It starts innocently. Like it's nothing.
A few dreams, here and there, stray thoughts, lingering on things like the sound of his voice, the way he laughs, the warmth of his hugs. Things that, by all means, can be read as platonic, comfortable. And he is her partner, in the end, and meister Maka cannot see the harm in companionship with her weapon. Close companionship.
Harmless dreams of Soul, holding her hand, smiling at her. Their signature, wordless connection, maybe only turned up a notch. Half a notch. Just a hint more, closer, closer.
He's her Soul. Loyal, rough-around-the-edges, heartfelt Soul, and she would be weaponless without him. Alone without him, even, and between the overwhelming rise of madness and Kishin in their world and the pressing matter of grades, and tests, and exams, and everything else that comes with maintaining her status at top of the class, Maka does not allow herself the time to overthink this.
It's easier to let it be. Let it slide by and simply deal, press herself further into the couch while he reaches across her for the television remote, wave off the rush of heat that comes from catching glimpses of his roguish smile.
She is Albarn, after all. And if nothing else, she is a legacy, born-and-bred to be an expert at running away from things she does not want to acknowledge.
.
It continues.
Maka thinks nothing of it for a long time. She is meister and he is weapon, and there are certain expectations of them; a close-knit bond is routine. Clinginess, while not exactly expected, isn't unheard of; bookworm that she is can read it in the way Black*Star always defers to Tsubaki, first, before anyone else, the way Patty catches her meister in a hug and squeezes tight. It manifests in different ways, this clinginess, maybe, and so Maka doesn't think anything of it as more and more dreams seem to revolve around Soul, how conversation always seems to lead back to him, how every other word out of her mouth is "Soul this", or "Soul that".
He is her weapon partner, her lifeline. There is a trust in him she feels with no one else, and it's hard to separate the bits and pieces of that from the rush of affection she feels for this impossible boy, with his pretty hands and dramatic sighs and leather jackets.
She thinks it will go away, but weeks turn to months and things only get worse. Time ticks by, sitting by him on their couch, in their apartment, as old romcoms play on the tv and Soul tosses popcorn into his mouth. He's got an easygoing smile tugging at his lips, one arm lounging across the back of the couch, his skin warm along her neck.
He's comfortable, here in this room with her. So comfortable, for a boy who had shed his family name for years, who had run away from a tense, strained home to fight monsters and things that go bump in the night instead.
And she'll be damned if she ruins that for him.
.
She's never been romantic, really.
Love, sex, marriage - she'd sworn it off at twelve, with a letter from her mother clenched between her fingers while Papa gallivanted about, flirting with anyone - or anything - in a skirt. She'd sworn it off at fourteen, after a strange, uncomfortable date with Death the Kid, because holding his hand hadn't given her the same fuzzy-tummy feeling her novels had prophesied.
There's a disconnect, somewhere in her. Romcoms leave her feeling wistful and longing, and the smutty books she hides under her mattress, away from prying weapon eyes certainly make her feel some sort of way, but it's not- it's never translated well into reality. Maybe she could be romantic, in a daydreaming, in-another-world sort of way. She doesn't think she's opposed to the idea, exactly; she doesn't need to be married to feel loved, doesn't need a ring on her finger to understand forever.
It's lonely, watching all of her friends pair up. Lonely, watching Jackie blush as Kim kisses her cheek in the school hallway, as Black*Star hugs Tsubaki and spins her around. And it's not like she's ever even particularly wanted a boyfriend, not really; she has a partner to fill in those gaps, the antagonistic loneliness that flutters beneath her coattails. When Soul holds her hand, she thinks she might understand a little bit of what everybody's been raving about; it's safe, and warm, and comfortable, and not even a little bit strange, despite her apparent disinterest in everyone else.
Maka buries herself in everything else and tries not to think much of it. If she's weird, well, it wouldn't be the first time; she's an old soul in a tiny body, blood-stained pigtails, educated to reap and soldier on. Marriage really isn't for her for multiple reasons - but sometimes, late at night, while he sleeps just a flimsy wall away, she wonders what it would be like to spend forever with Soul.
She groans and tugs her pillow over her face. Lock it down, Albarn. Deep down.
.
"You're my best friend," he says one night, while her head's draped in his lap and he's got his fingers in her hair.
There's a funny burning between her lashes, a damp heat she can't place, so Maka squeezes her eyes shut and hums her response instead. She's a little wine drunk, and he's annoyingly not, and she fears that the alcohol will give her the courage to overanalyze.
She hums instead, a soft agreement that has him brushing his thumb along her brow bone so carefully, so delicately. It's dark, sitting there on his bed, alarm clock flashing a burry red through her lashes, and he can't see her crying if she doesn't let herself. She tells herself it is affection she feels burning through her chest, blurring her murky, shaded vision - that it's not the crippling shudders of a heart long held shut, that instead she's thankful for his heart and his soul, that she's been able to live and feel so close to another human.
But her mouth is dumb and leaky, and she mumbles, "You're my favorite person in the world," too, like a fool. And when Soul's fingers comb through her hair without a care shortly after, and her heart quivers in her chest, unbidden, she knows she's fucked.
.
I'm not in love with him, she tells herself, because she's never loved anyone, not like that. She's not in love, but Soul kisses her forehead, sometimes, after he's had particularly gruesome nightmares and slipped between her covers, cradling her in his arms.
And okay, she thinks, with her cheek pressed to his chest, his heartbeat steady against her ear, maybe she likes him. Just a little bit.
(Or a whole lot.)
.
It doesn't make a difference what she feels.
She won't rock the boat. Won't say a thing at all. There's no point, really; he's happy with the way things are, and she is too. She's happy, being his best friend, or his meister, or his other half - whatever they're calling each other these days. He's still with her, no matter the label they slap on it, no matter how she feels about him. And in the end, that's all she really needs to be happy. Just him. Companionship. His hand in hers.
It's not like he ever asks, either. It's like the thought never even crosses his mind, that his twerpy little meister might harbor feelings for him that're deeper than friendship. Nothing seems to phase him, not when she falls asleep on his shoulder, not when she tells him she loves him, too, after a particularly grueling run-in with a pre-k.
Because he loves her, too. He's told her, with shaking hands pressing to her wound, fingernails stained red with her blood. But in those brief, heat-of-the-moment confessions, she never sees romance. Only her partner, her roommate, panicked, as his best friend-slash-meister bleeds out on the cobblestoned pathway, and it's not wrong, to love her like that.
No matter the label, he'll still stay with her, still laugh at her stupid jokes and roll his eyes at her loving nagging. Best friends is good, she thinks. It's fine. It'll fit. There's nothing to complain about, if that's what he wants from her. She'll be his best friend until the day they die. She'd be the maid of honor at his damn wedding, if that's what he wanted.
In the end, she wants him to be happy. Would do anything to help him. Because that's what people do when they love someone, she thinks. Just about anything, if it meant making him smile. And how she loves him, she thinks, with a wilting sigh, as Soul kicks off from the wall he'd been not-so-coolly leaning on, hands buried in his leather jacket.
He smiles at her, then, in that uncanny way of his. Somehow, he always knows when she's around, or when he's thinking about her.
It scares her. She's fine with friendship, just friendship, but she can't take the pity. He can't know. He just- he can't. She'd rather die than have him feel bad for her, for harboring deeper, softer feelings.
She's meister, after all. One half of a whole. And they've gotta work together if they want a fighting chance. She loves him, and he knows that. She's told him, too, in her own way - wiping vomit from the corner of his mouth after a particularly bad take-out night, held his hand through calls from his parents, and, "You're something else, you know that?"
Oh, Soul, you're my favorite person in the whole world, shut up.
She loves him. Just… maybe not in the way he thinks.
.
Maka doesn't say anything at all.
What he doesn't know can't hurt him, not if she doesn't give it power. She locks the feelings up tight and waits, watches him grow and flourish and find himself. Learn his place in the world and still shoot her the same half-smiles that make her chest hurt and her resolve hardened.
If he wants a best friend, well, that's just what he'll get. Cross her heart and hope to die.