Parallelism floats my freakin' boat.
Sometimes it's simple. Sometimes he's just a boy and she's just a girl and they're just normal children in a dysfunctional world bereft of adults who will be straightforward with them and parents who will keep their promises and friends who won't be forced into madness to betray them.
Then, sometimes she's just reclining on the adjacent sofa, reading a book and tuning out his droll commentary about whatever programming he isn't actually watching on the television set.
Sometimes they're close friends with the son of a god and his long-suffering weapons, a (terrified) boy and a (peculiar) pair of sisters representing (probably) the full gamut of debilitating mental illnesses; more often they're chummy with a freakishly powerful imbecile and his doe-eyed, eternally-patient partner, a blue-bobbed (lost, grievously alone) ninja and a reticent (faithfully intrepid) young woman with her heart on her sleeve.
And sometimes they're students, respectfully acquiescent to arbitrary truths and eager to protect them, though occasionally (increasingly) they find themselves poised precariously at knife's edge, teetering at the brink of dark, terrifying knowledge, carefully concealed and threatening to shake the very foundations of their world (chaos encroaches ever-faster, rupturing or crushing altogether the convictions they've been made to hold as Right and True and Good).
Sometimes he's a weapon and she's a meister and he'll die for her and she'll do anything (everything) to make sure the need never arises.
Sometimes he's a resolved bit of essence in pinstripes and she's an unmistakable point of light garbed in darkness, and when she asks him to lead he takes her waist and slips his fingers through hers and tries not to puzzle long over the curiously vivid coolness of her spirit flesh against his.
Sometimes he plays the piano in the theater of his own mind (with an audience of one, shadowed and sinister and hungry for the madness he only just keeps at bay), and even as she wields him, she's moving to his melody (it is this: their beautiful-terrible, lethal promenade).
But mostly he's Soul and she's Maka and he's cool and she's tenacious and he slouches too much and her tits are too small and they're perfect for each other, and, well, that's all they really need to know.
I wish I had a boat.