Distant flickering, it's greener scenery.
This weather's bringing it all back again.
Great adventures, faces and condensation.
I'm going outside and take it all in.

You say too late to start, got your heart in a headlock,
I don't believe any of it.

We're a different pair, just something out of step.

==Harmonization==

"Rise and shii~ine! Up and at 'em, partner!" The high-pitched and somewhat nasally (though admittedly less so in this form) voice floated to the redhead's eras and sliced his eardrums open. Groaning loudly, the aforementioned pressed a few particular soft pillows to his ears, hoping to block out the sound for a few more minutes. Unfortunately for him, the voice didn't give up so easily.

"C'mon, Spirit-kun! It's time to get up! Wakey, wakey!" The man named Spirit let out another groan as the bed dipped heavily near his legs and the old wooden bed frame creaked with the added weight. Spirit heard the thin sheets barely covering his body fluttering with the intrusion. The pressure on the mattress was lifted only for a moment before coming down again, hard. This inconsistency continued, along with the nasally commands that Spirit ignored. The wood screeched in protest, taking a mallet to Spirit's temple and pounding away. He groaned his loudest groan yet and pressed the pillows closer to his ears.

"Drinking the last night of summer away, huh? That's so like you," the nasally voice noted, unimpressed. Spirit flinched as something hard and rounded collided with the crown of his head. Sighing, his shoulders slumping as he did, he turned over with much difficulty and opened his bleary eyes.

It took Spirit a few seconds for his eyes to sharpen the image of the warm but currently apathetic yellow eyes of his meister in human form. The latter went by many names, but nowadays he liked to be addressed by Shinigami. The "-sama" was only a term of respect; after all, his meister had lived hundreds upon thousands of years, protecting the world and keeping the balance between good and evil. He was very powerful and very important; even if he didn't act like it sometimes. No, scratch "sometimes"- he was infamous for frequently acting comical. This was definitely one of those times, Spirit mused as he took in the sight of Shinigami standing next to him and bending down to look his scythe in the eye. He had a wooden spoon in his hand (which was used to hit him with, Spirit realized) which was planted on his hip. On his other hip was another hand holding a pan. Spirit took one look at his meister, then rolled over on his stomach once more, planting his face in his pillow.

"Don't fall back asleep!" Shinigami scolded, resisting the urge to give his Weapon a chop to the head. Instead, he decided on a different form of torture. Jumping off the bed, Shinigami brought the black pan carefully close to Spirit's delicate human ear. Then he pulled it away, only to bash on it with his wooden spoon. "GET UP GET UP GET UP GET UP!" he yelled, slamming the spoon on the pan with all his shinigami strength (but without bending the spoon or pan). Spirit stiffened considerably, causing Shinigami to slow down his beating, eventually coming to a stop. He blinked as the redhead slowly turned his head.

Spirit's green-blue eyes were the fieriest the death god had ever seen (and he had been through many a Maka Rants) and his expression screamed murder. "I'm going to kill you."

Shinigami stepped back a few paces, still grinning. "Uh oh."

"SHINIGAMI!"

One loud crash later, Shinigami stumbled out of the messy room and into the hallway, his traditional black shoes fumbling for grip on the slippery rug that had been placed there. After slipping the rug a few feet backwards, he continued to sprint through the hall, Death Scythe hot on his tail. He dashed through the kitchen, putting his foot out and sliding behind the kitchen table.

Spirit stopped short, the table now the only thing between him and that damned death god. He moved to the right, only for Shinigami to counter by darting to the left. Then they did the opposite, Spirit moving to the left to have Shinigami move to the right. The two stood there, backs bent and hands clutching the backs of chairs, as a tense silence filled the air.

Finally, Spirit hatched an idea. He gripped the backs of the chairs tighter for moment, then, using them as leverage, he jumped across the table. The two chairs fell back, clattering on the floor. Shinigami hit the floor as well, grunting in pain as Spirit landed on his midsection. The scythe ignored this, instead choosing to pinch Shinigami's cheeks and stretch them out, deforming the god's face. "Say you're sorry!" Spirit teased.

"Eeffer," Shinigami retorted through his teeth, straining to get away. His hands came up to push Spirit's face away, but the weapon remained stubborn, gritting his teeth against the strong hands applying pressure to his face. The two clashed for dominance.

This was Death and his Scythe. If Shinigami was Death, it would be unacceptable for Spirit to even touch the god, seeing as he was but a tool, a weapon at Shinigami's disposal. They would not even live together, would not talk, would only understand each other enough to resonate.

But Shinigami wasn't Death. Not anymore. Shinigami was Shinigami, so, just like other weapons and meisters, the two shared an apartment together. Sure, with either of their statuses alone, they could afford a mansion- but Shinigami preferred living like real humans, and neither of them were home a whole lot anyway. They talked often; usually it was Spirit babbling on and on about his precious Maka, or Shinigami ranting about something or another (Spirit was starting to think he only did so to flaunt his superior intellect). They didn't just understand each other enough to resonate. They understood each other well, perfectly, each knowing how the other acted and lived. They worked flawlessly, together in perfect sync.

And because they understood each other so well, Spirit knew that Shinigami, despite his protests, actually wanted this. He wanted to live like someone other than just the harbinger of death, he wanted to eat and sing and dance, he wanted to love and cry and cherish. He just wanted to feel.

In exchange, Shinigami was there for Spirit through the pain and tear-filled nights, keeping Spirit some company while the man cried himself to sleep, the weight of his burdens becoming too heavy for his all-too-human shoulders. Shinigami would lay his head back against the wall as the redhead curled up in bed, sniffles coming to a soft stop as sleep overcame him.

Yes, the two were closer than they appeared.

Neither could ask for it any other way.

/

I dunno, I got this idea last night and wanted to write about it. Fluffff. Compared to my last Shini/Spirit oneshot. LOL. Btw, the song in the beginning is "Headlock" by Imogen Heap (does anyone else adore that song like I do?). I was going to put it there but it seemed to interrupt the flow of this story. If it has any flow. Idk, it was just sort of written on a whim. I was thinking of maybe making this into a oneshot series…what do you think? Reviews make me happy~