"You're crazy," I mumble, looking down as he's in front of me, knelt on just one knee. "Absolutely fucking bonkers."
"I'm not though," he disagrees, still on the one knee, wobbling. "I love you so much it hurts, and I want to do that for the rest of my life. So I'll ask you again..."
I laugh, lifting him up from the position he's in, my vision a little less blurry and my head a little less filled with alcohol, or at least so it seems. "Luce, there's people around."
"So? They can know how much I love you, so no one gets any ideas. Sure, I've probably fucked most of the people here - I've probably fucked her," his hand flies in one direction, then another, "and her, and her..," his grin is wide, his hands on both my hips, pulling me into him. "But I love only you, and I want to marry you."
I crash my lips on his, pulling him as close to me as I can by his hood, his breath disgustingly foul with the taste of garlic, but it doesn't bother me one bit.
"Is that a yes?" he cheekily grins as our lips leave each other, tucking one of my curls behind my ear. "Will you?"
"I will," I smile, "one day. Because I love you, and only you, and I don't care about the people you've been with before me, or who else is out there. Because I only want to be with you, too...," I peck his lips, "though I sure do hope that you'll propose again when you're sober."
He shakes his head, laughing. "I'm not even that drunk!"
His claim is proven false as he almost stumbles, trying to get us moving to a new stop. "Sure you aren't, my love."
As some kind of rebuttal to my statement, he rips one of the metal hoops from his outfit, the tearing sound alerting me of his actions. "Well, they say," a hiccup interrupts his sentence, but he stubbornly finishes. "Drunk words are sober thoughts. So this," he holds the hoop up, gesturing for me to hold my hand out. "Is to remind you of those words for when I'm hungover tomorrow morning."
It's a little loose, but it fits around my middle finger, and he looks very proud of himself. The weird looking hoop sticks out against the two beautiful rings I was already wearing, that I only take off when I take a shower, both also gifts from Lucien. And for some reason, I think I like this one the most.

I wake up first the next morning, Lucien still tuckered out beside me. After the mirror maze, I cut down my drinking drastically, which means my hangover isn't as terrible as it could've been. We went on the ferris wheel, ran into probably way over twenty more people, and got home around five in the morning, which was probably earlier than most other people there. In fact, I'm pretty sure the party is still going on when I wake up around one.
Frank is screaming and crying at me, confused because his schedule has been changed around. I fed him when we got home, Lucien immediately tumbling into the bed. I had to help him undress, which he tried to make into a sexual situation. Only when his hands couldn't even undo his own belt buckle, he accepted that it probably wasn't happening, and within minutes, he fell into a deep sleep.
My head is pounding a little, not getting much better from Frank's loud complaining, and armed with some painkillers, a cup of black coffee and a cigarette, I find myself out on the balcony. It's cold out, but the fall temperatures help me wake up.
Lucien's impromptu ring is still around my middle finger, having left its mark there. I'm reminded of that part of the night, smiling as the memories flood back in.
I'm going to marry you. I want to marry you, Emma. I want to so badly. This is how he must have felt after my drunken speech on our holiday as well, the truth having spilled out from my mouth. I doubt he even remembers, seeing how drunk we both got. All there is left to do is hope no one took pictures of the event, because our friends wouldn't let us live it down, and the rumour mill would have a field day.
No matter if they have, I know I will not forget about it. It may be stupid, but this only adds to my butterflies. I know I want to be with him forever, and now I know for sure he does, too. Drunk words are sober thoughts, he said it himself. It doesn't matter when we actually do get married, the idea is there.
      I've taken a shower, washing the fake blood, glitter and sweat off of my body, and with that have also rinsed the last bit of hangover off of me.
Lunch consisted out of stale bread with a fried egg, sunny side up, and more coffee. Frank stole piece of it, but he looked so cute I couldn't be mad for more than a minute.
With my head still a little fuzzy, I start grading more essays, finding myself bored and tuckered out after the third one. Which is why I'm glad that I hear our bedroom door open, Lucien's footsteps on the floor until he stands next to me in just his underwear.
"Morning," he groans, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "God, my head..."
"Good afternoon," I chuckle, pointing to the counter. "Coffee's ready, and there's some aspirin there as well. You keep on forgetting you're getting old, Luce. You can't drink like you used to."
He laughs, then flinching because of how the sound affects his head. "Oh, shut it, Middleton. I'm just fine, I didn't even have that much to drink."
"Oh, you didn't?" I smile, tilting my head and looking in his direction. "Want to start doing some planning then?"
"Planning?" he chugs a glass of water after asking, which gives me the perfect moment to smile sweetly and, in all seriousness, tell him;
"Yeah, for our wedding!"

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