Current location:	at home
Current mood:	cold
Entry tags:	pastfic, soul eater, spirit, stein, stein/spirit

[Soul Eater] Antebellum -- Spirit/Stein
Title: Antebellum
Pairing: Spirit/Stein
Words: ~1,200
Genre: Drama pastfic.
Rating: PG
Other Notes: I realized partway through this that my mental image came from a dim memory of a piece of fanart, which shows young!Stein sitting in the center of an empty white examination room; I combined that image with the idea that maybe Stein had been psychologically examined before entering Shibusen, and wrote this is a result.
Crossposted.





Shinigami-sama kept one broad, flat hand pressed against Spirit’s back as he escorting him into the room. It felt comfortable, warm, and it was only in retrospect— years later— that he realized that Death Himself had been preventing him from backing up quickly.

In the moment, though, Spirit was only aware of his muted anxiety, his sweating palms balled in his pants pockets, his own light, shallow breathing.

You’re not worried. Just a little excited. That’s normal. Meeting someone new, meeting someone who’s going to be your partner…

He’d been told enough.

Or he thought he had. Later— years later— he’d reconsider that and then ruefully dismiss the dull ache that throbbed in his chest, in his head. Order another drink, gag it down, shudder, and try to ignore the tight prickling pull of the stitches running down his back.

Shinigami-sama had said that they needed him for this. That there was something about him that was special, something about his soul that made him the best candidate they had for this.

Flattered, Spirit had agreed to give it his best.

The door shut behind them with a quick snick.

The room was white, so white it hurt to look at. It was white and blank and empty, and in the first moment when the boy in the single chair in the middle of the room lifted his head, his eyes were the same.

Spirit started.

Shinigami-sama’s fingers splayed against his shoulders, firm and steadying. “Good morning, Stein-kun,” he said cheerfully, coaxing the last syllable out to play. “You haven’t been waiting long, have you?”

The boy— Stein— slowly tilted his head. Even his clothes were white. His gaze crept down from Shinigami to Spirit, lingered a moment, then moved back upward again.

“No,” he said. “Not long.”

Spirit shifted uncomfortably. In this room, there was no time. There was only the hum of florescent lights, the mellow glow of the walls, the unbearable whiteness. The kid— and he was just a kid still— seemed crushed by the weight of it. How could he know how long he’d been here.

Minutes? Hours?

Days?

No one could have left the kid in here for days.

Could they?

He’d heard some rumors, some strange gossip going around that…

Spirit swallowed down his own nervousness. It was just a room. A plain room with a bored-looking kid. Nothing weird here. “Hey,” he said, and his own voice surprised him. So did his hand, half-raising in a casual greeting.

Stein looked at him again, the veil of vague, clouded apathy clearing from his expression for a flickering second to reveal something...

…something sharper, Spirit thought uneasily. Sharp, and dangerous.

What the hell. He’s just a kid. He’s not even my age yet.

Why is he in this white room all alone?

“This is Spirit-kun,” Shinigami-sama continued like he hadn’t felt the mood in the room. “He’s…”

“He’s a weapon,” Stein finished flatly. He stared openly at the older boy, lifting his face like a cat scenting the air. He carefully folded his hands together as though restraining himself.

Wait. Restraining himself from what?

“Ahhhhh~! That’s would be…CORRECT!” The skull-faced mask bobbed in gleeful affirmative. “CONGRADULATIONS!” Shinigami’s free hand popped from his cloak to point at Stein, his longer reach making it so that his fingertip was a mere inch from the boy’s face. “And you are…?”

“Oh.” Stein didn’t answer, didn’t seem at all inclined to play along with Shinigami-sama’s game. Instead, he seemed to relax, some of the tension dropping from his shoulders as a smile curled the corners of his lips. He leaned back in the chair, poised and cynical, a frighteningly adult expression on his face. “I see. This is another test.”

“Test?” Spirit frowned. He felt as though he wasn’t following the conversation very well at all. He glanced around the empty room again, then up at Shinigami-sama questioningly.

And was surprised to feel the god’s upbeat attitude slump for a moment, as though Stein’s response had caught him off-guard and knocked the wind from him. The pointed finger barely wavered, though, before wagging playfully under the younger boy’s nose.

“Stein-kun, that is…” Shinigami sucked in a breath, then belted out, “INCORRECT!” The finger retracted as the god flipped his hand palm up, shrugging the one shoulder. “It’s not finals time anymore. The tests are over.” Because I said so, seemed to follow along even without an open invitation. “Spirit-kun is here to meet you.”

Spirit allowed a second for the rest of what went unspoken to lope into place. “Hey,” he said again, stepping forward. He kept his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t entirely sure what to say to the kid. Anything would sound awkward. “You need a partner to participate in classes at Shibusen.”

That, finally, seemed to surprise Stein. His expression didn’t change, but his knuckles—

--his hands, folded neatly in his lap, a pale imitation of manners to reign in his errant fingers—

—went white and his eyes seemed to darken.

They waited for him to speak, but Spirit couldn’t stand the empty gap that lurched there, sick and empty and so damned terrifying, and so he fidgeted restlessly and stepped closer.

He reached out…

…then turned his wrist awkwardly and jerked his thumb at the door.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s stop wasting time in this hole. Let’s get going.”

Stein looked through the space Spirit’s hand should have been. The lip of his tongue, small and pink as a kitten’s, lapped at his lips— revealing his own nervousness— and Spirit felt something loosen in his chest.

“Your hair…” Stein hesitated. “It’s a good color. Like arterial blood.”

Shinigami-sama heaved a deep sigh, and Spirit sputtered helplessly, raked his hands through his hair, and then tried to smile.

Oddly, it worked.

In fact, it was suddenly very easy.

Okay.

He could do this.

He could stand between this kid and the world.

“Come on,” Spirit said again, warmth leaking into his irritated tone.

Stein’s shaking fingers pressed against Spirit’s shoulder. He stared at the five impressions he made in the cloth, in the flesh underneath, seemingly fascinated.

“Alright,” he said. He spoke without tone, without inflection. He cocked his head at the soft hiss of his nails on Spirit’s shirt, then plucked at the sleeve and still didn’t raise his eyes to meet the older boy’s.

Years later, he would think again how simple it was— not just then, in that moment in that white room, but always…

…always so simple.

Stupid, Spirit told himself. The words had no vehemence, no anger. So stupid. It’s your own damned fault.

Spirit always fell in love so easily.

Later— years later, even after
(all the pretty little silver blades lined up in a row in the tray, and he was horrified to realize that he felt no sense of betrayal)
having his heart
(watching her walk away, so confident…watching the end of their partnership, their marriage)
broken again and again
(“papa, papa,” she used to sing in her sweet voice, like light-winged birds lifting, and she held her arms up for him, she used to smile just for him…)
— he still couldn’t find it in him to feel regret for being born with that flaw.

He pulled Stein’s fingers away from his shirt, wrapped his own around them, stilling their nervous energy.

Stein looked up at him.

“Alright.”

Shinigami-sama laughed.