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If you asked him what he loves about her he’d first squint, and then once he’s sure you’ve registered his (feigned) confusion he’d grin. All teeth barred, his eyes the only sort of sign that he’s amused and not just hungry.
“Not much to love about some shrill harpy with enough dexterity to cram a book into basically any hole in your body.”
He’ll leave it at that, but in his mind runs an endless list.
He loves her eyes—the green makes her seem wise. The juxtaposition of that with her obscenely youthful face is only one of his favorite paradoxes involving her. When she knows more than you do, and she knows that she knows more than you do, her eyes darken to a color that reminds him of a bottle of absinthe. And she grins this grin that absolutely makes him want to eat shit, but also kiss her on the mouth.
He has a deep appreciation for her hands, gloved or otherwise, because he has never felt more at home anywhere else. They are the liveliest part of her.
In battle, there is an absence of skin. In its place is a wall of thick leather and the smooth metal of his snath. Through her grip he can feel her fear, her confidence, her will to overcome—all unspoken but loud as can be in his head.
At home her hands are tiny without the layers of leather, seemingly harmless, but still undeniably powerful. Sometimes her fingertips graze his skin in an attempt to reach over and get something or grab his attention, and he feels the sensation of calloused skin on what he’d always assumed to be smooth hands.
It makes him wonder what else she’s carried back from battle.
When she talks about things she likes she can’t hide her excitement. She balls her hands into fists and if she’s sitting down she always seems like she’s about to take off.
When you talk about something she doesn’t agree with she can just barely keep herself quiet long enough for you to say your piece (depending on who you are). She’s trying to keep her mouth a hard line but the corners keep twitching and it’s only a matter of time before the dam bursts. If you’re lucky enough to be Soul the dam doesn’t even really exist—if she’s quiet it’s only to concentrate on scowling. But once she’s had her fill of frying him with her eyes she is nothing but shrill passion and balled up fists.
He finds few joys greater than playing devil’s advocate with her.
Their grand debates end with either of them on either side of the couch, huffing and muttering angrily about the other. But it takes all but half an hour for them to catch the other stealing glances. Their scowls meet, and neither of them can maintain them for very long.
“Do you really have to be so difficult?”
“You’re one to talk!”
He thinks that’s his favorite thing about her—no matter which way either of them are scuffed, he’ll always fit together perfectly with her. Like some sort of indestructible puzzle.
He loves her because of her flaws, not despite, because despite their existence she is likely the best thing he’s ever known.
“You give me too much credit.” The aftermath of a rather vicious battle has them sitting on opposite ends of the school infirmary. Maka nurses a bruised rib, and Soul nurses a broken façade of seemingly unshakeable cool (or at least he likes to pretend he thought it was unshakeable).
He looks straight at her through the dim light, and she momentarily cannot find the pride to meet his gaze.
“Maybe you just don’t give yourself enough.”
She doesn’t, it’s a bona fide fact. But what he loves isn’t that she acts the way she does because of it, but rather because she acts the way she acts despite it.
For someone who has been so stationary for so long, for someone who had convinced himself he would never be anything but stationary, Maka is an enigma. Because despite everything trying so hard to keep her in place she refuses to do anything but keep moving.
Somewhere along the way he got caught on her coattails and steadily made his way to her side—and he thinks it’s pretty cool, that she’s made him want to move without ever even pushing.
It’s been a few hours since the initial question has been posed, and they’ve settled into their nightly routine. Soul quietly plucks at his guitar on one end of the sofa and Maka silently turns pages on the other.
“Hey Maka.” He punctuates his sentence with a chord.
She doesn’t look up from her book, but makes a quiet sound of acknowledgement.
“What’s your favorite thing about me?”