treble clef

Somehow, Soul does not see the highlights of sharing an apartment with a girl his age.

Most fifteen-year old boys would probably sell their baseball card collection or something like that – Soul doesn't quite know what value that amounts to, he didn't exactly have a normal childhood – to be in his situation. He understands that, and he acknowledges that it is rather cool that the school does not seem to give a damn about students potentially canoodling.

But that's it. That is the point where he draws the line and plants his posterior on one side of the damn fence.

Because – oh god, living with a girl like Maka is not all tantalizing home-cooked meals and strawberry scented shampoos. It is not even the bare minimum. The girl with her pigtails rules that instant noodles are a staple food in their household, and she uses ordinary convenience store soap in the shower (for the convenience, of course). And there are times during the month where she turns ballistic and her sleeping patterns shift drastically due to some bizarre reason he doesn't want to even fathom.

She leaves her books open and littered around any form of empty space – the coffee table, the dinner table, the couch, his bed because her bed is already full of open textbooks and encyclopedias. He tells her to use bookmarks and she replies that she doesn't have enough. He pleads her to just fold the damn page and she informs him (insulted tone armed) that she could never do that, ever.

He snores on the couch and chugs from the milk carton as a form of pseudo-payback.

She forbids him from playing his soothing music when she is studying, which is – oh – about twenty-five hours out of the whole day? Soul seethes, bites his lip, but folds his arms and grumbles anyway. He rots on the couch and spends his days staring half-heartedly at his own homework and trying to follow the drama serials with the volume on three (four if he is daring and Maka is too immersed in math to notice).

One would think of all the candid situations that could happen with a female sleeping the room next to you.

None of that happens under Maka's careful eye. He doesn't see anything. Nada. Zilch.

(And Soul means this in the most literal way when he accidentally finds her wrapped in a fuzzy, white towel.)

In spite of all of that – when he finds her dozing off in his territory, his only haven, the couch vandalized with essays and eraser dust – Soul can only bring himself to lift her in his arms and tuck her in properly. He pulls the blanket up to her chin and shuts the curtains in a routine that he concedes to. When Maka whispers a drowsy 'thank you', Soul stops at her doorway and stares as she turns over and returns to sleep. It is then that he thinks that this isn't completely screwed up.

(But really, who is he kidding?)

He decides to try making paper bookmarks for her anyways.

Shut up. It's cool.