Tumblr word prompt by awesomeasusual. In which Soul is moody.
bucolic: of or relating to the pleasant aspects of the countryside and country life.
"Winter."
Maka snorted. "You would like winter best."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Soul scowled at her.
She only crossed her arms and stared him down. "Isn't it obvious? You're all gloomy and dark. You probably love it when it's rainy and mucky outside."
Mildly stung by that, he showed her his teeth and made a point of tossing aside the copy of The Wendigo he'd been about to start reading to her; she glared at it as it clattered to the floor of his trailer, obviously outraged, probably both by his rebellion and by his rough treatment of a precious book. "I'm not gloomy or dark!" he snapped.
"So now you're just not going to read to me?" she cried, throwing her hands in the air.
He shot her one last foul look, gave the hapless book a good kick until it skidded under his bed, and turned away. She sniffed audibly, and when he snuck a peek at her a minute later, she was hunched over, with a terrible look on her face, glowering out his window. One slim, tanned hand was holding back his dark curtains, and her golden head was leant against the glass; it seemed like her hair caught up all the sunlight from outside and reflected it, filling up his home with unfamiliar warmth.
Maka flicked her eyes at him; he glanced away quickly, attempting to look mean out of sheer principle. Judging by her quiet chuckle, it didn't work, and after a while his eyes slid closed. It was nice, having someone kind around to let in the sunshine. The train bounced and leapt merrily along the tracks, and even with his eyes shut, he knew the green landscape flashing past outside would match her eyes perfectly.
"Are you falling asleep?" she said after a little while.
"Not at all," he lied, stifling a yawn with his eyes still shut. "Waiting for an apology, is all."
"An apology? For what, calling you gloomy? Because there's no one in the entire circus who'd agree with it, is there?" Her sarcasm was clear.
"Yes," was all he said. "You're terribly cruel, bearcat."
She smothered what sounded suspiciously like a giggle. "You've no idea."
"Oh, that's a laugh. I know exactly how cruel you are. I've got the bruises to prove it."
This time, she did giggle, and he cracked an eye, vaguely pleased at the sound. "All right! I'm sorry! You're not wintery at all! You're-"
"Warm and sunny?" Soul suggested, trying to sound snide, but his words came out more plaintive than he would have liked.
She pushed the curtains more fully open and wriggled around to stare at him full-on; the fields whizzing behind her were green, just as he'd thought, ripe and lush and rippling in the winds, but her gaze was more of everything. "To me you are," she said quietly, faint pink blooming underneath her freckles. "You know, when you aren't calling me rude names or telling me to leave you alone."
He grimaced, but on the inside, he was terrifyingly tingly. "Right," he drawled. "I think you hit your head at some point, bearcat."
She waved a hand and wrinkled her nose. "I apologized. Are you going to read to me, or not?"
"Oh, I don't know. A little begging on bended knee wouldn't go amiss- Shit! Goddamn, that hurt! Fine!"
She smirked at him, as pretty as a picture inside the frame of his window, the brightest thing in his trailer and his life. "Good!"
He sneered at her from habit and leaned off his chair to snatch up the book. "A considerable number of hunting parties were out that year without finding so much as a fresh trail," he started, and now it was her eyes that drifted closed as she listened, peaceful face surrounded by the blurred green and gold of the countryside as the train rattled onwards through wheat and corn and cotton.