A/N: inspired by the art of ahshesgone on tumblr. also a prompt given to me on tumblr.

Soul knew he shouldn't be bothered that Maka had stolen yet another one of his shirts, but he was. Mostly because it was the one shirt that mattered the most to him. The one that Wes had gifted to him as a lame birthday present one year because it was ironic and funny and one of Soul's favorite songs (the pun behind the title given his chosen instrument ignored).

It was Billy Joel, for crying out loud. Maka didn't even know who he was. She barely even knew the lyrics to the song itself let alone had any decent taste in music to have heard it before. Maybe he was being a pretentious douche again, but it was his shirt. His. The only piano man in their apartment.

So his slight annoyance that she was wearing his orange Piano Man shirt was justified.

Usually he was okay with her wearing his shirts because, truth be told, she looked a hundred times better in them than he did. The loose fit around her torso and the way it draped over her hips, giving a peek of her violet lace panties, was enticing to see on a daily basis. It gave him a beautiful view on lazy Sunday mornings. Then, when she added her knee high socks, it was all the better.

There was no mystery behind why he got turned on seeing her read a book and sipping coffee or tea on their couch.

But this was his Piano Man shirt. There was sentimental value behind it that she wouldn't understand. There was meaning behind those lyrics, no matter how lame and cliche they were.

Then again, it did look adorable on her.

And had long since refused to fit him.

And making out with her in it wouldn't be so bad.

Except, those weren't the issues at hand. Those were only perks that clouded his frustration to give way to lust and desire.

The issue at hand came straight down to the shirt and the fact that he didn't want Maka to claim it as her own. He didn't want it to be another knotch in her closet full of his shirts, tucked away in the deepest parts never to be seen again. Shirts that were forever forgotten by his meister and remembered by her weapon. It was special to him.

"Maka," he sighed at last after debating how to start the conversation for the last ten minutes. Her head perked up at the sound of her name, green eyes wide, and waited for him to speak again. "We need to have an intervention."

Her brows furrowed together as she set her cup down on the table and bookmarked her page with her index finger. "What for?"

"For your habit of stealing my shirts."

She rolled her eyes and sighed. "Stop with the dramatics, Soul. You said it yourself before that I can take whatever I want since some of your shirts don't fit you anymore. I don't think we really need an intervention considering it's your fault in the first place."

"I know, but, you see…" he trailed off, unsure of how to say it.

"See what?" she asked after a few minutes ticked by.

"The shirt you have on now? It's one of my favorites, and I'd really rather you not take it from me," he pleaded finally.

"Soul," she half-groaned, "I live in the same apartment as you. We sleep in the same bed. We sleep together on a weekly basis. It's not like I'm taking your shirts on vacation with me and leaving them in another state or country. You're being dramatic."

"Do you even know what Piano Man is?" he asked, desperate to at least educate her.

"It's a shirt."

"What is Piano Man? Tell me, and maybe I'll let you keep it."

"It's a joke," she shrugged. "Because you play the piano? And you're a man?"

She said it so innocently that he wanted to let it go, but a part of him couldn't because it was so wrong.

Slouching back in his chair, he slapped his palm over his forehead and groaned out, "That's not even remotely close."

"Then what is it?"

"It's a song, Maka." He dropped his head so that he was looking at her again. "A song by Billy Joel."

"Who's that?"

"Only one of the greatest musicians ever, and the song, Piano Man, is one of his most famous songs that everyone knows. It's been sung in bars countless times and is requested at his concerts all the damn time. It's only one of the best songs to drunk sing to. And I know for a fact that you don't know a single line from it."

The slight pout of her lips told him he had fucked up somewhere.

"So now we're back to you being a music snob and belittling my knowledge of music."

"No, that's not–"

"Soul Evans, I will have you know that I do know the song. I've heard you and Liz sing it drunk in this living room enough times for me to Google it and listen to it myself."

"What?" he asked, completely dumbfounded.

"Sing us a song," she began singing, slightly off tune, "you're the piano man. Sing us a song tonight. Well, we're all in the mood for a melody and you've got us feeling alright."

He blinked at her, completely unsure of what to say. His mouth felt heavy and dry from either his jaw dropping or his foot being jammed so far in that he couldn't breathe because she had just handed his ass to him. On a silver fucking platter. Maka-style.

"I guess I'm not so uneducated when it comes to music after all," she said with a cheshire grin. Standing up, she grabbed her cup, tucked her book against her chest, and headed to her bedroom. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to read in my room. Away from the big-headed jerk that I considered to be my boyfriend."

Soul leapt off the couch and sprinted across the room so that he met her right at the door leading to her bedroom. "Wait, Maka–"

"Also," she began, twirling around to face him, "I will say that if you want the shirt back so badly, you're more than welcome to come take it yourself. And if you wanna make up for being a jerk, I hope you plan to put that tongue to work."

Maka raised her cup to her lips, a sly smile peaking over the rim of it, a sparkle in her eyes, and took a sip of her drink before heading further into her bedroom. The hem of her – his shirt – fluttered around her waist, giving him a nice view of the panties she had on underneath that accentuated the curve of her ass so perfectly. Her hips swayed side to side that didn't look accidental in the slightest, and all the blood in his body rushed to his lower groin.

His apology escaped him as he quickly understood Maka's sneaky intentions before he followed her into the bedroom.

Closing the door behind him, he groaned out, "Fuck me, Maka," under his breath.

He was met with a small giggle and a gasp as he scooped her up and tossed her in bed, nuzzling himself between her legs to work on his new apology.