She was 14, and she approached him about it mostly out of curiosity.
"Hey Soul!" she said brightly. "You should write a song to my poem!"
"Hunh?" he grunted, opening one eye from the couch where he was lying on his back with a Walkman.
"You know, like lyrics? You write the music, and with my poem lyrics, we'll have a complete song."
He rolled his eyes and slowly, lazily pushed himself up into a sitting position. "Three things. First of all, songs don't need lyrics to be complete. Secondly, you're a gloomy nerd and I don't deal with poetry. Third, I'm not playing the piano for anyone, so what's the point?"
He's 25, and they've outgrown another apartment. It's also her birthday next week.
He's helping pack up all their stuff and finds the torn-out page in an old box that was never unpacked from the last time they moved at 18. He would never invade her private stuff on purpose, but she told him it would be fine to go through and condense these boxes.
Soul recognizes the poem, smudged and torn, over a decade old. He marvels at his ability to recognize a few lines from so long ago, but then again, he always did have a pretty good memory for his meister's - now his fiancee's - dweeby antics.
And it hits him.
Maka's been maddeningly vague about what she wants for her birthday this year. He supposes it's a normal part of growing up - wishing for things like "an evening out" or "I dunno, something thoughtful!" instead of more concrete items - but he still doesn't have much faith in his abilities with mushy emotional stuff, and he's afraid of making a gesture that looks corny, cliched, or insincere. No idea yet has been quite good enough for him to settle on.
This, though. It's corny, and probably cliched, but it will also be sincere, and anyway, the last bit is all Maka will care about.
Soul grins at the paper when he imagines her reaction, warmth blooming in his chest. He knows exactly what to do and who to ask for help.
What an absolutely perfect night it is as Maka and Soul head toward the door of their brand-new, still-disorganized home on the outskirts of Death City. She can feel the contentment settle into her bones.
Earlier, he took her out to her favorite restaurant for her birthday, then to her favorite ice cream shop, where he didn't even complain about her weird taste in flavors. This has been their first opportunity to even breathe in a solid week.
Now they're just returning from a night walk in the cool desert air. There's a pleasant tension building as their conversations turn from gossip and discussions of the outside world to playful banter and affectionate teasing. She knows how they'll spend the rest of the night and is thrilled but unsurprised at the spark of excitement in her body.
She's barely closed the front door before Soul's lips are on hers, soft even in their hunger, and it's impossible not to lean into his embrace, pressing her front up against him as he pulls her in.
She's running her fingers through his hair and his hands are on her ass when he pauses to murmur against her lips, "Wait a second. I had something - let me give it to you before I forget."
She tips her head to the side curiously, and he goes to one of the boxes he had packed only a few days ago. It hasn't been opened yet. From the top, he removes a flat, square gift package that's shaped suspiciously like a 45 and wrapped in simple gold paper.
She notices that "For Maka" is written in one of the corners. There's even a cheeky little heart next to it, which makes her chuckle. Soul smirks as he hands it to her and plops onto the futon, watching her with interest as she unwraps it.
It is a vinyl 45 as she had expected, but there isn't much of a label on it - just a title written in Soul's scrawl, something she's come to think of as "classy chicken scratch." The title is familiar.
"Why is this title familiar?" she asks.
"I dunno, maybe we should play it and find out."
She almost rolls her eyes and tells him of course he knows, but instead tugs him toward the record player he's already unpacked (because he's Soul).
The piano in the background is obviously Soul, too, his playing a rollercoaster of feeling. Much to Maka's surprise, though, there is a singer in the foreground.
"Hey," she gasps. "Is that—?!"
"Marie?" Soul answers. "Yeah. She can sing and I figured I should ask someone we both know. She says-" and he increases the pitch of his voice to mimic their friend and professor - "Aww, how cute! Of course I'll sing for you! Happy birthday, Maka!"
Soul never records his music, much less involves anyone else in it. He must have gone all-out to get this recording. He watches her with rapt attention while she wonders at Marie's voice and the odd, slightly inexpert lyrics.
It takes almost half the song for her to realize it's her poem. The poem she asked him to write music to when they were teenagers, the one that was more about the two of them than she would have admitted at the time.
"Oh sweet Death, Soul," she says, covering her mouth, cheeks aflame. "I can't believe it."
But he's caught view of the smile she couldn't possibly hide, and he hugs her close while she buries her face in the front of his shirt.
"Do you like it?" he asks.
"Duh, obviously," she mumbles. "But I wrote those lyrics when I was a kid. I wasn't any good back then."
"I disagree," he says impishly.
"You never sugarcoat anything and now is not the time to start, Soul," she chides while he laughs into her hair.
"I thought about singing myself, but I suck," he says. "And I thought about editing the words a bit, but it seemed like it should be the exact thing you brought to me when we were kids. And I thought about collaborating with you, but I figured we'd have plenty of chances to do that later if you wanted to. The surprise seemed like more fun."
Maka finally removes her beet-red face from his clothing and knows that her expression is one of unabashed adoration. He kisses her nose.
"Did I interpret it okay?"
She smiles and hugs him. "So much better than okay."