Someone said I should draw more inspiration from the French boy. So I did.
In which Maka doesn't like fish.
"Hey, Soul?"
"Yeah?"
"Why exactly is there a fish in the sink?"
Her white-haired partner poked his head out from behind his bedroom door, regarding her calmly.
"I'm making it for supper," he said.
Maka arched an eyebrow, looking skeptically between Soul and the kitchen sink, where the dead salmon was sprawled, tail sticking out to flop against the countertop.
"I don't like fish," she pointed out mildy.
Soul shrugged, meandering over to stand next to her.
"So?" he said. "We're having everyone over tonight, so you make some food for you and the other people who dislike fish, and I make this for the normal people, the ones who like fish."
He was smiling now, unexpectedly, and she had a feeling that she should've been more put about the way that smile disarmed her. Instead, her lips were curling up in response to his.
"Normal?" she responded, examining the fish more closely. "I honestly don't see how anyone who likes eating this stuff could be considered normal."
He laughed, and she marvelled at it. He laughed easier these days, for whatever reason, and smiled more too. She didn't understand it, because he was supposed to be "cool", to stay unaffected by most things, but recently, when she caught his eyes on her, she could say anything, do anything, and they'd suddenly be sharing a grin, lightning-burst fast.
"You have no idea what you're missing," he mused, shaking his head sadly.
"Slimy scales, that's what," she shot back.
"I dare you to touch it," he said, grinning wickedly.
"The fish? No way."
The aforementioned seafood was staring at her with it's sightless eye, and she did her best to stare it down, far more fazed by those unmoving eyeballs than by the hole under its head where it had obviously been cut open to have it's innards removed.
"You're just chicken."
"No, I'm just not stupid. I bet you haven't even cleaned it properly."
He narrowed his eyes at that, and she tilted her chin up defiantly, ignoring the hot thrill that passed through her body at the wicked look on his face. He carefully reached over into the sink and swiped a finger down the side of the fish, streaking across its scales. She knew what he was going to do before he had even lifted his finger, and she was backing away even before he started advancing on her, hand held out to touch her.
"Oh, heck no!" she exclaimed. Her cheeks hurt and the glint in his eyes hadn't faded. He kept coming forward, and she reached out, grabbing his wrist and trying to force his hand away. But he merely curled his hand, trying to smear the fish juices on her own hand, forcing her to try and dance away from him, still holding him at bay.
The light in the kitchen was golden.
They wrestled together, a strange sound filling the air, half laughing, half panting. He was pulling at her waist with his free hand, and she was backing into his body, feeling the contours of his shoulders and hip press into her. And then he was breaking free of her grip and his finger, slightly wet from where he'd touched the fish, was pressing against her hand. She made a noise that she would never admit was a squeal, and twisted away from him before rushing back into him for revenge. He was practically convulsing in laughter, his eyes squeezed shut, and he barely tried to fight her off as she rubbed her palm over his face and the top of his head. She was laughing too, her mind snagging on and automatically cataloguing the feel of the curve of his cheek and the texture of his hair underneath her fingers. They slapped at each other fairly pointlessly, and after a moment they were just standing there, looking at each other, with matching smiles so loud that they were practically broadcasting their simple happiness to outer space.
"Do you even know how to cook fish?" Maka asked, trying not to think about how easy it would be to sway forward into his touch again.
"Nope."
"Soul!"