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It’s definitely a riot trying to explain what Maka is.
Because, yes, she’s his meister, that’s the obvious answer that doesn’t take half a brain cell to parrot when the correct question is asked of him. That’s the answer he tells around the academy when he is asked (usually after he does something stupid and in the midst of getting an earful, he is demanded “just who is your meister do they know what kind of crap you’re pulling?”), puts on most forms that require her bit of information on them, screams at Kishins who get a little too close for comfort with their attacks.
She is also his best friend (though he has a thousand and seven excuses to avoid outright saying such) and confidant. For Maka usually knows when she needs to shut her big fat mouth (on occasion, other times she blabs until he’s ready to shut her mouth for her) when conversation hits boiling point, and she knows that he’s allergic to a certain kind of dish soap that leaves him itching his hands raw. She also knows that if he’s got headphones on, he’s not listening nor pretending to give a semblance of a fuck to what she’s trying to tell him, only because he cannot hear her when his eardrums are nearly being blasted out. Maka also knows when he needs to talk, on the evenings where he actually leaves his door open without doing something to annoy her from her homework; she is very good at listening and dissecting his often-coded turmoil and troubles, and although it’s not an often exchange, she tells him each time she’s glad he came to her.
She is also the girl who can land a punch in some drooling, snarling, nearly-vomit-inducing Kishin and still manage to keep her neat composition with a flick of her pigtail over the shoulder and a tighter grip on her scythe before the killing blow.
Maka is also known as the entirely-too-awkward semblance of a girl that Soul is dismayed at points to live with, but is also amazingly grateful for his luck in a partner. Not only does she not demand to plaster disgustingly feminine items around the apartment, but the bits that are frilly and entirely too gay are confined to her room, to which the door is most often closed to. She also doesn’t throw a fit when Soul’s own personal taste (accidentally) makes its way to decorating a couple more walls than simply his own, or when she herself seems to adopt his own tastes in clothing—at least, out of her uniform, anyway.
She is also the girl who can manage to hurl her guts out in an alley after taking a painful blow to the gut, manage to catch her breath, and still maintain the glow of St. Elmo’s fire in those eyes as she takes off again, bringing Soul back for another swing at her target.
(Make no mistake: Maka is actually a disgusting little thing while she’s vomiting her insides out, both in battle and out; “disgusting” is probably a lesser word for how Soul interprets such.)
She’s also the one who’s actually been inside his head and soul, and seems to be perfectly okay. No lasting side effects, no psychological trauma from the experience (like Soul had expected), simply a better understanding of her weapon and a little more respect (and lust) for a man in a suit.
She is also the girl who has watched him turn down date after date after date, sometimes that many in a day, sometimes that many in a sitting. She’s the girl who frowns and asks him why he doesn’t just go out with one, to appease them and for him to get a little break from being around her all the time.
Soul always smirks, shrugs a shoulder as he watches the latest girl stomp off with her friends, bad-mouthing him the entire way.
“Can’t have distractions,” he tells her, but he doesn’t look at her, because he can just feel the confusion coming off her in waves.
“I’m pretty sure willingness to die for someone shouldn’t be waivered by some girl who probably doesn’t know much more about me other than my name.” Not even his formal name, he adds mentally, but because Maka doesn’t really know what his legitimate last name is, either, he doesn’t add that to his point.
Maka’s blushing, however, when Soul actually turns to get a look at her. She ducks down her head, looks everywhere that isn’t Soul, hands flattening down the pleats in her skirt over her (luxurious, creamy) thighs as a distraction.
“Doesn’t mean I’m going to mix my work life with my personal.”
She scowls. “No one asked you to.”
“You seem disappointed,” he breezes, but it takes a lot of effort not to crack one of his ever-famous shit-eating grins at her dismay.
“Don’t you have dates to be turning down?” She’s pouting, but Soul sees the smile in it. It hits her eyes, the one that tells him his teasing is alright, that she’s not going to throw a world-class fit and lock him out of the apartment tonight.
“Yes ma’am,” he salutes, and makes sure that when he gets up from his seat beside her on their little bench, he kneels before her, kissing her hand and making a massive fucking show of the entire exchange.
“I’ll be back soon, my meister,” he announces, and hears a few girls swoon about his loyalty. Maka’s face becomes red enough to stop traffic.
“But for now, I have one…” he peeks at the note from his breast pocket; it’s got a lipstick-kiss on it next to the name, “…Raeleen to be turning down. But! I—“
“Just go!” She snaps, but allows one more kiss on her forehead from Soul’s thin, chapped lips, before he takes off to his next dumping.
Soul only grins as he makes his way, and when he is posed the question by a few girls in his way is it Maka that keeps you from dating, are you dating her? he merely puts a finger to his lips and scoots past their upset faces and obnoxious pleas.
Because labeling is uncool, and besides, he doesn’t need a chain and whip to tell him who he needs to devote himself to.
(Maka’s just the lucky one.)
(She is also the girl who gives him a bag of frozen peas to hold up to the new black eye he sports that afternoon; he probably shouldn’t call a girl a cow to her face, even if she snapped something about unattractive meisters.)
Soul decides explaining Maka as is partner is close enough to a proper definition as he’ll get.