An author's rambles:
Wellll, I don't own Soul Eater but that doesn't matter because I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT THE LAST CHAPTER IS COMING OUT NEXT MONTH.
And Deadman Wonderland, too?! I am devastated and will probably cry myself to sleep for years to come.
...I'll trot along and read Soul Eater Not, then, shall I? Right after I read my three AP summer reading books. Blarghwedfj;bgv.
When they each decide at the ripe age of not-quite-thirteen to entrust their life to the other, they ignore her father's vehement protests and pick a cozy little apartment to share. It's not weird, because a lot of the others are doing it, and Shinigami-sama even encourages it because living together requires responsibility, trust, and respect, all of which are the foundation of a strong, healthy soul link.
Living together also requires patience, which neither of them have much of.
They scrape by the first week with minimal throat-tearing, and the second, and the third. But the fourth week, Soul leaves his dirty clothes on the floor and the dirty dishes in the sink for the nth time and Maka can't remember whether it was even his turn to do the dishes but he also shut her book and lost her place and so she prickles indignantly and storms moodily to the living room where he's watching The Ring.
She finds out a few days later that she's experiencing her first-ever case of PMS.
"Soul Eater Evans," she grinds through her teeth, and he glances up in surprise, but then a girl crawls out of a television onscreen and his attention is understandably and effectively recaptured. She snatches up the remote and switches the TV off.
"Hey," he snaps, ruffled, and he straightens up from his slump. "The hell?"
"Where do I begin?" she yells irritably. "Your clothes are on the floor, you lost my place, you haven't done the dishes, you lost my place, you haven't cooked for a week, you lost my place, and you and Black Star tracked mud all over the damn apartment."
He plucks invisible dirt from his shoulder with his pointer and thumb and squints at it, rubbing the two fingers together. "That it?"
She stares down at him with malice alive in her eyes. "You lost. My. Place."
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, rolling his eyes. "I'll clean up later, Mom."
"Excuse me?" she hisses. "You're going to do it right now."
He briefly considers grousing- or maybe pushing over a lamp or something, just to prove his point- but he settles for grumbling a string of curses under his breath and heaving to his feet because frankly, he's way too lazy to actually start a fight with his meister.
He's not worried about her winning, however. No sirree.
Cough.
And he doesn't bother mentioning that it is, in fact, her turn to do the dishes or that the only reason her place is lost is because Black Dumbass went and knocked the whole damn bookshelf over. He lets it slide.
Because he's just that cool.
But when he walks into the kitchen, he realizes that he's hungry, so he opens the fridge and immediately notices that something is terribly, terribly wrong.
She's finished off his juice.
He loves juice.
He stomps back into the room, fists and jaw clenched, and finds her asleep on the couch, and he almost throws a tantrum at all the unfairness. But he chooses instead to close his eyes, take a deep breath, and calm down.
She's actually pretty cute, he thinks suddenly. Her mouth hangs slightly agape, and she takes small, deep breaths, her decidedly nonexistent chest rising and falling slowly. He can make out a hint of emerald green iris between her long, sandy lashes, and her hair is down in the rare style she reserves only for home.
For him.
For a moment, he just stands there, stunned, taken aback. He feels almost... peaceful.
And then he remembers that she drank his juice.
The sun has climbed a considerable amount of sky before Maka wakes up again. She won't look in the mirror for the next few hours, which is extremely good news for a certain scythe who decided to solve their dispute- ahem; differences- in a mature, reasonable manner.
Namely, by doodling on her face in blue Sharpie.
She does, however, see right away that he has taken her favorite slippers, scrawled "Don't Drink" on the sole of one, "My Juice" on the sole of the other, and hung the both of them on the ceiling fan.
There's going to be one less shark-toothed albino boy-scythe in Death City today, she thinks murderously.
An author's conclusions:
This is actually based off of a playful dispute between my dad and I. I ended up hanging his flip-flops from a wind chime and writing "I Win" on the underside of one.
Not immature at all.
Ahem.
As always, any reviews or reads or mere glances make me squeal with unconcealed joy. Sankyuuu~