Disclaimer: I own so little I'm practically a hobo.
Author's Note: An idea that popped into my head after noting the fandom world's love of Soul and Maka doin' it in (on) a certain location…
Pale fingers dance across the glossy ivories.
"You know what, Soul? I think you should write a song for us."
The dexterous digits pause briefly; A, C-flat, B, G.
"A song for us?"
Small hands— delicate and soft and untrained— assist by picking out a staccato F-sharp.
"Well, I mean... Most couples have one. And I just thought… um, you know… it might be nice."
Low laughter merges with the melody that leaping fingers compose.
"But we already have a song."
Embarrassed fists unclench atop the reflective surface of the baby grand.
The brooding tune transforms; the dulcet, dark-chocolate tones of the bass cleft meld with the bell-sweet notes of its sister treble— an amalgam of horror and humor.
"Don't you remember? We composed it together."
Dynamic digits skip along raised ebony half-steps, tripping over the white keys that lie in-between.
"I have no idea what you're…?"
The little hammers within the instrument bang out what sounds like tinny laughter…
"Sure you do. It went like this."
…and open palms bang out what sounds like jumbled noise, offensive and loud and sporadic and wild.
"Soul! What're you—? …oh…"
Pale fingers danced across ivory…
"That's funny. For not remembering the song, you've certainly got the lyrics rig— ow!"
The piano's cover slams suddenly shut; the sound of music is abruptly silenced.
But when she later bandages the pianist's fingers, she does so with a smile.