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Like every other time with Sylvain, Dorothea follows in a haze. He kisses her, she kisses back just as furiously. His touch is coy, teasing, and above all else, frustrating. He lets lips rove over her body freely—moving from the shadow of her jaw, to the column of her throat, along bridge of her collarbone, down the low cut of her shirt... It’s his touch that he keeps teasing her with, and it is the worst part.
Dorothea keeps her eyes shut, willing him to just touch her… Goddess knows he was more than happy to play with her while driving ten miles over the speed limit on the way from picking her up and taking her back to her place. Now, Sylvain keeps his deft wandering hands to himself and it’s beyond frustrating.
A little pressure, even his knee… Dorothea thinks against the loud sound of her heart thudding loudly.
Sylvain pulls her up and she feels her back meet the paper-thin walls of her hallway, knocking against photographs and the sad little mirror. Her neighbours will complain, but damn, it’s worth it. His lips press a gentle, teasing kiss to the plush of her cleavage and she feels Sylvain inhale deeply.
Dorothea grabs his face and brings it to hers, “Wouldn’t you rather kiss me?”
He smiles warmly, and oh, she melts like cold butter in a hot pan. “I would, but you smell divine. It’s almost too distracting, really.”
Dorothea laughs under her breath as Sylvain’s lips graze her neck. “I’ll tell hair and makeup that.”
It’s a rush of quick connections—his lips to her neck, her hands pulling off his shirt, bracing her against the wall, a wince, a whine. Dorothea pulls him closer, as close as she can get, holds his face in her hands and pretends that her world is nothing but Sylvain for as long as she can.
Somehow, someway, Dorothea and Sylvain finally wind back up in her bed.
After a few pleading remarks from her neighbour who is burning the midnight oil, they tone it down. It’s an awkward two minutes of answering the door, her neck decorated with purpling hickies and pulling up the low cut of her shirt, but it’s done. Sylvain even poked his head out, apologized earnestly, and when the door shut, made a comment about giving out earplugs to the entire floor as a holiday gift and hiring someone to do some soundproofing to Dorothea‘s apartment.
(She shut him up with a kiss shortly after that.)
Sylvain’s playing connect the dots with the birthmarks on her shoulder in a post-fuck haze, caught happily in those few moments of dopamine-release before reality comes crashing down at her feet. Dorothea cuddles up against him, her eyes fluttering shut after a long day of running lines with her co-stars and memorizing all that she could. She rests her head on his smooth chest, her hand searching for his to hold it for as long as she can.
Sylvain gives it willingly. He caresses her hand gently, momentarily admiring her acrylics, just Dorothea laces her fingers with his and submits to sleeping with her makeup on.
“We should totally get married.”
Dorothea, acting on the instincts of the high, laughs.
It’s not a cackle, chortle, snort or anything inappropriate: it’s just a soft laugh under her breath, nothing too different than a laugh used for a swift, sarcastic remark or a poor pun. It takes precisely three seconds of silence for her to realize that it is, indeed, not a joke and that anything aside from pensive silence and careful reflection would have been inappropriate.
Dorothea doesn’t realize it’s a joke until it’s too late. She feels Sylvain shift under her body. She drops her hand from his, lays it over his warm chest and listens to the gentle rhythm of his heart.
“Winter would be good. The holidays are around the corner, everyone’s already around anyways. Sure, getting flowers in would be a pain, but think of it: we get married early in the day, get some pretty photos with the lights and snow falling all around… It would be scrapbook-worthy.” He ponders, running his hand down the length of her back. He smooths her hair down, the pad of his thumb brushing against her skin. “Granted, it’s always snowing in Faerghus. It could be before or after…”
His voice doesn’t say that this is a joke. Dorothea thinks. She treads carefully, like she’s about to walk through a delicately cared for flower garden in big, thick plimsolls.
“Do you want to get married?” She asks.
“It’s always been expected of me.” He replies.
“I mean, have you always wanted to?”
“Not always. But like I said…”
“Expectations are different from desires.” She says pointedly. “I’m asking if you want to get married.”
He clicks his tongue. He pauses, ponders, considers all his options and then in typical Sylvain fashion, tells Dorothea what he thinks she wants to hear.
(Or so she supposes.)
“Well yeah.” Sylvain agrees. “I do want to get married. I’d like to marry you, if it isn’t already clear.”
There’s an awkward moment. In the distance, Dorothea can hear the drip of the leaky faucet in her nearby bathroom and Sylvain’s lungs contracting and expanding under her ears. His voice reverberates through his body, sounding hollow against her ear.
“Do you want to get married?”
Dorothea’s reply is instant. “I’m not the marrying type.”
“‘Not the marrying type’?” He laughs softly under his breath. Now his laugh feels inappropriate. “I never knew you to not be the marrying type, Thea. When we met, you make a joke about looking for your MRS.”
“Hey.” She pokes his chest. “That was a comment from Hubie. I’ll never let him live it down now.”
“As you should, Thea.” Sylvain sighs. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, settles back into their comfortable cuddle, stroking down her arm and asks, “So, what about it?”
“What about what?”
“Getting married.”
“We’re not exactly together-together.” Dorothea murmurs. “Usually, you’re dating for a long time before marriage comes up at all.”
Sylvain’s gentle strokes halt. “We could change that.”
“Yeah, why not. You end up in my bed more than your own.”
“Nowhere else I’d rather be.” Sylvain sighs, snuggling up further into the 400-thread count Morfi cotton sheets and her mulberry-silk pillow cases. “It’s comfy, it’s always just the right temp, plus, you’re here.”
There’s a few more calm moments before Sylvain prods again. Dorothea curls further into him. “Sorry Syl, you’re not a safe bet.” She says. “Besides, I’m not one for a shot-gun Derdriu wedding. It wouldn’t be good PR.”
“Doesn’t have to be a quickie thing. In fact, I’d like a big one. I’d like to plan it too.” He says softly. “Dancing, drinking, being with all our friends…”
It dawns on Dorothea that this is a true proposal. A post-fucking, sweaty, disoriented—slightly hungry and definitely needing to pee—proposal from Sylvain Jose Gautier.
She lifts her head and looks at him—of course, he wears a look of complete seriousness in between the swaying Venetian blinds of her crappy apartment. When they first met—same housing in the last two years of college—Sylvain was anything but serious. A fuckboy with Daddy’s credit card and all the right connections: two years later, he’s pretty much the same… Just, with a new penchant for hair gel and a bad haircut.
You’d think with his track record, I’d know better. Dorothea thinks. Sylvain recommences his artistic ventures of draw shapes with his finger and her birthmarks. She makes sure not to look at him when she refuses him for the second—and not the last—time.
Dorothea can already see as his lips settle into a perfectly practiced smirk: one that she’s come to memorize after many brokenhearted, flirty drinks together.
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” Sylvain sighs. “Your schedule, my family. It would be a lot.”
“We should talk about this in the morning, Syl.” Dorothea tells him. “In more detail. With clear heads.”
“Yeah.”
Dorothea and Sylvain met in college. Third year, neighbours along the same block of houses. Sylvain’s place was known for the keggers they threw, owing in part to most of them being on the college hockey team. Dorothea lived with her friends until Bernadetta decided she wanted solitude, Petra moved in with her boyfriend and Edelgard decided that living on “frat row” as she dubbed it, was not a good look for a future politician.
Now, Dorothea is a soap opera star, hopping around the circuit, from show to show. When her contracts run out—she usually stays for a short 6 week storyline, sometimes longer—she is quickly offered another one at another production company. She’s done indie and art house films, always to warm praise from the critics, even some lauded stints on prime time, but the daytime circuit is so much fun for its campiness. Plus, they let her sing and promote her mixtapes more often than not—music is a great time user on daytime.
Currently, she plays the murderous ex-lover of a beloved mob boss on one such soap, and she expects that after this next contract, she’ll be offered another, hopefully something longer-term. As with many of her roles, Dorothea praised for her no-holds-barred energy when playing her characters, and a certain allure that she adds to each one. She’s been running the soap circuit for five years, and for the same amount of time, she’s been flirting around with Sylvain.
First she couldn’t stand his disingenuous attitude. Then he started to grow on her like moss or some ginger-coloured fungi. After one evening where she found herself drawn to him at a party, they ended up making out in a closet and went back to his place to go all the way. Since then, Dorothea and Sylvain have been seeing each other—something akin to a friends with benefits situation. Soap dish articles speculate about Dorothea’s relationship status, dating Sylvain, the son of a prominent political figure of Faerghus, former hockey star for the university and a charming, cunning lawyer in his own right. It makes for good press, and Dorothea isn’t shy when it comes down to it.
Now, onto that proposal. The first time, was a total joke: Sylvain was plastered and Dorothea was getting there, and out it came onto the bar table, right between their drinks. She refused him, but not before Sylvain promised to try again.
And try again he did.
Dorothea’s lashes flutter open. As per usual, she wakes up with Sylvain’s arms wrapped around her waist, his head buried in her shoulder, cocooned around her, definitely like some sort of ginger-coloured fungi.
She sighs, curls into him further and enjoys the last few seconds of peace before remembering what occurred last night: a proposal, an inappropriate laugh, a brush off, and a promise to talk about it later.
Truth is, she wants to say yes. Marrying Sylvain would not only net her some much-needed stability, but more importantly, she does like him. However, they’ve been in a situationship for too long, changing it now might be weird.
But also, it’s been her on her own for so long. Change is a terrifying ordeal. Saying yes to Sylvain would be… good but unknown.
Will he still like me twenty years… She stops and sighs. I won’t be this beautiful forever. Goddess knows the Gautiers are lawyered up, and Sylvain isn’t a dunce when it comes to contracts and the like. There will be a pre-nup and probably other contracts before any wedding planning and—why am I actually thinking about this. Am I actually considering marrying the horse to worst bet on?
Dorothea squeezes her eyes shut tighter. Then she feels his lips meet the bare skin of her shoulder and his arms squeeze around her body.
“Morning.” Sylvain’s voice is heavy with sleep.
Dorothea’s voice is clear and bright, but she attempts to masquerade it into barely-awake sleepiness with a sigh. “Mhm, morning.”
She sits up, takes a sleepy kiss from Sylvain before searching for a piece of clothing to wear. Her hands skim a pair of panties and an oversized sleep shirt. Dorothea pulls the shirt over her head, pushes her arms through the arm holes and sighs before getting up.
If I just keep moving, maybe he’ll forget about it. Dorothea thinks.
“So we gonna talk about last night or what?”
Fuck . Dorothea turns back and looks at it him for a moment. Sylvain stares up at her from the cocoon of her sheets, wearing the warm look of having just woken up. He’s kicked out one leg, probably out of necessity due to the overwhelming heat.
“I think we both need some coffee before that conversation happens.” Dorothea says quietly.
Sylvain rubs his eyes, sits up, meets her lips with a tired smile and kisses her gently. They make their usual dual-trip to the bathroom, brush their teeth and Dorothea pads to the kitchen to start the coffee.
She brings down the usual mugs while the machine hisses loudly. She hears Sylvain’s footsteps as few moments later as she searches for food and realizes she forgot to do the shopping the other day.
The coffee drips loudly as Sylvain enters.
“So…”
“So.”
“I didn’t imagine a mid-sex proposal to go like that.” Dorothea says.
“I know, I’m sorry.” He sighs as the coffee beeps loudly. He smiles mirthlessly. “My timing could be better.”
“It could be.”
“Can we talk about it?”
I’d rather not but… She nods as he drops a few sugar cubes into her mug and pours the hot coffee over it. “Okay. Let’s talk.” Dorothea says. “Why’d you ask?”
“Well I do want to marry you.” Sylvain says plainly.
Oh. “You do?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t propose without purpose.”
“I hope you wouldn’t…”
He closes the distance between the two of them, kisses her on the forehead and Dorothea relents to his warm embrace. “I told you, when I flirt, I stake my life on it. Besides, I wouldn’t want to play so cruelly with your heart. So believe me, Thea, I meant it, I do wanna marry you. Someday.”
“Well it’s a little soon for that.”
“I know.” His voice is coloured with disappointment.
“How about this…” Dorothea rests a hand on his chest and looks up at him. “We move in together?”
Sylvain blinks once, twice then cracks into a smile. “That would be nice, yeah.” He says. “Who’s place though?”
Dorothea will miss the eastern views of her tiny apartment. She’ll miss the way the smell of cooking food permeates the hallway and the paper-thin walls. She’ll miss her sweet neighbours and the drop ins from her friends at all hours. Most of all, she’ll miss the place to call hers and hers alone. Sylvain’s place is sparsely-decorated, clinical in its purpose, lifestyle-restock influencer in the design…
But that’s the nice thing about emptiness: there’s space for new things.
Maybe I can bring in some colour to the steel-coloured shades. She thinks warmly.
“My place has got the extra security when I’m out of town, close to the downtown core.” Sylvain says.
“A good compromise for now.” Dorothea agrees. “Though, you’ll probably be sick of me by the third week.”
He laughs into his coffee. “I think you’re dead wrong.”
“Don’t say you’ll never get tired of me.” She insists.
“Get tired of you? Don’t you remember?” He slides closer to her, nuzzles up to her neck and sighs. “You’re stuck with me until we’re old and grey, Thea.”
Her heart does a little backflip into her stomach. She sets down her coffee cup, turns to meet his lips and speedily begins working off his sleep shirt.