Tangling and mingling.

Title: Tangling and Mingling.

Summary: Twelve perceptions of relationship that has no need in rushing, but somehow still precipitates.

Rating: M


It's her first time living with a boy, and she trembles in front of the door, brown suitcase in glowed hands, uncertainty in adult eyes. It still hides a lot of embarrassing moments, she suspects, even if she's not attracted in any ways. She's a clever girl, she has learned her lessons long ago – was forced to, her lip twists bitterly. But she is eager to try, still eager, even if confused, and her hand snakes and fishes out a key with a shiny, unscratched metal keychain.


Sofa. Sink. Flour jar – how is it even possible? His hair is everywhere, she states, stuck between annoyed and amused, and just a little tint of envy for its formidable amount.

Winces to the sound of rebellious funk music, neat, tidy statue in the very center of cramped apartment, and paces to bathroom to throw another sock, male, gray and single, into flasket, already half-fool of single socks, gray, black, feminine, male, yellow, blue, and it's her future appointment to sort them out into pairs.


He's occupying two thirds of sofa - legs, pillows, coke - and she's occupying as little space as possible, eyes wide and fingers fidgeting with whatever was the nearest to grab, and is afraid to close her eyes or turn around or even look away. Creepy girl on the screen seems to annihilate half of the town, calm and insane, and of course Maka had fought much scarier monsters and got much uglier wounds, but right now she is unable to do a damn thing and that's enough to appall. So she remains frozen, dumb, gasps, palms cold and sweaty, clutches Soul's heel for dear life, and prays-prays-prays for the movie to end before miserable leftovers of her pride will be pulverized.


She hangs in Soul's hands, motionless and mute, weak-willed puppet with truncated strings. Not exactly kneeling nor standing, his elbows under her armpits, and fabric of his shirt rubs her cheek as she soaks it gradually.

She cries, because they won this time and might not be lucky next one; because the battle was intense; because she isn't scared to die but still doesn't want to. Because she doesn't want her dear ones to vanish like she can and yet there is nothing to do with it. Not because she is hurt.

Angular hands begin to lower her clumsily, but barely noticeable move of her thumb and forefinger is enough for him to freeze and to hold her under laughing sun as long as she chokes out her fears.


She slaps the door forcefully and hears sonorous, irritating sound of thrown away keys, infuriated even more by it. Turns around and strides, heavily, ready to snarl, boiling inside. They all vex her, sugary-sweet Tsubaki, wanton Liz, imbecile Patti, everyone!

"Wind down, Maka, you're acting ridiculous!" He remarks, calm and tranquil , pacing steadily beside her. Annoyingly calm, and her hand clenches into fist, twitching, itching.

"Piss off!"

"Now that was rude, wasn't it?" – He sounds serene once again, hand touching her shoulder-blade. She shakes it off and quickens.

"Oh, just look at yourself, are you seven? Relax!"

Anger throbs somewhere inside of her throat, hoarse and hot, his placid statements just increase it. She despises herself for it - and still can't help.

"Mind your own business, Soul!" – she shouts and slams the door of her room right beside his absurdly collected face. Presses ice-cold palms to burning cheeks.

"Calm down." His velvet voice crawls through dark wood, she wants to scratch it out, break the massive into a pile of flinders.

"Fuck! Off!" – She screams, frenzied now, and pitiful crackle of fabric accompanies while she drags off her jacket. Throws it somewhere in thick darkness, embracing her.


Her fists collide with the rough wooden surface.

"And now you are banging your own door, how very wise, don't you find?" – it's the last straw. Her fingers curl feverishly, and throbbing lump under her chin explodes into bitter sharp pieces.

"SHUT UP!" – She screeches, voice breaking, gasping for air as eyes start to burn, while she collapses silently onto the bed and narrows involuntary at the widening rectangle of light.


Mirror reflects elegant figure, lithe, tiny. Hairpins that she can feel in the back of her head, just right amount of eyeliner and there's a silk cocktail dress involved. She inhales, finds herself noble, with knee-high hem, small heels and delicate perfume.

"Are we comin' this century?!" Soul snarls, unfazed, offers his arm and she complies.

But as soon as they step in the hall, everything darkens in her eyes, because all the other girls are sinfully beautiful, with jutting out curves and painted lips and shiny hair. Bright dresses, gleaming cheekbones, wet shine suffocate her, make her feel faded and flat, spin her head, taint, because where she is pretty, they are delicious, and where she is cute, they are desirable.

"…Are we really expected to participate in this circus – I mean, can we just go home? Fuckin' migraine's killin' me already, and we haven't finished that movie" she hears bored murmur, and suddenly blood stops pumping in her temples.


She checks the door twice, suppressed haste in her features and a little guilty inside. Tiptoes to the farthest armchair, hands swaying around, yanks herself into – legs up, for once, cozy – and pulls out a book she would be damned to openly claim her property, because girls with brains don't own novels with puff men and sugary women on the cover, thank you very much; and this particular one is decidedly one of the mushiest ever witnessed by humanity. Flips through the pages, torn between wincing on it's cheesiness, nose wrinkles and random huffs can be heard, and sometimes squealing for reasons she cannot point out. Skips one chapter, clicking her tongue, because really, how can there be so much absurd fluff squeezed in one speech. Imagines Soul giving said speech and snickers, then catches herself. Frowns. Not because this thought is dangerous – because it's not first.


Clock ticking in her room can wake up Patty in Kid's residence, Maka muses and starts over counting things in her room, tired, stiff in her bed, hair damp from sweat, pajamas sticking to her back. It's late to the point one can say it's early, she narrows her eyes to the occasional light from the window and sighs every other minute.

Twisting around once more, she tends habitually to reach his soul with soul perception, whether he's sleeping or not, cause against all logic he can be awake in his room, staring at the ceiling, cursing. They share everything anyway - apartment, cornflakes, occasionally soul – so night sleep is not even worth mentioning.


She traces her fingers up and down his back one day – skillfully and effortlessly after years of practice, and sticky camomile scent lingers to her hands. He snuffles into a pillow and says nothing for a while, then muffles something undecipherable.


"…believe in doom? Dunno, fate? Coincidence… maybe" He repeats, more clear this time, and she's not sure whether he refers to her or to himself.

"Guess not." She answers anyway.


"M-hm. I feel uncomfortable knowing that my destiny is left on will of chance." She presses her fingers around his knots one by one.

He is silent while she intermits to remove prickly lock from her eyes with rear side of her palm. Remains like this for several minutes.

"I will make you uncomfortable then, I suppose."


"Odd or even, Maka?"

"Even" She is too drained to think seriously.

"Oh." His shoulders stiffen suddenly. Turns on his back swiftly and, while she is opening her mouth to scold him for smudging sheets in oil, beats her by speaking first.

"I love you."

She stares a him. One second, another, and she just looks at him and remains mute. Suddenly is more than aware that her hand rests on his chest now, but makes no move.

Minute passes, and he is visibly tense now, but manages to act cool.

"Y'know, you're supposed to say something. "Go to hell, Soul" or "Whatever" would be good enough", his voice harsh and low between them and his gaze scrutinizing her left pigtail.

Her mouth is dry and half-opening it doesn't help, she blinks once, twice and colors to vermeil gradually, feeling uncomfortable heat under her bangs on forehead. Thinks that she looks less then pretty now and how on earth could it be that she is embarrassed to the point of panic and mortified to say anything and is sweating and all when he has confessed.

Her lips twitch and hand rubs his chest involuntary.

Maybe it's all the reaction he needs but more likely due to overwhelming nervousness he pulls her by shoulders and nearly drops at himself, pressing his lips to her with intimidated haste.

She exhales in his mouth from suddenness and doesn't know at first what to do with oil-soaked hands and his scabrous lips.

And then collects all her courage and takes the chance.


He doesn't press, insist they go further, and she is more grateful then can be seen, but one day she walks into the kitchen, weariness all over her features, pale, fragile from lack of sleep, thin limbs sticking out of his shirt. Hair in not exactly clear mess and somehow pulled by old outstretched hair band, she leans her back to the corner of the fridge and silently looks at him. He raises his eyes from whatever textbook he is reading, lanky and boyish as he is, lifts one brow, and suddenly all years of training pay up in one swift motion, when in one moment he was slumping on his chair, and now she is pressed between fridge and his abdomen, transfixed, mesmerized, ready. Kitchen blurs, sinks from her view, everything turning into thick space, where only his teeth on her neck can be felt; and while the back of her mind notices a fridge magnet, scratching side of her hip, he whispers in her collarbone a secret to be confided between them and lifts her up.


Her eyes drift nervously and she wonders if back of her bed was always that bizarre looking or it's just her angle of view. Tries to lower eyes – walks on thin ice – and chooses to shut them after an eyeful of snow-white mop of hair. Soul's lips travel among really random places, and she cant' decide whether she is embarrassed or shocked or thrilled or maybe all three. Moist she lefts on her skin feels cool and tingly, his teethes scratch her ribs ever so slightly. She feels awkward, inexperienced, fragile, love.

It's easier to take down a kishin then to look him strait into the eyes right now, but he is tracing tender fingers down her thigh and she is nothing if not brave, so she lifts her eyelids reluctantly.


Soul pants above her, white locks pricking her temple, and she's afraid she'll lose her mind if she releases the sheet she is clenching in her right hand. Her vision seems to consist of unconnected slides, left ankle-bone is cramped, and head drowns in hot, hard, compressed pillow.

While she reminds herself to breath, he whispers, begs, demands to resonate souls, humid heat on her collarbone; and she complies, registering with the last peace of escaping perception herself screaming – articulating finally – that she loves him.

A/N: So yeah. That style is new for me, and I'm playing with it.

For reasons unknown some of this contains angst, which I normally can't stand. Hmmm. And angsty SoulMaka? Double well.