a/n: i just want them to be happy.

fun fact: i've set this fic in the same universe as last year's resbang, unrequited, which you can use as a backstory as to how soul and maka get together in the canon timeline, but it isn't necessary to read it beforehand. aside from some minor references and just-for-fun parallels, both stories exist completely on their own. (:

chapter two: singing you a song

you can't lose what you never had. or so they say.

here.

Their bed is colder without her in it. It's pathetic how quickly he can tell the difference.

Woken an emptiness he can't explain, Soul immediately reaches his hand out, fingers grappling over cool sheets and empty space. The weight in his chest from her absence brings back all his adolescent fears in a rush—she's gone, she left him, he doesn't deserve her, she finally realized she could do so much better than the worthless being that he is—and it's a fight to stay afloat.

He lets himself ride the panic for a brief moment before stifling his anxiety into a tightly locked box. He can feel her soul not far away, so filled with sorrow. She doesn't need to deal with his pitiful attachment issues, too.

"Sorry," she whispers when he finds her in the living room.

She's sitting in front of the window, knees pulled to her chest, a thin blanket drowning her small frame. The only light is from the tiny bead on the fire alarm and the glowing numbers on the kitchen stove and microwave.

Night always feels so much darker these days. It's the downside of a blackened moon.

Pressing his lips against her skin, he curls his body around her from behind and buries his face in the crook of her neck. He can feel the tension leave his shoulders at the physical contact, exhaling low and deep. "Another nightmare?"

"Kind of." She hesitates briefly before reaching her hand back to rest on his neck.

Immediately, he's swarmed with images that aren't his. Dark shadows, teeming with madness. Haunted screams echoing behind their friends' filthy, defeated shoulders. His face, ragged, worn, in front of her, begging for something neither of them can hear.

Blood. So much blood.

He tightens his grip on her. "Maka…"

"I know," she says. "I just… We defeated the kishin. The Witch Treaty is thriving. For the first time in decades, there's actual peace in our world—true, thriving change—and I don't—I don't understand why I keep dreaming about this."

"Peace or not, we still lived through war. It's natural to still be affected."

"Maybe," she agrees, though he knows she's just placating him so he doesn't worry about her.

"I'm right here, Maka."

"I know."

"We're okay."

"I know."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I know," she says again, and after another pause, this one filled with unspoken terror, she whispers, "But what if I am?"

there.

It feels like she barely manages to close her eyes when she's woken by shattering glass.

Before Maka can process what's happening, blinking lethargically through the thick haze of unconsciousness that threatens to drown her, something thick and prickly tightens around her ankle and yanks hard enough that she goes flying off the bed.

She lands with a thud, her hip bruising against the ground. When she tries to crawl onto her knees, the thing wrapped around her ankle pulls again, forcing her to remain sprawled out on her side and elbows. She glances back to see what's holding her down, but in the darkness of the guest room, she can only see shadows upon shadows.

What the—?

Suddenly, she's flipped over onto her back as the prickly bind slithers over her to pin her wrists as well as her other ankle. Now that she's aware that this isn't some fluke of nature, she can make out the slithery shapes of vine-like ropes, except instead of being green and earthy, they're pure black and fluid as if they're dripping with ebony paint instead of being made purely of shadows.

For a moment, she's so stunned that she can't even move, and then, when she regains her senses, she learns she physically can't move, those vine-like shadows holding her in place as tightly as coiled wire. No matter how much she thrashes and yanks against them, they refuse to budge.

"Help," Maka tries to scream, but then a figure jumps on top of her, clamming one dark hand over her mouth as a horrifying, mutated face appears inches away from hers.

Small, beady eyes shining with malice. Scaly, inky skin that seems to drip shadows just like the vines. A wide mouth overfilled with thin, jagged teeth. Angular, misshapen shoulders that hunch significantly as the creature leans over her frame.

Its breath is hot and putrid against her face and she screams into the hand clamped over her mouth as its lips pull back into a terrifying smile.

"Prrrrrretttyy thiiiiinggg," it hisses. "Prrrretttyy souuul."

And then it bites into her shoulder.

Maka screams. The pain is searing, more like someone is burning through her flesh than simply biting into it with horrifying teeth. Pleased with her agonized sounds, the creature makes the mistake of lowering its defences with its assault, which allows Maka to anchor her hands enough to blast her soul wavelength through its monstrous torso.

It releases her with an animalistic screech. Taking advantage of that moment to scramble towards the door, Maka bursts through with enough force that Kid grunts when she rams into his chest. Before she can say anything, he tugs her behind him with one hand and jerks Harvar—already transformed into a spear—through the monster that leaps at them with an unrestrained cry.

It explodes into nothing but seared demon flesh and smoke.

"Kid—" she starts to say, still stunned and half-asleep as she presses a hand to staunch her shoulder's bleeding, but the reaper whirls on her, his eyes vibrant. Almost wild.

"You need to go. Now."

"But—"

"That thing that attacked? It's barely a pawn. And it isn't alone. They're coming for you."

"For me? Why?"

Kid reaches a hand to cup the back of her neck, his expression dark and earnest. "I was hoping we'd have longer to assimilate you into our world instead of thrusting you straight into the chaos, but it seems things are moving more quickly than I'd expected. Asura must already sense you're here. And if he thinks we believe you can do something to stop him, he will do everything in his power to eliminate you first."

"And you… you knew he'd come after me," she realizes, horror settling in her bones. "Fuck, Kid, I'm so sorry. If I'd known I would lead them here—"

"Stop. Talking," he says fiercely. "I'm not stupid, Maka. Keeping you here was never a risk I hesitated to take. But even worse is endangering your life and I will die before I let that happen, so you need to leave before the swarm gets here and tries to make another pass at your soul."

"What? No! If they're attacking because of me, there's no way I'm just going to run and leave you guys to—what the hell are you doing?" she breaks off to cry out when the reaper merely scoops her up in his arms and stalks towards the broken window with unwavering purpose. "Kid!"

"You can't be of use to us here," he tells her. "Not without a weapon. But these monsters are nothing. Harvar and I can stall them while you do something for me—something only you can do."

Green eyes widen. "Anything."

"Take Soul and find a witch."

"Soul? But—he's nearly an hour away." Several if she tries to make it by foot again. "Plus, there's no way he'd ever agree to work with me for anything, not after he was so glad to be rid of me last night."

"For someone who claims to have known him best in another life, you really don't understand him at all." His lips twist wryly. "Did you really think Soul would ever let you out of his sight in a world like this for even a second?"

"He's… upset with me."

"We're all upset," says Kid, "but it's never been because you're here." He presses a kiss to the top of her head, short and sweet. Too sweet. Like he's not sure he'll ever see her again. "Keep a mirror on hand. I'll be in contact."

And then he drops her—right out of the third-story window.

More stunned than scared, it takes her nearly a full heartbeat before she's able to react, twisting to land agily on her feet. But before she can reach the ground, something swift plucks her right from the sky, elbows anchored beneath her knees and shoulders.

The person lands nimbly with her carried in his arms and she looks up at his face with shock, feeling like a very surprised princess.

"Soul." Kid was right; he's really here. How did she not notice until now? Where has he been lingering? And why would he go to all this trouble just to follow a girl he claims is nothing but a nuisance?

"Can you walk?" he asks swiftly, even as he keeps sprinting down the street, away from the Gallows Manor.

"I'm sorry?"

"Can you walk," Soul repeats, this time with significantly less patience. "I'll carry you if you're injured, but until we're clear of the area, I prefer to have my hands free in case of an attack."

Right. "I—I'm good."

He doesn't slow down for another few blocks, and even then, he only takes a moment to set her back down on her feet before he jerks his chin, indicating that they keep moving right away.

"You're still wearing my clothes," he says quietly as they dark amongst shadows. The ends of her pants unravel a bit with her movement, but she's careful to kick them up with each step so she doesn't have to stop to roll the edges again. It's not like they'll stay up anyway. "Didn't Kid give you something else to change into?"

He did. "Does it matter?"

A pause. "No. I guess it doesn't." Another corner, another winding strip. "What does he need you to do?" When she looks surprised, Soul lets out a dark laugh. "Trust me, I know you'd never agree to leave a battle unless you were given a higher purpose. And Kid definitely wouldn't have left you to me if he had any other choice."

"He… wants me to find a witch." Though she isn't sure why. From what little they've told her about this world, it's clear that the witches never came to aid them during the war and that heavily impacted how they fared in the Battle on the Moon. It was a miracle they made it out of there alive—though of course, not without casualties.

If the witches had decided the DWMA wasn't to be trusted before, Maka doubts they'll suddenly agree to work together now, especially since weapons and meisters had continued to hunt witches following the apocalypse so they would have the strength to stay alive.

Soul, on the other hand, seems to understand Kid's intent too well.

"He must believe your story. Probably thinks that if the witches helped save your world, they could be the key to redeeming ours." He scoffs lowly, not so much scathing disbelief but rather dark amusement. "He's always been far too gullible for his own good."

Maka's brows pull together. "Are you saying you still don't trust me? Even after all I've told you?"

"I don't trust anyone," is all he says. "Now stop talking. I don't want to attract any more demons than I have to until we're out of the city."

"Are we flying?"

Had she not been so focused on his soul, she might've missed the way it flinched at her words. "No. We'll take my bike. It's parked by the school."

Her chest tightens, but she doesn't comment on it. She's not stupid. Despite how much easier it would be to fly, they can't travel by air without flawless resonance, and this version of her weapon would rather peel his skin off than allow her anywhere near his soul. "It won't be easy to find a witch," she warns. "We might be gone for a while. You don't have to come with me. You can back out now."

He doesn't even look at her when he responds. "You'll be dead within the hour if I send you outside the city on your own."

"That's not your responsibility."

His voice is quiet as they hear the distant sounds of demons screeching far behind them. "Isn't it?"

ii.

As it turns out, spending a couple hours clinging to her former weapon on the back of his motorcycle isn't any less awkward than if she'd ridden him like a broom.

By the time he starts to slow, they managed to make it out of Death City, through the small gated path that cut through the forest, and back to the closest bout of civilization to the east. And that was only after spending far too long under the blistering heat of the rising sun as they crossed the desert, which somehow made her feel hot and burnt on the outside even though her bones were stiff from the cold.

At least, this is supposed to be civilization. This city is somehow even worse off than her hometown, with shattered buildings, cracked, deserted streets, and not a single other soul within its narrow perimeter.

Even worse is the air. Without Kid's magical forest purifying the surrounding madness, it's like moving through a thick sludge of mud, pressing down on her shoulders with the force of ten weighted blankets.

Part of her is terrified of Soul being out in an atmosphere like this when he used to succumb so easily to insanity, but he seems strangely centered. He must be fairly used to this after having lived through it for so long, but it still makes her wonder how he survived in the first place.

It was never a secret that Kid's father viewed Soul's black blood as somewhat of a beneficial liability. Helpful in battle, but also a ticking time bomb strapped to his chest.

No one knew how much time he had left before he would burst. Most of them assumed Maka would be his trigger and that if anything were to happen to her, his demise would not be far behind. And yet here he is, in this alternate timeline, five years after her passing, still alive. Maybe not okay, but at least breathing. Focused. Untainted by madness.

She doesn't understand it. But then, she doesn't understand a lot of things.

Only when the bike pulls into the parking lot of an abandoned motel does she realize how heavy his soul is. He is exhausted. Deep shadows weighing on his back and a tension to his shoulders that could only be attributed to the fight someone has when they're struggling to stay awake… It occurs to her that if he'd followed her since the moment she left his cabin and had been so quick to respond to the attack at the Gallows despite not crashing there, he must've gotten less sleep than her—if any at all.

Guilt is her first instinct. Affection comes next. She wants to smooth those lines with a kiss but refrains, knowing any act of love in this world could easily be misconstrued as an act of war.

"If we'd taken a car, we could've taken turns driving," she says instead, letting her concern peek through as if shedding her own mask will somehow make him trust her more. "I doubt you got any more sleep than I did last night. You could probably use a nap."

He snorts as he flicks the kickstand in place and swings his leg off the bike. "You expect me to believe you actually got your license?"

"I—shut up!" she yelps with embarrassment. "It's not my fault I was a good meister and always let you drive." Soul preferred to remain behind the wheel, and since she never went anywhere of distance without him, she never felt the need to learn. "Besides, it can't be that different from driving a go-kart or something."

"Back when we used to go racing, you were the only one who never made it once around the track because you couldn't stop ramming into Black Star or the hay exterior. Unless you magically developed a competent sense of speed or self-preservation, I'm pretty sure I'd be better off fighting blind than trusting you behind the wheel of any vehicle."

"I was fourteen!"

He levels her with a look. "You spent years as a child soldier who hunted a hundred tainted souls before you even hit puberty. Age isn't an excuse for not excelling at something, not for you."

Though it's more of an insult than anything else, she can't help the way her cheeks flush like he's given her the highest compliment. "Left, gas. Right, break. What else is there to know?"

His face pulls into a grimace as if she's said something so profoundly wrong it's actually giving him a headache. "And you wonder why I never let you drive…" He jerks his head toward the horseshoe of stacked apartments. "Come on."

"Wait, why are we stopping here? There aren't any witches nearby." Her soul perception might not be as powerful without resonance and she hasn't been able to pinpoint the exact location of any witches, but she knows they still have a ways to go in this direction before they run into one. Which makes sense considering no self-respecting witch would be caught dead anywhere near the main base for the school that hunts their kind.

"For all we know, trying to have a civil conversation with a witch is going to result in another attempt on our lives, and I really don't want to have to deal with it on negative twenty hours of sleep." Soul shuffles forward, shoulders taut, leaving her to scramble after him. "We'll be safe for the next few hours, at least until night falls again. This place isn't as much of a target as Death City. Might as well take advantage of that and get some rest while we can."

The room is clean—for the most part. At least, as clean as an abandoned room in a post-apocalyptic world can possibly be.

There are two full-sized beds, a dresser, a desk, and a tiny alcove with a microwave and coffee station with items she's not sure she trusts five years post-set-up date. It's not exactly the cosiest of places, but it'll do. And even though the city is filled with empty houses with empty beds and probably much nicer accommodations literally anywhere else, Maka understands why he chose it.

There's something wrong about crashing in a home that isn't yours. Especially one that belonged to someone who likely died because you weren't able to save them.

The world may be a free-for-all post-apocalypse, but there are some lines even monsters won't cross.

Unsurprisingly, Soul takes the bed by the window, the same way he always slept on the side closest to the door whenever they crashed together. Her silent protector, always wordlessly putting himself between her and any possible dangers that might come through.

"Do you want to sleep first?" he asks quietly.

She immediately shakes her head. "I'm not tired. You go ahead. You need it more than I do." Though she can tell he doesn't want to leave her alone with the sole burden of protecting them, she promises, "I'll wake you if I sense any strange activity nearby. Please. Get some rest. I don't want you fighting like this."

He must be more exhausted than she realized because he doesn't protest further.

He passes out quickly, barely under the covers. She notices his shoes are still on, probably because he's used to having to get up in a flash with no chance to do even throw on some footwear.

The fact that this world has gotten so bad he's disallowed himself the privilege of sleeping barefoot makes her want to cry. He's been put through so much. Five years, all on his own, cut off from Kid, looked down on by Liz and Harvar.

What is wrong with her friends? Did something happen to Black Star and Patty?

Where is her father?

Soul has only been asleep for maybe five minutes when Maka realizes the silence might drive her insane. Waiting around has always been her least favorite part of war and it was by far the component she least excelled at. Impatience is ingrained in her blood; sitting still is impossible if she doesn't have something to obsess over.

On the surface, she may be able to wear the mask of a tranquil sea, but underneath there is always violent turbulence. A tsunami, waiting to break free. Her entire being is a storm and keeping it under wraps seems so impossible most days she's not sure how she's survived this long.

Then her partner begins to stir in his sleep, his soul so connected to hers, even in anger, especially with his guard down with his unconsciousness, and she knows.

It's because of him. Always him.

Forcing her soul to calm is a lot easier when she's doing it for someone else. Every time she feels the anxiety rise again, she shoves it down, imagining the tense edges of his face, the sad darkness hiding behind his irises, the flickering fire she can't stop feeling from him despite not having any idea what must be stoking it.

She's so focused on trying to tame her emotions that she almost doesn't recognize the faint ringing sound in the background until she hears Kid's voice.

"Maka? Are you there?"

She jumps up so quickly she almost falls flat on her face, rushing to the bathroom and carefully closing the door so quietly it takes more than a few breaths. Her eyes don't leave Soul's sleeping form until it physically disappears behind the barrier of the wood.

"Is everything alright?" Kid asks through the mirror. He looks to be in one piece, a little brushed with dirt but otherwise unharmed. Harvar stands several feet behind him, facing off to the side.

Nodding, she says, "Soul's just taking a quick nap before we continue pursuing a witch. We shouldn't be too far off and then we'll be able to connect with you before making contact, hopefully not scaring her off."

"Have you two managed to pinpoint the exact location of one?"

She's not quick enough to hide her wince. "I, um… Not exactly," she admits. "But it's fine! My resonance has grown strong enough on its own that I can determine the general direction we need to travel in, and I'll definitely be able to sense it when we get closer."

"Maka…"

"Please, Kid," she begs. "You've seen what my presence has been doing to him. He doesn't want to resonate with me. I can't force him."

"We've all done things we didn't want to do," replies the reaper. "Soul, of all people, should know that. If he's not willing to put everything on the line to find a way to fix this mess—to protect you—then maybe I should've sent you with someone else after all."

"No!" she bursts out, the whisper seeming harsh with how hard it is to control it. "No," she repeats, quieter this time but just as emphatic. "Soul and I will be fine. It's not a problem. I promise, we'll find a witch and we won't let you down."

Even through the mirror, she can sense the displeasure in Kid's soul, but he is benevolent enough not to voice it. "Do you know what I need you to do?"

She nods, expression going deathly serious. "You want to broach the possibility of a treaty like the one we had in my timeline."

"Yes. It won't be easy. As you know, things played out differently during the Battle on the Moon. The witches never came to our aid despite me begging them to, and in the end, you lost your life and we lost the war. But I know this isn't the outcome they wanted; they never expected it to get this bad. We have a chance to change things. If they hear how differently things could play out—if they believe there can truly be peace between our people—they have to be more open to change."

Biting her lip, she lets her gaze drop south to the dusty sink handle. "You're putting a lot of faith in me. I—I know I was some kind of Hail Mary or whatever, a last-ditch effort to help save the world, but I… Kid, it might be a mistake. I'm really not that important. Something must've gone wrong when the wraith granted your wish, and I don't want you to put all your eggs in one basket only to realize that basket had always been broken."

"Maka." There's something in his voice that pulls her eyes upward so they meet the warm gold of his. Sometimes she forgets how pretty the reaper is, especially here, like this, in a world that has run him ragged, but it's impossible not to notice when he looks at her like this. "You being here has never been a mistake. I can promise you that."

Her cheeks are vaguely pink. "If you insist… Lord Death."

Kid grimaces at the nickname—the way he always does when she uses it, even in her world—and his gaze flickers to the door off-screen to hide his awkwardness. "Go ahead and get some rest. Find a compact. Call me when you can. We've cleared Asura's minions from Death City and we'll be waiting on standby if anything happens."

"You won't come anyway, even though you've finished fighting over there?"

His eyes smile. "You don't need me."

After ending the mirror call, the next couple hours pass very slowly. Maka tries to occupy herself as best as she can without waking Soul, but there's only so much she can do within the confines of a compact motel room.

This would be so much easier if she had a book—though admittedly she isn't sure she'd be able to scrounge up the mental energy to absorb the words anyway. Instead, she works on her physical energy, shutting the door to the bathroom again so she can do some light yoga warm-ups to keep her body temperature up.

The bike ride here would've frozen her solid if not for the sweltering sun, and even though this motel has heating, her body still harbors a residual chill she just can't shake.

Anything is better than sitting still and being forced to deal with the cycle of thoughts going through her head—but she can't fight off them all. A few doubts slip in, little obsessions, cruel words of self-deprecation she always has to work so hard to suppress.

You're a mistake. Soul can't even stand to look at you. Won't let you touch him. He must think you're so useless. Pathetic. Maybe even wonders what the hell his other self is thinking, tying himself down to a weak, temperamental little girl like you.

You are a fraud. Your presence is worthless. What makes you think you can do anything to help your friends that they haven't already tried themselves? Who do you think you're fooling? You don't belong here. You can't save them.

You don't deserve him.

She doesn't realize she's stopped stretching until she hears a faint whimper coming from the bedroom. Pulse racing, she pushes through the door, expecting to see some big, dark monster trying to crawl through the windows to get at Soul, but the only thing she gets is her unconscious partner, twisting around in his bed.

Maka almost exhales a sigh of relief, but then she hears it again. Another pained breath.

She moves to his bedside like lightning, leaning over the mattress with concern. His face is chalk pale, his face lined with tension, and yet there's a faint sheen of sweat starting to gather on his skin as he starts to pant, low and distressed.

"Maka."

She nearly jumps out of her skin.

"Maka," he gasps again, his body twisting in his slumber, hands clenched in the sheets. "Maka, no. Please, I—I can't—I don't—"

"Soul?" she whispers.

His torso jerks as he gasps even louder, full-out panting now, so rapidly she's terrified he's going to drive himself into a panic attack. He's body is lined with so much tension it must be painful, and she can practically feel the heat emanating from him, like a fire or a furnace or something that's overheating and is about to explode

"No!" he cries out suddenly. "Stop it, stop it, don't do this, please, I—" And then he screams. Full-out wails, like someone is tearing his heart from his chest and shredding it to nothing.

"Soul!" Suddenly scared, she reaches for his shoulder, about to shake him awake—but just as suddenly, his eyes snap open and he grabs her hand, yanks her body down to his, and quickly rolls her under him, all in an instant.

His eyes are wild, untamed. Even shackling her wrists, his hands are violently shaking, uncontrollable, just like the panic in his gaze.

Maybe she should feel terrified, pinned beneath him when he looks so feral, but she can't bring herself to be anything but concerned.

"Soul?" she whispers. "Are you okay? You were screaming."

His grip tightens but she makes sure not to react. Aside from being forced to protect her, and carry her, and have her hold onto him on his bike, this is the first time he's touched her of his own free will, without any outside factors extorting him to. She can't flinch away from him now. She'd never forgive herself.

Their eyes hold, a charged stalemate. Up close, his scar looks more prominent, reaching across his face like spilled ink spoiling an otherwise perfect canvas, but he's still beautiful. So beautiful she can barely stand it. He must be able to see the worship in her expression because he is the first to break their locked eyes, closing them with an exhaled shudder.

He releases her wrists. However, instead of letting her go, he merely moves his arms as if to cradle her, anchoring his body over hers. His head dips low, shoulders curling in, moving to rest his lips on the skin just above her collarbone. Just a tiny touch, barely even a kiss, but it's enough that a violent shiver wracks through her body.

Soul stills. Then presses deeper.

She gasps out loud, unable to fight her body's reaction. Emboldened by her reaction, he drags his lips across her shoulder, then up her neck, suckling deeply. His tongue darts out to taste her skin and her hips buck up, unbidden, a cry ripped from her throat.

He groans deeply. "Maka." His breath is hot and wet on her skin. She wants it everywhere. His kisses grow bolder now, tracing every line of her neck, every curve, dipping slightly, just enough to tease the swell of her breast and extract a desperate cry from her chest. Then he bites down carefully and she slowly loses her mind.

What the hell is she doing? This isn't right. He isn't hers.

But his soul—it's the same. The same as the one belonging to the man she loves, the man she'd do everything for, the man she can never, ever say no to, not for anything important, no matter how hard she tries. Every time he's near her, it's like a fire lit within her core. A low simmer, slowly stirring her to life, but it's not enough, not nearly enough.

She wants to burn.

His mouth has creeped up her neck, over her jaw, claiming the skin just beside her lips as they both pant into each other. For a moment, his lips brush just millimeters from hers, hovering above, a gun cocked and loaded, ready to ruin her, and she needs him with a ferocity that drives her mad.

And then—nothing. He doesn't steal her soul, doesn't close that gap.

Her eyes flicker open, hooded, needy, wanting, just in time to see the animalistic hunger in his.

And then he's gone.

Off the bed, off of her, stalking off towards the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him hard enough to shake the entire room.

She lays there, unmoving except for the heavy rise and fall of her chest. God, what is wrong with her? How could she do that? How could she want that? And it's not even a past want, it's current, insistent, blinding, pleading, begging to feel his lips on her skin again, wanting him to touch her more than she's ever needed to breathe.

Soul has an excuse. He just woke up from a nightmare and was probably disoriented by her presence considering he's been forced to go five years without it.

But Maka? She has no such defense. She deserves to feel as flayed open and wrought as she does.

On the other side of the door, she hears a curse then a loud crash as if something shatters into the mirror.

It takes everything she has not to cry.

By the time he returns from the bathroom, Maka has already zipped her coat back up—the one they grabbed from a random shop before leaving Death City—as well as slipped her stolen boots on her feet. Soul takes that as his cue to redress in his outerwear too, and only when he's tugged on his last shoe does he speak.

"Are you sure you don't want to rest first?"

She shakes her head. "Let's get this over with."

here.

She's so pretty in his dreams, green eyes brighter than starlight, blond hair spilling across the pillow like a halo.

She's pretty always, of course—his tiny, powerful meister with the soft cheeks and sinful hips—but she's especially beautiful beneath him, thighs parted and face flushed and chest panting against his. Their lips slant together desperately, hands gripping at flesh and sweat beading across skin, and they're connected as much as two people can possibly be connected and it's still not enough.

"Soul," she gasps as her body arcs up into his thrusts. "Nn! Please!"

He groans and presses deeper, harder, filling her as much as he possibly can even though just the thought of any part of him being able to fit inside her—so small, so delicate, so fucking perfect—makes him nearly lose his mind.

"Please."

They're both panting now, breathless. It's like the world around them doesn't even exist, just spaces and shadows and uniform shapes blurring into nothing in his peripheral vision—though it hardly matters anyway. The only thing that exists for him is her. The way she feels, the way she smells, the way she tastes…

But then she's trembling and tightening her arms around him, and though the nature of what they're doing could mask the reason behind it, somehow he knows it's something different.

"Please," she whispers again, this time less filled with desire and more with terror. "Please don't let them take me. I don't want to go."

His movements halt; freeze. "Wh—"

And then she's gone. Suddenly it's like the world has flipped entirely, Maka no longer being pinned beneath his hips and the blurry bed completely vanished. He's standing now, fully clothed, still panting as he turns around in this empty black space, screaming for his meister.

"Maka? Maka, where are you?!"

"Soul." Her voice echoes around him, incorporeal, sobbing, and it fucking burns him that he can't gather her up in his arms and hold her until he's forced to let go. "Please. I don't want to be here, it hurts, everything hurts, I can't—"

"Maka!" He's running now, full-out sprinting, though to where he doesn't know. Nothing about the empty blackness changes no matter how fast he pumps his legs and all he can hear and feel and hate is the sound of her sobs.

"Soul, please."

The agony in her voice makes his stomach feel shredded.

"Please."

He runs faster. The darkness grows. He feels suffocated. He can't find her.

"Soul—"

"I'm coming for you, Maka! Tell me where you are!"

"Soul!"

He jerks awake with a vengeance, jumping out of his chair so quickly he almost takes Kid's head off. The reaper backs up in time to expertly dodge his reflexive blows, and only when Soul's vision starts to focus enough to recognize the tall stacks and antique tables of the DWMA library does his start to calm down.

Kid doesn't do pity, but the expression on his face is very close. "I think it's time you head home."

"No, I—no. It's fine. I'm fine." Soul runs a hand down his face, blinks at the disarray of half-opened books and notes spread all across the table, and tries to remember what the hell kind of dimension he landed in where he's desperate to get back to the books.

"You've been in the library more in the past twenty-four hours than you have your entire life. How do you think Maka is going to feel knowing this is why?"

His jaw sets. "She'll understand."

"She'll understand you need to rest," stresses Kid. "Killing yourself over this isn't the way to be productive. It won't bring her back. The only thing you can do is wait, and there's no reason you have to spend that time stressing over infinite possibilities."

"You want me to wait? You're fucking kidding me, right? She was taken by a death spirit! I'm not just going to sit around eating Chinese takeout in my living room while she's out there, likely stranded in a world that's pretty much dying, suffering because I couldn't save her."

"This isn't on you, Soul. Blood phantoms are as indestructible as their masters. It wouldn't have stopped until it had her. The moment the other side made the deal, Maka was already theirs."

He lets out a dark laugh. "Is that supposed to make me feel better? Don't blame yourself because you never stood a chance anyway? No." He shakes his head, expression like granite. "I refuse. I'm not leaving here until I find a way to bring her back."

"Soul—"

"If you're not going to help me, you can show yourself out."

Soul doesn't look at the reaper as he settles back in that uncomfortable wooden chair and repositions the book in front of him, but he can feel Kid's impenetrable stare like a weight on his chest.

It's a look he knows well, and he should probably expect the next words that come out of the reaper's mouth but for some reason they still hit him like a brick.

"You're not the only one who's upset that she's gone."

A heavy weight settles in his stomach. Soul stares blankly at the open book in front of him as if that will be enough to absorb the information into his brain, and he hates hates hates the feeling in his gut that makes it impossible to despise the reaper, not even a little bit. Hates even more that when all pretenses are stripped and they're really being truthful, they know the best friend they each have aside from Maka is each other.

And right now, they both really need a friend.

"I think she knew." The word feels wrought from Soul's throat, like trying to pull out an old tooth that isn't even loose, but he slams the floss-tied door open anyway. "She had nightmares. For weeks before they took her, she—she kept having these dreams, these images, that somewhere out there we needed her and were dying without her and she was covered in blood. Every time she came out of it, her eyes would be so haunted. She could barely hold back her tears." He looks up from the table, his crimson eyes pleading. "What if that's it? What if that's the place she is now? If she could barely stand a few hours asleep in that world, thinking it was all a dream, how is she going to survive knowing that it's all real? You know how big her heart is. How the hell am I supposed to save her from something like that?"

"You just have to be there for her," Kid says simply. "Sometimes that's all you can do."

His hands clench into fists. "I can't just sit here and doing nothing while she's out there on her own, probably suffering or fighting for her life or god knows what else. Please don't make me."

A long moment passes in heavy silence. Then, after exhaling deeply, Kid walks around the table and primly takes a seat across from him. "Well, I guess we better get reading."

there.

She doesn't sense the witch's soul until they've crossed the border into Arizona.

It doesn't slam into her the way it does when a witch releases soul protect. It's far more subtle than that, more like an otherworldly feeling—a deep, innate weight in her bones—than something she can confirm with her five senses. Without resonance, that feeling is even more subdued and she almost misses the slight shift in the air before she realizes what it means.

Carefully, she nudges Soul's hip with her thigh and speaks into his ear. "Take the next exit. We're almost there."

She can't hear his answer over the wind, but she takes pleasure in the fact that he doesn't hesitate to follow her lead.

Eventually, they pull up in front of an old bungalow in a forested neighborhood that was probably rife with giggling children biking down the streets back before most of the population became demon food and pre-kishin. Now, the streets resemble an old Halloween movie where tumbleweed crosses the frame and everything is a little too grey to be real. The surrounding trees are lush, but the leaves are black instead of green.

The soul isn't one she recognizes, which isn't surprising. During her five years as a woefully underaged and doe-eyed ambassador, Maka learned that there were far more witches in existence that she ever believed. They were just in hiding. And though many had begun to feel comfortable letting their guard down in public after the treaty was formed, most still chose to remain under the radar.

A few years of good-intentioned peace was not enough to erase centuries of hate. They were protecting themselves and Maka didn't blame them.

It's no wonder it was even harder to find a nearby witch in this version of her world.

To Soul's credit, he doesn't ask her if she's sure. He merely leads the way up the dirty, narrow path and up a front porch that doesn't like it could last in a light drizzle, let alone beneath both of their weights.

Just before they reach the door, he abruptly stops walking. Maka rams into his back and grunts in annoyance, but before she can tell him to watch it, she realizes he has turned around, a giant, hunched pillar that towers over her, more like a protective shadow than a monster.

"Soul?"

His eyes tighten. "When we're in there, you stay by my side at all times and we leave if anything seems even remotely suspicious. I don't care what the witch says; we stay together. Okay?"

She softens. "Okay."

They ring the doorbell. It feels silly—what's the proper visitation etiquette in a world decimated by madness?—and it's a little hard trying to pretend she doesn't feel Soul's rigid presence at her back, but they manage to maintain the most awkward silence in all of history until the door swings open.

Standing on the other side is an old woman with white eyes, tanned skin, and an exasperated expression on her face. She also happens to be a full head shorter than Maka, who is very regularly heckled for the fact that she barely passes five feet.

"Cripes," the woman groans. "And I was hoping the birds were lying. Well, don't just stand there, you two. Come in before you let out all the hot air."

Maka blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"You're the dead girl, are you not? The one with the angel soul? My familiars warned me you'd be dropping by." Her opaque white eyes scan up and down Maka's frame, flickering briefly to Soul before she turns on her heel, leaving the door wide open behind her. "If you're here to beg for my help, you might as well do it over a cup of tea."

The witch's name is Theodora and her bungalow is an exact replica of the kind of home you'd expect an erratic, senile, shut-in of a woman to live in. The only thing that's missing is the twenty cats.

Sitting stiffly on an antique sofa in a cluttered living room, Maka and Soul stare straight ahead in tense silence until Theodora returns with a tray balancing a surprisingly nice set of china.

"Dear lord, you two are more awkward than two virgins trying to navigate around their first dick. Are you always this taciturn? Considering you're here on behalf of the reaper, you'd think you would have better manners that this."

"I'm sorry," Maka apologizes for the both of them when it becomes clear that Soul is incapable of unclenching his jaw enough to speak. "I don't mean to be rude. It's just—you're not exactly what I expected."

Theodora sets the tray on the coffee table and shuffles some things around before pouring three cups of steaming amber liquid. "Imagining someone younger looking? Perhaps with enormous jugs protruding from her chest?"

A little pink reaches Maka's ears. "I just didn't think you'd be so receptive to our presence. From what I've heard, the DWMA and the witches haven't been on the greatest terms since the moon."

"Ah, yes. Because you're not from here, are you."

"Will that be an issue?"

"Not for me, but I'm not the witch you want to be convincing." Theodora takes a sip from her cup, her pinky perfectly raised. "I understand why you're here. I've foreseen it for weeks. The same way the Grand Witch specializes in spacial magic, I excel in magic pertaining to probability. It's not an exact science as the future is constantly changing, but there are a lot of outcomes that I can see more clearly as they are far more likely than others, and I can tell you without even looking that the chances of the witches helping the DWMA in this life is slim."

"So you're telling us no without even giving us a chance."

"On the contrary, I'm going to advocate for you even though I know how fruitless it will be."

Maka blinks. "Wait, so—"

"You won't be allowed into our realm," says Theodora. "The old hag has all but sealed off our portals to outsiders, and though I think she's a cynical crone who can't tell her head from her ass most days, I do understand the logic behind protecting our own. Still, I'll agree to speak to the Witch Order on your behalf. Make a case for the DWMA since you won't be able to do it yourself."

Maka frowns "How do I know you'll deliver our message? That you won't just pretend to be on our side and completely backstab us as soon as we're out the door?"

"I guess you're just going to have to take my words in faith."

"Faith isn't something we have in abundance these days."

"It's post-apocalypse," Theodora says. "We don't have anything in abundance these days."

Maka sneaks a glance at Soul, who sits so stiffly at her side even though he tries to masquerade the illusion of indifference. Part of her wants to ask him what he thinks—after all, he's always been better at analyzing dodgy intentions and keeping his guard up around people Maka is often too quick to trust—but he remains silent, unwavering, like a block of stone at her side.

He's here and he'll protect her, but for some reason, she still feels alone.

"Okay, fine," she says eventually. "Say we trust you to appeal to the Witch Order for us. How long do you think it'll take? A couple hours? All night? We can find a place to crash in town if you won't get an answer until sunrise, but—"

"Whoa there, lass, slow it down a little. While your faith in my ability to rush the most powerful of my kind is very flattering, this isn't a light decision to be made. The Witch Order has been far more divided over the past few years than they ever have been. With the turmoil between the old and new generations, it's very likely the deliberation will take weeks. Months, even."

"Months?" Maka echoes with horror. "We don't have months! We need an answer now."

"Impatience is very much a human trait," the witch muses. "I've always found it very fascinating, this now or never mentality you all seem to have. Do none of you understand the pleasure of finally grasping something you've been anticipating for years?"

"Yeah, well, we don't live for centuries like you do so forgive me if we're not exactly keen on waiting around for something that may never happen."

Leaning back in her chair, Theodora laughs out loud, a full-bodied sound that originates from deep within her belly in a way that makes her seem both older and younger than she appears. "I like you, Maka Albarn. You've got spunk. Reminds me a lot of myself, back in the day. Because of that, I'll give you a little advice: the witches aren't the only magic users who can help you."

"If you're talking about wraiths, Kid already—"

Theodora scoffs. "As if I'd ever recommend the help of a death spirits. No. You're forgetting the existence of warlocks."

She goes still. "Like Eibon."

A nod. "Eibon was a brilliant man. Without him and the traitor known as Arachne, demon weapons like your boytoy here wouldn't even exist." The witch inclines her chin at Soul, who has remained tense and silent at Maka's side since they arrived, and she can't help but shift protectively towards him, her spine straightening like the mere quarter-inch of height could be enough to pull all attention to her instead. "Oh, relax, darling, that isn't an accusation. It's a compliment. It's pioneers like the Gorgon and warlock that change the world for the better—and I believe that could be the case here."

"But I—I've never actually met a warlock before," Maka says. "Not here, and not in my timeline. Even if we did consider colluding with them, I wouldn't know where to start, what to look for, how to ask."

"I'll admit that the males are far more nomadic than my kind—they don't have a queen like us witches do, nor do they have a world of their own created on a plane with spacial magic—but that also means they're better at thriving on their own and I believe that's the kind of proficiency that will help you in your fight against the kishin."

"For all we know, they could be uncooperative. Unreliable."

"For all you know, so could I," Theodora counters. "No matter who you beg to assist you, there is always the risk of betrayal. You know it. Your boyfriend knows it. After all, it's what got you killed."

At that, Maka's head snaps to Soul, but he keeps his gaze trained forward, his jaw as set as hers. "Are you saying we shouldn't get our hopes up? That we're on our own?" It's the first thing he's said since they arrived, and it breaks her heart that his words are so hopeless. Resigned.

Theodora smiles. "I'm saying that you shouldn't put all your bets on one horse. But that's a lesson you've already learned, isn't it."

"Fine," Maka says after a long, charged silence, uncertain about what just happened but knowing it can't mean any good. "We'll let you speak to the witches on our behalf and in the meantime we will try to enlist as many warlocks as we can find. But I'm not giving you months; that's a ridiculous timeframe just to deliberate. You have two weeks. If you don't return with an answer by then, we'll take that as a no and proceed without you."

"Two weeks," Theodora echoes. "So you want to be here for the rebellion. I thought you were anxious to get back to your own timeline."

"They can do without me for a couple weeks. This timeline can't."

"Cutting it a little close there, eh, lass?"

Maka is very careful not to flinch under Soul's sudden stare as she answers, "I refuse to leave this plane without knowing my friends will be alright."

"The old witches won't be pleased with you giving them an ultimatum."

"It's the twenty-first century. Either they can accept the chance to be part of something great or they can fall behind."

Theodora smiles. "I always knew I'd like you."

"One more thing," Maka says. "When you go to the Witch Order to ask for their help, you need to remind them of my timeline. Of the peace they can have if they agree to work with the DWMA. Because if they don't—if they decide not to assist us and we save the world anyway—they won't be given any more allowances. That'll be it. This is their last chance for an alliance. I won't be able to advocate for the witches' survival if they turn us away again, and no one else will bother. I'll be gone."

Absently, Theodora runs her finger over the gold rim of her teacup and hums a note that makes Soul inch closer to Maka's side. "You know, you're not nearly as uncouth as I'd expected you'd be."

She tips her chin. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"It's a deal then. I'll act as your ambassador for the Witch Order and you won't waste time waiting for us to save your asses without a backup plan. Are there any other stipulations you'd like to work out?"

Maka exchanges a glance with Soul. "I don't think so."

"Good. Because I have one of my own." Pushing to her feet, Theodora brushes down her skirt and walks over to the floor-length mirror hanging on her wall which looks more like it belongs in a Victorian movie than a worn-down bungalow. "At least try to take care of my home while I'm gone. Though I guess I can't blame you if you fail."

With that, she places her hand on the glass—and falls right through.

Both Maka and Soul jump off the couch with a cry, the former charging towards the mirror with an outstretched arm. Before she can reach the glass, Soul snatches her wrist from the air, tugging her back into his chest, restraining her as she thrashes.

"Don't be stupid," he says sharply. "You heard what the hag said. Even if you do manage to pass through, the witches won't welcome an outsider's presence—especially if that outsider happens to be from another world entirely."

"But—"

"But nothing. We did what Kid asked us to do. We found a witch and broached the idea of an alliance. The rest is on them."

Before Maka can protest further, a loud screech fills the air, like a set of gigantic claws scratching against an amplified chalkboard connected to the loudest amplifier known to man.

Soul immediately clasps his hands over her ears as if to protect her from the sound, but that silly notion is thankfully dropped when the walls around them start to crack as if caving in from immense pressure. Her brows pull together, wondering what the hell is going on, and then suddenly Soul is shoving her to the ground.

"Down!" he yells. "Get down now!"

The walls split; crack. She tries to see what's happening, but Soul has already rolled them against the sofa, curling his body tightly over hers. The most terrible crunching noise fills the air as crumbled plaster and wood showers down on them from above, and by the time the cement rain has stopped and her weapon peels himself off her long enough to tug her to her feet, the entire top half of the witch's house is gone. Completely torn off. Like it was just the unwanted head of a discarded Barbie doll.

And standing there, staring down at them from the now-topless bungalow, is an enormous, drooling, six-eyed creature the size of a fucking castle with claws the size of a crater.

A demon.

It tosses the useless top half of the house to the side, bends down, and screams directly in their faces.

The force of the sound throws them backward, Soul barely managing to cushion the impact as they slam into the wall. He coughs, warm liquid splattering onto her shoulder. Horrified, she twists around, an apology crawling its way out of her throat, but he's already wiping away the blood and tugging on her arm, coaxing her over the lowest part of the torn wall so she's outside before pulling himself out behind her.

"Wha—"

"Do you not see the giant fucking monster trying to devour us?" he hisses. "Run, damn it! Run!"

And so they run. They run like she's never run before in her entire life. The whole time, they're tailed by that massive, inhumanly grotesque behemoth that bulldozes over everything in its path as it chases after them like a starving cat after two very juicy mice.

"What the hell is that thing?" Maka cries, breathless in their haste.

"Fuck if I know," Soul grunts. "I haven't seen a demon that big in years, not since the beginning of the plague of insanity."

Maka hurdles over a fallen tree in their way, Soul following a deliberate two steps behind her. "It must've spurned here because of the flare of magic when Theodora opened the portal to the Witches' Realm." Which means there's hope. If the kishin is this desperate to get to the witches at every possible opportunity, it must mean he's really concerned that their power will be enough to stop him.

"Whatever the case, there's no way we can get out of here without killing it." Something like finality settles in his voice as he says, "Keep running. Don't look back."

Her feet immediately do the opposite of what he said as she whirls around and cries, "Soul, no!"

It's too late. Her stupid, self-sacrificial weapon already has one arm transformed into a blade as he charges directly at the monster they're trying to flee.

Without even thinking about it, Maka races after him.

Her Soul, no matter how much he tries to embody some false sense of coolness, is an inherent pacifist to his core. His first instinct is always to protect Maka first, attack second. He thinks three steps ahead, never lets his guard down, and makes it his sole mission to watch her back because she's too reckless to do it herself.

This Soul, however, is fierce. There's no other way to explain it. She actually freezes in place as she watches him unwaveringly attack a creature than is more than fifty times his size, his movements so filled with purpose, so beautiful, that it literally takes her breath away.

The demon screeches its protest, trying to swat at Soul like a fly, but he's too fast, darting in and out between its legs, slicing with intent. He manages to sever one of its supporting limbs before the monster strikes back in a rage, its anger making it so unpredictable that it is able to land a surprising hit on Soul that sends him flying off to the side.

He skids to a stop on a triple balance, blade digging into the ground, and uses the back of his human hand to wipe against his mouth. The monster lurches, shrieking with fury as it charges towards him, but Maka is already moving before she can think better of it.

Focusing all her energy into her palms, she dives forward mere meters before it reaches Soul and sends out a soul wavelength that explodes through the entire city like an electromagnetic pulse.

The demon is thrown back several miles from the force of it, crashing into faraway trees in the distance. Maka can feel blood start to drip down her arms from the dozens of cuts that burst on her skin from using so much power at once—she's not as versatile as Black Star or Kid, and proficiently using soul wavelengths as an offensive has never been her strong suit—but she doesn't care, more focused on making sure her weapon is okay than anything else.

When she kneels at his side, ready to help him to his feet, he's already lurching forward to grab her shoulders with wild eyes.

"What the fuck, Maka? Are you trying to get yourself killed?!"

"Gee, you're welcome," she says sarcastically. "I'm glad you appreciate the fact that I just saved your life. Now transform."

"What?"

"I said transform. Don't make me explain weapon biology to you right now; we don't have the time. The demon is coming back and we need to be prepared."

"Over my dead fucking body," he growls. "You are not fighting. You're going to sit your ass down and let me—"

"God, stop it already!" she cries. "I get it—you're angry and unhappy and overall resentful of the fact that I'm here, but that demon is the size of Space Mountain and I swear to god if we end up dying just because you have some admittedly well-deserved intimacy issues, I'm going to kick your dead ass back to life just so I can say I told you so!"

He jerks back at the volume of her outburst, blinking at her like he's actually stunned by something she's done. "I don't need your help. I can fight on my own."

"Fine, do it for me then! Do you really think you can defeat that thing while looking out for me at the same time? Because I sure as hell can't defend myself against something like that, and despite what you like to pretend, I know you'd never leave me unprotected."

At that, his jaw clenches and she immediately floods with guilt for playing the protector card.

Softening her tone, she pleads quietly, "I know you're used to fighting alone but you don't have to here, Soul—not anymore—so please, for the love of all things horrifying, just grab my hand and let me wield you."

It feels like an eternity of silence with him staring at her like that, and just when she's starting to think he's going to tell her to fuck off, he reaches for her hand.

They're barely skin to skin for a heartbeat before he's transformed into steel, the shift so seamless it feels like he's always been there in her grasp. For a brief moment, she's scared her arm will dip beneath his weight, that her soul won't be remotely compatible with his as they are now, but her hand remains steady and his shaft doesn't burn.

It feels natural. Right. Easier than breathing.

"Incoming," she hears him say, his voice a soothing hum rushing through her veins, and she can't stop the warmth in her chest as she leaps forward to stop the demon that charges at them.

No matter what he tried to pretend, there's no way that fighting on his own was easier than battling with her. Their breaths sync instantly, dodging each of the monster's attacks at a sprint that blends flawlessly with a large arc. Three of its legs sever at once, its entire left side collapsing with the loss.

Feeling his soul urge hers up, she jumps, dodging a stream of poison that sprays from the monster's side and landing in a run up its back, Soul's blade dragging through its skin the entire way. She does this until she reaches the demon's head, flipping to slice the whole thing off in one swift motion before falling to the ground.

Behind them, the creature bursts into a million tiny orbs of dark light.

"Maka," Soul warns, keeping her grounded before she can get ahead of herself.

"I know." Like him, she can see the dozens of black circles spawn on the ground around them, and she definitely can't miss the way these jerky, angular limbs crawl their way out from within, their beady, inhuman eyes locking in on her without pause. "We can't dodge these like the others. Are you ready?"

"Don't insult me," her partner rumbles, and she lets herself flash a smile as she rushes forward.

These creatures aren't like anything else she's ever fought before, even during the brief stint when Asura prevailed in her world. They're nothing but pawns, one-shot targets, bursting with a single effortless slice of Soul's blade only to be replaced by a new respawns a few seconds later. They aren't difficult to fight, but at this rate, she's going to grow exhausted before she figures out how to stop them from appearing for good.

"Don't waste your time with these soulless dolls," Soul instructs. "You need to look for the puppeteer behind them if you want this to end."

She dodges another one of their attacks while twirling his blade to slice through three of them at once. As she moves, she scans the area around them for anything that might stand out, but since demons don't have souls, she's no more useful than a blind cat in predicting where the source may be. "I don't even know what to look for. Have you ever fought anything like this before?"

"Best part about a world filled with madness is that the number of different types of demons is immeasurable. I'm not familiar with these parasites either."

"Never a dull day in the apocalypse, huh?"

"If only." She can feel him start to say something else, but then his soul stiffens like he's been shocked. "Maka, RUN!"

She understands what he means all too late.

The ground beneath her feet begins to tremble. At first, she thinks that maybe this is an earthquake—strange because they're nowhere near the edge of a tectonic plate, but also not strange because an increased number of natural disasters is to be expected with madness—but then the ground starts to rise. It shakes and ascends beneath her feet, like a mountain growing in hyperspeed, inflating several stories high before she can reign in her shock enough to move.

She's so focused on trying to maintain her balance that a few of the smaller demons manage to land their claws on her. At Soul's rageful urging, she retaliates, though she winces as she knocks them off her because they manage to tear out chunks of skin. She swiftly eliminates the remaining brainless pawns, but it doesn't matter—not when she sees the area around them.

It isn't just the ground beneath her that has risen. It's the entire forest-woven town. Several yards on all sides of her have ballooned upward, dirt and grass and trees and fucking houses falling away to reveal scaly violet skin, so deep that it looks almost black in the night.

She hasn't seen a monster this huge since they fought that sky whale years ago, and this is even bigger.

"Maka—!"

The hit comes out of nowhere. It must've been some sort of snapping limb attached to its massive body, because one second she's standing on the center of the demon's enormous back and the next she's smacked through the air and slamming into the dirt a full mile away from the furthest edge of its monstrous form.

Soul is human at her side in an instant, helping her to her knees with urgent hands and words that blend together. "—you okay? Where are you hurt? Is it your arm? Maka, answer me!"

She leans her forehead into his shoulder, struggling to control her breaths. "Transform back."

"You're fucking kidding me, right? You're hurt! You can't—"

"I've fought with worse injuries before," she reminds him and immediately softens at the way her words seem to hurt him. "I know you're worried, but no matter how much stronger you might be in this timeline, there's no way you can take out a behemoth like that on your own. We need to resonate."

She can feel him stiffen rather than see it. When he speaks, his voice is strangled. "Maka—"

"Please, we're running out of time!" The giant demon is already turning, much slower than its microscopic counterparts but most likely a thousand times stronger. "Please, Soul? At least try?"

She tips her head so she can look pleadingly into his eyes. His jaw tightens infinitesimally, but she knows him and she knows this isn't a fight between them even before he relents with a grunt. "Don't blame me if it doesn't work, alright?"

"Never," she vows, relieved.

The weight of his shaft is slightly warmer this time, though not enough to burn. He's so scared. She can feel it, even though they've barely touched souls. She tries to send soothing wavelengths through him as much as she possibly can, but it's difficult to concentrate on feelings of tranquility when a town-sized demon is literally trying to crush her beneath its massive stumps.

When she tentatively tries to press her soul closer to his as she runs, he flinches back so violently that she actually loses her footing.

Using the force of her fall to roll back to her feet, she jerks to the side a split second before the behemoth flattens her into a pancake. She can feel her pulse race, knowing that her minutes are numbered. They can't continue like this for much longer. One minor slip up and she's burnt freaking toast.

"Soul—"

"I know," he snaps, voice sharp to mask his growing anxiety. "I know, alright? Don't you think I'm fucking trying?!"

"Hey, it's okay," she soothes. "Soul, it's okay. Really. There's no rush. Take your time."

They both know she's bullshitting—they don't have any time, not now—but he's too wound up to snap back at her and she's too breathless to say anything more. With each passing second, with each millimeter dodge, with each block of his blade against one of the monster's whip-like extensions, she feels him growing hotter and hotter in her hands, almost to the point of being unbearable.

Part of her wants to beg him to move faster, to start letting her in before they don't even have a chance to try, but she knows that kind of pressure will only make this harder and so instead she bites her tongue until she can taste blood.

After another near-miss, she feels his anxiety burst, can practically taste the "fuck it" on her own lips as he slams his soul against hers.

The raw shock of the forced resonance nearly ruins her. For one, brief, terrifying moment, they are one, so connected that it's impossible to tell where she ends and he begins, but it only lasts one second, one heartbeat, one breath where she can feel all the open wounds on his soul like her own, flooding her like a tsunami, crashing, burning, drowning her—he loves her he loves her he loves her so much it hurts, it hurts so fucking much—and then they shatter.

The break in their souls hits so hard that it forces her to her knees, his scythe form clattering to the ground. She is panting, breathless, fractured. She has never felt soul rejection that fierce—never, not with him, not even when they first went up against the immortal werewolf or when they fought so hard that they almost hated each other.

Above her, she feels the demon descend but she is too stunned that she can only squeeze her eyes shut.

The impact comes from the side instead of overhead like she was expecting. Soul knocked her aside in time to save her life, back in his human form. He tries to roll up with her in his arms, but the demon is faster, its enormous leg moving to swipe them off to the side like they're nothing but a useless marble.

He cushions her impact as they slam into a tree, his back cracking with a groan. Horrified, Maka immediately scrambles to her knees at his side, touching his scratched up, too scarred, too beautiful face, but he only groans lowly, not moving. Her heart picks up to arrhythmic levels.

"Oh my god, are you okay? Please, I'm so sorry, I should've known better. I didn't mean to force you, I just—" There's a flash in the distance and her eyes go wide. "NO!"

In a last ditch effort, she throws her body over his, curling over him so deeply as if she's trying to make her spine a cage and he is nothing more than something too lovely and precious that needs to be protected. She squeezes her eyes shut, thinks, I'm so sorry, so sorry, I love you so much, and she braces herself for the demon's whips to pierce through her back.

But it doesn't come.

Cracking her eyes open, she cranes her neck around and is stunned by the sight.

Long, dark shadow tendrils are wrapped around the demon's every limb, holding it back, even as its claw-like extensions hover inches from Maka's face. She blinks once and they're gone, yanked back, thrashing wildly in the shadow hold as it's forced to flatten against the ground.

Just when she thinks she's lost it, she sees a tiny shape above the massive monster, the center of all the tendrils, with a burst of energy so strong she can't help but stare. Even more than that, though, she sees the soul.

Black Star.

Only the assassin could kill a giant like this with one shot straight down the center of the demon's core. And that is exactly what he does.

The behemoth that has spent the better part of the past half hour knocking Maka and Soul around bursts into a large collective of vanishing black orbs of light with that one strike. Black Star's figure floats down almost gracefully from where he'd been perched, and he expertly angles through the air so he can touch down only a few feet away from Maka and Soul.

Tsubaki shifts to human form the instant they reach the ground, as tall and lovely as usual, but it's the assassin's enormous grin that catches Maka's attention.

"What, I don't get a hug for saving your sorry ass? C'mon, Maks, you can do better than that."

Her eyes flood with tears. "Star!"

He catches her with a laugh, using the momentum of her tackle to spin her on her feet. Her pseudo-brother has never been that much taller than her, but with his ridiculous muscles and an ego way too big for any human to contain, he's always seemed so much larger than he is.

As soon as he sets her down, she immediately throws her arms around Tsubaki next. The beautiful shadow weapon chuckles slightly as she returns the embrace and Maka finds herself crying in earnest at the genuine warmth.

Star and Tsubaki are the first to act glad that she's here instead of stunned or angry. It means more to her than she can ever say.

"What are you two doing here?" Maka asks, wiping at her eyes. She wants to blame her overactive tear ducts on the insanity-filled air but unfortunately she knows it's just who she is.

Black Star shrugs. "The baby reaper said you hadn't checked in before talking to the witch and he was worried. Sent 'Baki and me to give you a hand on our way back to Death City."

"Where have you been all this time? Where's everyone else? Are they with you? Are they on their way? What about—?"

"Whoa there, bookworm, calm your tits," he laughs. "It's just us. 'Baki and I have been in charge of making sure East Asia doesn't get gobbled up by madness and we only came back because Kid said you rose from the dead. We haven't had contact with the others in years."

"Years?"

"That's what I said, innit?" With a snort, his sharp blue eyes slide to something over her shoulder, darkening to a shade Maka doesn't think she's ever seen on the self-proclaimed god she calls her family. "Why am I not surprised you still haven't told her anything? Still too ashamed of the fact that you're the one who got her killed?"

"Hey," says Maka sharply. "Star, I love you and I'm glad to see you but if you ever imply Soul was responsible for my death again, I will personally rearrange all your organs with my fist."

"Promise?" he croons. When she looks ready to deck him, he rolls his eyes and throws his absurdly buff arm over her shoulder. "Fine, fine, I'll stop bullying your pussy-faced boyfriend, whatever. But admit it, you need me. Tall, tan, and broody over there nearly got you killed."

"Star," Tsubaki says.

"Oh, c'mon, not you too," he whines. "What's the point of coming back here if I can't poke a little fun at his pathetic existence?" At both girls' glares, he relents with a dramatic sigh. "God, you're no fun. And jeez, Maks, what the hell did you do, fight an entire army before we got here? You're covered in blood!"

A flush crawls over her skin. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

He eyes the bleeding chunk on her arm, his nose wrinkling with disgust. "Are those fucking teeth?"

"I said I'm fine! I just—Soul?" She's interrupted when she feels her weapon start to march in the opposite direction, and much to her dismay, he doesn't stop walking at the sound of her voice. If anything, he walks faster. "Wait, where are you going?"

She moves to rush after him, her hand reaching out as if to grab his arm, but he smacks it away before she can touch him. "Don't."

Hurt blossoms through her chest. "Soul?"

"Stop that," he grits out. "Stop saying my name, stop chasing after me, stop looking at me like I killed your dog—just fucking stop it, stop all of it! I don't want your pity, and I certainly don't want—" He breaks off suddenly, his eyes tightening as they flicker down her frame, and his muscles seem to wind impossibly more as he whirls around as his whole body trembles like his entire world is coming apart at the seams. "Fuck," he chokes out, hands rising to grip his hair. Twist. "I can't. I can't do this. I can't fucking be here right now."

"Wait, but—"

He's already gone.

For a long moment, she can only stare, wondering what she did, what went wrong, was this all her fault, did she push too hard? She knew he was hurting and she forced him to fight with her anyway.

She's the worst. No wonder he's so upset.

"Don't go after him."

Maka whirls around, eyes widening at the sight of Black Star so near. She'd completely forgotten he was here. "But I have to! He's hurting and—"

"Of course he's fucking hurting, Maks. Don't you get it? You come here out of nowhere and keep trying to fucking fix everyone, but it doesn't work like that. Five minutes with you isn't enough to erase years of suffering, no matter how important you think you are."

"I'm not trying to fix him—"

"Aren't you?"

She's always hated when Black Star is serious. It makes it impossible to turn away.

"Ask me." When she looks confused, he says, "Go on, ask me about him. I know you have questions and I doubt that broody ass answered any of your questions. You want to know why he's so fucking dark all the time, what he did to make us hate him, how he got his scar—though you probably guessed that it's all your fucking fault for getting yourself killed."

Maka flinches.

She must look more pathetic than she feels because Tsubaki is the one who takes pity on her, her gentle voice a sharp contrast to her meister's tactless bluster. "You have to understand," Tsubaki murmurs. "You didn't die right away. The kishin had ripped open your torso in a fatal blow, forcing Soul to hold onto you as you slowly bled to death. It was… hard on him. None of us had ever seen him that distraught.

"And it was worse when we were forced to leave your body behind on the moon. He was ready to stay there with you. To die with you. He refused to do anything else. Kid had to knock him out just so we could carry him home, and even then, we were forced to heavily sedate him in the DWMA basement just to make sure he wouldn't be a danger to himself." She touches her cheek, tracing a mirror of the discolored mark that stains Soul's face. "The kishin nearly consumed him. The fact that he managed to escape with only a scar is a miracle."

A sick feeling settles in Maka's stomach. "You had to sedate him?"

"Yes. For a couple of weeks. Most of us were concerned that he'd fall to madness without your wavelength to keep him sane, but surprisingly, his anguish wasn't because of black blood. He was simply… grieving."

"And—and the others? Was everyone else okay?"

"The world fell quickly. We tried to hold them off, but we could only do so much. We were forced to split up to try and cover as much ground as possible, but that only left the weaker teams more vulnerable to attacks." Tsubaki's expression is sad. "We lost a lot of people. You, Ox, Stein…" A pause. "Patty."

Maka had expected as much—there was no way either Kid or Liz would ever be caught dead in a ruined world without their sister—but to hear a confirmation, to have speculation turn into fact… It feels like a crippling punch to the gut. "What about my father?"

"The pervert's still alive, as far as we know," answers Star. "He refuses any contact with Kid and pretty much wanders around on his own, but we ran into him once a few years ago when he was crossing through Japan." He kicks at the ground, though his expression is serious. "I'm not gonna lie, Maks, he didn't look good. He had it almost as bad as Eater after you died."

She's going to throw up. "But that doesn't explain why you guys are so distant from each other and so angry with Soul. You're all stronger together; we know that. Splitting up was the worst possible thing you could've done. How were you supposed to fight the kishin on your own?" When Black Star and Tsubaki exchange a look, Maka feels her anxiety spike, a tight coil in the center of her chest. "What? What aren't you telling me?"

Gently, Tsubaki says, "There's just… A lot has happened since you died. We couldn't trust each other anymore. Everyone was angry with Kid, and there wasn't anyone else to hold our souls together with you gone. It wasn't practical. Trying to stay together was doing more harm than good."

What she's saying doesn't line up with the severity behind the guilt underlying her face. Maka finds herself staring blankly for a long time, trying to equate this tired, worn-down girl to the glowing bride-to-be she remembers from her timeline. Then sudden realization strikes like a bucket of ice water dumped over her head and ignites every nerve in her body with horror.

Because now it makes sense. Why everything feels so dull, so stagnant. Why it's been five years and the world is at a steady decline instead of a series of bursts and explosions. Why their remaining comrades are spread out all around the globe instead of gathered in some cluttered room, spending hour after hour, day after day, planning attack after attack on the kishin until they can save the world. Why Soul is allowed to hole up in a tiny cabin playing guardian to the superficial border of a miniscule city and everyone pretty much snarls to say his name.

"You—you gave up. You all gave up," she says, stunned. "You're not even trying to defeat the kishin anymore. You're just fighting enough to survive."

Black Star's smile is full of teeth. "Proud of us, aren't ya? You should just be glad we made it this long."

Maka turns to run without saying another word. Both of them call after her, but she knows they aren't going to follow because despite their apparent lack of motivation, they have to know there's only one possible person she's running to.

It may be cheating, but she searches for his soul. Though his body and mind might be different, she could find his soul in any haystack in any ocean in any country in the world. She knows it like she knows that the moon should be black and her friends should've never given up. She knows it like she's never known anything as much as she's sure that she was made to belong to him. To be with him. It's her most powerful destiny, her greatest strength.

He must sense her coming because she can feel him start to move the instant she draws near. The winding paths of what remains of this forested town—just a few dozen miles on each side of where the giant demon had been defeated—make it harder to reach him, but she's nothing if not supremely stubborn and determined to win.

"Don't you dare, Soul Eater!" she yells. "I swear to god if you run away from me right now, I will never speak to you again."

It's a low blow, but it does the trick. He doesn't move as she locks in on his location and crosses the remaining distance until she bursts through the clearing where he is.

He's standing in the center, knees locked like a pillar. There's a giant boulder a couple feet away that he must've been resting against before she nearly chased him out of the country, but for now, all she can see are the tense lines of his shoulders through his jacket as he waits for her to speak.

Instead, she stomps right up to him and immediately shoves at his back.

Surprised, he actually pitches forward a step before he catches himself, whipping around to tell her off. She keeps hitting him before he can, nothing hard or serious, but angry jerks with her bite-sized fists, pounding and pounding against his chest with her frustration until he becomes fed up with her and seizes her wrists in his grip.

"What the fuck?" he growls. "You came here to fucking fight me? Are you serious?"

"You're an asshole!" she shrieks back. "This whole time, I've been defending you and making allowances for you even without knowing what went on, but then you—you—you—!"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I kept running it through my head over and over again, trying to figure out why you were so angry with Kid. Was it because you blamed him for letting the world get this far? For trusting the witches? For not being able to save me? I thought, this is my Soul. He's the most reasonable person I know. There must be a good explanation for why he blames our friend so much that it's isolated him from everyone we know and love. Right?" Her glare intensifies. "Wrong. It's not any of those things, is it? You're angry with him because he saved your fucking life."

Soul doesn't respond, but the way his jaw clenches is answer enough.

She starts fighting him in earnest now, thrashing in his hold like a wildcat that had stumbled upon a net trap. He struggles against her with a grunt, barely managing to keep hold of her wrists as she tries to get loose. When she tries to kick out at him, he actually growls as he jerks her back into his chest and wraps his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides and her body against his.

"Stop it," he hisses. "You're acting like a child."

"No, you're the child! All of you! You're supposed to be warriors that fight to save everyone even when it seems like all hope is lost, and yet at the first sign of defeat, you disband and split up across the world and claim that the reason you can't fight together anymore is because you're no longer friends. What the hell is wrong with you? I thought you guys were better than that!"

"You might want to lower expectations or you'll get real tired of disappointment real fast."

"Don't," she growls, craning her neck around to glare at him. "Don't you dare call yourself a disappointment."

"What, that isn't what you were getting at when you were trying to pummel me with your tiny fists?"

"I was trying to tell you that I'm angry. You're just—you're so smart, Soul, one of the smartest people I know, and yet sometimes you can be so stupid it drives me crazy! Even without the witches, you guys had every resource to try again to fight the kishin and instead you decided—what? That this world wasn't worth fighting for? That your lives didn't matter?" When he remains silent, she twists in his hold so she can face him, and surprisingly he lets her. "How could you ever believe even for a moment that you don't deserve any better? That this is the best it can get?"

He has completely released her now, but neither of them take a step back. They're still chest to chest, her neck craning almost painfully so she can look at him. He raises one hand to cup her cheek, and there's something so gentle in the gesture, so shattered, that her eyes blur before she can help it as heavy streams of tears cascade down her face.

Though she can no longer see him, she can't miss the way his soul crumples into a million little irreparable pieces.

"Please," he whispers, the word so wholly and terribly broken. "Please don't cry, Maka. I can't fucking take it."

That only makes her cry harder. "I am so, so mad at you." Her voice cracks, and he tucks her against his chest again, far gentler this time, holding her like she's something precious, something delicate, something far more valuable than it's worth.

"I know."

Burying her face in his shirt, she fists her hands in his jacket and hates how safe she feels, how fast her anger dissipates when he holds her like this. She's not done lashing out at him—she wants to rage and roar and fight and scream—but feeling his arms around her is worse than kryptonite because it breaks her down into her bare essentials where all she needs is him, him, him.

"How could you give up like that?" she whispers. "How could you decide to die so quickly when moments before, you'd been determined to fight and win?"

There is a long pause. "You were dead because of me. I couldn't live with that. Didn't want to."

"But you're still alive."

A dark laugh. "Some sort of sick cosmic joke, I assure you."

"And Kid contacting the wraith—what was that for if you guys have already given up? What was the point of bringing me here?"

"That… is something you'll have to ask him yourself." Before she can press further, he continues, "He wasn't lying about trying now that you're here though. Now that he knows that peace was genuinely possible in your world, I think he's really willing to give it a shot—though at this point, it's hard to believe that any sort of harmony is possible at all, let alone that you actually achieved it."

"Are you saying you still don't believe me?"

"No, I do," he says, surprising her. "I get it now. I've felt your soul. I understand that there must've been a world where the witches came through and you were never killed. I just don't see how that could be possible here."

"But it is," she insists. "I know everything may seem horrible, but there's a real chance to fix it. I want you to know what it's like to be truly happy, the way I've been over the past few years—because we are happy in my world. We're allowed to be happy. We have a lot of responsibilities, of course—it comes with the territory of pioneering the first generation of peace—but it's never anything we can't handle when we're together."

His lips graze across the top of her head. "Sounds nice. I wish I could've seen it."

A lightbulb flickers on in her head. "Soul, you're a genius!" Suddenly energized, she leans back from him just enough so she can look into his eyes, her own filled with vivid excitement. "You can see it. I can show you!"

His brows are wary. "How?"

"We need to resonate."

And there's that wall again. His soul shutters closed, a sheet of metal between her and the emotions he works so hard to hide. "Maka, we already tried that. We can't—"

"No, that was during battle. There was too much pressure and the variables were messing with your head. But this, right here, right now—it's just us. Just you and me. And we can do this. I know we can."

He hesitates, uncertainty making his soul waver.

"Please, Soul? Let me show you. You want to know why I jumped in front of that attack for you? Why I'm so adamant that everyone can be saved? Resonate with me. Then you'll understand."

"It's been… a really long time," he murmurs. "Since I let someone in. I don't want to disappoint you again."

"You could never disappoint me," she says earnestly. "All I'm asking is that you try."

And so try they do. He is wary, of course—the kind of wary that is easier to express than fear—but he humors her anyway simply because she asked and it's that fact alone that assures her that they'll be able to succeed. No matter how crippling their self-doubt can be, the two of them are always able to find a home for themselves in each other's soul. It's their safe place when everything else feels like static.

"Are you ready?" she asks. They're standing in the center of the clearing now, hands clasped between them, eyes locked.

He nods once.

And so they both take the leap.

It's different than trying to merge in battle. There's no rush of adrenaline fueling their actions, no sounds of action drowning out their every thought. Soul holds back as discreetly as he can even though he has to know she'll notice, and instead of calling him out on it, she unclasps their hands so she can wrap her arms around his waist and rest her head against his chest.

"It's okay," she soothes when he startles. "It's just me, I'm right here. Do you trust me?"

This time, after a brief hesitation, he returns the embrace and lets his walls crumble down.

At first, it's almost disorienting. With her Soul, they've been such a big part of each other's lives for so long that every memory, every thought, every emotion had already been shared between them. They had no secrets and their lives were so intertwined that they could no longer see the line where her soul ended and his began.

But this Soul had an entirely different life, a contradicting set of memories. Resonating with him feels like returning to her apartment after several months only to find that someone had completely redecorated the place without her knowledge. The base is familiar, but nothing else is the same.

She feels lost in the space, swimming around cool air that feels familiar yet strange, until she sees it. A tiny, pale orb of light that she knows with every inch of her heart.

Relieved, she reaches out to cradle the soul and feels the connection flare to life.

They tumble into his soul first and all of his emotions come rushing into her in waves. She feels his pain, his longing, his fear of letting her in only to lose her all over again. She feels just how much he loves her, and how much it fucking hurt to have her appear out of nowhere after five years and discover she couldn't belong to him.

In a hazy image in front of her, she can see brief flashes through his eyes what had happened on the moon. Sounds of weapons clashing, people shouting. There's panic and a scramble to push ground, even with Kid and the others on the front lines, and a sense of dread when they realize they can't win.

"The witches aren't coming! We need to retreat immediately!"

There's so much blood. Someone is screaming. Soul is screaming, she realizes, his blurry vision shaking and teeming with darkness as it shifts between all their friends pity-filled gazes as he begs them to save her, they need to keep her alive, just until they can get her back to Stein who had already been transported to Earth with most of the others by that hybrid immortal werewolf.

When they don't move, only look down at him with sadness, he focuses on keeping his hands on her stomach, trying to hold her organs inside as she shudders, her skin getting colder and colder by the second as he wails, "Why are you just standing there? Why aren't you helping her?!"

In the background, she hears someone crying.

The image skips quickly, racing past dark memories of being chained in a basement and years of isolating himself from the others until it reaches the present. She sees what it felt like for him to reunite with her for the first time after five years in the Death Room like he did. How much it hurt to be trapped in an enclosed space with her when they were driving to his cabin because he wanted to grab her hand so badly it was killing him. How terrified he was saving her from the river, and how having her lie on top of him, all naked and lovely and wet, was the kind of torture he didn't think he'd be strong enough to endure.

Suddenly, the whole space around them shifts again and they're in her soul instead, a little brighter, a little warmer, but just as fervent in its affection. He whirls through her memories far faster than she had with his, starting from the very beginning when they first met and she thought his droopy eyes were super cute to the more romantic future of their relationship where he sneaks a kiss every time he can and she regularly stares at his ass.

"You know I love you, right?" He whispers it to her so shyly, like he's genuinely scared she'll reject him despite the fact that they've been dating for over a year at this point and she regularly expresses her love in the form of teasing harassment.

Memory Maka can't help but laugh. "You are such a dork," she says, voice brimming with affection, as she rises on her toes and kisses away his heart.

She tries to steer him to tamer parts of her mind, wanting only to show him all the wonderful things that he can accomplish if he tries for peace, but Soul has a different idea. He dives straight into the most carnal spaces, the darkest corners, bringing out flashes of bare skin and melded lips and limbs tangled together.

They both watch a myriad of memories blur together where he caresses her cheek and stares at her with the kind of devotion that could ruin the gods. His kisses turn possessive and his gentle touches grow unhinged, and then suddenly he's biting her neck as he thrusts into her so deeply from below, above, behind, bending her over any surface he can find and pressing in so hard that her soul bursts with literal stars.

With a gasp, Maka tries to pull him back, horrified that he's seeing all of this, that she's let this kind of thing slip, but they only end up flipped back into his mind instead. There's a repeat of the scenes she'd experienced before, except this time they're intensified, like seeing all of those parts of her soul had unlocked the carnal edge in his.

Now, instead of just wanting to hold her hand, Memory Soul wants to devour her, grab her by the face and kiss her like there's no fucking tomorrow. He wants to hold her hand and kiss her face and tell her how much he wants to spend the rest of his life making her the happiest girl in the world by giving her everything she could ever want if she'll just let him stay by her side.

And when she'd straddled him by the river, he hadn't wanted to push her off. He wanted to roll them over, press her into the dirt, and then press into her so fiercely that they were truly dirty in every inch of their souls. He wanted to grip her thighs with his hands as he bent her in half so he could fuck her deeper. Wanted to mark her in all the ways he'd been too scared to mark her when he was fifteen. Wanted to make sure everyone and their second cousin knew how much she belonged to him. How much he belonged to her.

His fantasies blend so smoothly with her memories that she's no longer sure where she is anymore because it's all the same. It's not just kissing, not just sex. It's them, together, combined, as one. His cock spreads her dangerously, making it impossible for her to think or believe that she could ever exist without being connected to him, and they're twisted together, tangled, and he's somehow entering her in a million different ways in a million different positions a million different times and—

She knows she's escaped the resonance space of their souls and returned to the real world when the shock of the cold, frozen ground burns into her back. The real Soul is now caged around her as their lips move with the kind of synchrony they'd felt in their souls. Her jacket is torn open so he can trail kisses along her neck, down her chest, and when he reaches the roadblock that is her collar, he lets out a growl as he pulls away just enough so he can shove up her sweater over her breasts and cover one stiff peak with his mouth.

She gasps out loud, her body arching up into him at the contact. She doesn't realize her legs are wrapped around his waist until they tighten with need, his bone-melting hardness rubbing straight against her core. Every inch of her, every single nerve, is trembling and needy. The air is freezing, should make her tremble, but she has never felt so hot.

After thoroughly worshipping her breasts with his tongue, he refastens his lips on hers, kissing her with the kind of reverence that leaves her dizzy. Her Soul has hands that are too soft and touches that are so, so gentle, but this Soul is desperate, needy, with scarred hands as rough and hard as her own, and she hates that they've gotten to this point, that her beautiful, gentle weapon has been hurt this much, but she also feels drunk with desire, wanting those gritty palms pressing into her back and those calloused fingers gripping harder and harder, and oh god, what would they feel like somewhere else? Much lower, gripping her ass, crawling up her thigh, deep inside her?

The thought makes her gasp, her hips bucking up into his again. He groans low in his throat and the sound makes her whimper.

"S-Soul," she breathes against his lips, panting with her desire. "Please. I—I—"

"Maka?"

It would be so easy—so easy—for him to sink inside her, for him to fill the empty space in her core where it clenches around nothing and begs for something, anything, to end this torment.

It would be so easy—and yet it wouldn't.

"We can't."

He goes still.

Part of her wants to take it back—tell him she didn't mean it and was just being silly so long as he goes back to kissing her like that—but a stronger, far more moral part of her is firm and refuses to let her voice a rescindment.

"What's wrong? You don't… want me?" His voice is low, with absolutely zero anger or accusation, but that means it's impossible for him to hide his hurt and it's worse than shredding her heart with a steak knife.

"No, I do," she says. "God, I—I swear, I do, I want you so fucking much. You're my Soul and I—I can't even breathe properly when you're in the same room because my heart hates it when we're not touching, so the mere thought of me not wanting you is the most impossible thing on this earth. I just... It feels like—"

Cheating. It feels like she's cheating. On Soul, with Soul.

She doesn't say the words out loud, but he must hear them anyway.

He grows even more still, his shaky breaths the only thing assuring her that he hasn't been cursed into a statue. Eventually he retreats back onto his knees, drawing her up with him so she's sitting. He then proceeds to smooth her shirt back into place, tugging her ripped jacket shut so it can preserve her warmth. When it doesn't shield her to his standard, he shrugs off his own jacket, ignoring her half-hearted protests as he drapes it over her shoulders and zips it all the way up until the high collar grazes her lips.

Only when he pulls her into his chest, wrapping her so fully in his embrace, does she realize she is shaking—and not from the cold.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers. "I didn't… It's not that I don't want you, I swear, I just—I didn't mean to show you any of that. I wanted you to see that the world can be wonderful if you promise to fight with me and that we can find peace and you can be happy and everyone can be friends again and—"

"Shhhh," he murmurs into her hair, tucking her head gently beneath his chin. "It's okay. I understand. You don't have to apologize. I'm the one who's sorry. I never should've pushed."

"But you didn't—"

"Maka."

She swallows through the lump in her throat, understanding his plea. Nothing she can say right now will comfort him. Her babble is only to appease her own guilt; it does nothing but hurt him more.

I love you, she wants to say, the words so persistent that they clog her throat and make it impossible to breathe. I love you. I love you so much.

But the words don't come. Her heart may be cruel, but her mouth knows when to be merciful to the broken.

"Will you stay with me?"

She startles. "I'm sorry?"

"Stay," he repeats. "Tonight. When we return to Death City, don't go back to the Gallows. Stay with me instead."

Tears well up in her eyes. "Of course I'll stay with you. As long as you want, I'm here."

ii.

They say you can't hear the sound of a heart breaking.

Maka begs to differ.