_a/n: this little drabble has been on my computer for over a year. seriously.
the essence of youth
...
Sometime later, the water they drink when watching a simple movie on the television lying simply on the couch, will turn to wine. Red for him, white for her; occasionally she'll try a sip of his. An innocent cross-legged girl on the left side of the couch turns into a lady with long (long, long) bare legs draping over her weapon's lap, her fingers idly lingering around his lazy (now toned, very toned) arm that's resting on her knees and she secretly thanks Lord Death that there is such a thing called weights.
And he's had his fair share of grace as his eyes roam onto his seventeen year old technician, from her ashy blonde tresses that cascade all the way to her waist in this braid that had become slightly undone and tangled and flustered because of her nap on the armchair not too long ago—to her (slightly-grown-still-below-average-but-satisfactory-breast-sized) bust, to her slim snow white legs. Pale as always; her skin reminds him of sweet milk.
But what he loves the most?
Her eyes. They haven't changed a bit since the first day he met her, to the day he fell in love with her, and this day, now—a shaded lime-like forest that reminds him of Christmas morning and reeks of optimism and is somehow able to ignite staccato-like thuds behind his ribcage when stared into for too long. She's always had that effect on him. Perhaps that's why he had been drawn to her in the first place, back when they were foolish little children.
Hell, he's still foolish. Foolish because he's still just as drawn to her (maybe even more, he's never sure). Because while he's thinking of her and the way she's puckering those pretty pink lips of hers, she's thinking of her books, and studying, and becoming valedictorian (officially beating Ox), and Lord knows what. He'd be damned.
He hadn't realized he had been gazing intently at her during this idle focus on his pinnacle of thoughts until she places her empty glass on the table in front of them, eyes still painted flat on the screen.
It's just her, though. It's always been her. And it will always be her.
Her fingers have to snap just inches away from his face before his attention snaps back to her from his thoughts.
"What?"
"I asked you to pass me the remote," she sturdily replies.
"Oh," he glances over to his left where the remote seems to be lying. He doesn't budge when he responds. "Nah, get it yourself. It's out of arm's reach."
"You didn't even bother reaching for it!" She scowls at him.
And then he's staring at her with a slight smile and half lidded and hazy eyes, with the thought that he had life so goddamn good when he didn't even deserve it. She self consciously asks what and he says a quick nothing, before thinking that he must be the luckiest boy in the world.
Maka's just got that little glint in her eyes that works wonders to his stomach and when she smiles, something in his knees buckle. Then he feels weak. Therefore, he feels uncool. Beyond uncool. But the feeling in his stomach that she achieves in him, effortlessly, is by far, worth it.
...
fin.