Even though he would never trade your relationship for anything, the day Rugby!Simon proposed was not his proudest moment.
Put him in front of a thousand flashing cameras that will have his face plastered on every global sports news outlet and the most intense thing he'll feel is a simmering irritation. But the feeling of that little black box sitting in his hand makes his vision start to vignette if he thinks about it too much.
(It's so small, sitting in his hand, the ring inside even smaller. Yet the weight of it, the image of it on your hand, is immeasurable.)
The day he finally decides to ask you was the product of months of agonizing over it. Should he just hand the box to you? Just ask, not even include the ring? Fuck if he knows. He never thought he'd get this far, never thought he'd find you in any lifetime let alone this one.
He's not sure he actually makes a decision, but he finds himself picking a random day on one of the morning walks you take together when the weather allows.
Simon has been so caught up in his head that he doesn't realize how weird he's been acting all day, weirder than usual at least. He especially doesn't notice the worried looks you've been shooting him.
He's spoken maybe one complete sentence all morning and has maybe blinked twice, his mind fully anchored on the black box shoved in the recesses of his pocket.
He walks beside you rigid as an ironing board, marching like he's going to war. Eventually, you hover your hand over his arm, slowing to a stop.
"I don't want to be your boyfriend anymore."
"W-what?" He can barely hear you over his pulse thundering in his ears. It's the tone of your voice that truly reaches him. Small, a little scared. It churns his gut even more and there is a moment when he's genuinely concerned he might actually hurl.
"No. I mean--" He curses so low under his breath all you hear is him growling like a dog at himself.
He turns his back to you, hands fumbling in his jacket pocket. The box gets stuck and he's there flailing around, nearly ripping his jacket trying to get the bastard thing out.
And when he turns back around, sees your precious face, sees the woman whose side he never wants to leave, he drops to his knees.
Not the one. Both of them.
Simon opens the box so fast he nearly tears the lid clean off. The ring that has been haunting him for months glinting from the cushion inside. He looks up at you with his huge brown eyes, more anxiety in them than you've ever seen. His dry throat clicks when he swallows. His mouth opens and all he can get out is:
Looking back on it, Simon has absolutely no idea why you agreed to marry him after that display. But every day he sees that ring on your finger, sees the one tattooed on his, he is overcome with the certainty that he'd go through every pain and misery in his life all over again if it meant that he could call you his wife.
