Sleep is a lovely thing that, sadly, Soul no longer enjoys.

In the past, there had always been late nights, for Soul and Maka, both. The nights where homework and studies seemed to consume them and sleep had to be feigned off until wee hours of the early, early morning. Nights where the scythe would lay in bed, and simply stare at the ceiling for hours and hours, until sleep finally seeped into his eyelids, and by that time, Maka was already hovering over him with a soothing, "Time to get up, Soul" to which he'd slowly slink from under his covers and start the day.

He wishes those nights had never affected him. He also wishes he slept every chance he ever got, because now, the mere thought of sleep turns him into a snapping, rip-roaring mad, mess.

Soul also knows Maka suffers from his lack of this activity as well. He doesn't mean to lose his cool when she begs for him to get some sleep, because she needs a mentally-sufficient weapon on the battlefield tomorrow. He never tries to tune her out when she explains to him that after three days of lost sleep, the mind begins to hallucinate and the person ends up passing out from exhaustion. But he can't do it.

He just can't sleep.

Because what lies for him in his mind is his worst nightmares, being brought to life by the black blood behind traumatized eyelids. And no one can save him from the horrors it creates. Missing eyeballs, mind-numbing pain, unfathomable deaths of loved ones, and blood stain his once-beloved dreams, turning them into the driving factor of night-terrors and insomnia.

It is in remembering this, that Soul finds himself in the position of "Worst Weapon in the History of Fucking Ever" and cannot help the guilt it stirs up in the pit of his knotted stomach.

"Soul, it's almost midnight."

~O-O-O-O~

The scythe grunts in acknowledgement at his meister's statement. It is, indeed, eleven fifty-two in the evening hours, well after her own "bedtime". Which, isn't really a bedtime, according to Maka, as much as it is "necessary to any normal teenager".

Yeah, any normal teenager who isn't afraid to actually close his eyes and conk out.

"Staying up?" She asks quietly as her quiet footsteps pad closer to him on the couch. It silently occurs to Soul that she's only gotten up in order to check on him. He feels like a sick child whose mother is too worried to sleep a full night herself. He doesn't enjoy the position, either.

He nods at her question, though, a quick nod as he turns back to the notepad resting on his thigh, a pen weaved boredly between his fingers. Crimson eyes turn down to his lap, almost embarrassed to look at her.

A sigh fills the heavy silence between them, it's from Maka. The weapon slowly looks up from his socked feet to see the ashen blonde hanging over the edge of the couch he's sitting on, emerald orbs glancing tiredly at him.

"You really should…"

Soul doesn't offer her an answer. He instead starts scribbling random music notes (which, seriously don't make a bit of sense, now that he looks at them, but she seems to be buying it.) down on the yellow notepad in his lap, trying his best to tune out her worried wavelength, which only makes his head throb due to the demon that lurks inside.

He does respond, however, when he feels the right side of the couch sink down, and turns to see her sitting beside him. Her wavelength is calming, however, it makes his head ring a bit, and he fights to keep a grimace off his features as he stares at her.

"What're you doing?"

"Staying here with you. Wha'zit look like I'm doing?" She answers, drawing her legs up criss-cross under her as she looks at him with tired eyes. She's exhausted, he knows it, and the remorse slaps at the back of his mind, unrelenting.

"Go to bed," Soul murmurs coolly, scrawling nothing but jagged shapes on the sides of his notepad paper. Maka yawns softly, scooting closer so that she's leaning on his shoulder a bit, looking down at the notepad herself.

"What's that?"

He throws the pad to the coffee table with a loud slap! before propping his feet up on the table as well, slouching into the couch. He shrugs at her question, blood-red irises staring off into the dimly-lit space in front of him. He dully notices she does the same, though, she stares at him instead the entire time she does it.

"Gonna sleep yet?" She asks tiredly, stifling a yawn with her fingers.

He shakes his head, his long legs crossing smoothly, right over left, as they sit. The silence between weapon and meister is calm and welcomed, both praying it will leave the other in the grasp of sleep. Minutes pass, and Maka finds herself fighting to keep her eyes open. Just when she's about to throw in the towel and leave him to sulk in his misery, her lap is crushed with a dull thunk. She jumps, but quickly sighs in more than one relief as she sees her scythe, out cold in her lap.

"Idiot…" she mumbles, her voice thick with sleep as her hand comes to run through soft, color-less locks. Soul's breathing is so mellow she believes he could pass for a corpse. But, she adds mentally, not-sleeping in over two days does that to a person.

She admits, he looks like hell. There are bags under his eyes, his voice has been cracking from lack of rest, even his hair seems less… gravity-defying, for lack of a better word. He's a wreck, and everyone's noticed, all their friends included. (Even Black*Star.) But she never tells them what's wrong, and neither does he. It's only referred to as, "late night last night" or "just couldn't sleep right". Both Soul and Maka refuse to tell the truth, Soul for his reputation and self-consciousness and Maka for her loyalty to her weapon she oh-so-desperately believes she needs to repay him with. It's a silent agreement they share over the topic, and although it is never spoken, Maka understands his graditude for her kindness.

Soul continues to sleep in her lap, even as she strokes between his shoulder blades as if she were petting Blair. A tired smile cracks on her lips, and she finds her fingers running deeper through his hair, just to add comfort as he lie in a place that so easily could pass for Hell itself.

He turns in her lap, now facing upwards, his head tilted back over her thighs. His wavelength spikes. His face contorts in pain—or is it frustration? —Maka notes as her palm comes to rest on his sweat-damp forehead.

Either way, she knows his mental torture has already began.

The girl is silent, the only sound in the entire apartment is the rustling of Soul's clothes scraping against hers and the sofa as he wickedly whips around. It bothers her that she can't do much to stop his suffering. Maybe that's the reason she's coddling him when he's least aware of it? It doesn't do the scythe much good, anyway, because he's still a whimpering, tossing, feverish mess.

The jolts of his wavelength surge through both parties, Maka feeling it from the tips of her hairs down to her toes, which curl in reflex as she cringes. It's not a pleasant sensation, she admits, because his wavelength is so frantic and loud it doesn't know what to do with itself.

After only about twenty minutes of horror-filled sleep, ruby eyes slam open, a scream barely stifled with a bite of his lip. It takes Soul a moment to remember who he is, where he is, and why Maka's here, but when his mind recovers that information, he's fighting to push off her lap.

She frowns, her arm holding his chest down so he can't get off her. "Go back to sleep."

"No." He grits out, more than just a little irritated. Can't she understand that sleeping -for him- is like ripping out a person's fingernails? Obviously not, he adds dully to himself.

He's surprised when she shoves him up off her lap to sit up, herself getting off the couch entirely. She does an awkward dance, keeping one hand on his back as she leans over, and drapes his right arm over the back of her neck, hoisting him up. Soul blinks a few times, confused, but staggers after her as she begins to walk, because there's not much else he could do, unless he feels like face-planting with Maka on the freezing-ass cold hardwood floor.

It doesn't take her long to strangle his bedroom door open, nudging it open with her knee and dropping her partner off at his bed, to which he plops down face-first against, groaning in relief. The couch had left his back sore and whining in complaint, and the heavenly comforter and pillows are a good foil in comparison.

Soul expects her to leave, after this. She doesn't. In fact, she does the opposite of what he's expecting, and sinks to her knees against his bed, a sigh breeching pinked lips as a small palm rubs along his spine in slow, soothing circles. It makes him forget the belt buckle digging into his lower belly, and the fact his uniform shirt isn't usual night attire, because he's memorized by her ministrations.

He admits, he also hates this. Soul doesn't enjoy playing the injured one of the partnership. Ever. It's not his style, and it's definitely not cool. He's the protector. It's his job, hell, it's part of his genetic code to protect Maka, and keep her safe. The other way around, it makes Soul think of putting his socks on inside-out. It's just not right. And, although she coos him with choruses of "don't worry about it," and "I owe you one, right?" it's just awkward and wrong in his eyes.

But he's too fucking tired right now to fight her, and if she keeps rubbing that one spot between his shoulder blades, he's definitely going to pass out without taking off his uniform pants, and he couldn't care less.

There's a soft whisper of, "try an' get some sleep, alright?" before Soul's eyelids finally lose their battle with his needs, and he finds himself deep in sleep without whining in protest.

Maka smiles peacefully to herself once she takes notice of his slowed breathing, and haulted fidgeting. She feels accomplished for the fact she is the reason he's finally decided to get some sleep, and pride nearly beams from her. After a few more precious moments of rubbing his back, she decides that her partner is more important than her perfect sleep record, and that soothing him is one thing she'd never mind in the slightest. With a slip of the knees, she down on her bottom, legs sprawled under her as her hand continues to rub his back, her wavelength focusing on his. It's rather calm, for the time being, and she prays it stays that way for the rest of the night.

~O-O-O-O~

It only takes a moment for the pure blackness of his mind to become a picture; a scene.

It's a battlefield. One he doesn't quite remember, but he's knows it's one he's fought at with Maka. He remembers the odd-looking cobblestone road, and the dim lighting fixtures in the streets of the town. For some reason, he can even smell the thick evening air, like the lurking smell of August in the late summer nights. It's almost comforting, and he even grins when he sees her familiar face as she pokes out from the shadows of a street lantern, brushing her blue skirt off and pink tie.

When he tries to speak to her, though, his voice is gone. He doesn't make a sound, no matter how much he strains his vocal chords. Wonderful, he thinks bitterly, no communication, always fucking perfect.

She approaches him, and when she speaks, her voice seems, off. It's not in the usual tone of a C-major chord, or any of the usual tones it peaks or slopes to when she speaks. Her words are jumbled together, barely making sense, but he's not really paying attention to her, anyway. She just seems generally… off. Her chest seems at least a size and a half too small (from what he's usually staring at half the time) and her hands seem sharper under her gloves, as if her fingertips are pure bone.

But, she rattles on and on, words that don't seem to make much sense to Soul. Perhaps he's relieving a memory and can't replace her speech? He's not sure, but he must admit, he's amazed with this odd version of his meister.

When her gloved hands run about her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, he watches intently, amazed. Pink lips begin to move slower, before she's just making little mewls of noises, as if she's stretching as she touches her flawless skin.

It's not bothersome to him. In fact, it's a bit arousing, the way her lips move in semi-silent moans, a wide grin stretching from cheek to cheek. He almost leans forward to yank her hands from her face, to smash their lips together in wonderful unison-!

Until she plunges her unusually long point and middle fingers, on each hand, into her beautiful eyes, gouging them out in a bird-like fashion until they remain harpooned on each of her hands. Gloved fingers scrape down her flawless cheekbones, leaving trails of crimson in their wake on pale skin. Blood sprays and drips from her face, and after she decides she's done with that, she opens her bloodied arms in a hug to him, her mouth clearly forming the words:

"Don't leave me?"

He screams. He screams so loud, he doesn't even notice he's screaming until he wakes up to hands pressing his back comfortingly, worried echoes of "Soul! Soul! What's wrong?" ringing in his ears from God knows where. It takes a moment, before he finally stops the uncool screech from rattling his vocal chords, and he breathes deeply, looking to his right, where Maka sits. He does a double-take, before dropping his head against his pillow with a huff of a sigh.

Skilled hands are already rubbing his back as she kneels up higher to lean into him. Her hair tickles his bent elbow, but he doesn't move. Embarrassment has sewn him to the spot, and he tries to hide flushed cheeks from her mothering gaze.

There's a heavy silence between them, but it's a welcomed one. Viridian eyes flicker to his alarm clock, red numbers blazing a harsh four twenty-three in the morning. She reaches over him to the nightstand, switching off his already-set alarm.

"What're you doing?" Soul tiredly snaps, though it sounds more like an upset toddler whining about not going to Disneyland.

She sits on his bed, because she decides her knees hurt way too fucking much, and if she lies beside him, she can hold him without having questions asked… she thinks.

"You're not going to class tomorrow."

"…Why?" He tries his hardest not to sound too excited. She's only allowed him to skip classes when he's running a fever, puking his lungs out, or if battle injuries (like his scar, when it was still an open wound) begin acting up. Never for black blood, though.

"We're seeing Professor Stein, instead."

That's a thought he's not willing to consider too closely.

"No. No way."

She shoots a sneer at him, crossing her arms with a forceful shrug." You're not the meister, you don't have a choice in the matter, Soul." His name is like poison on her lips, the way she spits the one-syllable word out. Like a snake, choking its venom into its prey.

"That's with orders, meister." He fires back at her, silver eyebrows drawn together as he scowls.

"Then it's an order."

Crimson eyes stare at her for a moment, before he only shakes his head into his pillow. Somehow, though, he's not sure how, they've come closer on his bed, and their sides are pressed together. He feels her breathing, and he notes silently that it's the same sort of breathing control she uses when she gets worked up. He props himself up on his elbows to look at her completely, sighing, before nudging over to rest his head on her shoulder.

It's a silent agreement, one they share through mind and heart. Maka finds her fingers tangling in his hair gently, toying with thin strands of snow. His rapid heartbeat settles into a calm gallop of a bass, thumping as he lets his mind wonder. In fact, he gets so caught up in analyzing his thoughts, he doesn't even notice when he slips under the spell of sleep once more, and pretends not to notice the ghost of a kiss his meister leaves on his cheek before she curls up, and finds herself doing the same.
_

Yeah so… Yeah. I've had this idea in my head for awhile, so I've decided to give it a shot. Kinda hope it doesn't suck as much as I think it might. Er… yeah. All I have to say about it.

Anyway, review, don't review, whatever helps you sleep at night. :3