TITLE: Repertoire
AUTHOR: Mister March
SUMMARY: Maka finds herself mentally closer to him when he snores during an old romance film.
WARNINGS: lol none
A/N: Made late in the day because sometimes the feels are too long. ALSO, it's been well over a year since i've been here and well, i fucking cringe from all my old stuff so let's go on, shall we ? ( all i own is the writing in this fanfiction… also the movie i just randomly made up in here ).
The lights on the tv cascade a blanket of luminosity over his sleeping form. He lays on his side, head facing the backboard of the love seat because he says it's more comfortable to hear the sounds than to see blues flashing when his eyes are closed. She told him that's reasonable but it was in a whisper when his eyes first closed. Soul had only grunted in response before his cheek uncomfortably pressed into his shoulder. Graphic tee hugs his torso to a point where it rides up just to meet the top half of his rib cage; pants are pulled up over solid hip bones. She takes notice after glimpsing at him over the fine pages of her book.
She sits with knees up and cotton covered feet wedges between the couch cushions. Maka told him they were accidental slippers, he never responded. Now she watches as the kindle voice of a french woman in love in the sixties looks up at her significant other in awe. Left breathless with only the tips of her fingertips touching his left cheekbone.
"Is this where our love will end?"
Her voice is elegant and refined, with gentle touches to make it sweet and intriguing. Draws the viewer in, taking notice of pale colors left to make her cheeks flush.
She stops watching; the starry night peering from between white blinds creates a diligent shadow across his form. Chest softly rising before it falls over and over again. Maka watches, not with interest or a strange appetite. She watches for it is the most fascinating thing she can look at in the moment. How such a fussy creature, with hair he used to spike as a young teenager, could sleep so peacefully. But don't we all look the same when doing so? Almost as if all troubles left poured out when lashes flutter and lips slightly part.
"No my darling, not right now."
The lover's voice on the screen comes deep, a change but as gentle as the wind that sways the woman's hair. The palm of her hand now comes to rest on his cheek, cradling it. But these are all sounds left hindered.
It was moments before that he sat there, long legs stretched out on the coffee table that he uses to rest his feet. He told her films from the past are the only ones he'll thoroughly watch, because originality was not sparse in the 1950's-80's. So much meaning with every word, every action. Almost like every chord on the violin: His brother told her last year that every note was a new heartache. But she can never understand the beauty of it all; the elasticity of every sound that wells up within him. For in her mind, this was only music, and to him he found it to be a sanctuary for his soul.
The only thing she finds interesting is the rhythm of every passing breath taken from him. A tempo so quaint she puts the book down to lay flat on her chest. His left knee is brought to his chest whilst the right leg is bent behind him, foot resting on the coffee table. A half eaten bagel sits next to it. Left arm is brought to cradle the side of his head in the elbow crease; the hand falls limp and hangs above the other side. He looks as if he is compensating for something else.
"If not now, when?"
"Time will tell."
"But that's - you always say that."
"I don't know what the answer will be."
"DAMN IT JOHN, why must you break my heart?"
A shriek to Janet's voice. It makes Soul inhale sharply, jostling awake.
The hand that once laid on his cheek fled to pound a fist into his chest. John only goes to grab her offending fist and quickly brings it up to his lips to feverishly kiss it. "The world no longer wants us to stand together. Janet, no matter how many worlds apart we are…" Soul blinks sheepishly. The arm that had once curled around his head for support now comes to rub the base of its' palm against his eyes, the other one squeezes shut as he sighs softly. Maka continues to stare, her knees knees to brought up to her chest as she hugs them closer; chin resting in between knobby petallas. His body turn, waist leaning on his left while his upper torso twist for his back to rest lightly on the couch cushions. Eyes peer to look at her as toes curl; he stretches out his fatigue.
"We will never be separate." John grabs her now, kisses her as if he were suffocating and she were his only life source.
"How was the movie?" He asks, voice quiet. A symphony of mumbles.
"Fine. Go back to bed."