Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Do you blame me?”
— Young Lord Death

The Death Weapon Meister Academy was quiet, save for the click of leather soles on polished stone. It was midnight, the air still clinging to the day’s warmth.

It had been a month. Exactly. Kid hadn’t planned to mark the day, but sleep just wouldn’t come. His feet had brought him here to Father’s office—No, his. The Death Room.

He hadn’t sensed anything unusual, not really. Just a flicker of a soul, faint and familiar. Enough to make him pause at the door.

Through the cracked door, Kid saw him. Sitting at the platform’s edge, cigarette loose between his lips, was his late father’s weapon. The Death Scythe.

Kid had seen him often growing up. He lingered by Father, always present in the office. But his demeanour always shifted when Kid was nearby. Quieter, grumbling, smile softer. When the Death Scythe was ushered out for Father to have a quiet word with Kid, he would make a small scene by the door. Kid often overheard him chuckle things like, “Don’t be hard on him,” which had made no sense to Kid. Father was always fair to him, if anything lenient. It was only the Death Scythe he ever struck.

Kid never knew what to make of it. He wasn’t sure whether the human saw him as interesting, burdensome—or simply another face in the crowd.

Kid, though, had been intrigued by the Death Scythe’s shifting moods. The grouchy facade seemed to hide something—so sometimes, Kid had hid his presence, just to watch them.

An occasion Kid vividly remembered—he’d been eight, perhaps nine—was when he’d been summoned to report on a mission. It had been one of his first solo missions. It had gone, for lack of better words, awful. He’d delayed showing up, instead adjusting all the mansion’s cushions to perfection.

Once the inevitable couldn’t be postponed more, he’d still stopped outside the office. He’d heard voices and cracked the door open.

“I should've caught it—should've known—if I’d just—Kid nearly got clipped!” Death Scythe’s voice had been high, loud, and his gestures frantic, arms swinging and knees bouncing. His soul had throbbed visibly from within his chest, like static on an old TV.

Father hadn’t interrupt, but simply watched it, head cocked, mask unreadable. Once Death Scythe’s voice was softening, the tell-tale thickness of someone close to tears, he’d raised his hand.

WHACK.

The human had stumbled a little, hands cradling his head. For a few seconds, he seemed dazed—Kid had wondered whether to interrupt—but then he straightened. His soul calmed to a quiet shimmer.

“You're so loud when you blame yourself,” Father had said. “Does it help?”

Death Scythe had blinked. Then laughed—just once, sharply—and scratched the back of his neck. “Kind of.”

“I asked you to supervise from a distance, and you did,” Father had continued. “He’s fine.”

Kid had been fascinated by the exchange, pressing closer to the door’s edge.

“Ah, Kid, my monochrome masterpiece!” Father had called to him. Kid had entered the office, the moment gone. Death Scythe had immediately stepped back, straightening his slouch, grin becoming a polite neutral.

Years later, Kid had asked Father why he’d chosen this scythe, this erratic cluster of emotions. Father had been as vague as always.

“I balance him, and he balances me,” he’d said with a wink.

Kid hadn’t understood, but had decided to let it be for the time being. He’d had more pressing matters at hand.

He’d never had the chance to ask again.

After Father’s passing, Kid had found more reason to talk to Death Scythe than before. Though now without a meister, he was unanimously recognized as the most skilled weapon there was, and a key person in making the academy run smoothly.

But Death Scythe had remained distant—maybe more so than during Kid’s childhood. He was always polite, always present when needed, but never quite there. Conversations were brief, practical. Kid had tried, once or twice, to ask about Father—about the final days, the final thoughts—but Death Scythe had deflected with jokes or silence. It wasn’t coldness. It was something else. Something heavier.

Kid couldn’t tell if Death Scythe's distance was self-protection—or a way to spare him. Emotional motives were harder to analyse than tactical ones—and Death Scythe, like Father, rarely gave away more than he had to. Kid was left with guesses, not conclusions.

Kid entered the chamber, the familiar scent of clay and minerals tickling his nose. His steps echoed—soft, deliberate. Death Scythe didn’t stir, but his soul jittered, dim but restless—like embers tugged by wind.

“I thought I sensed someone in here,” Kid said once on the platform.

Death Scythe nodded slowly. “Soul-sighting is a fine skill of yours, Lord Death.” The title came late, like an afterthought, and his voice caught slightly on the word. He took a drag from the cigarette, the smoke billowing out from his mouth. He left it dangling from his fingers on his lap. “I’ll leave if you want,” he said, though he didn’t move.

“That’s alright,” Kid said. Hesitantly, he sat down on the edge, an arm’s length away. “Did you need something in here, Spirit?”

“Fresh air.” Spirit quickly flashed a grin at Kid. It was too wide, and it did not reach his eyes. “Nah, just kidding.”

Kid gave him a side-long look. He glanced to Spirit’s abdomen and the dimmed soul resting in its pit, flickering faintly, like it hadn’t decided whether to stay or leave. “You sure? It’s just, well… I notice that—”

The grin faltered into a grimace. Spirit looked away. “You’ve got enough on your plate, sir.”

Kid winced. The shift back to formality was sharp—almost jarring.

He didn’t know what to make of it. People bowed, deferred, called him ‘sir’—even Spirit, now. Spirit, who had seen him grow from a baby to a teenager, had watched him stumble through adolescence with quiet patience.

Kid didn’t feel like someone to be deferred to. Not really. Not in moments like this.

Spirit cleared his throat, then added, softer, “You shouldn’t have to carry everyone’s burden. Not at your age.”

The words weren’t harsh, but they felt heavy. Kid searched his face. Spirit didn’t meet his eyes. There was something there, though. Something Kid couldn’t quite place.

The distance stung. And the title, the deflection—it felt like a wall.

Kid pulled his knees to his chest, arms loosely wrapped around them. “This room feels off without him.”

“Yeah,” the man replied softly. He took a shaky drag of his cigarette. The smoke stung Kid’s nose, but he didn’t turn away.

Kid swallowed. “Spirit, did you…” He took a deep breath and let it out. “Did you know my ascension would kill Father?”

The man put the cigarette out against the platform, a bit too firmly, ashes and embers spreading. His face was pinched. “What of it?”

“Do you blame me?”

A silence that dragged on too long, then, “No.”

Kid nodded, though he knew Spirit wouldn’t see it. The man’s gaze was locked on the scorched horizon beyond the platform—soft dunes scattered with graves of demons he’d buried with Father. The horizon was quiet now, but it felt louder than ever.

Kid raised a hand to his mouth, gnawing on the thumb nail. He couldn’t tell what that “No” meant. But his stomach hurt.

“It’s not your fault,” Spirit continued. He drew a deep breath, released it in a shaky huff. “It was planned by him all along.”

Kid turned fully to him. The words jammed in his throat. He wanted to ask—how did you know? Did it feel like betrayal, trust? How did it feel being there at his last moment?

“You’re a fine Reaper,” Spirit said, interrupting Kid’s train of thought, “and all he wanted you to be. He was ready to go.”

Kid looked at his hands. Small. Smooth. Not like Father’s hands—hands that had wielded the world’s most powerful weapon: the Death Scythe. The man beside him. Kid’s fingers curled into his palms. The question had been sitting in his throat for days, maybe weeks. It felt wrong to ask—but more wrong not to.

“I was wondering… You don’t have to say yes, but… Would it be ok if I tried? Wielding you?”

Spirit looked to him, stricken.

“I’m sorry,” Kid quickly amended, letting his legs fall over the edge, ready to leave. “Of course, you wouldn’t— I was— I shouldn’t have—"

“No.” Spirit shook his head, eyes flickering upward, blinking rapidly. The corners of his mouth twitched, downward or upward Kid couldn’t tell. He straightened his back, drawing a deep breath, and reached his arm out for Kid to take.

Only a brief touch, a flash of light, and the Death Scythe formed—the weapon that had struck terror in enemies. A formidable blade, razor sharp and black as night, longer than Kid himself yet balanced with ease in his palm.

Kid had wielded a scythe before; Soul and him had tried for the fun of it. It had not ended well. Despite what they all said—that reapers could wield anything and anyone—Soul had been heavy and graceless in his hands. Their wavelength had been so far removed, there was no reason to try it further. It had ended in a yelling-match and a subsequent talking-to from Maka. Soul and him had shaken hands on never trying again.

Kid and Spirit didn’t resonate either. They stuttered, stumbled, as if Spirit tried to reach out but Kid couldn’t quite catch him.

“C’mon, Kid,” Spirit’s voice rang in his head. “You grip like a dead fish. That ain’t you.”

Kid huffed and gripped the handle tight in one hand, swinging it tryingly. It was silent, as if cutting the very air, but Spirit hummed approvingly in his mind. He spun once, letting the blade draw a circle around his feet, the reflection of stars blinking. Kid raised his other hand, twirling the scythe, drawing patterns in the air that seemed to blur the room behind them. Kid lunged, the scythe spinning above him, rolling over his shoulder in a rustle of cloth. He caught it mid-air, pivoting into a butterfly jump. The blade followed—no, led—his motion, carving arcs of moonlight through the air. The soles of his shoes scraped across the marble as he landed and spun again. His pulse quickened. Through the blur, he saw it—Father wielding the Death Scythe. A memory. A demonstration. Father fighting— dancing in synchrony with Spirit—

Spirit’s soul jolted.

The hum of resonance snapped—sharp, sudden, like a string pulled too tight. Kid stumbled, the scythe faltering in his grip. The memory had been too vivid—too close.

He exhaled slowly, forcing his feet to steady. The scythe swung around him, slower now, until he guided it into a gentle halt. The blade came to rest against the marble with a dull “thunk.”

“My bad, Kid,” Spirit’s said, voice trembling in his head. “Thought I saw a ghost. Always been a bit jumpy ‘round the supernatural. Ironic, huh?”

Kid didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. They both knew which ghost lingered here.

He huffed—a laugh, a sob?—and opened his hand, making the transformation back to human easier. In a flare of white, the Death Scythe—Spirit—appeared half-kneeling next to him. Tired, slouching, familiar. He drew in a breath and stood slowly, as if steadying himself. After a moment, he looked at Kid, gaze lingering. A short, breathy laugh escaped his lips, and then he smiled faintly.

“I think you got sand in your eye,” he said, brushing Kid’s cheek with his shirt sleeve. “Happens to the best of us.”

Kid nodded, trying to discreetly run a hand over his damp face.

“Thanks for the dance. I figured I’d end up a museum piece.” He placed his hand on Kid’s head, thankfully not ruffling it, though Kid was sure his hair was already tousled.

“See you tomorrow, Kid.” He gave a small wave and turned to leave. Kid thought he saw his shoulders hitch—just once—but it could’ve been the light. His soul was more stable than before.

Kid stayed a moment longer, watching the horizon. The Death Room was quiet again. But the silence felt different—less hollow. Less alone.

He hadn’t asked all the questions. He wouldn’t, not today. But somehow, he knew he’d have plenty chances this time.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring—but he wouldn’t face it alone.

Chapter Text

“You’re surprisingly bad at balance.”
—Spirit Albarn, legacy caretaker and professional nuisance

The clock’s ticking grew louder. It was all Kid could focus on. Seconds crawling, little progress being made. Kid pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the headache to pass. The air was stuffy, the scent of ink and paper sharp and suffocating.

“You doing okay in there?”

Kid glanced over the edge of a neatly stacked paper pile, one of many. Spirit was gazing at him from at the door, leaning against the edge. He looked blurry around the edges.

“I’m fine. Thanks,” Kid replied curtly and looked back down. He’d been reading the same page of the thesis more times than he could count, red pen hanging loosely from his fingers.

He felt the gaze burning into him, silence growing too long.

“I have a lot to do,” Kid added, hoping Spirit would catch the hint.

He didn’t.

Spirit’s rubber soles echoed softly as the climbed the stairs to the podium. Kid sat completely still, eyes on the paper, willing him to change his mind and turn away—

Spirit stopped right by Kid’s side.

“Hmm…” Spirit reached over for the top paper, a whiff of scotch and cologne trailing from his suit sleeve. Kid shifted away, not because of the scent—it was warm, almost grounding—but his stomach churned with nausea from too little sleep.

“’Blood type’s effect on Soul Resonance: A case study’,” Spirit read aloud. “Seems like something from Stein’s class?”

“It is.”

Spirit pulled a chair out and threw himself back with an exaggerated grunt, paper still in hand. “Why’s he not grading them himself?”

“I offered to,” Kid said.

“He’s a clever man,” Spirit said, “and a glutton for punishment. I’m sure he can handle it.”

Kid grunted. In truth, he’d asked Professor Stein for the job—figured it might help him understand what humans wrestled with in phasmology. The professor had smiled in a way that sent shivers up his spine, and obliged, on the condition that Kid gave him a detailed recollection of his mental state afterward. For science, he had said.

Kid had never imagined how much work there was to correct just one essay, not to mention a hundred. Still, he’d said he’d do it, so he’d do it. He’d lost track of time. The sky outside had darkened, lightened, and now glowed with afternoon gold. Somewhere along the way, night had come and gone. He was on essay number seven.

He rubbed his eyes. The paper in front of him refused to settle into focus. His eyes burned—gritty, dry—and the letters blurred like smoke across the page. He stifled a yawn.

“You’re looking charmingly corpse-like today,” Spirit said. “Planning a dramatic office haunting?”

“Some of us work more than we whine,” he muttered.

Spirit barked a laugh. “I deserved that. I’m the play hard to your work hard.”

Spirit reached over, snatched a clean sheet of paper, and slouched back into his chair. He started folding it. Kid’s glance lingered, but Spirit was absorbed. Kid sighed and looked back to the essay. At least the man was quiet now.

Crumple, crumple.

Poff.

“Air baaall.”

Kid looked at the small paper ball that had just bounced off his head, rolling into a jagged halt on the desk. Under normal circumstances, it would’ve been intercepted midair. Swatted away like a fly. But he hadn’t even seen it coming. He slowly looked up at Spirit, his arms outstretched and wrists bent mid-throw, frozen like a photo.

Kid closed his eyes. Of course Spirit had weaponized stationery.

“Good reflex,” said Spirit, folding the arms behind his neck as he leaned back.

Kid bit his bottom lip, nose scrunching, and he was trying so, so hard to not lose his cool. “Can’t you go bother someone else?” He ground out, his words too clipped.

Spirit shrugged, lazy smile tugging on his lip. “Keeping Grim Reapers upright is kind of my legacy gig.”

His mouth kept moving, but Kid couldn’t seem to catch what he said. Spirit’s voice blurred, like static through a radio. Were there actual words coming out? Kid wasn’t sure.

“Kid? Kid, are you there?”

Kid blinked. “Huh?”

“Lost you there for a few seconds.” Spirit laughed, too light, too tense.

“That’s absurd,” Kid huffed. “I’m fine, so if you just—” He stopped short, seeing Spirit’s hand now on the essay. He followed it, as it slowly, slowly was pulled away from under his nose.

“Spirit, I swear—”

Spirit’s hand stopped, just a moment, their eyes locked. Then, more confidently, Spirit pulled it off the table. He gently put it on top of a pile.

“You know, for someone so symmetrical, you’re surprisingly bad at balance,” Spirit said softly. “I’m going for a walk, care to come with?”

Kid’s chair lurched backward. He blinked, startled, as Spirit casually steered him toward the door. No pause, no permission. Just moved him. The wheels squeaked against the marble, resonating too sharp, too loud in Kid’s head. Kid massaged his temples. “Where to?”

“Infirmary, for a nap.” His hand lingered on the neck-rest. “My favourite bed is the one by the file cabinet, easy access to some tasty reading. But you be the judge.”

“I don’t have time for a nap,” Kid said, but even he heard that his words were hollow.

“We’ll pass the teacher's lounge on the way,” Spirit said, obviously not listening at all. “Sid brought lemon squares. They look lethal. Someone should eat them before Human Resources finds out and gets him in trouble.” He paused. “Well, Zombie Resources.”

Kid rolled his eyes and stood, a bad combination. The room spun. Spirit’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, steadying, warm.

“There’s hot tea too,” Spirit theatre whispered, steering Kid toward the door, “and I’m not talking about Earl Grey.”

Kid let a breath of laughter pass his lips. He was still sort of mad at Spirit, but he couldn’t deny that lemon squares paired with Spirit’s nonsensical gossip sounded nice. He just might agree to that nap, too.

And maybe, afterward, the world would feel a little less unbearable.

Chapter Text

“Tasted of vanilla, blood, and sweet, sweet victory.”
—Spirit Albarn, unreliable narrator

The infirmary was empty. It was past school hours after all. Spirit slung his legs onto the cot with the ease of someone who’d made this his second home. How often did he do this?

Kid sat on the edge of the neighbouring cot.

“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while I find something to read?”

Spirit flailed blindly, muttering curses as his hand knocked against drawers. When he finally found the handle, the cabinet shot open like it had a vendetta, slamming to a stop. Spirit didn’t flinch. He stretched his neck like a giraffe and peered inside. He had little luck, it seemed; he soon grumbled and turned on his side. Fingers flipped through the patient files. Again, far too practiced. Like someone who’d rifled through these files more times than he’d admit.

He pulled a file up. A small chuckle escaped his lips.

Kid squinted. Dr. Franken—

“Spirit, no.”                                 

He shoved it down and picked a different one. “It’s fine, it’s my own file.”

Kid sputtered, outraged. “I just saw you change it!”

“Prove it, Sherlock.” Spirit opened the folder, eyes skimming fast. “Huh.” He glanced at Kid, then turned the file slightly away. “Very interesting. Never read my own file before.”

“Never read your own—" Kid bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to sound invested. He cleared his throat, but the damage was done. Spirit was fighting a smile and having little luck with it.

“Well, what does it say?” Kid muttered.

“Give me a sec, I need to pre-read this. Wouldn’t want to scar your delicate ears.” Spirit read for a couple minutes, flipping a page every now and again. Kid shifted, resisting the urge to lean over. He didn’t want to ask again—not yet. Spirit would milk that for all it was worth.

How long was his file, anyways?

Spirit mouthed something and hissed, then huffed a laugh. Kid shifted again, trying to not look too interested. Not that he was.

More minutes passed. Spirit kept flipping pages. How much trouble could one man possibly get into?

Might as well get comfortable if Spirit was going to play hard to get.

He removed his shoes, lining them up precise and perfect. As he straightened, Spirit’s gaze flicked toward him—just for a second. Kid frowned, eyes held steady on Spirit. Spirit licked a finger and flipped a page with exaggerated finesse. Kid clicked his tongue but pulled his legs up on his cot. He didn’t lie back though—he wasn’t going to take a nap. Not while Spirit was still reading. Not while he didn’t know what came next. Again, not that he really wanted to. He was only being polite.

Spirit huffed a laugh and nodded to himself.

“Ok, I’ve got one for you, Kid.” He cleared his throat. “‘Patient presented with mild facial swelling, citing a disagreement over cafeteria pudding.’”

Kid blinked. “What.”

“I said, ‘Patient presented with—'"

“I heard you. It doesn’t say that.”

“It does!” Spirit flashed the file to him, just for a second. Not long enough to read. Definitely long enough to annoy.

Kid couldn’t stop his eye from twitching.

Spirit leaned back, eyes gleaming.

“Funny story,” he said, like he’d been waiting for the cue. “Happened at the time when Stein was my meister. We were younger than you are now. We shared an apartment, me and him.” Spirit crossed his arms behind his neck—folder still clamped in one hand—and wriggled further down into the cot. “Now, I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but Stein does—take note, you can absolutely bribe him into favours—and he’d helped himself to my candied lemon rinds. All of them.”

Spirit sucked his teeth like he was still upset. Kid held his breath.

“Next day at lunch, I cut in line. Snatched the last pudding from right under his sadistic snout. Obviously, we ended up in a fist fight.”

Kid did not see the ‘obvious’ in it, but wasn’t about to interrupt. He pulled his legs in a bit and rested his arms on his knees, chin in his hand.

“He slugged me,” Spirit indicated his nose, “but I was fast. Opened the pudding lid like a ninja and slurped it down like a trust-fund kid does an oyster. Tasted of vanilla, blood, and sweet, sweet victory.”

Kid held back a gag. He didn’t know why he was listening. This was nonsense.

Spirit chuckled and released a long sigh. A pause.

“Right, what else we got?” He brought the folder forth again, flipping a couple pages. “Oh, this one’s good, you’ll love this. ‘Patient arrived complaining of acute elbow pain following impromptu dance routine on faculty lounge table.’”

Kid opened his mouth and then shut it with a click.

Spirit gazed at him and closed the folder with a soft snap. He bit his lip lightly. It seemed to tumble out: “You know how male birds dance to attract mates?”

Kid winced, hating where this was going and needing to know. “I’ve heard of it.”

“Yeah.” Spirit nodded and let the file rest on his chest. “I was your age. A bit older? No, wait—how old are you now? Anyway. I’d known Maka’s mom for a bit and was down bad. We ended up at the same party in some closed-off office. Room B-II, I think. Flickering lights, broken fan. I know what you’re thinking, and no, the teachers didn’t know. Yes, we were too young to drink. Yes, we had too much to drink anyway.”

Kid hadn’t thought any of those things. He was too busy wondering why Spirit thought this was a good story. He leaned back into his cot, unsure whether he was retreating or settling in.

“I saw her laughing with her friends. Needed to have that laughter for me. So, I did what I had to do—got on the table and busted some fresh moves. Slipped in a puddle of cheap beer and red wine barf.” He grimaced. “The funny bone isn’t what it says on the tin. Damn, that hurt.”

He pointed at the armchair in the corner. “I hid away there until the nurse came. Must’ve been hours. Took some mental gymnastics to explain why I reeked of alcohol and had a cracked elbow, but she was cool. Didn’t force me to snitch. Me? I got detention for a month.”

Well deserved, thought Kid. But judging by Spirit’s lopsided smile, he wasn’t sure the man agreed.

Spirit raked his hand through his hair. “Anyway. Important thing is, Maka’s mom laughed so hard she cried. Sometimes you gotta fall on your ass to get the girl.”

Spirit’s smile slipped.

Kid looked away briefly. He’d heard the stories—the ones Maka didn’t laugh about. He knew about the divorce. About the anger.

“So, it was worth the detention?” Kid asked.

Spirit nodded once, a slow, exaggerated movement. “Yup. No regrets in that regard.”

He quickly rubbed at the corner of his eye and got the folder out again.

“Right, what else? Oh, this one’s good. I was, what, twenty-ish? Fairly new to the Death Scythe thing. You’d have been a tiny toddler.” He looked at Kid with a face full of mock pity—bottom lip poked out, eyebrows raised. Kid pressed his lips together.

Spirit cleared his throat. “‘Report documents minor cranial trauma post-“Reaper Chop” from Lord Death.’”

Kid drew a sharp breath and raised himself on his elbows. “Oh, no—"

“‘Note appended,’” Spirit rushed on, “‘Subject overacted. Chop did not warrant tears.’ Oof, that’s unfair.” He sounded affronted, looked it too, but Kid saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Some tension left Kid’s body.

“What happened?”

“I had it coming,” Spirit said lightly. He turned his face to the ceiling. “Your dad was on a chopping spree—maybe related to me being a little shit, maybe not, the man’s an enigma—so I decided to teach him a lesson. Real cunning of me.”

Kid eased back into the cot. He’d seen Father reaper-chop Spirit more times than he could count and always wondered how it felt. Not the strike—in him. He’d never dared ask; never dared to hope he’d hear it from his own mouth.

Spirit’s eyes were far away; Kid barely dared to breathe.

“I baited him. No, that’s generous—I tormented him. Interrupted him, moved his stuff, stalled when he asked me to transform… I can’t believe how far he let me go!” His laugh burst, head tipping back. “I provoked him every chance I got, but even though he’d chopped me half to death the week before, I couldn’t get him to do it again! All I got was scoldings.”

“Father doesn’t scold, he admonishes,” Kid murmured.

“Ok, Merriam-Webster,” Spirit said, but his eyes crinkled. “Anything else I got wrong in my recollection?”

Kid gave a small, imperious nod. “No, you may continue.”

“Cheers.” He rubbed his chin. “You know, in hindsight, I wonder if he suspected something. Maybe that’s why he was so patient. I probably should’ve accepted the grace.” He paused, humming softly. Then his face split in a toothy grin. “Anyway, I’m nothing if not determined. So I butchered a briefing with a senior Death Scythe. Oh, he was mad. Like, shaking.” Spirit curled his knuckles until they whitened, jerking them up and down like he was throttling the memory itself.

Kid blinked, unsure if he was supposed to laugh or wince.

Spirit raised his hand in a sweeping arc, mimicking Father’s gesticulation with chaotic enthusiasm. “‘That’s it!’” Spirit snapped—voice high and trembling with mock fury—and slammed the blade of his hand against his thigh with a dull thump. “Wham! Right on the skull. I didn’t even get a countdown!”

Kid’s chest tightened. Spirit mocked Father so freely—and somehow, it didn’t feel wrong. It felt… honest. Affectionate. And he sounded so much like him that Kid couldn’t stop a half-laugh, half-sob from escaping.

“Now, let me tell you—it hurt.” Spirit squinted at Kid, eyes glittering. “I didn’t have to pretend. But I ab-so-lutely overdid it.” He collapsed onto the cot, one arm flung overhead in theatrical flair. “I wobbled—” he whimpered dramatically, “—and fell together into the most pitiful pile I could muster. I may have cried. Loudly.”

Kid suppressed a snort of laughter and turned to his side, hands tucked beneath his chin.

“He was beside himself,” Spirit continued, “apologizing over and over as he ushered me to the infirmary. If I’d let him, he’d have carried me.” His arms scooped into a dramatic bridal-carry, cradling a pretend-person with tenderness.

“The exam happened. Of course, your dad wouldn’t leave my side, and the new nurse was not cool. Inconsistent descriptions, she said. Nothing indicating long-lasting trauma. ‘Are you making things up?’” He imitated the nurse, voice shrill, then puffed his cheeks in frustration. “Your dad caught on. Not to me exaggerating—to her not taking me seriously. I swear, I’ve never seen him so pissed—at someone who wasn’t me, anyway.”

Kid’s eyes fluttered shut, but the image lingered—Father, furious on someone else’s behalf. Protective. Caring. It settled in his chest, warm and quiet.

He curled up tighter, pressing his face into the lumpy pillow. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and linen. Cool against his cheek. Inviting. He would close his eyes for only a second.

In the background, Spirit’s tale carried on. His voice draped over the room—rising, falling, like breath warmed by memory. It grew softer, more distant.

When the room came into view again, it was painted orange by the last rays of day. A blanket covered him, right up to his nose. He stretched, spine popping softly, and sighed. Drew the blanket tighter around himself.

On the cot next to him, Spirit was still sitting. His arms were folded over his chest and one ankle crossed over the other. He was slouched, neck bent, copper hair curtaining his face. Judging by the slow rise and dip of his shoulders, he was asleep. It didn’t look comfortable, more like he’d slipped into sleep during watch.

Kid closed his eyes again. He could spare another minute or two.

Chapter Text

“He kept his eyes on the door. Just in case.”
— Spirit Albarn, reluctant expert in quiet care

The room had settled into a hush, broken only by the gentle rhythm of Kid’s breathing. Spirit let his voice trail off mid-sentence, unsure if the punchline had landed—or if it even mattered. He leaned back, watching the young man’s shoulders rise and fall, the tension finally gone.

He’d talked too much, probably. As usual. The impressions, the dramatics, the whole Lord Death-as-a-bumbling dad routine… But Kid hadn’t stopped him. He’d glowered and rolled his eyes, yes—but he’d stayed. Not only that, he’d curled up. Fallen asleep.

Spirit smiled to himself, absurdly proud. Look at him, coaxing a nap out of a young man who’d lately treated rest like a moral failing. That had to count for something.

The blanket was still folded at the foot of Kid’s cot. Quietly, carefully, Spirit stood and tugged it up to Kid’s shoulders. He hesitated for a moment before tucking it gently around him. The act felt both foreign and familiar. His smile softened, torn between bliss and aching.

It had been a long time since he’d been allowed to tuck someone in.

He sat back on his cot again, one ankle crossed over the other and pillow propped behind his back. He folded his hands in his lap, thumbs tapping a slow rhythm. The rhythm of a tune Lord Death used to sing when Spirit’s behaviour didn’t warrant a chop, but he still needed to be taken down a peg or two. When he wasn’t spiralling or acting out as much as he was sulking. So, fairly often. Spirit’s reactions had swung between mild embarrassment and wall-kicking fury. All of it met with a chuckle—and more singing.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed it.

He wondered if Lord Death had ever sung it to his son. Or if Kid had at least overheard it. It wasn’t unlikely; Kid had a habit of hiding from Spirit when he was little—quiet, curious, and just out of reach.

The door creaked open.

Spirit didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. He raised a finger to his lips and tilted his head toward the cot.

Kid stirred faintly, brows twitching. He mumbled something unintelligible, tucked his hands closer to his chin. The blanket slipped a little. Another mumble, then a small sigh.

He watched as the rise and fall of Kid’s chest steadied again, face now half-buried in the pillow.

The figure in the doorway lingered.

Spirit didn’t acknowledge it further. He didn’t move, didn’t speak—just let the silence do the work.

Then the door clicked shut.

Spirit exhaled. He reached out, tugged the blanket back into place. Habit, maybe. His hand hovered for a moment before retreating.

He kept his eyes on the door for a bit. Just in case.

Then, slowly, his own shoulders slackened. His head tipped forward. His breath evened out.

Sleep came quietly.

Chapter Text

“I wonder if Lord Death ever slept.”
— Dr. Franken Stein, DWMA faculty

Filed by: Dr. Franken Stein
Clearance Level: 3
Timestamp: 18:53
Digital Signature: F.STEIN-003-LAB3

Time: 18:37 – 18:41
Location: DWMA infirmary, west wing
Subjects: Death the Kid (A), Spirit Albarn (B)

 

OBSERVED PHENOMENON

Entered infirmary to retrieve archival files. Found Subject A unconscious—uninjured, unrestrained.¹  Subject B present, seated nearby, conscious.² Minimal reaction and interaction offered, inconsistent with baseline behaviour. No indication of sedation or intoxication. No medical staff on duty. No formal admittance logged. Setting anomalous.

^1,2 For brevity, Subjects A and B will be referred to by initials (DTK, SA) henceforth.

Subject A: Death the Kid

Indicators:

• Musculature slackened; jaw relaxed, brow unfurrowed.
• Breathing: deep, even, unlaboured.
• REM: absent; twitching and murmuring noted; early-stage sleep confirmed.
• Position: Foetal, unsymmetrical.
• Blanket tucked with precision—external origin.
• Soul frequency: low amplitude, stable waveform.

Interpretation:

• DTK entered a sleep state outside standard circadian window, indicating fatigue.
• Sleep achieved without sedation or ritual preparation—suggests emotional override.
• Academic strain confirmed via paper trail: 30+ hours of nearly uninterrupted essay correction, self-imposed.
• DTK’s pathological perfection temporarily suspended. Unprecedented.

Subject B: Spirit Albarn

Indicators:

• Seated on adjacent cot; posture angled toward DTK.
• Medical folders present; unauthorized access consistent with baseline.
• Issued nonverbal cue upon entry (index finger to lips); no verbal engagement.
• Soul frequency: elevated briefly during visit; tapered into sleep state following the observer's exit. (Surveillance continued beyond the door via soul perception.)

Interpretation:

• Refrained from theatrics. Rare.
• Prioritized DTK’s rest over personal entertainment. Rarer.
• Entered sleep only after confirming DTK’s stability. Pattern emerging.

Cross-Subject Analysis

• SA’s presence in the infirmary is routine; active vigilance over another is not. Notable exception: his offspring.
• Soul data suggests temporary stabilization—likely facilitated by proximity and silence.
• SA’s usual chaos appears to have been weaponized into calm. Intentional? Possibly. Effective? Evidently.

 

HYPOTHESIS

Under specific emotional conditions, and in contradiction to most known data, SA functions as a stabilizing agent for DTK.

 

NEXT STEPS

• Determine relocation method: coercion, persuasion, or passive compliance.
• Acquire detailed recollection of mental state of DTK immediately before relocation.
• Evaluate academic workload thresholds for adolescent entities.
• Review essay topic: Blood Type’s Effect on Soul Resonance—possible link between theoretical strain and physiological fatigue. Controlled testing required. Preferably on someone else.
• Investigate breach of protocol: indulgence or necessity.
• Monitor DTK’s sleep patterns post-interaction.
• Evaluate long-term impact of SA’s involvement on DTK’s emotional regulation.

 

ADDENDUM

There’s something oddly symmetrical about the scene. Two parts of a broken trinity, resting in tandem.

I wonder if Lord Death (Sr.) ever slept. If he did, I doubt anyone watched.

Click.

The monitor powered down. The crackle of discharging static ebbed out, leaving only the hum of the lab behind. The scent of ozone prickled his airways.

Stein sat back, fingers steepled, eyes unfocused.

Spirit hadn’t looked at him. That was new. It wasn’t avoidance, nor defiance, but rather as if the moment required no explanation. As if Stein was irrelevant. As if Kid’s rest was the only variable that mattered.

He’d protected Kid. No aggression; only assurance. Not a guard, not a hero, just there. Watching over him like—

Yes.

A watchdog.

Stein considered the symmetry again. Spirit, chaotic and loud, had gone still. Kid, rigid and guarded, had let go. Apart, yet united. In grief? Possibly. Or something else?

He tapped the desk once, absently.

Fascinating.

Chapter Text

“Busy man.”
—Spirit Albarn, master deflector

Though Kid took great pleasure in organizing and tidying, he’d never been allowed to sort through Father’s personal archive—until now. The shelves were filled to the brim with scrolls, books, and binders, and more than the occasional box and trinket.

He’d been flipping through one of the binders, absentminded, when a picture fell out. It fluttered and circled, like a lonesome autumn leaf, before coming to rest against his shoe.

Kid held his breath. He didn’t move at first. Then he bent to retrieve it.

The picture was frayed, a patch at the bottom edge faded where a thumb had pressed too often. The patch was much larger than Kid’s own thumb; Father must have held the photo just like this.

It was a grim photo.

A photo of Spirit.

He looked young—at most a few years older than Kid was now. Not a boy, but not quite a man either. He was slumped against Father’s side, half-cradled in his arms on the Death Room’s podium. Limp posture, legs dangling over the edge. Head supported by Father’s hand, thumb over his cheek, as if mid-stroke. Father’s coat draped over his shoulders like a blanket. His copper hair was matted with blood—deep maroon against burnished red. Bandages crisscrossed his chest, blotched red and pink where the gauze couldn’t keep up. One side bulged uneven, like something beneath had shifted wrong. A dark bruise spread from cheekbone to jaw, the skin mottled and swollen. One eye was nearly shut. In the upper row of teeth, a black gap stood out starkly.

He was beaming.

It looked like he’d been through hell and smiled on the way out. Or maybe he didn’t know he’d come back.

Who’d taken it? Who’d even allowed it to be taken?

He turned the photo over.

His stomach turned.

Written in Father’s angular hand: “My Death Scythe’s first lethal battle ♥”

What—?

He blinked, read it again. Then again. He shook his head. It made no sense. The heart at the end—was it meant to soften the brutality? To celebrate it?

Was it pride? Proof? A warning?

Kid clutched the photo to his chest, pulse racing. It felt sacred at first—then shameful. He didn’t know what unsettled him more: the image itself, or the fact that Father had returned to it. Again, and again. Wearing the edges out.

“Knock, knock!”

Kid nearly jumped out of his shoes.

“Spirit,” he breathed. The man was only a few steps away. “You startled me!”

“Heh, yeah,” he chuckled, grin wide. “Couldn’t ever spook your dad. Fun change.”

Kid’s gaze locked onto Spirit’s teeth. One was whiter than the other. A replacement. The photo’s gap, filled. He hadn’t noticed it before.

Now he couldn’t unsee it.

Spirit raised a hand to cover his mouth. “Do I have something in my teeth?” he asked, lip jutting as he sucked on them. “I just finished lunch with Stein. It’s just like that bastard to say nothing.”

Kid shook his head. His heart still beat fast—painful. The photo burned in his hands; he couldn’t shake the feeling he should’ve never come across it. It left him jittery. Like he’d touched something private without permission.

Spirit let his hand drop. He was still smiling, but his brows drew together. “You, uh… are you okay?”

“Mm-hmm.” Kid glanced at the binder.

Spirit shifted his weight, following Kid’s line of sight. “You’re looking a bit paler than usual,” he said.

“No, everything’s in order. I was tidying,” he said, though the binder hadn’t moved in ten minutes.

Spirit tilted his head toward the photo beneath Kid’s palms. “Did you find something interesting?”

“Yes,” Kid said. He swiftly tucked away the photo, memorizing the binder’s number. “Father was an avid photographer. I’ve found pictures that date way back.”

It was not a lie.

When he looked up again, Spirit was watching him. His smile had faltered, shrunk into a small curve.

“I bet he was. Maybe you can find some real old ones in there. You know, nineteenth century.” His grin reignited like a lightbulb flickering back to life. “If you find anything from the old west, I’d love to see it. Your dad denied riding with the other three horsemen of the apocalypse, but I think he just didn’t want me to know about his embarrassing hat-choice.”

Father had denied it because it was true. Kid was certain of that. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from visualizing it: Father, in his billowing black cloak—and a cowboy hat fit for a Saturday morning cartoon. He shuddered, unsure if he wanted to laugh or cry.

He put the binder on its shelf. That was enough for today.

“Hey, did you have lunch yet?”

Kid hummed noncommittally. “Didn’t have the time.”

“Busy man,” Spirit said. It sounded like praise—or a warning. Maybe both. Kid managed a small smile.

Spirit nodded his head towards the door. “C’mon, I’ll keep you company. I could go for a coffee.”

Kid nodded and fell into step beside him. It was a good excuse to not reveal his secret—not yet—and to steer Spirit’s mind elsewhere. Kid buried the image deep. Pushed the nausea down. But even as they walked, he kept the binder’s number etched in his mind.

He would return to it.

Just not today.

Chapter Text

“I’d be tempted to throw him out the window.”
— Spirit Albarn, dad of the year

“You think this is a joke?!” Sid’s voice echoed down the hallway. “You put a full class of rookies at risk with that stunt!”

There was a sharp thud—something heavy hitting the wall. Kid froze. Black Star’s protest was cut short by the slam of a door. There were snickers and whispers from the handful of students who had witnessed the exchange, before they too retreated to their classrooms.

Spirit clicked his tongue, still walking. “Damn monkey… Lucky if that’s all he gets. I’d be tempted to throw him out the window.”

Kid didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what all meant. He stared at the door, knuckles whitening. He didn’t care much for Black Star’s antics, but the sound of Sid’s voice—sharp, unrelenting—made his chest tighten. He’d never heard that tone directed at him. Not once.

“My old man would’ve whupped my ass for a stunt like that,” Spirit groused. “No questions asked. Not saying that Sid should—but back in my day that was standard issue parenting…”

Kid’s gaze shifted from the door to Spirit’s retreating back. His swagger seemed more exaggerated than usual.

Spirit looked to the side, did a double-take to the empty spot beside him, and then spun on his heel to face Kid. He frowned.

“Hey. You worried?” Spirit gave a wry smile. “Of course you’re worried. He’s your pal, your rival, your partner in crime—”

“No,” Kid interrupted softly. “I mean—he is, but whatever Sid decides to do, it’s deserved.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Spirit rubbed his neck. “I guess.”

Kid worried at his lip, eyes once again on the door.

Father never raised his voice at him. Not when Kid failed. Not when he faltered. Naturally, he’d sometimes admonish Kid, but it was always with almost cosmic calm.

It wasn’t that Kid had never been yelled at before—or hit, for that matter—he just hadn’t been by someone meant to guide him. And now, watching Sid and Black Star, and hearing Spirit talk so casually about being hit by his own father, he wondered—was that what human parents did when they cared?

Did it have to hurt to mean something?

Kid hesitated, then gave voice to just a sliver of what he was thinking. “Father never got angry with me like that.”

“I guess he didn’t need to.” Spirit’s mouth had pulled into a contemplative frown. “You were always busy punishing yourself.”

Kid managed a thin smile, eyes downcast, a nagging feeling it wasn’t that simple.

Yes, it was no secret that Kid—all his life—had frequently collapsed into self-berating. However, the Thompson sisters had been successful at pulling him out of it by coaxing or, in Patty’s case, terrifying him. Meanwhile, Father—an entity—had been at a loss.

But again—Kid couldn’t compare same-aged friends with a parental figure.

His gaze shifted back to Spirit. Expressions flickered over the man’s face, like he was internally battling to say something or not. Hands clenched in his pockets, weight shifting from one leg to the other.

Spirit was more like the sisters than Father. He coaxed. He teased. Nowadays, he also sometimes drove Kid up the walls with his banter and half-disguised warnings—but there was this one thing. Despite being a steady presence in Kid’s life since he could remember, he’d never really corrected Kid.

“You’ve never done that to me,” Kid said, nodding toward the door Sid had slammed.

“What, chew you out?” Spirit blinked, looking genuinely surprised.

Kid hesitated, then nodded. Close enough.

“Never had a reason to,” Spirit said, scratching his head. “Also, I’m Zen incarnate. The poster child for chill. Not even caffeine can out-jitter my cool—”

Kid rolled his eyes as Spirit kept chatting. Most of it was a lie at best, but he had a point. Spirit had never seen Kid receive consequences—as mild as they were—without Father by his side. Interfering would have meant overstepping.

He nodded slowly to himself, the puzzle pieces coming together.

Spirit tilted his head and approached Kid.

“Hey,” he said, hand hovering over Kid’s shoulder before coming to rest. “Speaking from experience—you haven’t missed out on anything. Trust me.”

Kid studied him, mirroring the tilt.

Spirit’s eyes flickered, then he laughed, light and nervous. “Okay, maybe you’ve missed out on the pride that comes with successfully riling up Sid. It’s surprisingly difficult—”

Kid resumed walking, letting Spirit’s hand slide off his shoulder. Spirit didn’t follow right away.

“Kid?”

“I’m not so sure,” Kid mumbled. On the contrary—he was sure he had missed out on not just anything, but something crucial.

It took a few seconds before Spirit’s footsteps echoed behind him. Kid slowed his pace, allowing Spirit to catch up—but didn’t turn.

He didn’t want comfort.

He wanted to understand.

He would understand—even if it meant asking for something no one would offer.

Chapter Text

“It’s just a pyramid, anyway. They’re everywhere.”
— Lord Death (Sr.), probably, also dad of the year

A small, perfect maelstrom. Black liquid against white bone china. He could study it forever.

“You’ll dig a hole to Australia if you keep stirring,” Spirit said, then added, as if realizing his voice had slipped into one of those half-warnings Kid had come to expect, “Something on your mind?”

Kid paused, removing the spoon from the lukewarm coffee. “Just thinking.”

“More than I usually do!” Spirit's wide grin slipped when Kid glowered at him. “Oh. Serious stuff.” His smile settled at a small curve. “Wanna talk about it?”

Kid straightened in his chair. “I'm not sure I want to trouble you,” he said carefully.

Spirit leaned forward over the desk, a couple sticky-notes and permission slips crinkling under the weight of his folded arms. “Try me.”

Kid folded his arms as well, then felt self-conscious and let them flop awkwardly into his lap.

Where would he even start?

“I didn’t have a normal childhood,” he began, looking to Spirit for confirmation. He'd half expected to be countered with a joke, but was only met with a slow nod. Kid relaxed a bit.

“Father wanted me to grow up as a human. He did his best to parent me like a human would, but... he wasn’t human. So he couldn't, not really.”

Spirit's barely-smile stayed in place, but his brows furrowed.

“What I mean is,” Kid said slowly, wringing his hands, “Father taught and praised me often, and admonished occasionally, but he never really disciplined me beyond that. Even when I failed to correct myself,” he hurried to add, since Spirit had opened his mouth.

Spirit pursed his lips and hummed.

“You sure about that?” he still objected. His eyes became unfocused. “Hm... wait—oh!” He snapped his fingers. “Remember the Anubis souls a few years ago?”

Kid cringed. He'd rather not remember what he did to that pyramid.

“How many human children,” he said, enunciating every word, “would have souls confiscated for—" Kid stopped and rubbed his temple. “Sorry. That came out too harsh.”

“Didn't say they would’ve.” Spirit waved the apology off. “But your dad— oh man, was he upset.”

Kid swallowed the icy lump forming in his chest. Of course he'd been upset at his son's carelessness. It was shameful at best, unforgivable at worst. Not that he’d let it on. He’d just announced the punishment, taken the souls, and then let the silence do its work.

“Completely deflated,” Spirit continued, staring into the hazy horizon. “He’d planned this lecture and all—even went over it with me—but you tore yourself up so bad over it, he couldn’t bring himself to say more. I thought he was gonna cry.”

Kid bit his lip. He himself had actually cried over it. Not only in front of Father during the debrief—on the floor, quite disgracefully—but at nighttime for weeks. He'd soaked through handkerchiefs, then paper napkins, then resorted to his pillowcase, all while trying to be silent to not alert Father about the fact. Heat crept up Kid's neck, a surge of shame rearing its ugly head.

“You’re blushing,” Spirit murmured, then carried on without missing a beat. “You know, he was so damn determined to get it right. Not just as Lord Death—he really wanted to nail the dad part.” He rested his chin in his hand, eyes wandering to Kid. “I really respected that about him.”

Kid lowered his head, suddenly feeling nauseous. He knew Father had done his best. His father, who he mourned. Who he missed every day. Who he expected to see every time he opened the Death Room’s door, only to be hit with the fact he never would again. He didn't want to sit here and judge him. It wasn't like that.

But being determined, and actually getting it right, was not the same.

“Sorry, I’m blabbing again.” Spirit scratched his neck, goofy smile on his lips. “Wow, that brought me way back.”

Kid shook his head and reached for the spoon and maelstroms again, but Spirit put his large hand over his, just hovering, a light pressure.

“This is your favourite of your dad's sets, right? You keep stirring and you gonna scratch the cup.”

Kid’s eyes flicked up to Spirit’s, then to linger on the calloused knuckles and scatter of scars. Considering Spirit's irreverent personality, it was easy to forget that he had fought and bled beside Father—hand-picked to be his partner and shield.

He withdrew his hand from under Spirit's, placing it in his lap next to the other. He needed to try a different angle.

“When you… displeased Father,” he said, “he sometimes gave you a reaper-chop.”

“Sometimes?” Spirit's hand went up to his scalp and so did his eyebrows. “He did not skip arm day.”

“What was it like?”

Spirit peered at Kid, eyes narrowing slightly, but his grin still seemed genuine.

“Embarrassing… Painful… Sobering?” He leaned back, face turning to the cloud illusions above them. “Oh, that bastard,” he laughed, “once he whacked me so hard, I swear I saw stars. It was nighttime, of course. He pointed that out when I told him. Tetchy. I was already down.”

“Why did you allow it?”

Spirit stilled, his eyes still trained to the ceiling. He put his hand down on the desk again.

“Kept me anchored,” he said softly. “Quick indicator I was in the deep end. Every now and then I got a lecture, too, but usually we could just move on. No hard feelings. That part, at least, I liked.”

Kid studied Spirit—his contemplative expression, the way his shoulders had eased just slightly. Another puzzle piece. He nodded to himself.

The movement pulled Spirit’s attention back to Kid. His gaze bored through him, index finger softly tapping against the polished wood.

“Is that it?” Spirit finally said. “You want a reaper-chop?”

“Not exactly,” Kid mumbled, squirming slightly.

Spirit rolled his fingers over the desk, drumming a slow rhythm. “Okay,” he said, voice soft. “So not a chop. What then, Kid?”

Kid’s knuckles paled as his fists curled. “Yesterday, you told me about parents doing… similar things, to correct or redirect.”

“Similar?” Spirit’s face scrunched up in thought. “Did I? ‘Cause closest thing to a reaper-chop I got is a pop on the ear, and I don’t think I told you. Unless—"

His face drained of colour.

Kid could see the coin drop.

Spirit slapped his hand to his face, loud enough to echo. “Stupid idiot…” he ground out, “couldn’t shut up for five seconds…”

Spirit let the hand fall. He laughed once, a short bark that did not contain much humour, and locked eyes with Kid. “You’re asking for a whupping.”

Kid nodded.

“You know, parents don't have to hurt their kids?” Spirit said softly, shaking his head. “I could never hit Maka.”

Kid believed him. However—Maka was good to her core and the epitome of self-discipline. She couldn’t possibly have done the things Kid had. They were not the same. But all he said was: “I understand.”

“Then I hope you get this, too.” Spirit leaned forward and tapped the desk with the palm of his hand to underline his words: “You don't. Deserve. A whupping.”

“I know I don't deserve it.” Spirit looked relieved, and Kid almost felt bad having to pull the rug from under him. “I just... It’s not only what you said, about yourself and… and ‘standard issue parenting’—"

Spirit groaned, hand creeping back up over his face.

“—but I've heard about it before, too, from a couple other students. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I think it would be useful to go through it at least once. See what it's like.”

Spirit took a deep breath, as if preparing to speak, then let the breath out. A pause. He dropped his hand, drew another breath.

“Here’s what: My old man never asked me how I felt about it,” Spirit said, his voice low. “He just pulled his belt at a whim. Sometimes I understood why and accepted it, but usually... it just left me angry. At him. Myself. Everything.”

“But you took reaper-chops from Father—"

“I chose to!” Spirit interrupted, his voice high. “He didn't hold me down, make me take it.”

Kid looked away, frown deep. The puzzle wasn’t adding up anymore. It was like the pieces fit—but they belonged to two different images, mixed in the same box.

If anything, it made him more determined to see this through.

He could feel Spirit’s eyes burn into him, sense his soul sparking and fizzing with anxious energy, waiting for Kid to break the silence.

So he did: “I choose this, too.”

There was a rustle of fabric and creak of a chair—Spirit shifting, perhaps leaning forward.

“Kid. Kid, please. Look at me.” Kid did. Spirit's eyebrows were knitted tightly, eyes more open than usual. His head tipped downward just a hint—like he didn’t want to look down on him, even by accident. “You don't need it.”

“I do.”

“You don't.”

"Spirit, I do," Kid repeated.

Spirit leaned back, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“I need it,” Kid said, “to understand.”

Tense silence filled the room. Kid wished to start stirring his cup to keep his hands occupied but didn’t want Spirit to think he wavered. So he sat still, hands folded in his lap, meeting Spirit's piercing eyes straight on.

Spirit grumbled something unintelligible and folded his arms over his chest.

Kid sat still.

Spirit shifted in his chair, opening his mouth and closing it again.

Kid sat still.

Finally, Spirit dragged his palm over his face. “Ugh, fine!”

He placed both hands on the desk. “Listen, I do this so you don't go asking Stein or something,” he growled. “He’d volunteer before you finished the sentence. Probably draft a lab plan.”

He pushed himself up, eyes averted, and stalked off. He pulled the chair after him to the middle of the floor, chair legs screeching against the marble. It rattled as he released it, clanked to a stop as he sank down. With jerky movements, he shrugged the jacket off and threw it to the side.

“C'mere,” he called. He patted his lap, jaw set tight.

Kid stared at him, mouth hanging slightly open. “Wait—Just like that? This… unceremoniously?”

Spirit huffed, a dry laugh. “More ceremony than I got.”

Kid felt a pang in his chest, but didn’t have time to reflect over it. Spirit patted his lap again, eyes still averted and head drooping slightly.

Kid rose quietly from his chair and stepped within arms' reach.

Spirit’s hands wrapped around his wrists, firm and warm, large enough to nearly swallow them. He gently pulled Kid one step closer.

“It’s weird being on this end,” he said, gaze locked on their hands, “but I promise to make it count. Just...” he sighed, shaking his head once, then inhaled sharply. “Remember that I'm not mad at you, okay?”

“I will,” Kid said, and since Spirit still hesitated, he added, “Thank you for doing this for me.”

Spirit squeezed his wrists once, then guided Kid to lie over his left thigh. Kid placed his palms on the floor to steady himself. The polished stone was hard and cold.

Spirit's hand lay on his back, pressing down securely. “You can hold my leg if you need to,” he offered.

Kid was sure he didn’t need it. But when he looked at Spirit over his shoulder—at the not-quite frown and downward twitch of his mouth—he hesitated. Then, quietly, he wrapped one arm around Spirit’s calf. Not because he’d changed his mind about needing it, but because he got an urgent feeling that Spirit did.

“I'll give you twenty,” Spirit said. “My old man just went to town on me, but you deserve a boundary. Would've loved one myself.” The last part, he muttered.

Kid nodded. He was staring straight ahead now, but assumed Spirit acknowledged it since his other hand now came to rest on Kid's thigh. His hand was trembling, just a bit.

“Ready?”

Kid’s throat tightened. He wasn’t sure what he’d learn anymore—but he was ready to find out. He took a deep breath.

“Ready.”

A pause.

“It’ll hurt,” Spirit reminded him. “I know you're a reaper and heal better than us earthlings and yada yada, but are you really sure?”

“I am.”

“Okay.” Spirit shifted and patted Kid’s back. “Um… Maybe try thinking of something you regret? Makes it feel more real.”

Kid nodded slowly. “Got it.”

Another pause.

The fingers on his back lifted a brief moment, then landed in another light tap. “Also, makes me feel less of an ass for doing this to you.”

The seconds passed. Both hands lay steady on him.

“You're stalling.” Kid realized, too late, that he’d said it. He couldn't taunt Spirit, not now—what was he thinking?!

Holding his breath, he turned his head again.

Spirit’s eyes were wide, eyebrows raised and mouth half-open. “Are you sassing me?”

Kid swallowed, flashing the briefest smile. “No, sir?”

“Oh wow, pulling out the ‘sir’ now?” But he did smile back, even if tense, and Kid felt himself relax again.

“Well,” Spirit said, the hand on Kid’s thigh flexing lightly, “Let’s go, I guess.”

Chapter Text

“Inhale. Hold. Exhale.”
— Death the Kid, who didn’t think this through enough

The hand lifted.

Kid braced.

Crack. His shoulders jumped before he registered the sting—sharp, but fading quickly.

The hand came down again. Same sensation—only worse. Spirit had been right. It was unpleasant. Staying still might soon become a challenge.

Three. He gritted his teeth. The sting lingered, sharp and hot. Still manageable. But the position, the waiting, being watched—it tied his stomach in knots. He didn’t want to think about it. Kid fixed his eyes on the marble floor beneath him. A fine crack branched like lightning across it.

Four. A fracture spidering in too many directions. Uneven. He locked onto it, tracing it with his gaze—

No, he chided himself. Stay in the present. Don't go there.

He screwed his eyes shut, pushing the marble to the back of his mind. What did Spirit say—think of something he regretted? That should’ve been easy enough, but it was difficult to think straight when bracing for what was coming.

Five through seven blurred together. He focused on his breathing, but it came harder, shallower. His foot shifted without permission; he shook his head once. It hurt—but he also couldn’t shake the feeling that it chipped away at something in him.

Eight. He flinched, eyes shooting open. The marble came into view; the resemblance stabbed through him, vivid and unwelcome. He remembered another marble slab—one he'd shattered after finding an imperfection. Not on purpose, just gone too far. A hammer and nail forming fractures until all that was left was a jagged mosaic. Father had found him sobbing under the dining table. He’d sighed, cleaned the cuts on Kid's hands, but said nothing. Somehow, it made it worse.

Nine. His grip slipped to Spirit’s ankle, fingers digging in—

"Easy there,” the man said. His voice was wavering, but there was no sign of mocking.

“Sorry.” Kid grasped the fabric of his slacks instead.

“That’s alright,” he murmured, thumb brushing once across Kid’s spine.

Ten. He clenched his jaw to stop the grunt from slipping out. Shoulders up by his ears. A tear down his cheek. It dripped soundlessly onto the marble. He hadn’t expected that.

Eleven. He lowered his head. Another tear fell; more clung to his eyelashes. He'd never felt much shame about crying—not the act itself. Everyone who knew him also knew that his tears came often and free—when angry, when moved, and anything in between. But this was different. He’d asked for this. He wasn’t supposed to cry. He didn’t deserve to feel sorry for himself.

His breath hitched.

“You're taking it like a damn champ,” Spirit said above him. “Off the record, I would’ve been flailing by now.”

“I'm a reaper,” Kid pressed out, voice strained. “I'm used to pain.”

“Reaper or not, you're still your dad’s brat as far as I’m concerned,” Spirit said softly.

Kid didn’t know what to respond. Spirit’s teasing was light—he wasn’t hurt, not really—but it still left a deep ache in the pit of his stomach. Father never called him a brat. He’d simply looked at him, and Kid had known. Had straightened up. Tried to be better.

The hand on his back shifted—one gentle stroke. Then another. A quiet moment of hesitation followed.

“What I mean is,” Spirit murmured, “it's not always the pain that gets you, you know?”

Kid drew a deep breath. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. His breath shuddered. There seemed to be another, longer moment of hesitation before the next blow.

Twelve. Kid pressed his lips tight together. He tasted salt. He stared hard ahead, into the sand dunes beyond the Death Room’s platform. Crosses and graves littered the horizon. Resting places. Ruins of slain demons.

Thirteen. Ruins. The Anubis pyramid. A perfect triangle resting on soft dunes. A crack, booming like thunder. A rift growing straight through the centre. Pillars falling together in a ground-rattling rumble. Irreplaceable beauty gone in a cloud of dust. Once Father heard of it, he’d taken away the souls Kid had collected. That was all. Despite Kid’s efforts to hide his crying the following weeks, Father had noticed. He’d looked sad each time, brought more napkins, but said nothing.

Given what Spirit had told Kid, maybe Father had thought he’d been too harsh.

Fourteen. The slap sounded dull, but it jolted up his spine. His hand flexed, twisting the fabric of Spirit’s slacks tighter in his fist. Spirit’s hand moved over his back, slid around to rest steady across his ribs.

Fifteen. He lifted his other hand, fingers flexing and trembling, then slapped it back down on the floor. Curling in on himself didn’t help either—his skin itched against the fabric, impossibly hot. He hated heat. It reminded him of that summer.

Sixteen. Record temperatures. Father had told him to practice inside; Kid had headed outside anyway. He’d done handstands on the black asphalt. The blisters had come almost as fast as his wails. He had bandaged himself and hidden under the covers. Hidden his defiance. It served him right, he’d thought. Father had found him, still crying, but asked no questions. Just sat with Kid, hand resting on his head. Kid had been mortified at being caught, forced his tears to stop early.

He drew a ragged breath.

"Easy, now," said Spirit from above. "You've got this. I've got you."

The words felt strangely empty. He hadn’t ‘got this’. Not even close. He didn’t understand anything better. It just hurt—everything did—and nothing fit. Like the puzzle pieces had been thrown in a pile with a dozen other images, and then kicked to scatter all over. He was scrambling to find the pieces, but they kept slipping through his fingers and—

Seventeen. Kid breathed hard and fast, tears streaming hot and wet down his flushed face. A pool of tears below him, growing fast—drip by drip at an alarming rate—

“Spirit,” he pressed out, a hiccup escaping. “It really hurts...”

“I know. I know it does. Hang in there.”

Eighteen. Kid let out a raw, broken cry, muffling it quickly with his hand.

Nineteen. “Spirit, please!” His voice cracked, teeth clattered. “I’m sorry!”

His spine curved in apprehension of the last swat.

The hand didn’t come down.

One shuddering breath. Another.

Kid could feel it—the hand, just hovering. His ribs ached from tensing.

When the hand did fall, Kid jolted, bracing for more pain—but there was none. The hand only settled, a steady weight.

Through the blur of tears, he glanced back.

Spirit was pale. His lips were pressed tight together; he was breathing shallow through his nose. His eyes, red-rimmed and glossy, didn’t blink. His hand moved to rest on Kid’s thigh. It trembled.

“You took it well,” he murmured, voice rasping. “You did alright.”

Kid’s breath hitched. “But we—"

“We’re done.” Spirit’s tone wasn’t firm, only weary.

Kid collapsed over his knee, gulping air between ragged breaths and broken sobs. He tried to stop—tried to contain himself—but he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t listen, and it was all he could do to hold on and—

Strong hands slid under his shoulders, coaxing him up gently. Kid was shifted to sit on Spirit’s other thigh, sore skin dragging against fabric that now felt like sandpaper. He hissed sharply; his breath got stuck.

“Hey, hey, hey—you okay?” Spirit tilted his head, angling to catch Kid's eye. But Kid couldn’t meet his gaze. Not now. He was messy and loud and he hated it and—

He kept his face hidden behind his palms, trying and failing to quiet the wet gasps clawing their way out.

“Aw, Kid,” Spirit whispered, voice catching. “C’mere.”

Kid was enveloped in strong arms—warm and secure. One hand cradled the back of his neck, guiding his face to Spirit’s shoulder. The other rested low on his spine, a gentle anchor. Kid clung to the soft cotton of his shirt; he needed to know that he wouldn’t leave him too.

And Spirit didn’t. He sat there, solid and patient, letting his collar soak up Kid’s tears as steadily as they fell.

~*~*~

It took more time to calm down than Kid would later want to admit. He still sat on Spirit’s thigh, slouched, face damp and sticky with half-dried tears, and too embarrassed to fully move away. He hadn’t expected to fall apart like that. Not so completely.

He sniffled.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Spirit trying to catch his eye again. This time—even if reluctant—he let him.

Spirit released a heavy, long sigh, stirring the air between them. He swept his sleeve over Kid's face, wiping off remnants of tears and snot like it didn't bother him in the least. The familiar scent of Spirit’s cologne wrapped around him like a blanket.

“That was rough, huh? Was it what you expected?” Spirit asked.

Kid shook his head slightly, not quite trusting his voice yet.

“Worse?”

He hesitated, then nodded once.

It had been painful. And physically, that much was expected. On the other hand, he’d survived being impaled and dismembered already by fourteen. In that sense, it wasn’t making it to any top ten list.

In all other senses, though?

The worst.

He searched Spirit’s tired eyes, the grey-green bright against bloodshot whites. What would it have been like for him, no mercy given?

Kid then flushed at the thought of having received ‘mercy’. Somehow, it stung.

“I could’ve taken it,” he muttered. “The last one.”

A pause.

“Well, I couldn’t.” Spirit’s voice dropped. “I guess you’re the stronger one.”

Kid blinked hard and turned away.

He looked down at Spirit’s hands, fingers loosely laced at Kid’s hip. His palm was red. It must hurt. Meanwhile, Kid’s healing had kicked in. He could barely feel it anymore.

“Sorry,” Kid muttered, nodding toward Spirit’s hand.

Spirit hummed, following Kid’s gaze with a puzzled look. A small shrug. He lifted that hand, stroking a tear-damp lock from Kid’s cheek. “Not what stopped me.”

Kid raised both hands to straighten his tousled bangs, hiding his face from view for a moment. The breakdown still made no sense. Except for the... physical distress, it hadn’t been like Spirit described it. He didn’t feel angry. Just… blank. A little embarrassed, still, and—maybe something else. Maybe just tired. He stifled a yawn.

Kid felt a tap at his foot—Spirit’s shoe meeting his, measured and deliberate.

“Hey. Not to sound like a broken record,” Spirit said, voice low and even, “but is something on your mind?”

Kid regarded him again. Spirit’s face was unreadable, the tension from before gone. His gaze was the only thing moving, slowly shifting between Kid’s eyes, as if trying to read Kid the same way Kid was him. Waiting, not pressing. It made Kid’s chest ache, just a bit. But it also felt warm.

Kid took a deep breath.

He wasn’t sure what he’d say—but he was ready to try.

Chapter Text

“I like my beverages bitter. Though this may be pushing it.”
— Spirit Albarn, actually doesn't

The kettle clanked as Spirit nearly knocked it askew on the stove in the teacher’s lounge. He still thought the microwave was better for heating water, but Kid liked it old-school. Said microwave tea tasted like “old laundry and infirmary”. Spirit didn’t see the issue, but Kid did. That was what mattered. Cups, he needed cups. His sleeve caught on the cabinet doorknob, a seam popping with a soft snap. He inspected it—a button loose. No matter. His dry cleaner would be thrilled. It needed washing anyway; tears and snot left stains.

“Sugar?” He asked, then answered himself. “Yes, two teaspoons. Where are the teaspoons…”

He rummaged through drawers until the right one clicked open. He lifted the spoon, immediately fumbled. The metal clattered across the floor. He swore under his breath.

“Butterfingers,” he muttered. He attempted a laugh—too tense. He sighed, tossed the spoon into the sink, and grabbed a new one with a grip too tight.

Kid’s fingers had curled around his ankle just like that—tight, desperate. And he'd still—

He shook it off.

The chair behind him let out a soft screech. Spirit turned. Kid approached quietly, retrieving two cups from the cabinet and setting them down on the counter without a word. Spirit grimaced. Of course. The cups. He moved to the tea selection. Kid never chose anything but Earl Grey—unless during ritual—and Spirit wasn’t about to argue with tradition. Matcha didn’t come in bags anyways.

Spirit tore open a packet—too fast. The bag ripped. He dropped it into his own cup and opened another, slower this time, for Kid.

The kettle whistled.

Kid poured the water with the same fluid, practiced motions he used for everything. The kettle rose and dipped three times, just like when he performed ceremonies. The steam curled softly. Kid reached for the leaf-speckled cup, but Spirit hovered his hand over his. Stopped himself just before he touched.

“No, that one’s—I already put sugar in your cup.”

“I saw you didn’t,” Kid replied, pulling the cup closer. His voice was still scratchy from crying. Nose still red, cheeks pink.

Spirit swallowed. He’d done that. He wondered what Lord Death would’ve done, if he knew. Spirit wished he could find out for himself.

Kid spooned in two teaspoons and stirred slowly, the occasional scrape of metal against ceramic.

Spirit watched the tea swirl, counted the seconds in his head. At the two-minute mark, Kid removed the teabag, letting it drip against the rim before discarding it. He returned to the table and sat down, back straight and knees tight together. Not a hair out of place. A bit too ‘precise and perfect’.

Spirit bumped his own cup. Hot liquid spilled onto his hand and the counter. He stifled a hiss, flexed his fingers, then picked it up carefully and joined Kid at the table.

“You left the bag in again,” Kid remarked.

“I like my beverages bitter.” Spirit grinned—too wide, too much. He sipped. It stung, scalding and astringent. “Though this may be pushing it.”

Kid let out a small huff of air, not quite a laugh. The edges of his mouth lifted. Spirit’s shoulders gave up some tension.

They sat in quiet for a long time, the only sound occasional sipping. Spirit drew in a breath several times, but each sentence fell apart before he’d even started it. What would he even say? He stared into his cup. It had cooled to awful.

“Spirit?”

He looked up. Kid watched him. His shoulders dipped slightly. Spirit thought he looked younger than usual—smaller, somehow. Face pale and still red-rubbed, golden eyes half-lidded, peering up from under his bangs.

“What’s up, buddy?” Spirit pushed his cup aside and leaned forward, worry spiking again.

“I’m…” Kid hesitated. “I meant what I said before. That I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you really should get your staff better tea,” Spirit said, automatic. He screwed his eyes shut, cringing.

Stupid.

“Sorry, I—” he muttered. “I have the worst timing.”

Kid was looking down into the cup, eyebrows furrowed. Spirit reached forward to touch his arm, but stopped himself again. He let his hand lay awkwardly just in front of Kid’s, just for a second, before slowly withdrawing it.

Kid’s eyes followed his hand, then lifted—still not quite meeting Spirit’s.

“Thank you,” Spirit said, though he didn’t want to. Didn’t want the apology, whatever it was for.

Kid nodded, a tiny movement, and took another sip.

Spirit picked at a cuticle with his thumbnail, watching the small sliver of skin peel. It came off, landing in his palm. Still red. Sore.

“I hurt you.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. He looked up, searching for a reaction. Kid stayed focused on the tea.

“I asked you to,” Kid said, voice low.

“Not like this.”

Kid rubbed his thumb along the rim of his cup. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “I guess I didn’t understand it would… leave a mark…”

Spirit flinched. His gaze dropped to his aching palm again. He curled his fingers in tight, clamped his other hand over it. He couldn’t bear to look at it.

Kid squirmed in his seat; he blushed slightly. “Not—not like that.”

Yes, like that, Spirit thought. But it didn’t really matter in the end, did it? If the mark was visible. His hand had still brought those tears. Broken something.

Spirit rubbed at the corners of his eyes. “If I—” he paused. “If I’d explained better, you would’ve understood, and changed your mind—“

Kid shifted, back straighter again and chin raised a notch. He snorted—sharp, brief, a combination of amused and affronted. Spirit stared, but Kid didn’t meet his eyes. He raised his cup with elegance, pinky lifted just a little too deliberately.

“You think you would’ve changed my mind?”

Spirit didn’t answer, but he wished he could turn back time to find out.

“Maybe.” Kid took a sip. “Maybe not.”

So maybe existed. It was enough to twist Spirit’s insides. He rubbed his palm with his thumb, too firmly. It throbbed. He didn't stop until he felt Kid’s eyes on his hands again; he dropped them on his lap. Hidden by the table. Out of sight.

Kid crossed one leg over the other, foot swaying gently. His tone was composed, but the rare fidgeting gave him away. “Thanks for…” His foot slowed for a moment. “For what you did.”

“Don’t.” Spirit shook his head. “Please, don’t.”

“Yes, thank you,” Kid said, more firmly. “I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

Back at you.

“For me it was… unpleasant,” he continued. “But also, I think… valuable?”

Spirit winced. Like hell, it was. But he bit his tongue, surprising even himself that he didn’t crack a joke and ruin everything.

“I didn’t learn what I thought. I—I don’t think I even know yet what I learned.” He finally looked up through his bangs. “But, I think I at least understand more about… Some people? So, thank you.”

Spirit’s eyes burned. His lip twitched without permission. Damn it. Not the type of crying he could brush off with a joke about being a dramatic son of a gun. It snuck in quiet, sharp, and completely uninvited.

He swallowed once, twice, trying and failing miserably at forcing down the lump that kept growing in his throat.

He wished someone could tell him if he’d done the right thing. But the only person who might’ve known was gone.

He downed the last mouthful of cold, bitter tea.

“Tea’s gone right through,” he said, too light, too hoarse. He pointed toward the door. “Need to hit the bathroom. See you in the office.”

He stood abruptly, banging his knee against the table. “Ouch. Enough to put tears in your eyes, huh?”

His laughter trailed behind him all the way to the door, thin and forced.

Maybe Kid didn’t buy it. But if he did, he was gracious to not call it out.

Chapter Text

“Does the coat fit?”
— Dr. Franken Stein, wielder of scythe and scalpel

The hallway had the polished chill of sterility—stone and metal in place of warmth. Stein liked it that way. No illusions. No distractions. Just clean surfaces and sharp edges.

Spirit emerged from the teacher’s lounge like a man held together with duct tape and sheer will. Stein didn’t have to guess—he had studied Spirit’s tells for two decades. The red around his downcast eyes, the dimpled chin, the misaligned gait and shoulders, the twitchy fingers… And the way his soul resonated—it stuttered. Not broken. Just noisy. Like boots in snow.

“You look like you’ve been reprimanded.”

Spirit jumped, eyes wide as they locked with Stein’s. He then laughed, a strained sound, and rubbed his right hand casually against his slacks. Like he wanted to get rid of whatever had just happened.

He was not wearing his suit jacket. Uncommon.

Stein noted the faint crust of dried tears and mucus on the sleeve—evidence of a breakdown, not yet laundered.

A similar patch on his collar.                           

Not fresh. Not accidental. And not his own. Stein might not know what had happened—but he knew it wasn’t just consolation. While Spirit’s soul did hum with empathy, it was overcast by trembles of guilt.

“Or perhaps… the opposite.” Stein lowered his chin. “Difficult to tell from this angle.”

“Nah, man, I— I just had too much tea. I need the bathroom before I drown.” A wink, a grin, a deflection.

Stein studied him quietly for a few seconds, watching the faux smile dip. He counted three micro-expressions: anxiety, shame, and guilt. Only one of them was intentional.

Stein took a half-step back, giving the man a cue that it was socially permitted to leave.

“Of course. Overhydration’s a silent killer.”

Spirit didn’t laugh now—he vanished with the graceless speed of someone escaping. From watchdog to kicked puppy. Stein tapped two fingers to his temple. That was one subject flagged.

Then Kid emerged.

Cup still in hand—cold tea, by Stein’s estimate—and movements too symmetrical, too rehearsed. Normally, Kid had a kind of neurotic elegance—precise, yes, but reactive. Today he was almost mechanical. And, might he add, slow. It was mirrored in his eyes, more heavy-lidded than usual.

Equally intriguing: a mildly ruddy complexion mirroring Spirit’s.

As opposed to Spirit, however, Kid immediately noticed Stein and gave a polite nod. “Professor.”

No attempt at small talk, only just enough to abide by etiquette. Stein tilted his head, like examining a fragment in a microscope.

“You seem unusually balanced today, Lord Death.”

Kid’s gaze flicked away briefly. His soul frequency spiked—like a dropped glass, sharp and brief—before settling at something close to benchmark. Filtered, distorted.

“I try to present myself appropriately when returning to shared workspaces.”

He spoke civil, precise, yet cropped. Words carefully chosen.

Stein hummed. “And yet you’re wearing vulnerability like a borrowed coat.” He paused. Considered his own words. “Does it fit?”

Kid’s knuckles went white around the teacup. That was the answer.

“Was there something you needed?” The tension was tempered but not hidden.

Stein smiled, sufficiently soft. “Not today. I did consider assigning you more papers, but a certain someone vetoed it. Quite passionately, I might add.”

They nodded their goodbyes. Kid stepped toward his office, performing normalcy. Stein stayed for a moment—logged the last pieces of soul data, physical cues, emotional instability in his head.

He then turned on his heel, footsteps measured, mouth twitching between frown and smile.

When he entered his lab, he didn’t bother turning on the light. He had powered on the monitor and opened a new log entry before he was seated.

Filed by: Dr. Franken Stein
Clearance Level: 3
Timestamp: 18:11
Digital Signature: F.STEIN-003-LAB3

Time: 17:53—18:02
Location: Hallway, proximal to teacher’s lounge
Subject: Spirit Albarn (A); Death the Kid (B)

 

OBSERVED PHENOMENON

Encountered Subject A and Subject B in sequence, notable behavioural drift in both parties.¹ Soul resonance patterns suggest acute emotional disturbance, masked by compensatory behaviours.

¹ For brevity, Subjects A and B will be referred to by initials (SA, DTK) henceforth.

Subject A: Spirit Albarn

Indicators: 

• Movements: twitching fingers; self-soothing gestures; misaligned gait.
• Eyes: Contact avoidant; redness despite pollen-season having mellowed, non-basal tears inferred.
• Interaction: Scattered attention (flinched at greeting); deflection through humour (worse than baseline).
• Clothing: Suit jacket off despite being on Academy grounds. While complete exchange of attire is common at daily exercise, part-removal is not.
• Other markers: Remnants of tears on shirt sleeve. Noteworthy: Patch positioned over wrist’s outside, unlike when drying one’s own face. Remnants of tears on shirt collar; again, unlike when drying one’s own face.
• Soul resonance: stuttering, uneven, high-frequency spikes resembling trauma response with underlying low-frequency readings of empathy.

Interpretation: 

• Emotional signature resembles prior trauma events, including shame and guilt, though the full soul pattern may suggest a distinct origin.
• Residual distress may be triggered by an emotionally charged exchange. While consolation likely occurred—evidenced by another’s tears on SA’s clothing and soul reading—the distress level exceeds typical post-support patterns.
• Risks: Heightened sensitivity to perceived failure; increased receptivity to relational boundary testing; overridden self-protective instincts.

Subject B: Death the Kid

Indicators: 

• Complexion: redness around nose, philtrum and lower lash line; signs consistent with recent emotional crying.
• Movements: Symmetrical posture (overcorrected); rehearsed gestures with distinct lack of spontaneity; precise yet unusually lethargic.
• Interaction: Clipped narration at emotional probing, indicating wish to retreat (more so than usual).
• Soul resonance: dull, brief spike followed by artificial flattening. Suppression level mild.

Interpretation: 

• Active masking of prior emotional breakdown.
• Demeanour reflects confusion and fatigue rather than acute distress, with soul suppression likely being a temporary response to unfamiliar overt emotional reciprocity. Rigidity may reflect an effort to reassert composure rather than avoid distress.

Cross-Subject Analysis 

• While contrasting in expression, both subjects exhibit signs of behavioural drift from baseline norms.
• The tears on SA’s shirt were not his own; circumstances indicate they are DTK’s. Likely an emotionally charged exchange involving physical proximity, with residual discomfort for SA and signs of emerging emotional inquiry for DTK.

 

HYPOTHESIS  

• SA’s soul disturbance reflects resurfaced grief triggered by an emotionally charged event. (Full emotional context remains indeterminate.)
• DTK’s behavioural rigidity is a transitional state, masking an increased sense of safety and emotional curiosity toward SA—the vulnerability of whom serves as a relational catalyst.
• The preceding event has long-term implications for SA and DTK’s soul synchrony, emotional boundaries, and identity formation.

 

NEXT STEPS  

• Monitor SA and DTK for signs of soul resonance harmonization or further drift.
• Determine if SA participated in event without knowledge of the possibility of trauma resurfacing—or despite it.
• Monitor SA’s wavelength for stabilisation.
• Consider emotional modelling to predict long-term behavioural outcomes.
• No intervention recommended at this stage; observation preferred.

 

ADDENDUM:

While prior care experiences are evident in DTK, current behavioural rigidity may reflect unfamiliarity with active emotional reciprocity of the kind SA is practiced in.

On the topic of history, SA’s wavelength resembles patterns observed (1) the first month post-mortem of Lord Death Sr., (2) preceding the critical incident documented in TR-SP-GG-0037, and (3) during adolescence. Each distinct in origin and intensity, but unified by emotional volatility and internalized strain. The echo is unmistakable.

The cursor hovered over the save button.

A thought was expanding in his head. It wouldn’t be repressed.

He placed his fingers once more over the keyboard.

Even stable frequencies can fracture under pressure; resonance is not immune to memory.

The click of a lighter. A cigarette lit. The first deep drag pleasantly burned Stein’s lungs. The buzz of nicotine was amplified by the evening’s observation—truly something out of the ordinary.

Smoke billowed out of his mouth. He’d written the hypotheses as statements. That was protocol. He was certain he was right; he usually was. And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d missed something. Misinterpreted something.

He turned his face to the dark ceiling, eyes sliding half-closed.

No matter. Hypotheses were for both proving and disproving. If he was patient, the answers would come without prodding.

He was a patient man.

The embers glowed red, then faded. Flickered out, like a soul giving up.

Indeed, he was patient—but should he be?

He read through the final next step again. Smoke trailed upward in a thin, clear ribbon; the cigarette hung from his fingers, half-forgotten.

He pressed the backspace key.

Chapter Text

“How’s the crunch?”
— Dr. Franken Stein, recreational sadist

A smoky, slightly acrid smell permeated the teachers’ lounge.

On the coffee table sat a plate of neatly stacked cookies. All burnt. Not haphazardly—more like they’d been in the oven for exactly 30 seconds past delectable crunch.

“You should try one,” said Stein to Spirit, moleskin and pen in hand. “It’s a new recipe.”

Spirit wrinkled his nose at the logbook as much as at the cookies. “It’s not that I don’t love putting my life on the line for your dumb experiments, but you know I don’t like sweets.”

Stein smiled, much too softly. “It’s vanilla and blood, your favourite.”

Spirit blinked, tried to not make a face. “You’re joking.”

“Who knows.”

They locked gaze. Stein tilted his head, face unreadable no matter how hard Spirit tried. Finally, Spirit huffed and threw himself back into the sofa with a very reasonable retort: “Screw you.”

Marie fidgeted in her armchair. A ghost of a grimace passed her face before the smile was back on. She took a sip of her rooibos. “They’re not too bad if you dip them in a drink.”

“I don’t pass on cookies someone put effort into. That’s the kind of man I was.” Sid’s expression said he did not enjoy them though.

Stein scribbled something down. “How’s the crunch?”

“Tooth breaking,” Azusa said, gnawing on the edge of a deep-brown disc.

Stein nodded and hummed. He took a sip of coffee, eyes still fixed on the open page.

Marie grimaced again and put her hand to her lower back. Spirit grabbed two cushions and walked to her. He pushed her gently forward, sliding one behind her. She exhaled, tension easing from her shoulders.

She smiled.

He smiled.

He threw the other cushion at Stein’s face. “Read the cues, ‘dad’!”

Stein hadn’t dodged. He set the coffee cup back on the table, then glanced down at the couple of small, brown droplets on his pristine white coat. “You will clean this.”

Spirit raised his chin. “Tsk. Should’ve blocked.”

“Hm.” Stein gently closed the moleskin and put it into his pocket.

Spirit hesitated for a second, then sat back down next to Stein. He’d barely touched the seat when the slap came to the back of his head. Spirit knew it was coming though, so he ducked—and was rewarded with the other palm slapping straight upward into his face.

Spirit let out a sharp “Auurghhh—!” and immediately elbowed Stein. Stein grasped his upper arm and wrist, casually twisting them in opposite directions. Spirit arched his back in recoil, grimacing.

“Okay, okay, okay—I give, I give.”

Spirit hissed even as Stein released his hand. He shook it out, considering if it’d be a good idea to repay him. Stein’s narrowed gaze said no.

“Sadist little shit,” Spirit muttered. The second he turned his face away, he was caught in a headlock. A burnt cookie was shoved into his mouth, followed by Stein’s hand clasping over it to stop him from spitting.

Spirit’s curses came out muffled under Stein's hand.

“Maybe I should separate them,” Sid muttered.

“Let the children fight,” said Azusa flatly.

“I would step in if I wasn’t so cozy,” Marie murmured, leaning back into the cushion.

Spirit kicked out, knocking Stein’s foot aside. Stein wobbled, grip loosened just enough for Spirit to push his arm away from around his neck. Spirit leaned back into the armrest, raising his foot to push-kick Stein’s ribs. Stein twisted and grasped Spirit’s foot. He wrenched it—not slow, but not cruel. Spirit yelped—“Ah-ah-ah-ngh!”—and flipped to his stomach to save his knee.

Spirit groaned and planted his face in the cushion. His voice came out muffled: “You know, if you wanted to get me on my front, there are easier ways.”

“This is more enjoyable.”

Stein lunged, lower leg across Spirit’s knee pit and forearm pressing down heavy over his shoulder-blades.

Spirit wheezed and reached back to slap at Stein. “Mercy, you brutal beanpole—”

The door opened. All heads turned.

Kid stood in the doorway, one foot suspended mid-air.

“Kid! Cookie?” Spirit said, grinning wide, voice strained under Stein’s weight.

Kid glanced at the others, who shrugged in union. He shrugged back and took place in the armchair next to Marie, far away from the chaos. She patted his hand.

Over on the sofa, Spirit gurgled. Stein’s arm pressed down harder, his free hand menacingly reaching for another cookie. Spirit’s eyes widened, following the motion with terror.

“No no no, c’mon man, c’mon, I give, I— I’ll clean your desk! Your lab!”

Stein stilled. “My coat.”

“Don’t push it, you should’ve—No, please—Uncle. Uncle!”

Kid crossed his leg over the other. He swayed his foot gently as Spirit was force-fed, sputtering pleas that didn’t sound as agitated as his movements would suggest.

Kid also took a cookie. He nibbled it. It was alright.

Chapter Text

“Why were his hands sweaty?”
— Death the Kid, not a prude but this is indecent

Since the faculty had the day off and the weather was pleasant, Kid grasped the opportunity to take a stroll through town. He didn’t do that often nowadays, buried in work as he was. Thankfully, the citizens were considerate enough to barely acknowledge him. A smile, a nod, nothing more.

He was considering visiting the small corner café for a nice cup of tea and to read the well-thumbed paperback he’d brought, when a familiar figure caught his eye.

It was Spirit, standing at the front of the queue to Deathbucks. He was dressed in a slate button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and hem military tucked into dark jeans. His copper hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, strands escaping to frame his face in a way that looked deliberately tousled. A pair of sunglasses rested on top of his head. It felt almost invasive—like catching him in his underwear.

Still, Kid smiled. He was halfway over when it was Spirit’s turn to order.

Kid froze in his tracks.

Spirit leaned over the counter, smile wide and head tilted. He said something. The barista leaned, too, lips curling. Kid strained to hear.

“… Speaking of beautiful eyes, I’d die for an iced coffee right now,” Spirit said, then winked, teeth gleaming. “Not literally.” His voice dropped. “Unless you’re into that? I’m open minded.”

She squeaked, then giggled and swatted his arm. He brought the arm forward, just an inch, and Kid could see the muscles shift even beneath the fabric. Spirit murmured something. What did he say, to make her reach—

Kid’s stomach did a strange little flip. His ears felt hot.

Her fingers brushed over his flexed bicep, up and then down, and they exchanged a couple more whispers. Spirit chuckled, voice raspy. Kid didn’t need to awaken his soul perception to sense the barista’s soul throb. Anxiety?

No.

No, it was not.

Goodness gracious.

His collar suddenly felt too tight and his face burned. His arms hung really awkwardly—was he supposed to not know what to do with his hands? And why were they sweaty? Was this normal? Was this—that—flirting? He could feel their wavelength synchronize even from here. It was rare for a weapon to be able to do that at all with non-meisters, but this— this was indecent!

He tried to find something else—anything—to look at, instead of his eyes betraying both him and etiquette by flickering back and back again.

And then he saw her.

Maka.

Waiting at a table.

She’d shrunk into herself, shoulders tense, head low.

Kid’s eye flitted to Spirit again, who was just taking two iced drinks and a folded note from the barista. His fingers ghosted over hers in the motion. He gave her an upward nod—too slow to be just a greeting—and she hid a giggle behind her hands.

Spirit turned, barista seemingly forgotten, and headed toward Maka with bounce in his steps. It didn’t last long. He paused, probably his wavelength sensitivity giving him a warning. Kid could see it clearly, a twinging, buzzing from Maka’s soul.

Spirit set the drink in front of Maka. She didn’t acknowledge it. He pushed it slightly closer and sank into the seat next to her. He said something. Her hands crept up, curling around the plastic cup. Spirit slowly reached for her, stopped before touching. Maka didn’t flinch back. He stroked a stray lock of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear.  He then ran the back of his fingers over her cheek a couple of times, murmuring something. He was leaning forward, head lower than hers and tipped, searching for her eyes. Angling to make her look at him.

Kid’s chest clenched; he’d experienced this one up-close.

Maka didn’t react the same way he had, however. She stood tall, drink in hand, and said something—something that hurt. Spirit’s face fell, mouth half-open. Within a few seconds she was gone in the crowd. Spirit half-rose, one hand stretched out for her and the other on the table, as if steadying him. She did not return.

He collapsed into the chair. A moment later, he pressed his palm to his face, obscuring it mostly from view, but Kid could still see the glitter of teeth. It was not a smile this time.

Kid had expected him to jog after Maka, but he didn’t. He just sat there.

Kid wanted to go to him, say something to make him feel better, but his feet wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t let him intrude. Besides, what could he possibly say that wouldn’t at the same time betray Maka?

But… he couldn’t just leave Spirit, either.

He twisted the front of his jacket. The fabric creaked ominously in his fist. His stomach hurt.

He shuffled to a bench in the cobbled square, where pigeons were busy picking at crumbs left by previous occupants. He gently waved them away before sitting on the edge. The pigeons cooed and waddled off to find treats elsewhere, leaving him by himself.

What should he do?

He ran his thumb along the spine of the worn book. The old man on the cover seemed more haunted than usual. Kid opened it to a passage he’d found himself returning to often lately: ‘The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.’

“Kid?”

Kid looked up into a grinning face, one much too tense, much too worn.

“So you took the day off after all,” Spirit said. “I would’ve half-expected to have to drag you out of the office. You’ve thwarted my afternoon plans.”

“I’m practicing work-life balance.” Kid raised his chin a notch. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Spirit’s smile softened. Still, he seemed to hesitate before sitting down next to him.

“That’s a well-loved book,” Spirit said, nodding at Kid’s hands. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you read it?”

“It wouldn’t be right to slack off in the office.”

Spirit’s tone was serious: “Word.”

Kid side-eyed him. Spirit’s mouth had curled into a smirk; his eyes were gleaming. Kid allowed himself to huff a laugh. He closed the book, put it next to him on the bench.

The ice and coffee rattled and sloshed as Spirit shook the cup. “You want this? Barista made me the wrong one. Too sweet for me.”

Kid hesitated, then took it with both hands. “Thank you. I’ve never tried Deathbucks before.”

“Really?” Spirit seemed genuinely surprised. Some of the tension melted, giving way to a more true smile. “Oh, man, am I looking forward to fall. Five dollars say your desk will be littered with cups of PSL.”

Kid scrunched his nose. “PSL?”

Spirit winked. “In due time, Kid. In due time.”

After Kid had put the straw to his mouth, Spirit sank further into the bench. The back of his head leaned against the top edge, his neck stretched and face toward the sky. His eyes were half-closed against the sun.

Kid gave the cup a little shake, like Spirit had, then took a sip. It was sticky sweet, bitter from both coffee and burnt caramel. A bit much. It was… not bad, though. He took another sip.

He glanced at Spirit again, narrowed his eyes. Along his jawbone, barely visible among the stubble but undeniably there, was the white ripple of a scar. It stretched from his ear nearly to the tip of his chin. It didn’t look accidental.

The photo came to mind—the lost tooth, the dark bruising from jaw to cheekbone. Had it really been that bad?

Spirit’s gaze drifted lazily toward Kid, one eyebrow arched. Suddenly, the scavenging pigeons looked really interesting.

Spirit folded forward, reaching back to his ponytail.

“Geez, it’s warm out.” He took the hair tie out, copper tresses falling into the usual messy curtain. Scar hidden.

“I don’t know about you, but I need to get out of the sun.” With a gentle push to his shoulder blade, Kid was nudged into standing. He allowed it, grabbing his book in the motion. Spirit stood, too, and steered him toward a bench in the shade. “Did I tell you about when I got burned so bad that my scythe form looked like a fried shrimp?”

Kid was just about to interrupt the impromptu story-time—tell him to tie his hair back up if it was that warm—but a grinding feeling in his gut stopped him.

“No,” he said instead, and took another slurp of the syrupy brew. He peered into the grey-green eyes, glassy but crinkled in a smile. “Not yet, at least.”