whisper, standing a few ways away. Soul holds his breath, pretending to check something on his belt buckle. "Check out his teeth—they're like Hi-Ten's!"

"Whoa, they are! They look sharper, though…you think he's a demon weapon?"

"Gotta' be…"

"Dean's gonna' be psyched! He always wanted a blade-type! Good to know there's one here."

Soul instinctively grabs his arm at that. Blade-type. They had figured out his big secret just by looking at him. They must be native, Soul realizes, and he must be…not as 'unique' (to quote his politically correct parents) as he first thought he was.

They're dressed down unusually, with highlighter-bright colors of greens and reds and purples, baggy and an eye-sore. Fishnet that travels down to the wrist, with a baggy tank top that's cut down the sides to reveal scrawny muscle. Strange, almost demonic and malevolent, caricatures are printed on their shirts with equally disturbing messages in graffiti bold letters.

Death City has always been a tourist attraction, emphasized by the strange customs that seem to exist only in the city and which people from all the world sought out to experience. Soul guesses it has something to do with Death and his influence, perhaps the fact that the town is a literal military base for the hunting and extermination of witches and demon eggs.

But he fits in, and that's all that matters to Soul in the moment as he continues his trek down the street, growing fond of a city which boasts its strangeness proudly.

iii.

"Just three more days! Three more days and then I'll find the biggest and bestest weapon at that stupid convention! Only the best weapon for a god!" Black Star hoots, taking huge steps with his arms crossed behind his head as Maka hums happily beside him. His grin is wide enough to split his face. He can see the calendar nailed to the wall with clear intensity in his mind's eye: just three more days, and they could be true DWMA students.

"Black Star, you can't just take this lightly! You can't just go partnering with any weapon that you decide is strong enough! You have to be compatible with your weapon partner, so you have to find a person you not only like, but—!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah! Blah, blah, blah! My weapon will love ALL OF ME because I'm the best there is, Maka, you heard Sid!" He taunts, sending her a smirk that makes her brow tick. But Maka maintains her cool and answers crisply instead:

"He only said that so you'd come down from the tower," Maka sniffs, but his ego is not in the least dented. In fact, he laughs as if she told him an endearing joke, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. "Besides, even if you find a good weapon, you have it easy because you're not picky about the one you want."

"Oh, yeah," Black Star blinks, remembering. "You wanna' be just like your scary mom—ouch!"

Maka ignores his grumbling. "I want a scythe type, and you know how quickly meister's pair up with those. They're the original Deathscythe's."

"Eh, you'll find one!"

Maka pauses, glancing at him from under blonde bangs. "What makes you so sure I will?"

"Coz you're my friend, obviously," Black Star shoots back, grinning toothily. Maka sighs; it's too much to ask that Black Star have some sort of insightful words to her predicament. But his optimism is welcomed. "So I know that you'll find a scythe and then you'll kick ass right behind me!"

Maka's brow twitches. "Behind?"

"Because I'm number one, jeez, Maka, you're slow today!" Black Star laughs boisterously and dodges a flying kick, swinging around a lamppost and making a break for it with his childhood friend hot on his heels—all childish laughter and no problems, with only what they can think about a few days in the future bothering them.

Maka hopes this never changes.

iv.

The sweltering summer heat that locks up her lungs is enough to have her regretting walking to the bookstore at noon, when the sun is at its hottest. But she doesn't let the heat bog her down too much; if she did, then she'd never leave her room. As it is, she doesn't leave it enough and her papa is always on her case about making more friends (only with girls, though, Maka!) and hanging out with them so she's not always so alone in her home when her parents are out on missions.

Just to spite him, Maka thinks about making friends with a boy.

She enters the bookstore with a happy sigh, waving at the owner who sets down his magazine to greet her just as happily. Maka Albarn is their best customer; she never leaves without a book under her arm. But Maka only manages to browse the autobiographical section, eying the brand-new edition of the celebrity cannibal Issei Sagawa, before she senses something over her shoulder and she looks, wide green eyes locking on the flash of white hair that disappeared into the record store across the street.

She's sure it's that boy—the white-haired boy, the possible demon weapon.

So he likes music, Maka wonders. She has class in an hour, so she won't be able to talk to him much, but maybe once the curriculum began, they could be friends. Maybe he likes electro, too! And she gives into her urge to browse the revised edition of the celebrity cannibal.

Across the street, Soul is torn between calling his brother to send him some good music please or succumbing to his morbid curiosity and checking out what was the deal with Bitches Brew around these parts.

He's never been all right in the head, so he picks up the vinyl and squints at it, deciding he'll ask the old man at the front if he had a record player he could use to check it out quickly—

"—AT ME, KILLIK! YAHOOOOO!"

"Gah, get back here, dude, seriously, those are limited edition—!"

"They look like regular gloves to me—lemme' use 'em, c'mon!"

Soul watches in disbelief as a blue-haired boy practically barrels through the window of the record shop, glass shattering everywhere. And there isn't a spot of damage on the kid. Soul gasps and snaps his head to the old man, who merely flips another page in his accounting book and squints at the numbers. Soul turns back to the blue-haired boy who's now wrestling with some dark-skinned guy with a baggy white shirt in the open space of the shop, both exchanging blows with a power that awes Soul. They're about his age—no, they are his age and they're dealing punches (the dark-skinned guy has cracked his fist through the wall and it doesn't look like it hurt him one bit) that are stronger than a pro wrestlers. The blue-haired boy has some boxing gloves on, too, and when he tries to punch the other guy, he miscalculates and ends up propelling himself into the far back wall, his fist caving in the walls.

"Boys!" the old man suddenly shouts.

Finally, was the old man just deaf or—

"Watch that shelf, that shipment just came in this week," the man says instead and Soul rubs his temples; everyone here is insane. Everyone here is insane and he can't wait to tell Wes that he's doing great.

"Don't worry, Mr. Deaton, we won't break anything!" the dark-skinned boy promises.

"Dude," Soul says, before he can help himself, "You just broke through the window. It's a little too late for that."

Finally, two pairs of eyes acknowledge him and while the dark-skinned boy smiles lopsidedly in sheepish agreement, the blue-haired boys eyes gleam with new challenge and, before Soul can even get another word out, the blue-haired boy rushes him with a snarling shout.

"Wha—!" Soul barely manages to dodge, but it seems that the blue-haired boy got what he was looking for because then he's laughing noisily and offering him a hand like he hadn't just rushed him with killing intent.

"You're fast! My name's THE GREAT BLACK STAR and I'm the best meister around these parts! That guy over there is one of my followers, Kil—!"

"Kilik Rung, meister," the boy introduces himself after smacking Black Star away. He offers his hand and Soul thinks he's one of the few people that isn't over thirty who looks like an average teenage boy. "You, uh," he gestures to his face and Soul stares, "you're a weapon, right?"

But before Soul could get a word in, Black Star wedges between them and then just talks about how great he is and if he were a weapon, he'd be considering partnering up with him because he was the absolute best. Soul doesn't buy it, neither does Kilik by the looks of it, but Soul realizes that this blue-haired guy was the real deal: a narcissist and reckless to a fault, loud and sort of fun? Soul can't really find it in himself to hate the guy even when he talks over him. He says some dumb things sometime but he's the first guy his age who treats Soul like he's normal and isn't even fazed about his weapon abilities. A guy who doesn't treat him differently because of his money or his connections or his name and this only reinforces Soul's conviction that the only way he's going to be able to maintain this is to change his name in the paperwork every year.

Soul is already a nickname he's used to. Everyone was frightened of his teeth back at home, but they dug his teeth here. Wes had always jokingly compared them to a sharks, but if he's gonna be cool then "Eater" is probably the coolest he's gonna' get. He doesn't think "Soul Shark" would do anything to improve his street cred. His type eats souls, anyway, right? Soul thinks it's fitting, even if the idea of devouring evil kishin souls sort of makes him want to double over and vomit still.

"Black Star! Sid's going to be so mad that you broke Mr. Deaton's window again!" a girlish voice comes from the shattered window. Soul's eyes widen with recognition—it's that girl he met when he first came to Death City. She's wearing a thin tank top and some really short shorts and, from this perspective, he can see that she has braided a headband with her hair and the rest flows down her back loosely. She feels just as dangerous as the two guys who started an impromptu wrestling match in the middle of a record store, Soul realizes.

He doesn't get it yet, how he can know that, but he senses it and something instinctual in him tells him that he has to be careful because he's not at their level yet.

"Pfft, as if Sid'll do anything! He's such a pushover!" Black Star snorts, confidently. "Besides, he likes fixing shit for the old man, right, Mr. Deaton?"

"Well, it is quite nice to have the newest-in-store windows installed every month," Mr. Deaton comments, smiling a little before going back to his task.

The girl sighs, exasperated. Soul sort of wants to, too.

"Dude, c'mon," Kilik snatches his boxing gloves back. "We have to go to class—you can tell Sid we, uh, broke the window again when we get there! Anyway, Soul, we'll catch you later, alright? Don't be a stranger!" Kilik departs with a friendly wave, grabbing Black Star by the collar to bring him along.

"WE SHOULD MEET UP AT THE CONVENTION!" Black Star screeches, before they could leave. "IT'D BE AWESOME, DUDE, OH, FIRST ONE TO KNOCK THE CHANDELIER OFF THE CEILING CAN DARE THE LOSER TO DO WHATEVER THEY WANT!"

"Black Star," the girl growls.

Kilik is grinning deviously despite his previous level-headed appearance. "I'm in!"

And Soul, Soul can't help his own sharp-toothed grin of mischief as he tucks the vinyl under his arm and nods at him. "Bet I can knock it off in the first ten minutes!"

Kilik's shoulders relax for the first time since they met and the girl looks very surprised at him, glossy green eyes fixed on him in a way that makes his skin itch weirdly.

Black Stare pauses, blinks, and laughs even louder: "YOU'RE ON!"

And ten minutes later, as Black Star runs ahead of them while telling them just what he'd make Soul do once he won, Maka turns to Kilik and comments: "He didn't ignore him."

Kilik smiles, nodding. "He seems like a good guy. I wonder what kind of weapon he is," he throws a punch and Maka clasps her hands into fists behind her back and wonders, too.

v.

She finds him so easily because she believes that she already has a connection with him.

It also helps that, earlier, after Kilik knocked down the chandelier and caused the DWMA faculty to finally do something about the student's rambunctious behavior, Maka saw Soul high five Black Star and dart into one of the alcoves near the end of the conference room before disappearing mysteriously altogether.

Regardless, she finds him in no time at all. And it doesn't matter if she's only spoken a handful of words to him, thinks him odd with his detached "cool" act that covers up just how much he actually cares, but she feels it in her soul: he's genuine and nicer than he thinks he is and awkward with his hunched shoulders, sharp teeth, and rogue eyes cast down and hidden beneath a brush of white hair. He befriended Black Star, someone who is notorious for scaring away people with his loud bravado, and if Black Star thinks Soul is good, then Maka will trust him because it's not like she has any reason to doubt her dumb friend. He came from a family of assassins and has prodigious talent in stealth and reading situations. He's just too stupid to really hone those talents still, so Sid tells them desperately every time Black Star does something amazing—then messes it up.

Soul is just shy, Maka decides. He's awkward in his skin, but she thinks it's cute. He reminds her of Professor Stein when her papa rants about how weird he was when they were partners, how insane he was, how Stein would always creep around his room or find him in the oddest of places (like the bathroom or when he's cooking) and not say anything—just stare at him, blankly, then deadpan something even creepier like wanting to see if he cut off his hands and switched them, would they work the same?

But Maka thinks that was Professor Stein's odd (admittedly, rather disturbing) way of trying to reach out to his weapon, of trying to bond, trying to communicate and understand, and her papa hadn't understood; he'd freaked out instead. Their wavelengths weren't in sync at all, and that's why Maka wasn't really surprised that her papa ended up with her mama. Although they're always arguing, Maka can see just as well as anyone else that there is something there—something which ties them together, bonds them; the fact that her papa desecrates that bond every time he flirts around with other people notwithstanding. As weapon and meister, that something remains, thrumming between her mama and papa, heavy and foreboding, and Maka is just as fascinated with it as she is repulsed.

She usually focuses on repulsed, but right now—peering into the dark lounge, finding a familiar spike of white hair by a grand piano—Maka's repulsion has switched to fascination because she feel something like a kinship with this boy, this scythe boy with lazy red eyes and lazy words.

She feels it, and if she's been taught anything while living under Death's rule, it's that one should never ignore the tugging in one's soul.

Maka walks up to Soul, clasping her hands behind her back, mouth rounded with curiosity as Soul stares at the piano keys blankly. Then he looks up, as if sensing her, but knows it was just coincidence since his eyes widen. That's all the surprise he lets show on his face, however.

"It's you."

"Hi," Maka smiles kindly.

It's quiet, and Maka knows that Soul knows what she is here for. He can read it in her tense shoulders, the way her green eyes flicker nervously from the piano to him and then more courageously just on him.

But before she can spring him the question like many others have, he has to know. He has to make sure that she can…handle…that part of him, the part that will always be with him no matter what he does because it makes up who he is. He has to be sure she knows what she's getting herself into because he knows what he's getting himself into—the incident at the record store comes to mind, staring up while light engulfed her also comes to mind—and he doesn't think he'd be able to take it if she suddenly backed out of a partnership with him.

He knows he's a little messed up. Wes always told him it gave him character, but Wes is his brother and accepts all parts of him.

Can she accept all parts of him?

Can she even accept a fraction of him?

That sort of rejection is what he's been running away from and if it's spit back in his face here, if he's not worthy here, then what is he good for? What can he hope to achieve? It'd break him, he decides in that split second, it'd break him even if she's basically a stranger. In fact, that makes it worse, because it tells him that not even a stranger has enough faith in him.

So he fists his hands and turns back to the piano, takes a breath and raises his hands above the keys. "This…is who I really am."

And plays, because that's all he can do.

He can't do any fancy tricks, he can scarcely hold his scythe form, and he freaks out at the sight of blood still. He works out but not enough, he knows that, he's really lazy sometimes and he hates studying. He thinks the idea of eating souls is super gross, but also cool in a morbid, macabre, sort of way and he thinks that partnerships are pains but necessary if he wants to become something—a deathscythe, his music screams, I want to be a deathscythe, I want to be SOMETHING—and he's afraid but not unwilling to do whatever it takes to get there because, as much as he complains and sulks and broods over his incompetency and doing work to get better, he also likes to think that he can do it. On his own terms. By himself, no, with her if she's willing to commit to this, to him, because he'll commit to her, he'll do whatever it takes to get her there if she just—

Trust me, please—please, please trust me not to screw up and I'll be whatever you want. I do whatever you want just—

Don't treat him like his parents did, with the belief that he can't do things on his own, that he needs help because he's helpless on his own, that every achievement or success is not because of his own strength but because of others.

He hits the final note, breathing hard, hoping she understood all of that—part of it, some of it, even just a fucking fraction—and his breath stutters in his lungs when he hears her clapping. He snaps his head in her direction and he finds her eyes shimmering, wide and glossy like he's never seen in his life, and he thinks that—?

"Wow! That was beautiful!" Maka laughs, then scratches the back of her head. "I didn't get it, but I feel like it was something amazing!"

She didn't get it, Soul thinks dumbly, staring at her with a slack jaw, but she…feels it? She felt me? And he can read no deceit in her eyes, sense no bad intention, so when she sticks her hands out and says:

"I'm Maka Albarn and I'm going to create a Deathscythe! Want to be partners?"

He grins because she felt him and takes her hand firmly in his, "Soul Eater," he drawls. "I'm cool with being your partner, Maka. But you better make me into a super cool Deathscythe!"

Her smile becomes a little deranged with conviction. "Of course I will! Nothing is going to stop me from creating a Deathscythe stronger than my papa!"

Soul squints at her, suddenly. "Wait, papa? Hold up, did you say your name was Maka Albarn—?"

But before he can even get the incredulous realization that she is the Maka Albarn, daughter of the current Deathscythe stationed in Death City under Lord Death, loud laughter comes from the speakers and both kids snap their heads towards the open door, wide-eyed and confused, until Soul realizes that the lady on the speaker is reading out the winning ticket for the motorcycle—

"Huh."

"What is it, Soul?" Maka blinks, cocking her head. He's rummaging through his pockets, staring at a little orange ticket.

He grins toothily at her. "I won."

There's a beat of silence, then:

"You did?! YES! YOU WON!" Maka squeals, jumping up and down in utter glee before grabbing his wrist and tugging him out of the door—and for once, with her, for a split second before he uncomfortably tugs his arm away and shoves in his hands in his pockets out of protection, he feels closer to a person than he has ever felt possible and his soul thrums with something, something intangible but weighty and thick, something which makes him think that coming here, to this town, was not a mistake after all.

"Wait, what is it that you won?" Maka blinks after they reach the stage.

"A motorcycle."

"What."

He laughs at the offended look that crosses his meister's face, and high-five's Black Star a week later when he tells him that Maka totally tried to ride behind him that night and fell off when he revved the engine too hard.

vi.

The desert stretches out before them in a dry sea of sand, endless with currents in the form of sandstorms that stifle the air. The sun is strong, at its peak, and it burns every inch of open skin it finds. Soul's thirteen when he grimaces at the feel of sand coating his throat, make it hard to breathe properly. His feet are sinking in the sand, seeming to be swallowed up by the depthless leagues of heat and gravel. This is no condition for a journey, much less a fight. Soul kicks a clump of sand away from his shoes, shading his eyes with his hand to catch a glimpse of their newest mission.

"That him?"

"Mmhm!" Maka squints, and jumps when the pre-kishin snaps his head to her. "What, it sensed me already?" But it made no difference: she would wipe it out before he had a chance to get the better of her.

"So they're sending little kids to do Death's dirty work now, aren't they?" the kishin shouts as it approaches.

"We're not kids!" Maka snaps back, clenching her fists tightly at being dismissed. "And we're here to take your soul under the jurisdiction of Lord Death, Nofix!"

"My soul?" Nofix repeats, then bursts into roaring laughter. His wife beater threatens to split underneath his bulging muscles from the force of his laugh. Soul grimaces, watching the humongous insect-like creature raise itself on its tale, crossing its legs in a show of nonchalance. "Like a bunch of kids can take my soul! You know how many of you I've run out?" His grin widens, eyes narrowing hungrily. They hold Maka's. "You know how many of you kids I've eaten?"

"Nofix…" she hisses.

"As you know, I'm very busy—the life of a pre-kishin is always very busy with the harvesting of souls, just like you little meister's and weapon's," the pre-kishin taunts, sliding back to its taloned feet. "So if you're going to fight me, I'd suggest you do it now," his voice drops, low and dangerous, and Soul tenses immediately at the sound.

"Maka," he warns.

"I know," Maka's gloves stretch over taut knuckles as she falls into a defensive stance. "He's stronger than the others," she remarks, meaning that she understood that the risk of injury or death was higher, too. Significantly higher, as they watch Nofix chuckle darkly and advance on them with slow, steady steps that shake the ground unnaturally.

"Good. I sense your resolve, meister. You'll need it for what I'm about to do next," he promises, and his eyes shine with bloodlust. Soul bares his teeth at the sight, muscles wound tight with the impulse to escape—this pre-kishin is dangerous, Soul can sense his intent to kill so deeply, it chills his bones, and he wants nothing more than to tell his meister to run because that thing is far stronger than they are currently. They can't even resonate at a steady rate; they continuously waver between sixty and forty percent.

"Maka," Soul begs.

"Shh," Maka hushes distractedly, never letting her eyes leave her opponent. "We can do it. We can take him."

"I'll show you what it really means to fight," the pre-kishin snarls, its forked tongue lashing out to lick its fat lips.

Her hands tremble, it's slight but he can feel it. Yet her eyes do not waver from her opponent; they do not show an inkling of defeat despite the odds against them. And suddenly he remembers Nygus, who once locked him with her gaze, her fists poised for attack, her words cold, "How can you ever hope to protect your meister if you're only thinking about running away?"

That's right – he remembers, remembers standing on that fighting mat with sweat running rivulets down his neck, sticking his shirt to his back as his muscles trembled from exertion. He remembers Nygus and her solid stance, as smooth and controlled as a flowing river, with the capacity to turn into a ruthless rapid at a dimes notice.

An opponent's strength does not determine their chances of success, Soul recites nervously, the closer Nofix advances. There are many other variables which factor into a person's fighting ability and the rate of success. Strength is determined by the environment, the intensity of training, the state of the body; but, most importantly, strength is determined by the state of the soul. As there are too many factors which can influence a person's ability to fight, it would be wrong to judge a fight as a failure from the get-go.

Yet he can't stop thinking that if they don't leave now, Maka will come out of this battle very injured—dead?

"Your will to escape clashes with Maka's will to win," Nygus states, sliding into a defensive stance against her student. Her eyes are hard; they lock with his and bolt him in place as her words clinch a painful part of his heart that had begun to chip itself in the shape of Maka's soul. "This, in turn, impedes your resonance rate. If you cannot match your will to Maka's, you will only end up hurting her progress."

Soul swallows thickly, his fists trembling.

"You are the only obstacle standing in Maka's way."

"You're wrong!" Soul shouts instantly, sweating cold. He can't be; he refuses to be a burden that is only slowing down his meister. Did he not leave his family in order to prove that he can be more than that, more than a hindrance?

"Then fight me with the intent to kill," Nygus challenges.

A strangled sort of noise chokes in his throat and he can't make his legs move, can't raise his scythe with the will to fight her—because he can sense her bloodlust, unbridled and self-serving, directed at him with the most malicious of intents. It's enough to seize him in place; she hasn't even moved, hasn't made a single inclination to attack him, and he's already strategizing routes of escape.

She is waiting for him to move.

"Let's go, Soul Eater!" Maka screams, breaking into a dash as the tension snaps. His reverie lapses, and Soul facilitates Maka's intense soul wavelength the best he can as she charges up for an attack. The pre-kishin is strong, he can tell from this far, the strongest they have encountered yet—telling in the way it swats Maka's strikes as if it were an annoying fly. Soul clenches his teeth, but says nothing, watching Maka strike at the pre-kishin again and again, thwarted by the monsters scorpion tale which parries each of Maka's attacks with little effort. He can see the beginnings of a cruel grin stretch across the pre-kishin's face, its insectile eyes narrowing at the realization that they're not as strong as they pretend to be.

They're not strong enough, Soul realizes.

"There's no way we can win," Soul gulps right after, his reflection flashing in the flat of his scythe. "Maka, he's too strong! You felt it!"

Maka tightens her grip, shaking her head. "We can win, I know we can!"

"Hah? Idiot! There's no way I'm gonna' let you die in some damn desert! Let's just go!" Soul barks, and Maka's brow twitches with the tell-tale signs of annoyance. "That pre-kishin isn't a C-rank like the bulletin said it was, and you know that protocol states that—!"

"—we should report misinformation about a mission immediately and retreat," Maka finishes for him, rolling her eyes. There's a hint of a grin on her lips, arrogance making her eyes flash a brighter green. "But I'm telling you, we can beat it! We've trained enough! We're definitely strong enough to beat it, it's just going to take a while!"

Soul hesitates. "Maka—!"

"Just trust me!"

And before he can fit another word in, she's off and his mind crowds with thoughts of possible outcomes, all gruesome and unsatisfactory, and the desert is long and offers no places for hiding—and his motorcycle is parked too far for him to reach with Maka's weight in his arms, he's too weak to carry her that far if things go sour, so why didn't he work out his biceps more like Black Star said he should—

"Soul. Your habit of gauging failure is not your fault. Sometimes, it's important to know when one has no chance. But it starts to interfere when you allow it to take over every single decision in your life," Nygus tells him, calmly. "This is your biggest weakness, and one you must overcome if you wish to become a Deathscythe."

He knows that—he knows that, but it's hard. He's done well so far, especially when it comes to hands-on applications of theories they learned in class. He relies on Maka for the more academic portion of their training, taking advantage of the physical portion because it's the most important. Maka is the textbook, he takes the heavy blows

At least, this is what he believes will gain them the most success.

"But you cannot underestimate your meister."

It's textbook stuff; he knows it because it was the first thing that was taught to him when he entered the DWMA, registered as Soul Eater under his MEISTER: Maka Albarn. But he can't, he realizes in that instant, be one portion of a whole. This is a PARTNERSHIP, another textbook word: a relationship consisting of two individuals, involving close cooperation and joint responsibilities and rights. He can't offset certain responsibilities just as Maka can't hoard certain rights because it will disrupt the balance between them.

This is what it means to work as Weapon and Meister.

"You must trust your meister," Nygus commands, eyes flashing. "You must aid your meister. You must obey your meister. That is a weapon's duty. A weapon protects and enables their meister's strength. You are a receptacle for your meister's power and if you fail, they fail."

Nygus' words are ripped from his mind in a burst of beige heat and roaring laughter, the sharp pang of metal against armor. Soul transforms back without his knowing, hitting the ground hard in a rush of sand and fire. Sand fills his nostrils and he sneezes, blood dripping on his knuckles. He slaps a hand over his nose; it stings, but his eyes search for Maka instead. It's hot and every stretch of skin that touches the sand burns, but he raises himself back up to his elbows, his knuckles, until he's kneeling and watching in gut-dropping dread as his meister, weaponless, faces an opponent much stronger than they are.

And then Nygus proves herself right, and Soul feels a little more than an asshole for discounting Maka so quickly.

He forgets just how, in her recklessness, she always finds a way.

His meister will always find a way.

"What are you going to do now, huh?" Nofix taunts, its tail swiping behind it with anticipation. "You've just lost your weapon! How are you ever—?"

"Shut up!" Maka snarls, bursting into a blurring sprint, fast enough that it effectively chokes off Soul's cry of her name in incredulous surprise. Soul always knew she was strong, but when did she get so fast? "YOU!" She vanishes and then reappears mid-air, even with the pre-kishin's head, her leg outstretched in a devastating kick resembling Black Star's, "TALK TOO MUCH!" And her foot collides with the pre-kishin's head in a crushing blow, hard enough to throw it back a few feet and stun it, and Soul is running towards her as fast as he can before the blow even connects.

Blood dribbles down his mouth.

He's never felt so alive.

She's strong—so much stronger than he gives her credit for, so much stronger than he first anticipated she would be.

Maka belongs a legacy, but she also has the will to surpass that legacy, and he will do whatever it takes just to follow a step behind her.

It's what he promised her in that room, after all.

"MAKA!" He outstretches his hand.

"SOUL!" She grins, and her eyes are emerald fire—wild and hotter than the sun that scorches the land, hotter than the sand that blisters his skin, hotter than anything he can ever come into contact with. She grips his hand tight, promising to never let go, and it's only there—pre-kishin number 76—that he realizes his calculations had been wrong, terribly wrong, this entire time.

"Let's end this!" Maka screams, raising him above her head, her eyes wild with the thrill of the fight. Her lips twitch into a wide grin as the pre-kishin stumbles around on its knees, clutching its face, screeching about how she broke his facial armor and how it'd take weeks to repair it naturally—

"NOFIX! YOUR SOUL IS MINE!"

His meister is strong and absolute, Soul thinks as Nofix falls dead on the ground in two blows, a red soul already erupting from its caved in chest.

He will not fail her again.

vii.

It's cold—and Soul finds that he does not particularly like the cold. At seventeen, it reminds him of things that makes his face twist up, his shoulders hunch—they're memories he'd rather keep buried, but these thoughts are quickly swept away when he feels a slight surge in soul energy from Maka. Immediately, his eyes flicker to her and he finds his meister staring below her with a frightening intensity. He's still not used the daunting way her Soul Perception highlights her usually warm eyes. Like this, he's reminded of previous enemies, of a bloodlust and danger that had once made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Either way, his heart picks up and not with fear.

It's telling of his issues, how such a dangerous look gets his blood hot.

"I'm guessing that's our guy?"

"Yes," Maka replies, cracking her shoulder. Her legs swing freely; they're hovering hundreds of feet in the air, concealed by the rolling, night clouds. It's surprising just how good her vision is. Maka breathes out, then beams at him, her eyes set and fiery. "Crowley Morgenstern. When he was human, he partook in various bloodletting and sacrificial ceremonies, eventually seeking out his own prey and continuing the practice in his very home. Safe to assume, he began to eat innocent souls and became that," Maka wrinkles her nose in disgust, her eyes straying to the hulking figure that prowls the forest grounds. She can see claws from her vantage point, and she watches how they dig into the earth in what she quickly deduces is a grave.

There had been more victims, Maka grimaces. They had come too little too late for them.

"Has it sensed us yet?"

"No," Maka answers. "It's digging a grave. It won't notice us as long as it's preoccupied and we keep our distance."

"Do you think we should attack it now, while its guard is down?"

Maka shakes her head. "No, that would complicate things. We wait, then we attack when it's fully aware of us."

Soul looks skeptical.

"You see those," Maka points a finger at the pre-kishin's incredibly bulky arms, all corded muscle, all harder than steel. It's a good thing her weapon is stronger than any metal on earth. "If we ambush, it'll attack instantly. Remember, the report states that he has lived in the forest all of his life. He's an alpha predator in these parts, and will have that advantage so long as he's in the forest."

"…and we don't know the range of those claws, nor the layout of the forest," Soul catches on, peering down with a casual expression. The flat of the scythe glints and more of Soul shows, down to his strong shoulders and the elegant curve of his collarbone. Maka slides her gaze away, not about to be distracted by her weapon's physique during a mission. "The previous team was taken out by those claws, right?"

"Mm. I saw the bodies," Maka tells him, and Soul snaps his head to her, lips parting to ask when and why didn't you tell me, idiot, going to look at dead bodies is so creepy. But she knows already. Soul scowls when she grins knowingly at him—so, she'd read that in his soul, huh? Whatever. Creep.

Maka glowers slightly, having sensed that, but continues: "They were mutilated in two strikes, cut into strips from neck to thigh. Safe to say, its claws are its first weapon of choice and they're very effective."

"So maybe we should ambush after all? We're faster than them."

"They tried an ambush attack, and it backfired. It has sharp reflexes and I'm not about to risk it."

Soul sighs. It was worth a shot. "So, we're going with a head-on assault?"

Maka's eyes darken and Soul doesn't let his gaze waver, an unspeakable, thrilling shiver racing down his spine at the look. She's so concentrated—she's at her peak, in her element, and Soul bites his lip hard enough to hurt to keep from grinning too wide when she declares, with a tone of finality, "We're going to lure it away from the forest and into the lowlands. Soul, can you go on ahead and wait? I'll be the bait this time."

"Bait? We're baiting an alpha predator?" Soul says incredulously, using her words for emphasis.

Maka pouts.

"I have a plan!"

"Ohh, and what's this great plan of yours, wise one? Remember when you had a great plan last time?" Soul reminds with a meaningful look. Maka cringes, laughing sheepishly at the reminder.

"Ah, but I really do have a plan this time! Promise! Just trust me on this, Soul!" Maka loses her playfulness, her green eyes hardening. "I won't let any more people die."

Soul holds her gaze for a second, then releases a gusty sigh. "Alright, but if things get nasty, don't expect me to just sit around and watch!"

Maka nods brightly, and his cheeks dust pink. "It's a promise! Now, let's head down and finish off this bastard!"

"As you wish, my meister~!" Soul sings, evading a whack by plunging down meters away from the beast. In one swoop, Maka is crouched beneath some underbrush and Soul is hidden behind a tree, hands stuffed in his pockets.

They're still for a moment, watching if the kishin sensed them enough to stop. But it only looks around, cautiously, sniffing the air. A deep rumble escapes its chest.

"Now," Maka hisses, and Soul disappears. Maka waits fifteen more seconds before she decides it's time to rattle the chain of command in these parts of the woods.

And that's how he gets himself into these messes, Soul thinks five minutes later, when Maka is weaponless and dumb courageous in the face of total danger.

Sure, he trusts Maka. He trusts her more than any other person on the planet. They've been together, what, years, and he knows that she makes some pretty reckless decisions although she sounds damn rational when they're planning. That's the thing, though, she doesn't follow the plan, and that's what finds him in this situation here.

Maka hadn't gone to the lowlands—she'd stayed slightly before them and the only reason Soul found her was because whenever they did this bait-and-run plan, they gave each other five minutes unless otherwise specified.

It doesn't matter that she managed to grab him before the kishin attacked: Maka jerked too far right to avoid a slash and he got parried out of her hand, and now he's transformed back into a human and staring in abject terror.

Of all the fucking times Maka could hesitate, it's right now, and it results in her being disarmed.

There's no way I can reach her in time, Soul realizes instantly, terror seizing him. "MAKA," he screams, turning on his side and breaking into the fastest sprint he could.

Maka, however, stops him dead in his tracks when she attacks her opponent bare-fisted.

"The claws!" Soul reminds.

"I GOT IT!" She throws punch after punch, blocking, hacking out a snarl as she catches its fists in her stomach. But she never wavers, and Soul finds himself breathless as he watches them move so fast, their movements are just blurs and disturbed air. She manages to slow him down, damage him, enough for Soul to reach her on time, and her intense soul energy overpowers him for a split-second when they touch, resulting in a moment of sheer unity so strong that he transforms not as a normal scythe, but as Demon Hunter, and with one smooth swing, the pre-kishin is sliced in half with no trouble.

Maka wobbles, then falls to her knees, her enormous scythe blade sinking into the ground as if it were butter. Soul transforms before Maka loses grip on him and ends up on his butt beside her, wide-eyed, and the words, "What the fuck was that?" escape his mouth before he has time to even think about it.

"Us, winning." Maka grins cockily.

Soul slits his eyes. "You IDIOT!" He scrambles onto his knees, glaring at her. "Why did you hesitate?! You had him there, you could have finished it if you hadn't decided to hesitate and let me go! Do you know how dangerous it is for a meister to be caught in battle without a weapon—!"

"Yes, yes, I do know because we both took that class together and I was the one who paid attention while you fell asleep," she reminds, pointedly, and he decides to ignore that tidbit for the more pressing issue at hand.

"So why did you hesitate?"

Maka isn't looking at him when she says, in a softer tone: "That…that stance," she pauses, collects herself, and Soul feels his anger and anxiety drain at the sound, "It reminded me of…Rome," she reveals, then in a stronger voice: "With Chrona, when he backed us up into the door."

Oh, is all he can think, so he reaches for her hand and laces their fingers together. It's all he can think of doing because that trauma Maka has isn't one that's going to go away any time soon. It'll always haunt her, just like he'll always be haunted every time Maka nearly dies. All they can do is comfort each other, and Soul does just that: Maka leans into his warmth, doesn't look at him—can't, he thinks—and chooses to gaze at their united hands and squeeze every so often, wanting him to squeeze back, as if to remind her that he is alive and, no, she's not just holding his hand anchor herself like that time in Rome. He's here, he's okay, and—

"I'd do anything, y'know," he tells her, too casually considering the weight his words hold—the words he pounded into the piano when they first met, the words he still means now, more than ever.

Maka squeezes her eyes shut; she felt him, that time, felt his fierce dedication and dreams. Yes, yes, and that's the worst part, "I know," but that's also the best part because their partnership is absolute and Maka would also do anything for him.

"But seriously, what the hell was that? I've never transformed directly into anything else than my default form."

"I felt you," Maka tells him with a smile, stretching like a cat against him. His hand falls to grip her hips; he scowls and flicks her skirt so it covers her thighs properly. Maka rolls her eyes; he's so conservative about that, you would think Soul hadn't been drooling after big-chested bimbos when they were preteens. Then again, he was trying to be something he wasn't back then. "That's how these things work, Soul, we were just on the same wavelength today. We have to be able to do this every time," she tilts her head back, grinning in challenge. "We're going to train so we're more in tune with each other's thoughts!"

"Isn't that kinda' creepy?" Soul teases. "Us knowing each other's every thought even when we're not resonating."

"It can't be that bad," Maka yawns, then smirks up at him. "If you're as chaste as you say you are."

Soul feels his face burn and it does nothing to help his image. Things haven't been the same since he became a Deathscythe and he decided enough was enough: he was his own person and sometimes, yeah, he could be a little snobby and moody, but he could also be really understanding and realistic. It was who he really was and he'd stopped hiding it from everyone now.

"If you're as impure as I think you are, we may have a problem," Soul mutters, snickering when Maka makes a noise in the back of her throat and elbows him gently in the side.

"C'mon! We got the soul, let's head back. Liz sent me a message earlier since your phone is off. She wants to know if you want to go with her to that new jazz cafe that opened up by Drear Street."

"Eh, fuck," Soul grimaces. "Bet she wants more advice. Should start charging…"

"But you give out great advice, Soul," Maka encourages.

"Not when it comes to dating. She's been raving about this guy for weeks and hasn't done anything about it. It's not like Kid takes them on missions anymore. She has the time," Soul grumbles. "The only dates I've been on are the ones where I drive you to the hospital because you did something dumb."

"Hey!" Maka pouts. "You said you didn't mind!"

Soul snorts, wandering over to the red soul. He takes it, swallows it, and then falls into step with Maka as they leave the forest grounds. "Of course I don't mind. I'm just saying I don't do dates and Liz thinks I'm some sort of dating guru."

"Hmm," Maka clasps her hands behind her. "Well, even if you don't like dating, you do give out sound advice about everything else. I trust you," Maka adds suddenly, looks over at him and beams brightly. His face heats up again and he darts his eyes away. "So I'm sure our friends do, too, and that's why they come to you for advice all the time. It's why I need you," Maka lets her hands fall and she reaches over to grab his. He immediately squeezes, lacing their fingers together. "If I didn't have you there to tell me not to rush into things, I'd probably be dead by now," she laughs. "Or just maimed beyond recognition."

"Ugh, Death Children are weird," Soul groans, tugging her closer. Their shoulders press together but Maka only hums happily. He can't tell if she's just that dense or she's way more innocent than he takes her for. It's probably the former. "Don't talk about dying like that."

"Why? It's natural."

"Just don't," he insists. "You're not gonna' die until you're old and smell like those books in the libra—ow!"

"Shut up! Old book smell is nice," Maka huffs.

Soul rolls his eyes. "Weirdo," and smiles when she just lets her weight fall on his side. Dense weirdo, he thinks with a blow of breath, who hugs him like they've done this their entire lives and thinks nothing of it. His arm wraps around her waist and he's just thinking that tonight will be another night spent talking to Liz about how dense and adorable Maka is when he feels something soft on his cheek—

"Did you just kiss me?" Soul squawks, and slits his eyes when Maka giggles at him, a sly look in her eye. She's very flushed and he thinks he looks the same, too.

"What? It was just on the cheek," Maka tells him, coughing into her fist. She's still smiling, though. "It wasn't…bad, r-right?" She loses some of her confidence at his staring, looking somewhere into the trees to distract herself.

He clears his throat, coughing. "No—it was…nice," he swallows, staring at her. Maybe she wasn't as dense as he thought her to be—maybe Liz was right and he needed to make a move on her. "Huh. Who knew you could actually be cute. For once."

He deserved that smack, but he figures he'll make it up to her later with some tea and sweets.

A/N: Hello! This is my submission for the Soul Eater Reverb 2015! I hope you enjoyed it! As per all Soul Eater fandom-wide events, this piece also has some art which you can see if you visit allium-cepa-39's Tumblr or my writing blog which is scurwrites on Tumblr! If you have difficultly locating the art, feel free to shoot me a message! I'd be happy to guide you in the right direction! Forgive any writing errors; I tried to go over it as best I could!

Thanks for reading and the reviews!

Scur.