They were forever going about things in the wrong order. Ever since they met, when she'd seen more of his soul before they'd even been introduced, they'd been undeniably backwards, skipping ahead and back and never in proper linear fashion. They lived together before they'd even become friends. They'd barely discovered what it meant to resonate before they were leaping ahead to Witch Hunter, barreling forward with only the basic principles. It was thrilling, in a way, never knowing just what step came next, because there was no rhyme or reason to their progression.
Bearing that in mind, it really shouldn't have come as a surprise to anyonewhen they woke up one morning tangled in a mixture of bed sheets and each other, having skipped the "dating" phase entirely.
It hadn't been magical. It wasn't romantic or life-changing (well, maybe a little life-changing). What it had been was a little painful and a lot awkward, and when Maka woke up to birds chirping and the harsh Nevada sunlight streaming into her window, her first thought was not, "Oh god I slept with my partner," but rather more along the lines of, "Why are my curtains open, and please god let it be Saturday." In retrospect, she wasn't sure if it was the sunlight, or the harsh snores of her partner that woke her. It wasn't that she wasn't used to it, per se. They'd certainly slept in the same room before, though not quite like this. It wasn't the unfamiliar weight of his arm draped across her abdomen (cause again, it wasn't really that unfamiliar, she thought, mind flashing to nightmares and long nights), or the feel of his hard thigh sandwiched between hers (that was a new one, though). She prodded Soul in the ribs, provoking a small grunt as he rolled over. She didn't expect him to take her with him when he rolled, but as she rested on his bare chest, and the loud rumble retreated to a safe decibel level again, she decided that this really wasn't so bad, and let the sun and the rhythmic rise and fall of her partner's chest lull her back into unconsciousness.
"Oi. Why are you so damn pointy?" His voice was low and raspy, and made her face vibrate a little. Maka blinked at Soul blearily, then dug her chin into his collarbone in revenge. He grunted in annoyance, but tightened his arms around her waist. He held his breath, eyes piercing, waiting. She blinked, tilted her head to the side, and jabbed one bony finger into his bare chest.
"Isn't it your turn to make breakfast?" Soul released the breath he'd been holding. She wasn't going to run. His fingers dug into her hips, massaging gently.
"Well, I would have, but someone's been asleep on me for the last hour." She gave him a speculative stare, resisted (barely) the urge to give him a smirk.
"You've been awake that long, what? Watching me sleep?" Soul blushed faintly, and Maka didn't even bother trying to hide her smirk.
"It's not my fault you're pointy, and heavy," he growled. She smiled, soft and sweet and dangerous, and Soul realized that he was trapped as her fingertips dug into his sides.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that." Her voice was honey as he tried to squirm away, biting back undignified, girly shrieks. Against his better judgment, he opened his big, fat mouth.
"It's not my fault you have fat ank-owowowow goddammit woman." He rolled, clamping his arms around her, and taking her with him. She struggled, but it was perfunctory, and she was much too interested in the way that his chest pressed into hers and the way that the sheet wrapped them both together and how they smelled like sweat and sex and she kind of liked it. She could feel his dick, hard against her thigh. She squirmed, glaring.
"Oh, hell no. You just called me fat." He rolled his hips into hers and she had to bite her lip to keep her groan from escaping. He grinned, smug and insufferable.
"No, I called your ankles fat-"
"Not. Helping." He dipped his head, tongue darting out to taste her collarbone. He followed up with his teeth.
"Maybe I like your ankles," he mumbled into her neck, breath hot. "I'd like them better over your head." She couldn't breathe, brain overloaded with sensation and Soul. Then his words sunk in and she snorted. He scowled, and she dissolved into helpless giggles.
"The worst-" she gasped, and Soul had to admit that perhaps the line had been a lot smoother in his head. The laughter, however, wasn't doing much for his ego. Annoyed, he bit down and sucked, which shut his Meister up pretty quick, and had the added benefit of leaving a truly astronomical hickey. She'd have to explain that one away, and he smirked, revenge complete. She sighed as he let go, irritation gone and amusement fading in the face of this wild-eyed man. He still looked more than a little miffed, and Maka smiled, leaned up, and kissed him for the first time.
Breakfast meant that they're having scrambled eggs and burnt toast, because he could cook, but not very many things. She watched him wolf down eggs liberally garnished with ketchup, bare-chested and completely unconcerned with that fact. He crunched through his toast in a way that some might have considered sickening except that Maka realized somewhere between piece one and piece two (and an obscene amount of butter) that she loved Soul, that she had since she'd listened to him play for her, since he'd played for her.
Perhaps they were always doing things in the wrong order, but Maka found that she really couldn't care less. They created their own order as they moved and grew, sometimes three steps forward to four steps back, but always, she smiled as she put their plates in the sink, always together.