Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

One Year Later: March

Sebastian won’t stop tapping his leg as you sit in the limo together, your hands entwined. Mycenae is up for countless Oscars — Best Picture, Best Costume Design, Best Original Screenplay — but you know he’s most excited about his first nomination, Best Actor.

“Do you think I have a shot?” he asks quietly, meeting your eyes.

You squeeze his hand and smile. “I think they’re idiots if they don’t choose you.” You tilt your head up and kiss his cheek. “And I think you’re still incredible even if they are idiots.”

He squeezes back and doesn’t let go of your hand until you’re on the red carpet, smiling together, his hand resting at the small of your back — once you’re past the flashing cameras, it’s back in yours.

A reporter from one of the many tabloids calls you both over, and he obliges, smiling that thousand-watt smile, the one that still makes your stomach do flips, even though you’ve been together for a long time now.

“So, Mr. Sallow,” the reporter says. “You’re up for your first Oscar tonight. How does that feel?”

“Incredible,” he says. “I’m feeling like I could puke, but I’m still so honored the Academy is even considering me.”

She smiles. “And for Mycenae, which if you’ll remember, caused quite the controversy last year thanks to rumors of infidelity on set, as well as that famed kiss with Sacharissa Tugwood at the premiere. Does that feel… conflicting, at all?”

You catch a flicker of frustration in Sebastian’s eyes, a tightness in his jaw, but he plasters on a smile. “I’ve moved past that,” he says. “The press caused a lot of drama at the time, so I’m glad to be here now.”

“You two seem stronger than ever,” the reporter agrees. “Are there wedding bells on the horizon?”

Your heart stumbles over itself. You’re no stranger to engagement rumors — it feels like you’ve been fielding them since day one of this relationship, but things have been going so well lately that it doesn’t seem so impossible.

He smirks. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

You barely register the other questions, the shouts of “MC” and “Sebastian” by the paparazzi as you make your way to your table — your mind is still fixed on that smile. We’ll have to see, won’t we?

Sebastian keeps bouncing his leg through the ceremony, squeezing your hand in a vice grip — Mycenae wins Best Picture, Sirona Best Director. Sacharissa accepts her loss of Best Actress with a smile, and then his hand is around yours even tighter as the nominees’ names ring out.

“And the Oscar goes to…”

You hold your breath, squeeze his hand in return.

“Sebastian Sallow, Mycenae!”

You register it before Sebastian — he’s frozen in his seat for a moment, and you nudge him, smiling. “That’s you.”

Then, the smile breaks across his face. He kisses you — quickly, a little clumsily — before making his way to the stage.

“Wow,” he breathes, clutching the Oscar like he’s worried they made a mistake and they’ll be taking it away from him — his eyes look a little bit misty. “There are so many people I want to thank — obviously, thank you to the Academy for even considering me, to the cast and crew of Mycenae, to Anne, for talking me into the role. Turns out putting me in a toga was a good idea.” He takes a breath as the crowd chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Thank you to Sirona — you’re an incredible director, I wouldn’t be here without you, and thanks to — ”

Your heart skips a beat when he says your name. Your actual name, not your moniker.

“ — Well, I suppose most of you know her as MC. You’ve been so supportive. I love you.”

The rest of the night passes in a blur — the afterparty, the congratulations — every time someone comes up to Sebastian, he squeezes your hand as though trying to ground himself, remind himself that this is real.

He doesn’t let go of the Oscar, either — even as you kiss in the limo on the way to his place, he holds onto it.

You laugh against his mouth, your hands in his hair. “Should we be doing this in front of your Oscar?”

He pulls back slightly, his next kiss just a whisper against your lips. “I’m sure he’s seen worse.”

You stumble into his condo together, giddy from the win and tipsy from the champagne (he’s had to stop you from tripping over your heels more than once). The first thing Sebastian does — before ditching his jacket, before taking off his shoes — is head straight for his awards shelf.

It was impressive before tonight — BAFTAs, Golden Globes, Critics’ Choice Awards — but now, he nudges them aside to make space for the golden statuette, front and center.

“I’m so proud of you,” you tell him. “My boyfriend, the Oscar winner.”

He turns back to you, his grin not fading. “I like the sound of that.”

* * *

The sunlight filters through the curtains, but you don’t register it — your focus is taken up by the Oscar-winning actor who is currently half-sprawled on top of you.

“Seb,” you get out.

He groans, hugging you tighter. “Mmmm?”

“You’re crushing me.”

He makes a sleepy noise and turns, still not letting go of you, his face buried in the spot between your shoulder and neck. “What time is it?” he mumbles.

You crane your neck to glance at the clock. “Nearly ten.”

He makes a noncommittal noise. “Too early.”

You run a hand through his hair and press a kiss to his forehead. “Don’t Oscar winners typically get up before then?”

“Not the ones who stayed up until three AM celebrating,” he replies, finally blinking his eyes open. “Not unless their very, very beautiful Grammy-winning girlfriends make breakfast.”

You roll your eyes, but ten minutes later (which involve countless kisses and a lot of coaxing), you’re both out of bed, Sebastian scrolling through his phone while leaning against the island and reading out the most entertaining headlines as you cook.

“A ‘close source’ says we’re picking names for Sebastian Junior,” he says. “You didn’t tell me you were pregnant.”

You roll your eyes, then flip the omelet. “God forbid I look slightly bloated.”

“You’re gorgeous no matter how bloated you are,” he assures you, then lets out a disbelieving, slightly delirious laugh.

“What?” you ask, turning to glance at him.

“They think the baby is Eric’s,” he says. “They’ve pieced together a whole timeline just because he was smiling at you during the VMAs.”

You can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. “I’m surprised they have such little faith in me,” you say. “I don’t go back to exes.”

“Except me,” he corrects you.

You shake your head and then turn back to the stove. “Two weeks apart because of a misunderstanding didn’t make us exes.”

“You said ‘I’m ending things,’ and renamed my contact, love,” he says. “I’m fairly certain that counts.”

“Fine,” you reply, putting the omelet on a plate and sliding it towards Sebastian. “You’re the exception.”

You start on a second omelet as he digs in. “When did the Oscars start, anyway?”

“Must have been the ‘30s,” he says between bites. “This is really good, by the way.”

“But there were movies before that,” you reply. “What about the silent films?”

“Hang on,” he says, and you leave the omelet alone for a moment to glance at his phone as he opens Google, his most recent searches popping up as suggestions:

what time do the oscars start tonight

oscars dress code

how do i tie a tie

engagement rings

It’s just a flash, because then he’s typing when was the first oscars into the search bar, pointedly not mentioning the search.

You don’t say anything, but he wordlessly shows you the screen — 1929, it turns out — and you return to your omelet, your heart racing.

Neither of you mentions it again.

1 Month Later: April

Sebastian had a plan.

God, it was supposed to be perfect. He’d written a speech, and then memorized it, rehearsed it in the mirror for hours on end, he’d brought you out to dinner and agonized for months over whether the ring was one you’d like. Perfect, like you deserve.

But now, as you sit across from him, he can’t remember a single word of the damned speech because you’re too fucking gorgeous, and the ring is burning a hole in his pocket.

He’s rambling. He knows he’s rambling, and yet, he can’t seem to stop.

“I had a speech,” he says. “It was good, and poetic, and romantic — kind of a monologue, if I’m being honest, and I memorized it and everything, but now I can’t remember a single word of it, which is strange because I never forget my lines, but you’re you, and I just love you so much it scares me, and I can’t imagine my life without you in it. You’re just — you’re you, and you’re with me, and that’s fucking incredible — ”

He reaches into his pocket to grab the ring and flick the box open as you bite your lip to suppress a smile. This is it, he thinks. “I know I’m an idiot a lot of the time, and I ramble when I’m nervous — like right now, actually — but I really, really love you, and I’m so damn lucky that you love me too — ”

“ — Sebastian, stop,” you say.

The world obeys. Everything — his heart, time, the long-winded rambling — screeches to a halt.

And then it shatters, realization crashing into him. You’re saying no.

He’d known it was a possibility, and yet his heart feels like it’s been ripped out of his chest, dropped from a million stories in the air, and then shoved back in, upside-down and bleeding. You’re saying no. He’s losing the love of his life.

Sebastian’s vision blurs, and he blinks. He can’t — won’t — fall apart in front of you. Not like this. He’ll respect your decision, even if it kills him inside.

(He’ll try, anyway.)

“Okay,” he lies, and damn it, he’s crying already. “I — I’m sorry. I thought… I thought we were on the same page, but I — I understand. I — ”

“Sebastian,” you interrupt. “Listen to me.”

He stops talking, braces himself for the impending rejection —

“Yes.”

He looks up — your face is blurry through the tears, but he can tell you’re beaming, joy written all over your face. “What?”

“Yes,” you repeat. “I’m saying yes, I will marry you.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Then, it clicks.

Not a moment later, his mouth is on yours.

Sebastian’s hands are still shaking as he kisses you like he’s been desperate for air and the only way to get it is you breathing it into him, because of course the only way this went down was you scaring him half to death before saying yes.

“You,” he says between kisses, breathless and giddy because you said yes, “scared the shit out of me.”

You pull back enough to look him in the eye, grinning. “I needed you to stop talking so I could say yes, you wonderful, rambling idiot.”

“You could have told me sooner!” he shoots back. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more terrified.”

“It’s not my fault you wouldn’t stop talking,” you say, kissing his cheek. “Now, how about that ring?”

Two Weeks Later: April

You look between your phone and Sebastian. “What about this one?”

You’re sitting on your couch (it might as well be both of yours — he’s practically been living here since you got engaged, though you’ve both been looking at listings to find something a bit bigger) debating on what photo should accompany your official engagement announcement — rumors have been swirling for ages, but it’s about time you told the world.

The proposed option is a good one — you’re grinning at the camera, holding up your hand (bedazzled with the ring) while Sebastian looks at you like you hung the stars.

“I like it,” he says. “What’s your caption going to be?”

You angle your phone away from him, type, post it, and then show him.

“‘I said yes,’” he reads. “Classic.”

“Can’t go wrong,” you agree. “What about you?”

Sebastian grins and pulls out his phone, typing before hitting the post button — your phone chimes with the notification.

Can’t wait to be a trophy husband, he’s captioned the post, and you snort, laughing. “Of course.”

“It’s true,” he says. “I’m happy to be your arm candy for any and all of the events. I’m very good at it.”

“Can you be a trophy husband and an Oscar winner?” you ask.

“I’ll be the first,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Multitasking. I’ve been told I’m very good at it.”

Three Months Later: July

Boxes are still everywhere in the penthouse, but Sebastian had insisted on getting the kitchen organized (“Because,” he’d said with a flourish as he plated the food you’d Doordashed on your first night there, “the kitchen is the center of the home.”), so you’re sitting at the island, Sebastian’s laptop open in front of you with the email from your lawyers.

Re: Prenuptial Agreement

Hi there! I’ve attached the official contract, but here’s the gist (just a first draft, send us any suggestions and we’ll hammer out the details):

- Anything you own going into this marriage stays yours in the event of a divorce (assets, items, etc).

- Any assets purchased together would be divided up equitably at the time of separation.

- Because the penthouse was purchased by Sebastian, it would go to him in the event of divorce.

- Creative properties (albums, scripts, etc) remain separate unless it’s a joint project (agreed on by both of you in writing). Profits from joint projects would be split 50/50.

- If you choose to have children, a fair custody agreement would be decided on at the time of separation — the main focus of this agreement would be prioritizing the children’s well-being.

- You had mentioned adding a clause requiring counseling if you’re considering a divorce for irreconcilable differences — where did you land on that?

Thanks so much!

You finish the email before Sebastian does, and wait for him to get to the bottom before you say anything. You’d agreed on a prenup quickly after getting engaged — you’re both celebrities, after all, and not getting one seems more foolish than anything — but wedding planning has been so far at the forefront of your mind that considering the backup for if things end seems… depressing.

He takes a breath as he reaches the end, his jaw tightening.

“Talk to me,” you say, looking between him and the email.

“It all makes sense,” he finally replies. “But I want you to have the penthouse.”

You raise your eyebrows and look over at him. “You bought it.”

“And you bought the furniture,” he protests. “It’s ours, and if things don’t work, I want it to be yours. I’ll be too much of a mess over losing you to stay here.”

“You’re not going to lose me, Seb,” you say softly, reaching for his hand. “We’re being smart, but we’re not going to need this prenup.”

He squeezes your hand gently and looks you in the eyes. “I just want you to be protected,” he admits. “If I end up as one of those washed-up, jealous arseholes and you realize you’re better off without me, I want a guarantee that you’ll be all right.”

You blink at him. “That’s not going to happen.”

“I don’t plan on it either,” he says. “But it’s a contingency, and I want to make sure that you’ll be okay if it all goes to shit.”

“I don’t need protection from you,” you tell him. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll take the penthouse.”

“Good,” he says. His thumb ghosts over your knuckles as he pauses. “I want to add the counseling clause.”

Your chest tightens — it’s easier to think about separation as a hypothetical, with the children you don’t have and the marriage that hasn’t begun, but going through a rough patch is easier to imagine. “I don’t want us to be there.”

“I don’t either,” he agrees. “But if we’re considering divorce,” — you can see the way his jaw tightens at the word — “I want to make sure we’ve tried everything to fix it first.”

“Okay,” you say softly. “We’ll add it.”

You pull the laptop over, type out the changes you want and show it to Sebastian — he nods and you hit send, then shut it.

He sighs heavily. “This stuff is depressing.”

You stand, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “It’s just paperwork,” you say. “We won’t need it.”

“Did I mention that I hate paperwork?” he says, turning on the bar stool to grab your hands. “The cake tasting was way better than this.”

“Your career is paperwork,” you remind him, nodding towards the scripts that have accumulated on the coffee table.

“But that’s fun paperwork,” he says, pulling you closer to him. “My career is just Halloween with some memorization thrown in. This is depressing paperwork.”

“Don’t let the Academy hear you,” you tease. “They might take little Oscar away from you.”

Sebastian grins and then softens, more serious. “I just know how many marriages in this industry fail,” he says. “I don’t want us to end up like that. I don’t want to resent you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Seb,” you say, brushing a strand of hair off of his forehead. “Not unless you ask me to, and even then, I’ll need some convincing.”

“I just — ” he starts. “I wonder how many people say that.”

“Enough of them mean it, I’m sure,” you say, tugging him up to stand so you can hug him. “I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it too. But I know that I love you, and I know that you love me, and as long as that doesn’t change, I think we’ll be just fine.”

Four Months Later: October

Entertainment Tonight Exclusive on MC and Sebastian Sallow’s Wedding: “Everyone was Crying.”

Although the power couple of the music industry’s latest darling and the recent Oscar-winner have been engaged for nearly six months, the pair seemingly confirmed that they’ve tied the knot with a tasteful Instagram post — an anonymous source close to the couple confirmed when they reached out to Entertainment Tonight.

“They wanted a private wedding,” said the source. “But at the same time, they know that the public has a vested interest in their relationship. The photoshoot allowed them to have both.”

MC wore a custom Vivienne Westwood gown, and Sallow wore a classic black tuxedo, a surprising change from the colorful patterns and suits the Mycenae actor typically wears at awards shows. In the photoshoot, which you can view on the “st. valentine” singer’s Instagram here, they’re seen laughing and smiling.

“The ceremony was very small,” the insider shared. “But it was deeply heartfelt — by the end of Sebastian’s vows, almost everyone was crying. They’re very in love, and it shows.”

One Week Later: October

Three Months and Some Change Later: Valentine’s Day