Chapter Text
A sense of dread envelops you when the invitation comes. It isn’t unexpected; you’ve known about Poppy and Ominis’ engagement for months, and you’re truly happy for them. Genuinely. Ominis is great, and Poppy’s always been a friend to you.
In your own way, you’d even helped bring them together — Poppy had always thought Ominis was cute when you’d seen him on TV, and when you’d dated Sebastian Sallow, Ominis’ best friend, you’d invited Poppy to come along to the New Year’s party he’d hosted.
(Forget the fact that the aforementioned New Year’s party was where Sebastian had told you he loved you.)
They’d kissed by the end of the night, and next morning, you’d gotten a text from Poppy saying “guess where i am.” You hadn’t expected it to be anything more, but now, two years later, they’re the ones getting married, while you’re hopelessly single.
You know for a fact that you’re Poppy’s maid of honor — hardly an issue, except for the fact that Sebastian fucking Sallow is going to be Ominis’ best man and that he’s won two fucking Oscars while your career has been dying since things ended. And that he’s dated several models when the furthest into a relationship you’ve gotten is a third date.
And that’s not even the worst of it — bitter as you are, you could manage if you’d just broken up amicably after four and a half months of bliss.
But no. He’d cheated on you — very publicly, in a way that was hauntingly similar to what your previous ex, Eric, had done — and then released a statement a few days later claiming that you’d already broken up when the kiss happened.
At least with Eric, some fans had believed you when you’d made it clear that he’d cheated.
But for the same story to happen twice, in such a similar way, raised enough doubt to turn you into a laughingstock. Maybe if you’d gotten to write about it, you would still be relevant, but your label, not wanting to risk the hit to your PR, refused to let you release any of the songs about the situation, except for the one you’d dropped while on the freefall tour without asking them.
pathology, aside from the title track, is your least honest album.
It didn’t get nominated for a single award.
You’ve still been managing fine — money from streaming combined with some downsizing on your lifestyle has been enough to maintain a comfortable standard of living — but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss your career. A long day in the studio, the rush of performing for a crowd; they’re things you’ve set aside after the pathology tour failed to sell enough tickets.
You haven’t written a new song in months.
Not that you’re not happy for Poppy and Ominis, though. Despite his choice in friends, he’s a great guy, and you know that Poppy isn’t going to make it too difficult to be her maid of honor; she’d felt guilty enough about asking you.
It’ll be fine.
It’s a destination wedding — somewhere on the coast of Spain, where Poppy and Ominis vacationed after getting together. You can’t afford to fly privately anymore, but you’ve still splurged for first class because you are not about to see Sebastian Sallow for the first time in years when you’re clammy and gross from a middle seat where your knees touch the seat in front of you.
You get through everything easily enough — checking your bag, security, the like — but as you scan the “Departures” board, someone stops in front of you.
“Oh my god, are you MC?” she asks. Before you can reply: “I went to like three shows on the freefall tour!”
“Thanks,” you say, not really meaning it.
“freefall is my favorite album of yours,” she gushes. “I was so — ”
The rest goes unspoken: Disappointed by what followed. Sad that your next creation was completely soulless. Sorry that you and Sebastian broke up — you guys were so cute together!
“ — Never mind,” she says, shaking her head. “I just wanted to say that I’m a huge fan.”
“Thanks,” you say again. “Have a good flight.”
The fan offers you one final smile before continuing on her way, and once again, you curse Sebastian fucking Sallow.
At least with Eric, there had been red flags — arguments, belittling, things you should have looked back on and known to run. Sebastian had never been anything but good to you, and he’d still cheated and torched your career in one fell swoop.
And he’d known how Eric had fucked with your head.
He’d known what it would do to you.
“You know I’m always on your side,” Poppy had said when she’d asked you to be her maid of honor. “He’s an ass, and I’ll talk to Ominis to see if we can skip making him part of the wedding party — ”
“ — It’s fine,” you’d replied, forcing a smile. “You don’t need to fight with your fiancé just because of my ex.”
The flight isn’t bad — long, but not bad. Mercifully, when you find the exit, there’s someone holding a sign with your name written in Poppy’s handwriting.
The driver is perfect — no small talk, AC cold enough that you have to get out your jacket from the plane despite the fact that it’s April in Spain. You spend the drive mindlessly scrolling and trying your best to mentally prepare to see Sebastian for the first time in two years.
The last time you spoke, you’d been in tears. So had he — or at the very least, he’d sounded like he was, from over the phone. He’d begged you to believe him — that he didn’t kiss his ex in front of a million cameras at a premiere, that Sacharissa been the one to initiate after her fiancé had left her, that he’d just been doing the decent thing by walking her in.
I get you wanting time, or space, or a break, but please don’t — don’t end things. We’re so good, love, don’t throw it away.
He’d sounded so genuine that for a moment you’d considered it. And yet, two days later, he’d had no reservations about making you look insane.
MC and Sebastian had already parted ways before the Mycenae premiere. It was a mutual decision, and they wish each other the best, but their conflicting schedules made a relationship difficult to maintain.
Finally, the car pulls to a stop outside of a sun-warmed villa — Poppy and Ominis have rented it out for the wedding party to stay in for long enough to get adjusted for the timezone. It’s gorgeous — flower boxes in every window, an infinity pool off to one side — and also huge.
Maybe you won’t have to run into Sebastian at all.
“You’re here!”
Poppy is a tangle of brown hair as she crashes into you, hugging you tightly despite the fact that you’ve been on a plane for ages. “It’s so good to see you!” she says, finally drawing back. “How was your flight? And the drive?”
For all of her introversion when you’d first met, the amount of energy she has under the surface is truly unmatched.
“Long,” you tell her honestly. “It’s good to see you too.”
“Ominis is just inside,” she tells you, looking away for a moment to smile at the driver as she fishes her wallet out of her pocket. “Thank you so much — ”
“ — You really don’t have to…” you start, because even though Poppy organized the drive for you, you’re perfectly capable of paying for it yourself.
She waves you off, handing a bill to the driver. “I insist,” she says, raising a brow at you. “Sebastian isn’t supposed to get here until late tonight, so you won’t have to deal with him for the rest of the day.”
You wince at the mention. She clocks it instantly.
“And Ominis knows there’s still shit between you, so he already talked to Sebastian,” she finishes. “He won’t be starting anything, and if he does, then he’ll have me to answer to.”
“And me.”
You smile at Ominis as he emerges from the villa. For all the nasty rumors about Gaunt Entertainment, he’s easily one of the kindest people you know in Hollywood. Even so, you know he doesn’t hold back when it comes to Sebastian — when you’d been dating, he’d always complained about how Ominis ‘never takes any shit’.
“I appreciate it,” you say, grabbing the handle of your bag to roll it in. “But I’m not going to make you guys play relationship counselor. It’s your wedding — it’s not about me. Or Sebastian.”
All true, technically. But you can’t really be blamed if you want to strangle him by the end of the week.
The villa is just as gorgeous on the inside as it is outside — tile floors, huge windows, a spacious kitchen, everything you could possibly need.
You spend the rest of your one day without Sebastian catching up with Poppy and Ominis — his latest premiere, her upcoming album, anecdotes about producers and sound engineers that belong to a world that you’re no longer part of.
It would make you sad if you didn’t love them both so much.
* * *
The next morning, you wake up late — jetlag is a bitch — and follow the smell of coffee downstairs.
You’re not expecting him yet.
You’re not prepared.
And yet, Sebastian fucking Sallow is standing at the island, barefoot in sweatpants and a t-shirt, sipping a cup of coffee.
You’ve seen photos of him, of course, but they couldn’t have prepared you for the real thing — for the fact that even though it’s been two years and his hair is a little longer and there are more prominent crow’s feet by his eyes — he still looks unfairly attractive.
Yet another reason you can be sure karma doesn’t exist.
“Morning,” he says, as though he didn’t ruin your entire fucking life. “Ominis and Poppy went out to get some food from a bakery. They’ll be back soon, I think.”
You don’t reply, brushing past him to get to the coffee maker. He never was a morning person — yet another reason you know he’s lying, or at least acting, in some way right now.
“It’s sort of finicky,” he says, turning around to lean against the island. “You have to — ”
“ — You do it, then,” you reply quickly, raising your hands and brushing past him. How you’re going to make it a week like this is beyond you. Two minutes in and you’re ready to bail.
Sebastian fucking Sallow obliges. You can’t bring yourself to thank him when he hands you the mug of coffee.
“It’s…” he starts, then cuts himself off, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. “How was your flight?”
“Fine,” you say, deadpan. You’re not about to put any effort into this conversation. If he wants to make small talk, he can carry it.
“You — ” he falters for a moment, as though choosing his words carefully. “You look good.”
“Mm.”
He swallows hard. Good, you think viciously. Let him be uncomfortable. “I listened to pathology,” he says.
Right. He’d always been a fan of your music — or at least acted like it. That was why you’d put out pathology — the song — when you did. You’d needed him to hear what he’d done to you.
“The song or the album?”
“Both,” he says. “It was good.”
“And in a cruel twist of fate, you’re the only one who thinks so.”
Sebastian sighs. “I — ”
“ — If you’re about to tell me that you’re sorry or try to explain, skip it,” you say. “I’m here for Poppy. That’s all.”
His lips part like he wants to say something more, but then he shakes his head slightly, thinking better of it. “I’ll do my best to stay out of your way, then,” he finally says.
“Good,” you say under your breath, just as the sound of the front door echoes through the house.
“We’re back!” calls Poppy, and you can hear the grin in her voice. “Loads of croissants!”
A smile tugs at Sebastian’s lips.
You can’t take it.
“I’m gonna get some air,” you mutter, heading for the patio.
The infinity pool is cool and refreshing when you dip your legs in — from here, you can see the kitchen, where Ominis is saying something to Sebastian that gets an eye roll in return. Poppy glances out of the window and then heads over to meet you.
“I’m really sorry,” she says as she steps outside, holding a croissant. “I swear Ominis told him to behave.”
“That was the problem,” you mutter as you accept the pastry, kicking your feet and watching the pool ripple. “He told me I looked good.”
“Ugh.”
“And that he listened to pathology.”
Poppy winces as she sits next to you, dipping her feet in the pool. She knows how much you hate that album, aside from its single genuine track.
You glance inside as you take a bite of croissant — Sebastian is holding the edge of the counter as though to steady himself, staring at the floor while Ominis says something to him, eyes narrowed.
“Anne’s on your side too, if that helps,” Poppy says.
You can’t help but smile at that. When you’d dated Sebastian, Anne had been nothing but delightful — from her not-so-gentle prodding before you were a couple to her smile at the New Year’s party when you’d told her that things between the two of you were official.
Not that you’ve seen her since Sebastian cheated on you.
“Is she a bridesmaid?” you ask.
“Groomsman,” Poppy replies. “Or groomswoman — what are you supposed to call a woman on the groom’s side?”
“Groomswoman sounds right,” you say. “Not sure what you’d call a man on the bride’s side though.”
She ponders for a moment. “Bridesbutler? Bridesman?”
You shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”
Poppy leans her head on your shoulder. “Thank you for being here,” she says. “I know this sucks for you.”
“It’s your wedding,” you reply. “I wasn’t about to miss it.”
“If he tries anything, I’ll murder him.”
“I’ll be surprised if you beat me to it.”
“I love you,” she says.
“I love you too,” you reply.
Despite all of it — the fact that you’re cohabitating with your least favorite ex, a title that takes genuine effort to earn considering the people you’ve dated, the million-degree heat, the fact that everyone in the wedding party is a million times more successful than you are — you mean it.