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Prompt #1: Dare

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"Well it goes like this
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah"

-"Hallelujah", Jeff Buckley

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the minor fall (the major lift)

by AbsentAngel

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It starts as a whisper.

A barely there feeling; a wish—a want—he can't quite interpret. It tinkers on the keys of his soul, a disconnected melody he can't (for the life of him) rearrange into something that makes sense.

It haunts him with a persistence that's irritating as all hell, but it's the vagueness that's driving him crazy. It's like walking into a room and forgetting what he went in there for, or recognizing a few notes but being unable to place the song. There's something he wants, but he doesn't know what.

In the Black Room, the red ogre grins, serrated teeth gleaming in the dim light. It's a knowing—goading—look. "Don't you want to know?" he drawls, eyes as sharp and maniacal as his laughter. The record player skips, so erratic it's impossible to recognize the song beneath the needle. "Don't you want to ask?"

Soul's answer is yes and no, respectively. Of course he wants to know, but he'd rather walk through the desert ass naked than ask the ogre for anything, let alone help. The ogre laughs, a mad cackle that has the black blood stirring in response. Soul resigns himself to the fact that he's going to be in a really pissy mood for the foreseeable future. At least until he figures it out.

Except, a week goes by—then two, then three—and he has to admit he hadn't expected the 'foreseeable future' to be so damn long. His shitty mood earns him a handful of Maka Chops that may, or may not, have been deserved. Which, in retrospect, is a hell of a lot better than what he's being forced into now.

Soul's first mistake was being obvious enough for Black Star to pick up on his foul mood. His second was (grudgingly) agreeing to let the bastard help. His third—fuck, if only he could call it his final—mistake, was overlooking the fact that Black Star's solution to everything is to throw a huge party and get blackout drunk.

Needless to say, Soul's mood has not improved. At all.

"Asshole," he grumbles, adjusting Maka's weight against his back. She's drunk—too much spiked punch and (clearly) not enough tolerance—and her response is a mumbled slur against his shoulder.

"S'not nice." She tries to pinch him, but his leather jacket is too thick and her fingers are too clumsy. "Was trying to make you feel better."

"I hate parties," he reminds her, glaring at the back of a bicyclist as they speed passed just a little too close. He wonders why the hell someone would be riding their bike at one in the morning, but then he sees the guy nearly careen into a lamppost and he gets his answer. Right, just another one of Black Star's victims. Soul scowls. "And I feel fine."

"Liar." The accusation is soft, teetering on the edges of sleep, but it's firm enough to hold no room for arguments. Soul doesn't want to test what an inebriated Maka Chop would feel like, so he (wisely) remains silent.

The night is pretty tolerable for Death City standards. Which is good, because there's no way in hell he's trusting his meister to stay on the back of his motorcycle right now, so it looks like he's stuck walking the mile back to their apartment. It doesn't take long before she's nodding off, her cheek pressed fully against his shoulder. "Don't drool on the leather," he gripes, knowing she's too far gone to listen. The only response he gets is a little snore, so tiny he probably wouldn't have caught it if she wasn't right next to his ear. Soul knows by the time they're home it'll be like a foghorn, but somehow it doesn't stop a smile from teasing his lips. At least she had fun.

Her lips graze his neck as she mumbles in her sleep, a could-be kiss, and his whole body freezes.

It's the sharp shattering of glass on the floor; the crashing of symbols against his ears. The missing notes that drove him crazy fill with the subtlety of a train wreck, and inside the black room a crescendo is building to deafening levels.

This. This is what he wants.

The press of her body against him, her breath burning against his pulse and her sighs echoing in his ears. Soul wants more than platonic hand holding and friendly hugs—he wants to know the feel of her lips, craves the taste of her skin. He wants her in ways beyond meister and weapon.

Soul is in love with Maka Albarn.

"Oh," he breathes, pulse drumming in his ears. "Oh, shit."

In the Black Room, the record stops skipping—the song sweet and soft and whole. When it reaches the end, a daring, solitary note rings out in invitation.

Waiting for him to answer.

AN: Just a little drabble for tumblr's Soma Week Prompt: Dare. :)