#she can claim it's simple all she wants but I smell a liar you can't just have all these different acts you put on in a need for 'warmth'

[flamebloom]

I am the latest colors, I sing the newest songs I read all the lyrics so I can sing along I am the latest colors, I hate the newest songs I can't stand the lyrics, I'd never sing along.

[formulaforza]

—it will come back charles leclerc x female reader summ: recounting the perfect proposal. mackie here... just a lil blurb because I am constantly enthralled by something secret rn that I can't tell you about and needed to get it out. anyways title from this song.

The ring sits on your finger snugly, fingertips carefully examining every edge, every curve, every detail. “Does it fit okay?” He asks from the other side of the couch, left leg pulled to his chest, chin digging into his knee, fingers picking at the rubber on the bottom of his shoe. You wish he wouldn’t do that–wear his shoes on the furniture. 

“It’s a bit snug,” you guiltily admit. “But, it’s not expensive to get them resized,” you add hastily. 

“Oh yeah,” he nods. “That won’t be an issue.”

You can’t take your eyes off the diamond, the way the light from the windows reflects off it, sends fractals off in a million different directions. It’s the nicest piece of jewelry you’ve ever worn, surely. “It was so perfect, Charles,” you hum contently, a soft smile on your lips. “The whole day.”

It was perfect, really. You couldn’t have planned it better yourself.

You’d be a liar if you said you didn’t see it coming from a mile away, if you claimed not to have whispered engagement rings into the speaker of his phone during a drunken night or a hungover morning, if you hadn’t spoken at length with all of your friends about exactly how you dreamt your proposal would go. 

So, when you were woken up to the smell of sizzling bacon and a boyfriend with a trayful of breakfast foods in bed, you made sure to chew each bite carefully. No diamond ring was going to slip down the back of your throat. 

“There’s nothing in the mimosa,” he’d laughed when he noticed you sipping the drink through your teeth. “There’s nothing but food in any of it.”

“Right,” you’d laughed, taking a big swig of the drink. 

And after, when he told you he’d made you and your sister a nail appointment at your favorite salon, when he added that you and he were meeting his family for dinner later that night at one of the nicest restaurants in town, you knew. 

What do you know?? You’d messaged your best friend. 

I know nothing and what am I supposed to know? Were the only replies you received from anyone all day.  

Not that you needed much convincing, but your sister insisted you get a simple french tip. It’s classy, she told you. It’s bridal, you retorted, and she didn’t even flinch, just kept silently flipping through the book of colors. 

You sipped champagne at the bar while the two of you waited for your table at the restaurant. He’s neer been a good liar, but you could tell he was really trying his hardest with the I don’t know, they must be late schtick he was trying to pull on you whenever you asked about his family and their supposed ETA. He ordered a moscow mule and didn’t take a sip of it the entire time you waited, kept his hands shoved deep in his slack pockets while you talked his ear off. 

It was at a table on the waterfront dining area that he did it, after a long winded speech about everything the two of you have been through, about how he never knew love before he knew you, about how he wants to spend the rest of his life laughing at your stupid jokes. You cried, he cried, and then he got down on one knee in the middle of the restaurant and popped open the velvet box he’d had stowed in his pocket for the entire evening. 

“He really said that?” Charles asks. “He didn’t know love before he knew you?” You looked up from the ring, met his far away eyes and nodded. He sighs, heavy and loud and leans back against the seat. His eyes are locked on his own fingers now, finding more interest in rubbing at the bruise on his knee than looking through you. “That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

You swallow hard. “Can you be nice, please?”

“No,” he replies bluntly. 

He took you to a club after, had the whole back room booked and filled with your friends and families. Everyone was invited, everyone was there. Everyone but Charles. When you’d texted him again late that night, a picture of your ring, his response felt like a punch to the gut. 

I definitely did not know about that.

It was perfect. Almost perfect.