30Catalysts
(SoMa Week 2014)
Day One
Roommates
Soul would swear on his life that she did it on purpose.
He grabbed up the X-Box controller, his eyes focussing instantly on the screen before him, as she padded quietly into the lounge room to try and alleviate her boredom. He began to play the game with vigour before his eyes could meet hers, and the game's theme music managed to cover her words enough for him to pretend he didn't hear her at first.
He swore she did it on purpose.
Maka frowned when he didn't immediately respond to whatever it was she had said, putting her hands on her hips and raising an eyebrow. When Soul didn't glance up at her, she went to stand in front of the television, blocking his view of innocent things like the splattering of his opponent's blood against the shitty graphics of the building behind him.
Fuck his life.
She did it on purpose.
If there was one thing Soul 'Eater' Evans could say he'd been Chopped for more than anything else in his life so far, it was jokes about his meister's figure. He couldn't help it – she left herself wide open for smart remarks every time, and really, who wouldn't go for the option of making her go all red and winding her up like a kid's toy?
Apparently, everyone with a brain. Something he severely needed, according to her.
His favourite thing about calling out Maka's assets – or lack thereof – was her inability to do anything about it. Despite his gene pool of 'fucked-up' providing her with more than enough material to make a joke about his appearance, she never went for it. He didn't know why, but he used it to his advantage. His meister's mind was a fearsome thing to behold, and he'd rather take the brunt of her fists than the barbs of her witty comebacks any day. He had a trump card whenever she was winning an argument; she did nothing but hit whenever the topic came up, and although that usually meant he'd lose the fight overall, he'd keep his dignity and their partnership in tact so long as he didn't step too far out of line.
Then again, living on the edge was the kind of thing cool guys like him did.
So he'd been pretty content to rile her up with a smart comment and then privately smile over how cute she was right before she went in for the kill, for the majority of their partnership. It was a habit, one that was good for the health and mindset of neither of them, but one that managed to detract attention from the seriousness and fear that shrouded the lives of teenage hit-men against the world of evil in a light of normalcy and light banter.
Until two months ago, that was. That was when she'd pulled the rug out from under his feet, and smiled and waved as he fell down into the abyss. That was the day she decided it was too hot to wear anything other than her shorts and a crop top around the house.
He'd never regretted not fixing the air conditioner when he had the chance more. Because as beautiful as it was to discover his own home could become a haven of all his weird and quiet fantasies regarding his precious meister, he had a problem.
She was his roommate and his everything and he kinda-sorta-maybe couldn't stop staring at her.
"We don't have anything in the pantry to make for lunch unless you want ramen again," she said shortly, leaning forward to make sure he didn't just glance around her to keep playing his game. "Do you want to go to the supermarket, or just go out to eat?"
As if she needed to lean forward to capture his attention.
As soon as his eyes trained onto her sleep shorts and the over-sized shirt she was wearing – his shirt – he may as well have been a dog waiting to be told to roll over. For all of her contempt towards the 'dollymops' of Death City, as she fondly called them, she had a certain ability to wear the shortest pants or skirts possible and walk in the most alluring way possible, making him keep his affable mask on at all times to stop himself collapsing on the ground and crying over what he desperately wanted but could likely never have.
There was no way she could miss the way his jaw instantly clenched as his eyes met hers, nor the way he unconsciously dropped the controller onto his lap as she became the only visible thing in the entire state of Nevada. She had to be doing it on purpose. There was no other option.
When he continued to do nothing but look at her while keeping his face straight and any shreds of his self restraint intact, she cocked an eyebrow, frowning. "Well? Which one do you want to do?"
"Uh . . . whatever, I guess?"
"You weren't even listening to me, were you?"
"No, I totally was. You said something about food, and then – uh – something else about food."
She rolled her eyes with a scowl that had him equally horrified at her levels of 'adorable' – because he was manly as fuck and to be this whipped was pathetic – and on alert for any oncoming books to the skull. "That would be all you heard, idiot. I don't feel like shopping, so we'll just go get some lunch at Deathbucks or something, yeah?"
Soul nodded slowly, still trying to catch up on the subject they were on rather than his own demented thought process. "Sounds good. I guess I'll go have a shower, then."
She must have seen this as a somewhat decent response, because the hands moved from the hips to her sides and she smiled as she straightened up. "Good; I'm going to get changed. I'll call Black*Star and Tsubaki too, yeah?"
"Nah," he said after a moment. "Black*Star lost a bet to me the other day and he's still shitty. Let's just go by ourselves – it'll be more fun that way, anyway."
He didn't even think about the words until they were out; but there they were, drifting in the air between the two of them, full of implications and feelings, before he could snatch them back and stuff them down his throat to reside in his stomach like usual. Fuck, he was out of it today. Maka started wearing short pants and he was out for the count, apparently – forget any sort of Kishin threat, forget Crona, forget his Black Blood. Forget the freakin' Maka Chop.
Maka Albarn's legs would be the death of him.
And as soon as he got onto that thought process, the shower suddenly seemed like a very good idea. Preferably if it was as cold as ice.
He made his lame exit, shutting off the X-Box in one move and scuttling to his room to get his clothes in the next, leaving any sort of 'cool' he once possessed sitting on the couch and shaking its head as it watched his dumb ass run away. He may be the Last Death Scythe, he may have been the one to turn Asura's innards into a Death-damn musical score, and he may have the strongest manipulation of liquid madness of the planet, but he was no match for her and her purposeful yet seemingly-ignorant use of the assets she was strongly gifted with. After all this time, she'd found the perfect retaliation weapon, and he couldn't escape. He lived with her, for Death's sake. Despite him practically living out every teenage guy's fantasy of sharing a house and therefore a bathroom with the girl of his dreams, no matter how flat and tempestuous she may have been, he could honestly say one thing as he ducked his head and mourned his own idiocy as he searched for his shirt.
Having Maka as a roommate was the worst thing ever in the best of ways.
Maka would swear on her life that he did it on purpose.
She hastily strode into her room, her hands reaching to cover her red cheeks, as he padded into the shower to get ready to go to lunch. She opened up her drawers and dug around in piles of clothing with vigour before she could let her mind wander, and the rustling managed to cover whatever words he'd called out enough for her to pretend she didn't hear him at first.
She swore he did it on purpose.
She sighed as the black skirt was thrown on her bed, putting her hands over her face and shutting her eyes tightly. When her own inner voice began to chastise her for being so stupid, she allowed herself to sink onto the mattress like the fabric, blocking her thoughts of harsh things like how close she'd come to screwing it all up yet again.
Screw her life.
He did it on purpose.
If there was one thing Maka Albarn could pride herself on, it was keeping up a hard and resilient front among all of her other friends. Whenever one of them would sigh and swoon over a romantic twist in another's life or gush about a dreamy new axe-meister, she had to be there to roll her eyes and shortly announce her contempt for the whole 'romance' business. After all, she knew personally that love and sentimentality were lies, and really, who wanted to waste their time listening to sickeningly sweet sonnets about how lovely their eyes were or how their hair shone in the moonlight?
Apparently, everyone with a heart. Something she severely needed, according to her friends.
However, she had a dirty little secret to hide from everyone, and that was the fact that despite every bone in her body screaming at her to vomit whenever a boy began to act like some sort of Romeo or Prince Charming, she had a romantic side just waiting to kick down the icy walls of her heart and burst out into song and dance. Despite her parents' marital life of 'screwed up' influencing her to keep far away from anything with a Y chromosome, she couldn't keep away. She didn't know why, but she kept it hidden deep within her so that nobody would ever find out. The life of love and affection was a fearsome one to behold, and she'd rather spend her days wrapped up by a couch with a book in her hands than wrapped up in the arms of some sort of modern-day Superman. But she had one problem, and that was her inability to remain unaffected whenever one certain boy did anything that could be remotely constituted as affectionate, and that was where the inner romantic kicked in and punched her right in the feelings. Soul 'Eater' Evans was ruining her life with every tiny thing he did to make it better, and she had to keep herself well away from the dangerous precipice that was falling into caring too much about him.
Then again, living on the edge was the kind of thing fearless girls like her did.
So she'd been pretty content to mask her pleasure at his little passing compliments or offered hands to stand with an air of irritation and ignorance, and then privately smile over how sweet he was right before he ruined it by making a joke about her chest, for the majority of their partnership. It was a habit, one that was good for the trust and hearts of neither of them, but one that managed to detract attention from the steadily building tension of their living situations and the secret glances she just couldn't stop making.
Until two months ago, that was. That was when he'd stuck his leg out to trip her, and laughed as she fell down onto her face. That was the day they got home from a mission and he bandaged her heavily-bleeding arm for her, and looked her in the eyes and told her he was 'so fucking glad she was okay because he didn't know what he'd do otherwise.'
She'd never regretted not making a clean kill in the mission when she'd had the chance more. Because as beautiful as it was to hear those kinds of caring and blatantly honest words slip from her partner's lips, she had a problem.
He was her roommate and her everything and she kinda-sorta-maybe melted at every little thing he said.
"Get a grip Maka – you're acting like some sort of crappy protagonist in a two-penny romance novel," she said shortly to herself, picking out the rest of her outfit to make sure it seemed pretty but casual enough for their not-in-any-sort-of-way-date. "Why did I have to suggest we should go out to eat?"
As if she needed to dig herself into an even deeper hole.
As soon as she thought back to the words he had just uttered before – "It'll be more fun that way, anyway" – she may as well have stuck a bright red sign with the words 'I Think I've Fallen For You In The Forever Kind Of Way' onto her head. For all of his snide remarks about how much time they spent together and how she ate way too much for a girl whenever they went anywhere, he had a certain ability to say the sweetest or most stereotypically romantic things possible and grin in the most alluring way possible, making her hastily retreat with her tail between her legs to stop her collapsing on the ground and crying over just how much he'd kicked her prejudice and distaste towards men in the metaphorical crown-jewels.
There was no way he could miss the way her neck flushed before her cheeks when he'd given her that small far-away look while saying he'd rather go out with her than his best 'bro', nor the way she failed to make any sort of response as his low, deep voice became the only audible thing in the entire state of Nevada. He had to be doing it on purpose. There was no other alternative.
When he knocked lightly on her door and asked if she was ready to go yet, she managed out a feeble 'almost' while glancing from her still pyjama-clad body to the outfit on the bed.
"I'll – probably be about ten minutes."
"You haven't even started getting dressed yet, have you?"
"I totally have. I'm just changing what I'm wearing because – um – I just don't like how this outfit looks."
He gave a scoff that carried through the wooden door which had her equally embarrassed that she'd spent so much time thinking that she hadn't even gotten ready – because she was Maka Albarn and she never wasted time thinking about idle things – and on alert in case he decided to come into her room while she was actually getting dressed. "You would be choosing a million different outfits, fickle woman. I'm getting hungry now, so hurry it up, would you?"
She snapped back while trying to get changed as quickly and quietly as possible. "Shut up. I'll just take forever then."
He must have seen this as an actual challenge, because the joking edge in his voice backed off slightly and it sounded like he'd stepped away from the door. "No need to get threatening here. I'm just sayin'. Besides, you won't even need to take that long to look nice or whatever."
"Really?" she said after a moment. "By the looks of my hair I'll need all morning, but if you think it looks fine then I'll just leave it how it is – it's your opinion that counts, anyway."
She didn't even think about the words until they were out; but there they were, drifting in the air between the two of them, full of insecurity and feelings, before she could snatch them back and force them into her heart like usual. Crap, she was out of it today. Soul said an unintentionally-romantic sounding sentence and she was out for the count, apparently – forget Giriko, forget Medusa, forget Soul's Black Blood. Forget the freakin' madness wavelength.
Soul's rare moments of softness would be the death of her.
And as soon as she got onto that thought process, the idea of taking longer to change and letting her blush die down suddenly seemed like a very good idea. Preferably if she could never come out of her cave and hide amongst her secret sappy novels forever.
She made her lame excuse, throwing on her outfit and deciding to just let her hair fall loose because it would not co-operate in the slightest, leaving any hope to compose herself and actually look nice for when they went for lunch lying on her bed and shaking its head as it watched her tough and unfeminine persona fall away. She may have stabbed through the Kishin herself, she may have taken down the witch Arachne with a single swing, and she may have the strongest Soul Perception talents in her generation, but she was no match for her inner romantic and the aloof, idiotic, surprisingly charming personality of her otherwise-asshole partner. After all this time, he'd found the perfect way to melt her fierce exterior and banish her prejudices against men and the world of love and other lies, and she couldn't escape. She lived with him, for Death's sake. Despite her practically living out every teenage girl's dream of a musically gifted and loveable boy being with her all of the time and willing to die to protect her, no matter how cynical and sarcastic he may have been, she could honestly say one thing as she ducked out into the lounge room and avoided making eye contact with him, missing the way his eyes roved over her outfit and a soft light lit his usually blank burgundy eyes.
Having Soul as a roommate was the worst thing ever in the best of ways.
If and when my updating is late for this, I apologise in advance. You know me, I suck for deadlines. Happy SoMa week 2014.
A dollymop is Victorian slang for a middle-class prostitute.
