iiii can't stop myself apparently. big thanks to livi and lucy for betaing this because it needed it, lol. i'm sorry in advance for the overuse of popular tropes and ust!

PART 1

MAKA

.

Muted, yellow paint is everywhere. What had seemed an endearing shade on the swatch looks more musty and sickly than anything else, especially splattered over Maka's hands and crusted under her nails. Going back isn't an option anymore, not now that half the room is covered haphazardly with newspaper and the other with tacky paint. She rolls her sleeves up to her elbows, tightens her ponytail, and sets to mixing the can with one of Soul's old rulers again, as if stirring will relieve her of her artistic sins.

Told you so, she hears, despite being alone in the apartment, and she hates just how much the voice in her head sounds like Soul.

Realistically, she knows the whole effort is all for naught; she'll have to paint the walls the same drab off-white again whenever she decides to move out, but the lack of color upsets something deep in her soul and something had to be done about it. One trip to the paint store later and now here she is, dressed in Soul's basketball shorts and an old, stained shirt, trying valiantly to bring life into their home.

The only problem is she's pretty sure there's more paint on her than there is on the walls. She grumbles under her breath and scrapes the side of her makeshift mixer on the side of the can, leaving a trail of pale, dusty yellow in its wake.

The front door clicks and Maka stubbornly dips her paintbrush back into the can. By the time Soul's finally shrugged his jacket off and thrown it carelesssly onto the kitchen table, she's already on her toes and struggling to color the walls. He laughs - probably in horror at the state of their living room - as she jumps and reaches desperately.

"Maka?"

"Hm?"

He sniffs loudly. "Did you, uh, open a window?"

"Why would I?"

"Because paint fumes?"

Well, that would explain the dull headache she's been nursing for the better part of an hour. She makes a growling sound in the back of her throat and drops her arms at her sides, frustrated. "I didn't think it would take this long."

"To paint? Or to dry?"

"... Both?"

He's leaning over her in a second, warm against her back. "Maybe you should leave the decorating to me, half pint," he says gently, fingers already curling around hers, prying the paintbrush from her ironclad grip. "Easy. Atta girl."

Maka huffs and glares over her shoulder. He's right there, breath hot on her brow and grin smoldering. "I can paint inside the lines just fine, thanks," she scoffs, but lets him slip the paintbrush from her hand and set it down on a pile of newspaper and scrap magazines. "I don't need your help. It's late and you just got back from a gig. Go to bed, Soul."

"And leave you to your own devices? No thanks, I'd rather not wake up to a yellow couch, too," he laughs, but there's a sleepy worry in his posture, the old slouch in his shoulder that reminds her of middle school.

Only Soul would have never stood so close to her in middle school, even if she might've been his best friend and he hers; puberty was rough, brutal to the both of them, and while Soul might've emerged a head and a half taller than her he didn't escape unscathed. Soul graduated from being the shy, lonely boy on the playground to the anxious, stressed teenager locked in the music room and slaving over sheet music, things she couldn't pretend to understand. Now, though, she knows better. She's practiced in the art of honing in on Soul's moods and carefully validating without smothering him.

Maka zeroes in on the slope of his shoulders and he straightens instinctively. He's so close, close enough for her to smell the fried food of the bar and the earthy, mature notes of his cologne emanating off of him, but there's nowhere for her to go. Her choices are to remain where she is, pressed against him, or to lurch forward and plaster herself against her freshly-painted wall.

Wisely - or perhaps stupidly - she chooses to lean back into him.

Soul sighs heavily. "Maka," he says, groaning quietly when she proceeds to sink deeper into him and go limp, "you've got paint in your hair."

"It's been a long night," she mutters.

He shakes his head. "How in the world- alright, field trip to the bathroom before we get you to bed, Picasso."

.

They weren't always like this. Soul didn't always wash her hair in her - their! - bathroom sink. Once upon a time, they were nothing more than unlikely companions.

Once upon a time, Soul didn't run his fingers through her damp hair and work out the kinks in her neck. At one point, they were just two kids alone on the playground, swinging leisurely until the recess bell rang. He had never been the most outgoing kid, and while Maka had never been hard pressed for companions or friends, she'd also been one to sit on the sidelines while bullies ran amok. Sharp teeth and lazy, droopy eyes weren't always considered roguishly attractive and hot, and between crippling shyness and his smaller stature he was the perfect target for the older kids' ire.

One lunch detention and a set of sore knuckles later, suddenly Maka was in.

"Do you have to use cold water?"

Soul's laugh rumbles amidst the steady rushing of the faucet. "Do you want to go to bed with paint plastered in your hair?"

She stares at the drain in mild fascination as she mutters, "No…"

"Then yes," he says, threading his fingers through her hair and rubbing her scalp mildly. Talented, talented pianist hands are almost deliriously good and she lets a low hum of contentment resonate in her throat. "I do."

Maka sniffs. Whatever he's using in her hair is suspiciously familiar - a bit musty but clean, with hints of citrus and definitely not her shampoo, which means only one thing. She tilts her head and flinches when the cold water splashes her cheek. "That's yours," she blurts, barely resisting the urge to sputter when he cups his hand over her eyes to shield her from the suds. "Why are you using your shampoo?"

He laughs again, easily, and pivots her face back toward the drain. "Because your dollar store crap isn't going to clean anything, duh."

"Duh," she mocks, mildly offended. "Not duh! It does the same job for twenty bucks cheaper, mister Evans."

Maka can almost hear him balking, collecting his rich boy sensibilities and holding them close to his heart. Even so, he still pushes his fingers through her damp hair carefully, gentle with her scalp as he works on rinsing her hair thoroughly. "You've got build up, Maka," he says smugly, rubbing his thumbs over her temples. "Maybe because you've been using shitty product."

"I do not! You're making that up."

"Am I?"

She huffs and kicks a leg out behind her, barely catching his knee. "Maybe I'll just steal your stuff then," she says as he grunts and shuffles backwards and out of the danger zone. "Since it's so much better than the shampoo I've been using for years."

Stupid pretentious know-it-all rich boy, she thinks scathingly, still all too tempted to swing her legs back and swat at his knobby knees with her foot.

He hums as he turns the water off and drapes a towel over her sopping head. "No way. Pay your own way."

"Soul!"

"I've got a lot of hair to wash, Maka. I can't spare a drop. These luscious locks didn't come like this out of the box, you know," he says jovially - too jovially, she thinks, and can practically taste the age-old, bittersweet insecurities oozing from his tone, thick like jelly. Before she can say anything in attempt to comfort (or scold?) him, he's patting her shoulder and leaning her back, twisting her hair in the towel and setting it comfortably atop her head to dry.

Maka watches him roll down the sleeves of his flannel sleep shirt and purses her lips. Not for the first time, she wonders how anyone so attractive could have such low self esteem; even though he's long outgrown the days of swinging alone on the playground, she's never once seen him pursue a partner.

Because no, they're not together.

They're old friends, roommates, best pals - but they're not dating and they're not lovers. The assumption that they must be romantically entangled just because they live together is preposterous and often leaves her unsettled and overall uncomfortable. Being so close to Soul is a bit like a victory considering his overall shyness, and to diminish their companionship to lovers feels wrong. She's not in it to marry him, and she's not in it for a quick, meager fuck to relieve the tension and potentially ruin the great thing they have going for them.

Of course Maka Albarn could live on her own. There's no doubt in her mind that she could make it happen, that she could be entirely self sufficient even at the tender age of 23, but it's not a question of whether she could, but whether she wants to. And for all of Soul's laziness and general slacker attitude, he's not a terrible roommate. More than that, it's nice not to feel so alone.

Besides, he's made it clear on several occasions that she's not his type. A few choice comments from their teen years - tiny tits sticks out most of all - really put things in perspective for thirteen year old Maka. What Soul's type is is unclear, but she's pretty sure it's a woman of the more bosomy persuasion. Probably, she thinks, with red lipstick and a tight skirt, a throaty jazz singer with a cigarette perched on her lip and the foresight to open the window before attempting to paint the apartment living room yellow.

Instead of pushing it, though, she settles for brushing his bangs from his eyes and shaking her head, muttering, "You need a haircut."

Soul quirks a sleepy half-smile and turns to secure the cap on his shower products. She thinks she really likes their casual rapport, the ease they find in each other's company. There's nothing complicated about their relationship; no messy feelings, no jealousy, no accidental teen pregnancies that lead to a messy divorce and an angry, disenfranchised child. No, there's none of that - just an underlying, healthy glow of trust and affection.

"How was the gig?" she finds herself asking, shifting herself to squint at her reflection.

He grunts lazily. "Same old, same old. Shitty venue, shitty people, shitty music."

She clicks her tongue. "Your music is not bad, Soul. We've been over this."

"Eh," he shrugs, reaching to squeeze her shoulder before shuffling his way out of the bathroom. She watches him go, his reflection brushing past her as the door squeaks on its hinges. "Remind me to fix that."

"You mean remind you to remind me to fix it?" she chirps cheekily. Soul grunts from down the hall. Maka smiles wider. "Night, Soul."

"Get some sleep before two AM, Maka. You have work tomorrow."

The weight of reality sits in as Maka rubs her damp cheek. Her watch reads 1:34 AM and she has to get up in about four hours to get to work on time. Her bedtime was about four hours ago but there's something uncomfortable about tucking herself into bed before her roommate's returned, safe and sound from another night at the bar. And it's not like she has to worry about him drunk driving, or even deciding to go home with someone else, because he's just there to play music and get out.

Once upon a time, she was independent. She didn't need to know if Soul was sleeping soundly in order to find her peace of mind, and he never even asks for her to stay up to meet him when he gets home from a long night of piano and forced social interaction. It's all her choice.

She doesn't have to wait up for him. But she always does.

.

When her alarm goes off at 5:30, Maka hits snooze and allows herself those five extra minutes of shut eye before hefting herself out of bed and preparing for the day. Thanks to Soul, she can skip washing her hair and instead brushes her teeth quickly, trying hard to keep her mechanical toothbrush from making too much noise and rousing him before noon. While his bedhead is cute and reminds me of the sleepovers of yesteryear, she doesn't really want to deal with his bad attitude so early in the day. He's never been a morning person.

She moves through her routine like clockwork. Inserts bread into toaster. Grabs peanut butter from the pantry. Rations out her daily vitamins and Soul's antidepressants into little cups. Downs a cup of tea and munches on her toast before scribbling down a quick note - 'Leftovers from last night are in the fridge! Don't forget to take your meds!' - and a smiley face before rushing out the door, fully aware that Soul won't read it until noon.

Kid gets finicky when she's tardy. It's another headache she doesn't want to deal with at the crack of dawn.

Thankfully, when she strolls in five minutes late, it's not Kid who greets her. Carefully balancing her things, Maka scurries through the front door and past the secretary.

"Nice cowlick," Liz Thompson calls from her desk.

Maka pinks and fiddles with her bun. "Is it that bad?"

"No," she says sluggishly, sipping on her cup of coffee. She leaves a pink stain along the lip of the mug. "But the bags under your eyes are."

"Ugh," Maka sighs, tucking the stray hair back into place with a spare bobby pin. "Help me?"

"Alright, alright," Liz laughs, ushering her over with a wave of her hand. Maka obeys, slinking over and leaning by her desk as her coworker summons a pot of concealer from the bowels of her purse. "I've got you covered, no sweat."

"I owe you."

Liz purses her lips, clearly biting back a remark. She busies herself with working her cosmetic magic on the dark circles that have begun to blossom beneath Maka's eyes instead, patting and dabbing instead of pulling the delicate, sensitive skin that lays there. The skin is clean, freshly washed only an hour and a half earlier, so she doesn't feel so bad about letting Liz work without any primer or moisturizer.

Maka blinks and stares at her as she works. "How was the honeymoon?"

She grins like a feline, brows unforrowing as her attention sways. "Oh, you know. Sunbathing. Sex. More sex."

"Ew! TMI!"

Liz laughs and twists the cap back onto the concealer. "You asked! It was fun. Relaxing. I've never been to Hawaii before, so it was an experience. Kid got sunburned really bad though and had to spend most of the last day bathing in aloe. He's so fair skinned."

"Aw," Maka cooes, giggling a little when Liz sends her a beaming smile and tucks her provisions back into her designer back. "Did you nurse him back to health?"

She doesn't even flinch for a moment. There's no bashful blushing or doe-eyed innocence - Liz laughs, deep in her belly and sets her chin in her hands, tapping dutifully manicured nails along her cheek. She says, "Kinky, Albarn. Soul's rubbing off on you," and then it's Maka who's turning pink instead. "Or just straight up rubbing off. Probably both."

"I like to spend my time not thinking about my roommate's genitalia, thanks."

There's a clearing of a throat, and both girls look to find none other than Liz's husband standing there, slim arms folded and watching them with a raised brow. Maka jerks to attention, standing straighter as Liz waves sleepily and takes another sip of her coffee.

"Whatever's going on," Kid says slowly, "I hope it's safe for work."

"Oh, you know, the usual." Liz shakes off his concerns and scoots her chair closer to her desk. "Just discussing weather and politics."

He shakes his head and sets his attention on Maka instead. As always, he looks put together, dressed sharp with a neat haircut and a pen sitting in his blazer pocket. His overall ease, however, is noteworthy - perhaps a wedding and mini vacation was just what the doctor ordered, because even as he's enforcing the rules of the office, the tension between his brows is distinctively lighter and he's got this tiny, half smile that is reserved only for the long haired blonde before him.

Maka tries to bite back the grin. Fails spectacularly. Receives the stink eye from Kid and shrugs her shoulders playfully. "She was helping me with my makeup. She has steadier hands than I do."

"I hardly believe that," he says. "Your hands are plenty capable."

"But I've got the magic touch," Liz chirps.

Kid blushes. Maka would gag a little in her mouth if she wasn't so happy for the two of them.

"Fine," he blurts, obviously attempting to keep his composure in check. He can't keep the color from climbing up his neck, bright amidst the pale shade of his skin. A brilliant pink peeks up from beneath his collar. "Good morning, Maka. It's nice to see you again. I like your skirt."

"Thanks." It's her favorite pencil skirt, a navy little number that Soul had picked out for her a year ago. She finds herself smoothing a hand down her thigh and squirming in her heels. "I'm going to go to my desk now."

"One more thing, Maka?" Kid calls over his shoulder. "Are you planning on attending the reunion next weekend?"

She blinks slowly at him. Oh, right - their five year high school reunion. It wasn't that she was planning on skipping it, the whole thing had just slipped her mind, between the busy work schedule and spring cleaning and the like. "Yeah!" she fires right back, pleased at the easy smile that overtakes Kid's flustered expression. "Though it'll take some convincing to get Soul to come along. You know how he is."

"Antisocial?" Liz pipes up.

"Shy," Maka corrects. "But I'll pitch the idea!"

.

Soul Evans has magic hands, and she has no qualms about strong-arming him into using his powers for the greater good. It takes nothing more than a pout of her lip and please, Soul, for me? for his aloof facade to snap, and before long he's standing behind her at the kitchen table and working out knots in her shoulders. He's nothing if not diligent, moving in circular motions and rolling the palms of his hands over the tighter parts of her upper back. Maka lets her shoulders go loose and moans in relief.

"Long day at work?" he snorts.

"I was late, thanks to you."

He rubs the base of her neck apologetically. "I didn't ask you to wait up for me."

Maka lets out a long breath and hangs her head. "But how am I supposed to sleep when I don't know where you are? For all I know, you could be in some stranger's bed."

"Jealous?"

Soul barks out a laugh and stops rubbing her shoulders to tug on one of her braids. She leans her head back and stares up at his grinning face. He's got one of his stupid beanies on, messy white hair barely contained, and then he's murmuring, "I meant jealous about me actually getting some, bookworm."

Maka lights up like daybreak. "I knew that!"

"Mmmmhm."

"I did! Either way, I'm not jealous. What makes you think I'm hard up to get laid?"

He chortles boyishly and brushes her bangs from her eyes. Much like the brother she's never had, she thinks fleetingly, and then he's flicking her nose and admitting, between the soft bursts of his laughter, that, "You haven't had a date in months."

"That's not fair! Neither have you!"

"How do you know that?"

"You don't come home smelling like perfume."

He raises his brows. "You smell me?"

While she sputters, burning pink, he grins infuriatingly and returns to his job - easing the tension in her muscles and rubbing her shoulders until she's slightly less red-faced and a lot more relaxed. Once he's worked out all of the kinks and pressure coiling tight in her neck, he starts massaging her scalp, leisurely undoing her braids while she types away at her laptop. When he nudges her cheek and she doesn't look up, he huffs quietly, moodily, and combs his fingers through the length of her hair.

The gentle prodding doesn't stop. "Makaaa."

"Yes, honey?"

She can almost see the way his face bunches up at the pet name. "Don't call me that."

"Sorry, sweetums."

"Maka."

"What, Soul? I'm trying to work."

The sound of his heavy sigh only shakes her from her work momentarily. What really draws her from sorting through emails and replying to Kid, however, is Soul spinning her chair to face him. She's more distracted by his dumb beanie than anything else. He must be having a bad hair day if he's pulled out the big guns. Even hair gel can't solve his problems today. Personally, she would advise he just ditch the hat all together and tie it up with an elastic; it's long enough to be pulled back, and definitely soft and fluffy enough to hold a shape, unlike hers.

The finer details of her roommate's messy hair are a sizeable distraction. So much so that she doesn't realize Soul is still talking to her. Oops.

"Come out with me tonight."

Well, that's a red flag. She must be balking, because Soul's expression switches to alarm in about three seconds flat and he's shaking his head, red eyes wide. "Nooo, wait- not like a date. Don't look at me like that. What I meant was you've been cooped up in here too long and you could use a night out without stressing over mailing lists or whatever."

"Soul Evans," she says slowly, "are you inviting me to listen to you play tonight?"

He catches on quickly - he always does - and shoots her a crooked, shy smile. "Take it or leave it, Albarn. This is a once in a lifetime deal. Order now and I'll even pay shipping and handling. And for a drink."

"Okay."

His brows shoot up. "Okay? What's the catch?"

"Why does there have to be a catch?"

"There's always an ulterior motive. You never agree to go out with me that easily."

"You know," she pipes up, "when you say it like that, it really does sound like a date."

"Don't dodge the question."

"There's just… a thing."

"A thing."

"Yes," she says hesitantly, already preparing herself for the excuses and the look of discomfort on Soul's face. She has to be strong. She will not give in to his pouting! There will definitely be pouting, but she has to be strong - because while attending a reunion sounds like fun she doesn't really want to do it third wheeling Kid and Liz, and if he doesn't tag along with her, that's exactly what's going to happen.

The faded yellow of the living room glows behind him like a radiant halo as he stares at her. It gives him the illusion of being an angel, which she knows is wrong, because in about thirty seconds he's going to become a petulant, pouting toddler. "And?" Soul asks, tone betraying his curiosity.

How to word this. Maka squints at him through the gleams of sunlight peeking through their faded curtains. "... We graduated five years ago," seems like the best way to start the conversation so she does so, innocently enough, setting her hands on her lap as Soul tilts his head at her. The yellow glow follows him, enveloping the wispy, pale hairs that escape his beanie at the base of his neck and peek out from behind his ears. It's cute in a messy, childish sort of way and her fingers itch to tuck the strands back.

As if he can hear her thoughts, he scratches the back of his neck and messes his hair up further. "Uh," Soul grunts, eyeing her as she stares back expectantly. Maka can pinpoint the exact moment he realizes what she's alluding to and goes stark. "No."

"Please!"

"Uuuugh, no, why?" he whines, pulling himself to stand instead of hovering over her. She blinks and stares at his waist as he tugs his sleeves down over his wrists. All of his tells are here - fiddling, scratching his neck, fidgety fingers, irritable mood - this is the Soul of old, anxious to degrees that she might never be able to understand.

Chewing her lip is a good distraction from the pooling guilt and temper burning within her, because she's the neediest friend ever and apparently can't go anywhere without calling in the buddy system. "Because it'll be fun! Please?"

With four long strides he's at the fridge and pulling out the carton of milk. "Yeah, fun. I can't wait to hang out with people who didn't give two shits about me in high school and listen to their success stories. Really can't wait to hear all about how everyone's married with children. Good idea, Maka."

"Soul, that's my milk, not yours," she calls instinctively.

The carton does not read soy. He meets her eye, cracks the top open and takes a long, dramatic sip, throat moving as he glugs and slurps and then licks his lips, eyes glinting.

Maka shrieks and claps her hands down on her lap again noisily. "I- you know your stomach is going to hurt! And ew, Soul, backwash!"

Soul licks his lips again, just for show. "Still want to parade me around in front of your old peers? Class Valedictorian caught slumming it up with the school burnout, I can already hear it now."

Biting her lip doesn't stop her smirking. "You didn't smoke that much weed in high school, Soul. I don't think you ever classified as a burnout."

"Sure fooled those girls who used to stalk me around the art wing like lost puppies," he huffs, as he often does when his reputation is challenged.

It's not that she doesn't think he's cool, because she does - but definitely not because their old teenage peers thought he was a hot, leather-jacket wearing stoner who drove his nerdy best friend to school on the back of his motorcycle, and not because their current peers think he's a mysterious, brooding pianist, shrouded in cigarette smoke and the bustle of bars. No, he really is quite cool, but it's because of the way he washes her hair in the bathroom sink and sacrifices his expensive hair products to do so, and the way he tries to drag her from her work because he knows she's overworked that makes her think so. The real stuff. The stuff only she gets to see, like a privileged little princess peeling away at his carefully maintained facade.

"Sure, Soul," she sighs, the aftermath of a smile still curling on her lips. "Whatever you say, cool guy."

He grunts at her and shoves her whole milk back into the fridge. "It chilled me out," he says, most definitely pouting.

"I know."

Soul seems to ease up a bit, leaning his hip against the counter and watching the way her hands pick at her tights. "I still don't want to go."

"I know," she repeats. "I just didn't want to go alone." Like a loser goes unsaid. Because really, being 23 and still single while their peers are already pairing off and tying the knot feels a lot like defeat, despite Maka never really caring as much about romance and sex quite like she's been lead to assume she should.

When his expression changes and he shifts, she knows he's heard it anyway. Reading between the lines is just part of their relationship, always has been, and after more than ten years of friendship it's second nature to them.

Nothing. And then, like stone, he cracks, sighing moodily. "You owe me," he mumbles.

Maka bounces out of her seat brightly, arms already outstretched and reaching eagerly for a celebratory hug. "Soul!"

Perhaps it's a testament to their friendship that he doesn't cringe his way out of physical contact. Instead he remains in his place and lets it happen, lets her throw her arms around him joyously and bury her face in the soft, worn cotton of his shirt. She barely reaches his shoulders, he's so damn tall and lanky, but it doesn't stop her from trying to surround him with herself, shorter arms and all. Soul makes a soft oof, allows a bewildered laugh before sighing, "Weirdo," and circles his arms around her too, holding her just as securely to him. Soul has never bought into cheap dudebro bodysprays and all at once she's thankful for it, because whatever fritzy, expensive rich-boy cologne he's wearing this month is nicer to stuff her face into than Axe.

"We're having fish tomorrow," he says expectantly. Maka nods into his chest, still a little drunk on his refreshingly nice boy smell. "And we ditch the stupid thing when I'm ready."

"Of course. No questions asked."

A hum, and then, "You should wear your black dress."

"Instructions unclear."

Soul snorts. "Tonight," he clarifies, already moving to run his fingers through her hair instead. If she didn't know any better, she'd accuse him of using her as a therapy dog, but bites back the comment and instead just lets it happen, because it's soothing on her end too.

Instead, she nods and smiles secretly. "Why?"

He blows air through his nose. "Because it looks good on you? Shit, I don't know, Maka. If you're actually going to cut loose and have a night out, you might as well look the part. 'M not really Liz, but we can still primp in the bathroom mirror beforehand."

"Are you buttering me up?"

His laughter rumbles through his chest and vibrates against her cheek, pressed flush against his heartbeat. "It's all an elaborate ruse to get into your granny panties. Y- owww, hey, ow!" He howls as she makes quick work of his wrist and pinches the skin of his arm, pouting at him as he twists and whines like a small, punished child caught stealing the cookies from the jar. "Cut it out! It's not like I haven't seen them, I do the laundry- MAYBE SOME GUY WILL LIKE THEM, YOU DON'T KNOW."

"They're. Cheaper!" She grits out. "Maybe I should wear my pj pants instead, just to embarrass you in front of all of your friends."

He pales. "Noo, Maka- don't, they're terrible."

It's impossible for her to remain mad at him for too long. His taunts have quieted over the years significantly - he hasn't made comments about her body since they were thirteen and she threatened to snap his ankle over a comment about her fat ankles (whatever, Soul) - and while he seems to derive a certain humor from picking on her less than refined taste in fashion, she knows it's in good faith. They have a sort of understanding; he's allowed to pick fun at her sweater collection if she's allowed to tease him over his extensive toothbrush collection and affinity for exfoliating.

Because that's how they work. They bicker, they tease, they pinch and flick and pout and whine and then get over it, with nothing more than an apologetic, easy smile and a good hug. Soul might look foreboding and challenging, but underneath all of the scowling and frowning, he really is a giant teddy bear.

Even through it all, he still lets her latch onto his wrist like a barnacle. Whichever moment that changes and he twists his way into holding her hand, fingers laced, she's unsure, but it happens and it doesn't even phase her, because then she's laughing and yanking him down the hall to her room, giggling at the way he stumbles after her, long legs useless and clumsy against her shorter strides. He shuffles like a penguin and it's one of the funniest things she's ever seen - right behind the horrified shaking of his head as she plucks her middle school graduation dress out of her dresser.

"Seriously," she hears him saying as he makes his way to her closet, yanking it open. "Black dress."

And just like every other night she actually decides to go out, Soul does her eyeliner, and she tugs on the belt loops of his jeans to make sure his pants aren't too tight. It's a kind of friendship that doesn't happen overnight, and once she's got her heels on and Soul's hair has finally been wrestled into submission, they head out for a not date night.