Hime, here! Updates to come soon. I'd love to know your thoughts, so please review! Hope you enjoy~ Rated M for Mature Themes, and future Sexually Explicit Content.

CHAPTER ONE- CHANGE

MAKA

Death City was as clement, as it was quiet. A series of blaring horns, engines, and the very essence of 7 AM threatened to undo a certain blonde's almost comatose-like state. Her fingers crept beyond the various sets of linen swathing her jaded being- as if testing the waters. Sunlight seemed harmless enough. With a mild sigh, she rolled from the comforts of her bed onto the hardwood floor. She could hear her roommate's obnoxious snore from across the hall, causing the faint roll of her eyes. Soul never changes. If he ever were to wake during the "ungodly" hours of the morning, surely there'd be a natural disaster in their midst. She wore a mild grin at the thought.

Some things never change. Their elementary apartment was the same as it'd been since high school. The drab mesh of paint and brick wall had first brought a sense of character into the room. But now, she longed to update the somewhat outdated style of her home. Even a simple, elegant coat of fresh paint would do. She crinkled her nose. That would be one more task on the to-do list. One of those tasks, evidently, was breakfast. Tying her hair into a neat ponytail, she slipped into her apron and ventured into the kitchen.

There were small things that had changed. Such as the décor of their bedrooms, or their topic of bickering. At the ripe age of twenty-three, one could expect having had a drastic change. They were no longer the clumsy, half-baked meister/weapon pair in their pre-teens. Soul had far grown out of his insecurities, vying for validation in being 'cool'. His hair was longer, now. So much that he typically pried it into a short ponytail- or his signature mess. To Maka's dismay, he'd grown nearly a foot taller than her. Though he was far from lanky. Their relentless training (at the DWMA, and at their current job) gave him a considerable build. On the other hand, she'd hardly bloomed in height. Maka stood at a whopping five foot four. Miles below that of Tsubaki, Patti, or Liz. Her hair had gotten longer, taking on a texture of soft waves. Thankfully, 'tiny tits' was no longer in the vocabulary of her roommate- nor would the insult be valid. Maka was, undeniably, a woman.

A woman, who, still flipped pancakes for her lazy sucker of a partner in bed. Having graduated from the DWMA, they were offered jobs under the same administration of Death, himself. Death Scythe and Epic Meister weren't all it was cracked up to be. There were mountains of paperwork and a handful of problems to tend to. Said paperwork had Maka up during the ungodly hours of the morning at an office near the academy.

The smell of fried bacon was a tried and true bribe of the household. Soul emerged from his lair, hair askew, with nothing but a pair of sweatpants to cover his towering form. From the corner of her eyes, she could spot the curl of his lips.

"You really know how to get a man up in the morning." Soul drawled from behind, leering over her shoulder at the sizzling pan.

"Nothing else will." Maka retorted, allowing her weight to recline into his sturdy chest. His warmth radiated into her back, loosening her ramrod spine as she slackened against him. The two were inevitably close. Their bond was as easy as breathing. She was grateful, that even now, they were still the same best friends she'd known since they were twelve. That, at least, would never change.

"Yeah, whatever." Soul murmured, his gaze drifting somewhere far-off.

She then reassumed her posture, wrapping her fingers around the pan to dip its contents onto a shared plate. It was mostly Soul's. Though she'd be lying if she claimed she wouldn't pick on it.

The man snatched a piece from the fresh batch, subjecting it to the bite of his dagger-sharp teeth. "Paperwork?" He questioned, eyeing the navy pencil skirt she wore beneath her apron.

Maka shot him a playful look, propping her left hand on her hip. "Can't a girl look good in the kitchen?" It was a joke. The two of them knew she'd be caught dead hanging around the apartment in anything more than a baggy, oversized sweatshirt.

"As long as she's makin' me breakfast." He replied honestly, arching a brow. Maka gave him a visible roll of the eyes, shoving plates of food in his direction. He gladly accepted them, carrying them over to the kitchen table.

"She has you working a lot lately. Azusa." The comment was a mild attempt of sympathy. Azusa Yumi was Maka's overseeing director, and would run her ragged by the end of the week. Her level of diligence was unmatched, even to Kid- Death's own son. Office work was as lethal as any battlefield under her supervision.

Maka offered an indifferent shrug, plopping down into the seat across from him. "She's a paranoid woman. Says some former affiliates of Arachnophobia are turning up trouble."

Soul shoved a shred of pancake in his mouth. He had a habit of eating with his fingers, despite Maka's severe routine of scolding. Surveying the expression of disgust on her face, he silently surrendered- grabbing a fork and digging further into his plate.

"I sense a mission on the rise." His hypothesis wasn't too far off, as Maka suspected there would be a mission by Tuesday.

The two chatted through their breakfast, save for a few silent arguments and a couple obscene jokes. She liked spending her mornings with Soul. She enjoyed the lively banter, and the sense of comfort his presence brought her. Familiarity was her crutch. More so now than ever. With one less kitty-witch in the apartment, and Mama far off on an endless business trip, Soul was all she had. Sure, they had their high school buddies to hang with every now and then. But Soul had always been there. In the same apartment. The same room. The same Soul that she could count on every morning.

. . .

"I'm going to the club tonight." Soul chimed whilst Maka readied herself by the front door. He twisted to face her, folding his arms over the spine of the chair. The male observed her with keen eyes as she slid into a pair of patent leather stilettos. She stiffened at the attention, but also at the notion of him being out late.

There was a Jazz Club that'd opened up around the corner from ChupaCabra's- boasting premium nightlife and constant live music. The place was often jam-packed with young adults, swingin' it to the wild life; along with the heavy accompaniment of alcohol. It was booming with talented musicians, eager to one-up the alcohol's effect on the crowd. It was madness. And that, was Soul's forte.

He'd never played the piano often, or any other instrument for that matter. In all the time she'd known him, she could recall very few (but very precious) occasions where he'd work his hands on the keys. Only she knew, there was a little devil inside him. Jazz was the honey to his demonic blood, coaxing the monster at bay. Those nights at the club unhitched his pent-up madness, black blood singing across a grand piano in pure ecstasy.

"You should come." He tagged on the end. A strange quality flickered between those red orbs, muddying the shades between crimson and burgundy. His long lashes drooped over his eyes whispering come-hither. She rationed him a side-glance, not wanting to give it too much thought. "Please," his expression pleaded.

Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, she clasped a hand around her arm in discomfort. She felt bad turning him down every time. There was nothing more extraordinary or distracting than watching him play. But Maka didn't fit into that sort of crowd. Those people, people like Soul, thrived off excursion. It didn't matter what kind, whether it be alcohol, sex, money, music…

"I can't." She mumbled in apology. The worst excuse wasn't about being embarrassed, or embarrassing him. Hell, it wasn't even about the club's sin city connotation. She just couldn't bear to watch as he shared their one, precious little secret, with a roomful of other women. Interesting, wild, beautiful women. She didn't want anyone else to know about the maddeningly alluring side of Soul Evans. Her best friend, her roommate. That, would in fact- change.

"If you do decide to come, don't wear that getup." He submit, already dropping the conversation as he collected dishes from the table.

Maka fumed, her nails digging into her palms. Asshole. "I didn't ask for your opinion." She snapped, grabbing her purse and slamming the door from behind.

There was a small, but sure cleft between them nowadays. It was just enough distance for a weekly fight. But just small enough to ignore on a daily basis. There was nothing romantic about a meister and a weapon. There was nothing hormonal between them. Yet, one day, he would find someone he loved more like a girlfriend than a best friend. And that would be the day she'd lose her roommate.

The pain in her chest was dull, and purely on a familial level. That, at least, wouldn't change.