Never Mind Me
Summary: Soul has just a small uncool problem. He can never manage to say those three goddamn words that people mutter carelessly. So he finds an alternative.
Disclaimer: I own nothing nor nobody, got it?
He sat there staring at the wall, jaw tight. He had never just sat and stared at a wall before, wasn't cool. The light brown paint was chipped and cracked and flaky. This was the one wall in the DWMA that wasn't perfect. Kid despised it, every time he had to walk by the brown wall; he collapsed in a fit of tremors. Soul sighed for the umpteenth time.
He ran one of his large hands through his snowy hair. Its soft texture bent and fluffed under his hands. His old bulky headband had found its way into the garbage a while ago and was replaced by a small black one or hairpins every now and then. Right now though, it was just a wild mess of white locks that made him think his whole life was messed up.
Why can't I say it, dammit! Soul thought growling through clenched teeth. His black leather jacket hung around his shoulders like the symbol of death around him, his blue shirt underneath tight around his muscled torso and arms. He hated how everyone else could admit something so simple. Hell, Ox practically stated it openly every moment of every damn day. Even Stein had hooked up with Marie, the crazy bolt-brain. How was he, the cool guy, unable to speak what people said without a care in the world? It baffled him.
Soul spent hours practicing in front of the mirror when Maka wasn't home, but when it came to the time he wanted to spit it out; he froze.
"Smooth dude. Smooth…" He groaned rubbing the heels of his hands into his bloody red eyes. He stood and stalked away. He would've been perfectly fine if he hadn't noticed everything that Maka did.
Especially when it came to him.
A few months after his eighteenth birthday, Soul had been walking into the kitchen of his and Maka's apartment when he heard her humming in the laundry room. Curious, he sauntered over, hands shoved into the pockets of his baggy denim jeans.
He had peaked around the side of the wall hiding the small room with a washer, dryer, cabinets, and a small sink. His red eyes squinted at Maka's hands as she washed a small object in the sink. One second later, his pupils constricted so fast he couldn't focus on the small strip of cloth in her hands.
It was his old headband, the large white one with his name and a lip sticker on it.
It had been his favorite for four years after Black Star, Tsubaki, Kid, Patti and Liz, and Maka had bought the thing for him. He kept bumping into people because his hair was too long. They weren't old enough to work so they all scraped together enough to buy him a custom headband. Maka even measured his damn head while he was asleep.
Soul had assumed because it was his for so long and he had tossed it into the trash a couple years ago that Maka still had it. He ignored a nagging little thought in the back of his brain.
Another time, Soul had come back from shopping and the TV in the living room was barking about an informational talk show about oil spills and birds. Like hell he cared about that. He walked into the living room about to turn the TV down when he noticed Maka wasn't there. Usually she'd have her evergreen eyes glued to the damn thing. He walked into the hallway that connected their rooms.
He opened her closed door just enough to get one eye's vision of the room. Before him, on her bed fast asleep, was Maka curled up into the fetus position. He thought it was cute at first, especially when her hair was let down to its full length, but then he realized what she was wearing.
His old orange jacket.
He shut the door so fast and scrambled away that he thought he would run into a wall. Soul never understood why she kept his old stuff.
He started watching her more closely after the black blood incident. He noticed how she liked such strange music, some classic, some pop, some dub step, and even a small bit of jazz. Soul guessed he'd rubbed off on her, just a bit. He noticed how she curled up during slasher scenes in horror movies. How she hummed and swung her hips lightly as she cooked or washed the dishes. How her emotions changed ever so slightly when she read her books. How soft her hair was and how it smelled like honeysuckles and almond butter. How her hands weren't ever manicured, or cared for properly. How the little scars on her hands made them rough and smooth and calloused from wielding him. How those dainty little scars traveled everywhere on her body, even small unnoticeable ones on her face unless you looked real close.
He didn't understand why he had to know more about her and her habits, like how she got up at dawn to practice karate. He racked his brain until he remembered that aching little voice in the back of his mind. It wasn't so little anymore.
He continued to watch her, just to be certain, and things started coming together. He noticed how she made his favorite dinner every week, she always seemed to sit a little too close during movies, she brushed her hand against his sometimes when walking, she bought his favorite brand headphones or something cool every year for Christmas, and she would always glance at him when she thought he wasn't watching. Oh, Soul was watching alright.
Soul figured it out seven weeks, two days, four hours, fifty six minutes, and twenty seven seconds after he had turned eighteen. He loved Maka. He had the hots for Maka. He was digging Maka.
Soul Eater Evans loved Maka Albarn.
Soul was lucky he was lying down, because he would've fallen over with this realization. So for months he practiced in the mirror and in November, he finally decided to say he loved her.
Soul punched the outer wall of the DWMA so hard it cracked and his knuckles started to bleed. He hated how he'd just stood there and fumbled over the words. He looked at his bleeding hand, nothing was broken. It would just need some mending by Maka.
Soul had been standing over Maka for what seemed like an hour. She just kept patiently staring at his red eyes. He couldn't do it. He couldn't say those words, not to her. Not as he looked directly into those pools of green. Not to her.
"Maka… I… I…" he stumbled over the simple words. He grit his razor sharp teeth she cocked her head to the side. Her expression was just curious, not concerned, but curious.
"Yeah, Soul?" Maka prompted. Soul gulped.
"I'm hungry," he wasn't prepared yet, and he scampered away defeated.
"Maka, I'm home! I need some bandages can you help?" Soul called, taking his shoes off at the front door.
Maka came walking in, her breathing was quicker and Soul could tell she had hurried in to see him in the entry way. She gaped at his wounded hand. Maka quickly forced him into the bathroom and disinfected the bloody gashes.
"You need to be more careful, Soul. This could've been serious, what if you couldn't play the piano anymore?" Maka stated absently as she wrapped his hand in white puffy gauze. He blew his bangs out of his eyes.
"I wouldn't give a shit. I think Kid would do worse to me," Soul sighed, leaning back against the bathroom wall as Maka secured the bandages. She paused.
"You didn't punch the DWMA, did you?" Maka asked, a small smirk playing on her delicate features, her pigtails still in perfect "symmetry". He chuckled a bit.
"Yeah, kinda," Soul stated walking out, flexing the muscles under the snow white guaze.
"Kid's gonna suspend your license as death scythe if he finds out it was you," Maka giggled as she walked into the kitchen. Soul grinned at the bell like sound. Then it dawned on him. Maka knew twelve different languages and was working on Russian right now. Soul's grin turned into a full on wicked smirk.
"Yeah, I know. But what can you do? You can't have symmetry all the time. Volim te," Soul stated sitting down at the table. Maka turned around, two plates of piping hot food in her hands. Her eyebrow was raised.
"And what does that mean?" she asked placing the dishes on the table and sitting down. Soul shrugged and shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth.
"Doesn't matter," Soul said. His plan was working so far, why did he have to say it in English? He could say it in any language she didn't know. He just happened to like Croatian the best. Maka pouted.
"Aw, come on, Soul, tell me!" she pleaded. He shook his head. Maka sighed and gave up, she hated not knowing what went through his head, and he knew it too.
This was the solution Soul was looking for.
From then on, every time Maka did something he liked he'd say it. Every time he thought she was beautiful or cute, every time she laughed, every time she cried (not often), and every time he just wanted to say it.
"Volim te, Volim te, volim te?" Maka repeated to herself one evening, trying to decipher Soul's message. He snickered when he overheard her mantra and stalked back to his room to blare jazz music.
Then he made a mistake.
Soul had just sat down on the couch in the living room with a loud sigh, everything was done. He could just sit and watch mindless television until he fell asleep. He hadn't noticed that Maka had plopped down beside him. His long muscled arms were thrown over the back of the couch lazily. Maka turned the TV on to channel 62, Friends with Benefits was playing. Soul's eyes rolled over toward her small frame, his head reared back when he noticed their proximity. Maka was sitting in the small space between his shoulder and his side, comfortably leaning against him.
Soul tried not to move during the movie, but he relaxed soon and was enjoying the stupid romantic comedy almost as much as he was enjoying Maka's giggles. When the movie was at a particularly awkward part, Maka was laughing loudly and Soul was too. He turned his head to face her. He wanted to say it. He really wanted to say it.
"I love you," he said. Maka paused and looked at him. It wasn't special or delicate or anything. Soul had sincerely said he loved her. Maka smiled heartily.
"So that's what you've been saying all this time!" she stated excitedly. Soul was confused. She had figured it out? How? When? Then realization hit him like a brick wall. He had said it in English. HE HAD SAID IT IN ENGLISH. HE HAD JUST SAID HE LOVED HER IN ENGLISH.
"Shit!" he hissed, cheeks bright red. Maka smiled triumphantly. Soul shot up and ran down to his doorway, Maka beat him to it.
"You didn't let me respond, you bastard," Maka said glowering. She hated when he ran away without an explanation. His idiocy she could take, his self-conscious shit… Not so much.
Soul gulped down his fear as he stared into her eyes. She smiled.
"Volim te," and before she could say anymore, he had grabbed her and hugged her so tightly and close to him that she almost couldn't breathe. Soul was beyond himself with joy. So far beyond himself, that he didn't realized he was kissing her until his lungs were burning.
Soul loved Maka.
Maka loved Soul.
Author's Note: Just a bit of fluffity fluffiness. Plus I haven't written a Soul Eater fanfiction yet so there you go.
Review please! And no flames, just happy souls of SoMa Love.