Genre: Mostly friendship, some romance.
Warning: Very drabbly and not organized.
This is not what Soul expected after coming home from the convenience store.
Maka was in his room, excitedly rummaging through some old boxes he assumed had come from his closet.
The Death Scythe sighed, "Maka. What the hell are you doing?"
He wasn't angry, and she knew that.
Soul was simply somewhat frustrated with the fact that Maka was always looking through old stuff lately.
Since when was she so sentimental?
"Just looking."
Yeah... Right.
She'd probably pull out some old photo of them that had been taken by a classmate without their knowledge. Or an old pair of socks. She would then proceed to say "Soul! You wore these on our fourth mission!"
She had yet to actually pull out something that was really that important to either of them.
But Maka had begun to appreciate their memories a lot more.
He sighed again and walked over to her position in front of the large cardboard box, sitting cross-legged and resting his chin on his palm.
He had noticed when he walked in that she had her hair down, and was wearing a t-shirt of his, along with a pair of his sweatpants. They were rolled up several times to compensate for her shorter legs.
He had been looking for those for ages.
"Quit stealing my stuff when you don't have any clean pajamas, weirdo."
The meister suddenly quit digging and turned around to face him, an annoyed expression on her face.
"Don't be so stingy!" She replied, jabbing him in the shoulder, "You've got plenty of clothes."
Her eyes said that he wasn't winning this argument.
"Plus they're really comfortable..." She pulled the collar up over her face, "And they smell like you too."
Soul rolled his eyes, unseen by her.
Since when was his meister so sentimental?
When he looked back at her, she was already back to digging through the box. He turned his attention to the walls, suddenly really interested in them.
Soul didn't look back at her until she let out a gasp and waved something ratty in his face.
It was an old, stretchy loop of fabric, with small tears around the edges. Only upon further inspection that he realized that it was...
His old headband.
The patches on it were still there, though some of the seams had popped and ripped.
He remembered when he had bought the cheap headband not long after they had become partners.
He remembered the day Maka had come home holding two patches she had found at a small store in town. One bearing the word "soul" and the other with their class logo.
At first he had rejected the idea that she should attach them to his headband, saying how uncool it would be. But after a lot of pouting and fussing he finally consented.
She had gone to the local library and checked out any books she could find on sewing.
And after many tangled threads and pricked fingers she had woken him up one morning, dangling the newly decorated headband in front of his face — a lot like she was now.
He had worn the headband everyday. And though he would never have told her, he secretly adored his personalized accessory.
He wore it until it had begun to tear. Afraid of ruining the gift, he had stored it away along with—
His old coat.
Maka had just pulled it out of the box as well, leaving the headband in his lap.
His meister stroked the small rips and tears that resulted from everything from battles to getting the sleeve caught on something.
She studied the biggest one the longest. A long diagonal tear across the front, messily patched together.
Her sewing skills were limited, but she had done her best to patch up his favorite jacket. After she had removed the bloody stains, of course.
He could tell that she wore a sad expression without even seeing her face. The certain way her shoulders drooped, along with the fact that her hand was holding the fabric unusually tight with her fingers.
He could feel it in her soul, too. But he really didn't need that to be able to tell, either.
"That was a long time ago, Maka. It's-"
"In the past... I know, Soul."
They really did know each other.
"You liked this jacket a lot." She smiled sadly, "You wore it everyday... Why did you trade it for that black one anyway?"
He poked the side of her head, "Because you always looked so sad when I put it on every morning."
"Oh... I'm sorry." Maka hugged the old jacket to her.
Crap.
He always ended up making her feel worse.
"It's really soft, you know."
She was rubbing her face against the worn fabric.
Maka felt her weapon's arms wrap loosely around her shoulders. Trying to comfort her with a hug, she assumed.
He wasn't really a touchy person. So she knew he really wanted her to feel better.
She felt the jacket being gently taken from her grasp, only to land on her shoulders.
Maka turned to look at him, green eyes filled with confusion.
The Death Scythe smirked, "It's too small for me now. So you can hang onto it if you want."
She smiled at him, understanding.
"Right."
That night, with Soul sprawled out on his bed, you could see his old headband laid across his nightstand. Next to it was a small frame containing a photo of him and Maka on the day he came a death scythe, their white Spartoi uniforms crisp and new.
And in the next room lay Maka asleep, holding Soul's old jacket to her like one might hold a stuffed animal.
Soul wasn't really one to hold onto memories. But he was sure he should hold onto the ones containing his meister.
She had stopped him from running away, after all.
But one question still plagued him. Why was Maka so sentimental over everything?
Oh well, it didn't matter.