She was his magnum opus, in an unspoken sort of way. He'd do anything just to keep her happy, because that's what he wanted more than anything, her happy; not that a cool guy like him would ever tell her that.
He was selfish, he really was. Especially when it came to Maka. He always went a little overboard with the weapon-meister relationship. Of course, it was his job to keep her from harm, to be her shield even when she didn't want him to be, and he had a scar to prove it.
But that didn't mean he also had to be her guard-dog, so prickly to anyone who got too close to her, had to glare down any eyes who dared to rake over his meister (although he was no saint himself, because holy SHIT her uniform). But she was his magnum opus, his dragon's hoard, his heart-in-a-box with the key at the bottom of the ocean. He'd gladly dog her footsteps, waiting patiently for her to pay attention to him.
He'd been searching for it for so long, hearing those two words from his family, his teachers, as long as he could remember, always dripping with glazed grandiose and condescending expectancy. He liked to shrug off the toll such a life had had on him, because cool guys weren't troubled, but it really messed him up. He spent years fruitlessly searching for a magnum opus, never really understanding the concept. First it was love from his family, something he figured he would attain through piano, and when he sobered enough to realize he couldn't expect coddling, couldn't create pride where it just wasn't, no matter how perfectly he pressed those demonic keys, he switched gears. Discovered he was a weapon and dreamt of becoming a Deathscythe, of becoming so powerful that the Grim Reaper himself (goofy foam-finger hands and all) would be impressed. Of course, that goal had remained, but carrying out that plan went right out of his hands when he met Maka.
He learned to stop scoffing at soulmates after that day; internally, at least, because he knew, he just KNEW when he saw her.
She was standing there in the uniform she always wore before Spartoi, the clothes he would end up folding for her over and over again. Black trench coat, yellow sweater vest over a white blouse and tie, that infuriatingly short red skirt, those boots. A hardcover book tucked under her arm that he would come to learn was much more threatening than the blade of his scythe. It seemed so disjunct from her smile: almost infectious in its purity.
Normally, he'd level her only a cold glance. After all, on the surface she wasn't any different from the girls who come up to him during too-fancy occasions to offer compliments or to ask about his teeth or hair or eyes.
"H'llo," he said in a low voice he hoped wasn't too strangled, a voice he usually layered thick with the pretense of aloofness and carelessness but now felt raw and thin.
"Hi." Her voice drew him in with that one syllable, tying him to her almost frighteningly, like a bell's clear note dispelling, briefly, the dark nebulosity that plagued him. He shook his head mentally; cool guys weren't sappy.
But she was different, he knew, and he couldn't turn her away like he had so many others. He wasn't able to sense soul wavelengths like Maka, but he swore he could feel hers in that moment, all Grigori-soft-feathers and purity and determination, bared to him so fully he knew nothing physical between them could match the intimacy. Deep green eyes, like summer leaves and fir trees and moss, gazed earnestly into his red ones.
And so he returned the favor. Played like he never had before, laying his cast-aside, twisted and misshapen soul completely bare to her, awaiting her rejection or acceptance nervously with every note.
The echo hung in the space between them for a moment after he stopped. There hovered a faint clash of dark notes, still attempting shakily to reverberate.
He turned slowly to her, a silent question she heard clearly.
Her face was blank for a moment, and he was deathly afraid she had seen all of him and would turn away like everyone else had; he was fucking terrified, and how uncool was that?
And then she stuck out a white-gloved hand and gave that smile, bold as brass. "That was incredible! Do you want to be partners?"
He was simultaneously taken aback and soothed; relieved beyond belief that she asked and surprised that she put the timidity he could feel from her on hold. But he didn't care; there was no way he'd refuse.
"Sure," he said, with a lazy grin, taking her hand. He always exuded so much more calm than he felt, because cool guys didn't get nervous. "Name's Soul Eater."
"Maka Albarn." At the flash of surprise in his eyes at that name, her smile faded. "Yeah, my papa's a Deathscythe, but he's a scumbag." A hard, determined glint came into her eyes. "We'll become much stronger that him, won't we, Soul Eater?"
He stood up. "Definitely."
She wasn't his magnum opus in the sense that'd he'd created her or made her better. She was just his in a silent sense, not possessively (because she'd murder him with a book if that was how he thought of her). It was like she'd drawn up herself into who she was, all green eyes and pigtails and resolve, and entrusted herself to him, a Meisterwerk (pardon the pun) to hang in the hall of his soul. It was a silent, self-serving knowledge.
Knowledge that made him crumple and toss those letters that showed up in his locker every morning without even glancing at them, all those offers from meisters (and some didn't want partnership). Knowledge that despite his selfish lashings-out and despite the too-harsh words he hissed at her and always regretted, he'd never choose anyone over her, he'd never ache for anyone the way he ached for her. Knowledge that the occasional nosebleed he got when Blair decided that clothes were beneath her were more like involuntary reactions, reflexes, his spinal cord's inability to understand what it was he really wanted.
He hoped Maka thought of him as her magnum opus, too. After all, she was the one who made him a Deathscythe, who kept his grades above water, who worked more than hard enough for the two of them to succeed. She was proud of it, he knew, but she still retreated when anything unexpected entered their equation, withdrew and overthought and convinced herself she'd be okay if he left.
She still thought he'd leave her, thought he'd even consider any offers he got, grew jealous even of Kid because Soul was really his personal weapon now.
It was partly his fault, he supposed. He knew those words he'd said, that jeering taunt that burned in his throat, early on in their partnership when they were fighting Blair (that goddamned cat ruined everything), still stung. Despite her intelligence and her tendency to overthink everything, she was utterly oblivious to how he really thought about her. She still saw herself the way she thought he did, the way he pretended to see her: a bossy, petulant, flat-chested girl, dwarfed in his eyes by women like Blair and Liz and Tsubaki. Of course, that wasn't it in the slightest; he wasn't nearly so shallow, and he'd even told her this, that it was the soul that mattered; even if he was shallow, she was pretty damn sexy.
But he wasn't one for confessions: all cool guys held secrets.
So he consented to the sweet, sweet torture that was the two of them. Scared off anyone who got too close to her, relished every second they waltzed, with her in that dress, in the gothic and elegant prison of his mind when they resonated. Grinned his lazy shark-grin up and down and over at her, from the couch and his bed and wandering back alleyways and when she fell asleep with her head in his lap and his fingers in her hair. Teased her constantly, but never enough to let her smile waver for more than a few seconds.
He allowed himself small joys: her blush when she overthought the things he said in her ear, the way she still pressed up against him and wrapped her arms around his chest on his motorcycle, the sleepy huddle they'd become after a long mission, too tired to stagger to their separate beds, too comfortable and warm curled up into each other on the couch or, in extreme cases, the floor.
He soaked up everything she gave him like a sponge, kept every word she said that might hold deeper meaning to mull over late at night, too aware of how close she was in their apartment, of how easy it would be to pad sleepily into her room and sidle in next to her. He hoped she thought about it, too.
But he didn't dare take it any further than that, than fervent hopes and brief contact and suggestive words, until she made a move. Because she was his magnum opus, and he would forever follow her. He'd never ruin her or even risk it, always cast off what he wanted for her sake. So he'd wait. Until she was ready, he'd wait. He'd guard her like a dog, faithful and persistent, bottling up the tension between them until she felt like opening it.
She was his magnum opus, a soul to shield with his own, her own masterpiece for him to care for. She had him wrapped around her little finger until the end of time; he'd gladly suffer anything, anything, just to keep her happy, and honestly, he didn't give a fuck if that made him uncool.