breathless_dawn: (Kid/Liz/Patty)
breathless_dawn ([personal profile] breathless_dawn) wrote on April 14th, 2010 at 04:46 pm
Fic: Phobia
Title: Phobia
Author: breathless_dawn
Rating: R? for disturbing images and language
Characters/Pairing: Soul, Maka; Soul/Maka if you squint
Disclaimer: I, most unfortunately, do not own Soul Eater.
A/N: My first Soul Eater fic *deep breath* I'm not sure that I'm entirely happy with kind of got a mind of its own when I started writing it. So instead of the idea I had in mind at the beginning, it turned into this - a sort of revamped canon of episode 12 (chapter 9 in the manga). Tell me what you think (and please don't pelt me with hard things because I'm sure this has been done approximately 3908421 times =/).



It’s pitch dark and Soul can’t see anything. His hand ghosts along the wall of the corridor, the smooth stone beneath his fingertips seeming to extend into eternity. The echoes of his footsteps bounce emptily off the walls and his heart beat pounds in his ears. He’s been walking for what feels like hours but he knows he has to keep going even though every cell in his body screams in protest.


“Soul?” someone whispers.


He stops in his tracks. “Maka?”




“Maka! Where are you?” Soul’s head whips around but the perpetual darkness persists, rendering him blind. He begins running down the corridor again, following the twists and turns until he sees a ring of light outlining a door at the end of the passage.




Soul hesitates only a moment before throwing open the door and stepping inside. At first he is dazzled by the bright light and puts his hands up to shield his eyes. As his vision comes into focus he can see a grand piano sitting on the black and red tiled floor and a phonograph atop an antique table. Blood red curtains are draped over the walls and a black throne-like chair sits in the corner.


Soul immediately feels something is very wrong about this room and turns back toward the door, only to find that it has sealed itself shut.


Damn, he thinks. “Maka?” Soul calls, “Are you here?”


“I’m so sorry,” he hears Maka’s voice say as if from far away. “I’m so sorry, Soul.” It sounds like she’s crying.


“Maka! Where the hell are you? This isn’t funny!”


Suddenly the phonograph begins to play a dimestore jazz song he swears he’s heard somewhere before. “I’m afraid it’s just you and me,” a voice says from his right. Out from the shadows steps a little red demon with horns on its head, wearing a double-breasted suit.


“Who the hell are you?” Soul demands, watching as the demon does a crooked little dance out of time with the music and swaggers over to him.


“Patience,” it says contentedly, swinging its hips out of time. “You have the right qualifications, you know.”




The demon nods. “Of course, of course. You’re in very capable hands.” The corners of its mouth pull up all the way to its ears, showing each of its pointed teeth, and its eyes widen, giving it a crazed sort of look. Before Soul knows what’s going on, the demon is pushing him down into the black chair. “Sit down. Relax.”


Soul frowns. This is all wrong. “What the hell are you talking about? Who are you? What is this place? What have you done with Maka?!”


“Slow down!” the demon says, holding his hands up. “We’ve got plenty of time. It’s not as if you’ll be leaving any time soon.” It shoots him another devilish grin. “Now, what do you want to know first? I promise I’ll be honest.”


Soul grinds his teeth and glares at the little red monster. “Where’s Maka?”


It clicks its tongue. “Tut, tut, Soul. You haven’t been listening. It’s only you and me here. Maka’s somewhere else. There perhaps,” he says, pointing to a door Soul swears wasn’t there a moment ago. “Or there?” It points to a different door. “Maybe there? I don’t know.” They become surrounded by doors on all sides and Soul pushes himself off the black throne, ready to enter one of them.


“It won’t do you any good looking for her,” the demon says as if reading his mind, “you’ll only get lost. There are too many doors, too many passages. Too many places to look. You’ll probably end up back here anyway; the conscious is a curious thing.”


Soul growls low in his throat. “Will you stop talking in riddles, you annoying son of a bitch?”


“Now, now. There’s no need for such language.” The creature grins widely again and hoists itself up onto a small black table next to the chair Soul is standing in front of.


He is quickly losing his patience. “Who are you?”


“Why, I’m you,” the demon says, staring into the weapon’s red eyes. “In a manner of speaking,” it adds as an afterthought.


“Liar,” Soul says. “What happened to being honest?”


“I am being honest. I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t a part of you.” It straightens its tie with too-large hands. “These are the passages of your mind, after all.”


The phonograph reaches the end of the record and the needle begins to skip, playing the last note over and over. Soul looks around the room again and finds that it looks bigger than before; in front of him the black and red tile stretches so far into the shadows that he can no longer see the red curtains.


Soul’s fists clench. He’s used to being able to do something to get the situation under control, but here in this fucked up place (his mind?) there is nothing he can do. And he hates it. “What the hell is going on?”


“You’re frightened?” the demon asks, looking pleased, though it is more of a statement than a question. It chuckles amusedly before turning back to Soul. “I can take away your fears, make you stronger than you ever thought possible. How about it, Soul Eater?”


And suddenly Soul remembers the Demon Sword slashing through his torso, the searing pain and coppery smell of blood before everything went black. As the blade came down on him, he experienced the most piercing wave of pain and fear that it shocked his system. He was afraid he would die, afraid Maka would be killed, afraid of feeling more pain, afraid of a million other things he can’t quite put his finger on. His hand unconsciously grasps at his chest.


“That would be reckless,” he says with conviction, but there is still a part of him that wants to accept the demon’s offer. To free himself from burdensome fear forever.


“No one likes a martyr, Evans, and you’re not in heaven yet.” The red monster flings himself off the table and down at Soul’s feet. “The most important thing is the power. Overwhelming power to allow you to forget your fears.” And with that, the demon’s clawed hand encircles Soul’s wrist, forcing him to bend down to the demon’s height. “I don’t think you understand yet,” it grins, pulling him toward a set of ink-black doors. Its breath smells like mould and stale air and blood.


“Wait!” Soul cries, resisting the pull of the demon. One of the doors swings open. It opens inward. “Wait a minute!” There is a bitter taste in his mouth and fear is churning in his belly. He doesn’t know what is beyond the doors but he knows he doesn’t want to find out.


“You have to find the power!” the demon shouts and with unnatural strength it pushes Soul out of the room so hard that he has to throw his arms out to catch himself. The door slams closed and he is engulfed in darkness again. Unexplainable panic rises in Soul’s throat and he begins to run down the corridor, slamming his shoulders into the walls as he quickly rounds the corners.


After ten minutes of running flat out, Soul finally sees a light at the end of the passage. When he reaches it and tries to go through, he meets resistance. Feeling the panic churn in the pit of his stomach again he doesn’t spare a moment’s thought before slashing open the barrier and forcing his way through.


But something is wrong.


He pushes his way through something soft and pliant and emerges coated in something thick and slippery. He looks numbly down at himself and sees that he is drenched in scarlet. There is a body at his feet, limp and bloodied, a jagged hole carved through the stomach. There is so much blood surrounding the body that it looks purple at its depth.


Soul draws his gaze upward, sees the girl’s mouth frozen in a surprised “oh,” her green eyes spattered with blood. She looks just like… Oh, god…






Soul startles awake with his heart beating hard and fast against his ribs. A fine sheen of sweat makes his clothes stick to his body and he can hear himself breathing erratically. He looks down at his hands shaking in his lap and breathes a small sigh of relief to see that they are not covered in blood.


Out of the corner of his eye he sees blonde hair splayed over the sheets of the infirmary bed. He turns his head and sees Maka slumped forward in a chair, her arms haloed around her head, which is pillowed on the mattress. Her eyes are closed and she’s breathing deeply but Soul thinks she looks tired even though she’s sleeping.


He wonders how long she’s been here, how long she’s been worrying about him. He sighs and lays a hand lightly in her hair, twirling the locks around his fingers. He’ll have to tell her that none of this is her fault or she’ll beat herself up for months, but he knows even if he does tell her, she probably won’t forgive herself for a long time.


Soul sighs tiredly again. His chest aches, a dull throbbing is developing behind his right eye, and his whole being is tired.


He fights off sleep for as long as possible, watching the moon sink lower in the sky and trying not to think, but eventually the sounds of Maka’s even breathing and his own exhaustion pull him back to sleep.


His hand remains curled in her hair.




Soul finds himself in the black corridor, staring at the outline of a door in front of him. He can hear the phonograph on the other side, skipping over the grooves in the record. Someone begins snapping and he recognises the demon’s voice saying, “Swing. Swing. Swing.” He can tell it’s doing that crooked little dance – its shoes are squeaking on the floor.


“Hey, Soul!” the demon calls through the door. “Come in and join the party.”


The door swings open of its own accord, bathing Soul in light from the room. The demon gives him a crazed smile and beckons him with a finger.


He takes a step backward, not wanting to cross the threshold.


“Oh, come on, Soul! It’s a party. Your friend is waiting for you.” The demon makes a sweeping gesture with his hand and Soul can hear the sound of high heels tapping on the tile somewhere behind him.


When she comes fully into view Soul gasps. “Maka?”


She is wearing a long black dress with strappy heels. There is a dark stain on her abdomen and Maka is staring down at her upturned palms as if they have the answer to the universe written on them. “Maka?” Soul tries again.


Suddenly her head snaps up and her mouth is twisted into a sickening grin. “My blood is black. See?” She tips her blackened palms toward Soul and three fat drops of blood slide down her fingers and onto the tiles. She begins to laugh uncontrollably and the demon joins in. Black blood begins to ooze down the walls until the phonograph drowns. It drips thickly from the ceiling and lands on Maka’s cheeks, looking almost like tears as the droplets slide down. She pulls her fingers down over her lips, leaving black streaks of blood around her mouth, but her tongue laps it up like nectar. She continues to laugh.


Soul screams.


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