Don Juan had gone to bed the night before intending to rise bright and early and flee the country. By now it was the only sensible course of action left to him. The longer he waited to clear up the confusion regarding their engagement, the more dramatic that conversation was bound to be. The more dramatic the conversation, the more he wanted to ensure he could have it privately... which hadn't been possible. Running away (again) was hardly a noble resolution, but he wasn't a noble person. Leaving in the morning would still have been better than leaving at the altar, or lying to her through a set of vows.

He'd woken up to a knock on the door of his rented flat, and his first thought of the day had been Shit. The majority of his thoughts throughout the day as it unfolded were also Shit. Valencia's father, brother, and a handful of male cousins had come to help him get ready, since they knew his own family wouldn't attend. Shit. They could take his bags (already packed, in preparation of his flight) to the house so they'd be ready to leave on the honeymoon tomorrow morning. Shit, there went all his worldly possessions for the moment. He might still have left without them, but her father was pouring him a shot and insisted on riding with him straight to the reception hall once he'd dressed. Shit.

The preparations went by in a whirl; before he knew it people were filing in and taking seats for the ceremony. Shit shit shit. He'd had one last thought of escape — he could apparate straight out, couldn't he? Even if he didn't know the area well and risked splinching himself, he could manage... in the very worst case scenario he could always send a desperate owl home to his mother and she would come to rescue him, whatever trouble he landed himself in. But then Valencia was there, and the way she looked at him when she walked to the altar put all thoughts of apparition out of his mind. She adored him. He felt sick to his stomach.

When the time came his mouth was dry and he was faintly dizzy, but there was nothing to say except I do.

For the rest of the night as he was approached and congratulated by legions of her family and friends, his inner monologue was once again reduced to shit, shit, shit.

He had no fucking clue what to do now. There was no way for her to salvage this, he didn't think. Maybe she could get an annulment, but even so she'd be ruined. No one would marry a woman who'd already been locked alone in a bedroom with a man all night — which was where the exceptionally long evening had eventually left them. He took a second when the door shut trying to mentally unspool himself, switching from entertaining dozens of people he didn't know with a smile plastered on his face and repeating inane remarks in a language he only somewhat understood and into... whatever was going to happen next. They were finally alone &mdsah; he supposed he'd at least have to explain things to her. Except then she laughed. He hadn't expected that, and didn't know what to make of it. He raised an eyebrow at her. "What's funny?" he asked in Spanish.

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