The Death City Health, Beauty, and Wedding Show was just the sort of event that Soul generally and studiously avoided. Held at the convention center at the center of town, it was packed with people, largely women and the occasional poor sap of a fiancé dragged by his bride to be. He was, it turned out, one such poor sap. The worst part was, he had no one to blame but himself.

When he had proposed to Maka last month, sitting on the wall overlooking the city, he had been a nervous, sweaty mess. Sure, he knew his meister loved him, but she had some (understandable) wariness about marriage, and he wasn't sure how she would react. Much to his complete and total elation, she had donned the widest, most beautiful smile at his less than smooth proposal and flung her arms around him. Apparently, as with so many things, her reservations were squashed when it came to him, and he couldn't help but feel a little (even a lot) proud of that, to have been the one to heal her, to make her willing to take that chance, and with him, of all people, who would never quite deserve her, but would always be willing to try.

Yes, the proposal had gone well. And the next day, when they had casually discussed getting married, she had insisted something small, something perhaps even private, just the two of them, was best. Their marriage was about them, not the rest of the damned world, she had suggested. But no, he was the one who protested, he was the one who insisted this was something they should celebrate with their friends and family or they would regret it, he was the one who had told her that they should have a real wedding, and he had convinced her that he was right. What the hell was he thinking again? He hated big, fancy parties, didn't much care for most people in his own family, so why in the hell would he think a big event that encompassed both evils was a good idea? Oh yeah, her. He wanted to make sure she would be happy. Because he'd had this sneaking suspicion that the idea of a private ceremony was for him. Maka liked parties, she liked being around friends, she liked dancing and dressing up for the right occasion. If they didn't do this, he was afraid she would eventually regret it. And besides, he wanted everyone to see and to know, he wanted to shout their love from the rooftops because holy shit, Maka Albarn, Maka Fucking Albarn, his meister, his best friend, bookworm, genius, grigori, complete badass, had agreed to spend the rest of her life with him. With him of all people. That deserved some sort of pomp, didn't it? If only he wasn't required to be at the center of said pomp. Or of this stupid, stupid mass of bridezillas and beleaguered lovers and eager peddlers of conventional crappola.

For her part, Maka didn't seem to mind the press of people and sheer noise of it all. She pulled him through the crowd like an old pro, tugging him along with a firm clasp of his hand in hers from one vendor to another, sampling chocolate covered strawberries and cake in every flavor and hue, filet minion and chicken cacciatore, not to mention listening to various string quartets and trios of middling ability playing clichéd wedding mixes of overdone classical music, the various DJs with their terrible pop playlists, the cover bands that made him cringe with their pop overstylings, and the yards and yards of wedding dresses and bouquets and favors and minute crappola he could not fathom why anyone actually cared about. But Maka? For all her lip service about a private wedding, Maka seemed to care, taking notes and remarking on the advantages of this vendor over that, the flavor of this cake over the one before.

As they sampled what had to be their dozenth sliver of wedding cake, Maka telling him to open wide and he, for his part, reluctantly complying because, crowd and noise aside, there was something damned sexy about being fed wedding cake by his bride to be, he, upon chewing and swallowing, finally remarked.

"I thought you wanted a private wedding? You are awfully into," he waved a hand, "all of this totally uncool crap." She raised her eyebrows in warning and surprise.

"Don't sulk. You're the one who thought we should do the whole traditional thing. I figure if we're going to do it, we should do it right."

"That's what she said," he smirked. Maka smacked him playfully on the arm, shaking her head, but then offered.

"Maybe later. If you stop sulking. If you're good."

"I can be very, very good." He waggled his eyebrows.

"Prove it." She tilted her head with a seductive smile, but when she backed out of his reach when he thought to do just that, she shook her head and her smile became even more sultry.

"I meaaaan that enthusiasm for our upcoming wedding here will gain you enthusiasm for—other things—later."

He let out a breath and, pulled in by that smile, smirked back at her.

"Yeah, I can do that," he closed the short distance between them, pulled her into a quick kiss full of promise, and then took her firmly by the hand, taking the lead to drag her alone. "Let's plan this bastard."

And for that day, at least, Soul became an enthusiastic participant in their wedding plans, navigating vendors and cake and music and other bullshit like he'd been doing it all his life (in some sense he had, he was an Evans after all.)

For her part, Maka kept her promise, and her enthusiasm that night proved well worth his continued effort.