I think she is marvelous. She is untouched by politics, unmarred and untainted. She is absolutely, brilliantly humble. Honest, hardworking. And it would be my honor that she accept to be my wife. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a country to govern and a woman to woo.
“come out to kiliks bro” the text says simply. Soul rolls his eyes and replies to Blackstar that he’s busy and does not care how many shots Ox plans on doing tonight. It’s Saturday night, which means they’re curled up on the couch in the grossest hoodies and sweats they own, marathoning Brooklyn Nine-Nine, and Maka has her head against his shoulder which means there’s no chance in hell that he’s going anywhere tonight.
He must have tossed his phone back on the couch with some annoyance, because Maka shifts slightly and pipes up.
“Tell Blackstar to leave you alone,” she says. “Or turn your phone off.”
“Might actually be important,” he replies. “’sides, I can’t turn it off. What am I supposed to do during commercials?”
She laughs, turns her head back to the television, and they’re quiet save for laughing at the show, til his phone buzzes again. Several times in a row.
“wat r u doin finally boning ur meister” “u rly should get on it bro” “cant take the tnesion ne more”
He lets out an involuntary squeak, and he’s prepared to put the phone down and let it go when Maka turns her head back toward him.
“What’s he want this time?” she asks.
“Did he send you a dick pic again? He has got to start keeping track of who he’s texting and when.”
It’s tempting for him to just accidentally show her, it would be a way to tell her how he fucking feels without actually saying a word. He contemplates it for half a second, rereads Blackstar’s text, and instead shuts the phone off.
“Something like that,” he says simply. “I think you’re right about just turning it off. It’s just gonna be drunk texts from Kilik’s party anyway.”
“Mmm.” She turns back to the T.V. and nuzzles her head deeper into his shoulder. “Glad you’re not going, Soul. S’comfy here.”
He glances down at her, soft blonde hairs falling into her face and the reflection of the television in her eyes. “Yeah,” he replies. “This is way cooler anyway.”
The restaurant is softly-lit and crowded, but from the small glimpses of him you catch, you can see a smile lighten Chris’ face.
He looks up, eyes searching, and when they find you, you swear your heart stops. He calls your name, waving a hand over his head like a maniac—evidently uncaring that he’s attracting disapproving looks in this upscale restaurant.
And it’s so Chris that you’re helpless in resisting; your legs carrying you over there. Just the sight of him is already calming your nerves.