luterius's folly. sylvain jose gautier. chapter 3 of polioctics. chapter 1. chapter 2.
tags: fem!reader, reader has a personality, manipulation, aftermath of noncon, toxic relationship dynamics
You hardly remember getting into the sleek black car Felix called for you. You recall the ride home, the leather upholstery sticking to your thighs, the lush green of the city’s outer limits blurring into a stony slate grey. The massive hillside manors give way to hold department buildings and crumbling brick, a poignant reminder of the distance between you and them.
It jams the gears sticky in your head as you clamber into your apartment, clamber into the shower to scrub the remnants of last night from your skin. The water scalds down your back, a welcome refuge from the thoughts which rattle and writhe in your head and underneath your skin. When you finally clamber out of the shower, morning’s grey light is just touching in through the windows.
You want to call them. You want to demand an explanation so badly—want to know the whys and hows and what it all means, where you stand now. But you don’t. You dry yourself off and keep your shaking hands away from your phone, no matter how many times it rings and vibrates.
You crack open an old, dusty textbook. It’s a volume you loaned once upon a time from university, and after the course you had been too preoccupied to return it. It’s sat on your living room bookshelf ever since, and now you comb its contents in bleak search of distraction. It’s the only book you have yet to read.
The Roman legions do not have the answers to your burning questions, but you find temporary refuge in the dates and times and tales of strategic heroism and monstrous conquering. The hours pass one after the other, until the wild pang of hunger claws at your growling stomach, too sharp to ignore. The pantry is empty, with the exception of some old bread and perishables which you won’t likely ever eat.
Takeout would be the most reasonable option, but cowering in your apartment and shoveling down greasy food would only make you feel worse. You want something to do, something to keep your hands busy and your mind active.
Thus, you throw on your most comfortable pair of shoes and hit the streets, venturing to the grocery store on the corner. Drifting through the aisles reminds you of the last time you cooked. Ingrid and Sylvain visited. You remember the succulent smell of onion and roasted meat, all cooking in one pot. Ingrid’s hands were soft when she handed you a knife to chop the carrots with. She scolded you for its bluntness, clucking her tongue as she sharpened it as best she could with your limited equipment. Sylvain laughed, light and rich, asking her to go easy on your haggard, busy self.
The once warm memory only fills you with trepidation now. A part of you is grateful for the cold that sweeps in on you the moment you step foot outside, chill prickling your cheeks and lungs filling with crisp air. You let it settle in, covet it, curling your stiff fingers around the strap of your bag.
The store is cozy and family-run, with tight aisles and sale signs hand drawn by the owners’ daughter. You spend extra time lingering in the lanes, reading product labels you had never bothered with before. Thirty minutes later sees you back out the door and onto the brumous streets, wind sharp enough to make your eyes water. You spent a tad more than you would have liked to, but you can’t overstate the value of having little treats to look forward to after a long day. You’re feeling more than content with your purchases, already fantasizing about the warm, creamy penne ala vodka in your future.
Your hurried steps chug to a half at the sight of the man lingering before your door.
Sylvain looks remarkably unsure of himself, loitering in the middle of the hall like a lost child. He straddles your door like he’s trying to become one with it. His neck is craned, eyes narrowed in a squint as he stares at his phone, thumbs frantically typing. You could laugh, if not for the pit which opens up in your stomach, appetite squashed and groceries suddenly feeling twice as heavy.
Forcing a smile, you finally speak.
“Hey,” you murmur, and Sylvain’s head snaps up. He blinks his eyes wide before his expression settles into a smile, the easygoing kind that doesn’t meet his eyes. “What’re you doing out here? You have a key. I don’t mind if you let yourself in.” you step past him, shoving your key into the lock.
It’s unlike him to show up to your apartment unannounced. Or maybe he called, and you hadn’t known because you left your phone at home. Regardless, your stomach sinks as you feel him stride in behind you, door opening with a soft click.
“Forgot it at home,” he admits sheepishly. “Here—let me get that for you.” When he reaches for your grocery bag, you turn it loose automatically, like you’ve done no less than twelve times before. You’re sure he does the same for every girl he spends time with, but the gesture feels nice, nonetheless. You wonder, briefly, if any of the other girls have apartments like yours. Or does he mostly date the well-off daughters from the families he had grown up with?
“Really?” you blink. “You usually don’t forget that kind of thing.” you motion for him to drop the bag on the kitchen counter, before beginning to sort through and store your acquisitions. “Is everything alright?”
“What can I say? I was so excited to pay you a visit that it just slipped my mind,” Sylvain schmoozes as easily as he breathes, and you don’t know whether to be offended at the blatancy or upset at yourself because it’s working. It’s unsettling, how easily you fall back into your typical banter.
“Well, better to forget it than lose it. I don’t think the landlord would appreciate having to replace another key,” you remark wryly, bustling around Sylvain, who has shouldered into the kitchen to place the pasta on its designated pantry shelf.
“I don’t think the landlord appreciates doing anything he’s supposed to,” Sylvain replies with noticeable disdain. “He left that leak upstairs alone for what? Four months?” He puts the sauce ingredients away, too. “You planning on cooking tonight?” he raises a brow. “Don’t get me wrong, I love your cooking, but you look exhausted. Why don’t you let me treat you?”
“Are you sure?” you blink, pointedly avoiding the reason for your fatigue. You bury the hazy memories deep deep within the furthest recesses of your mind. If Sylvain doesn’t feel the need to bring it up, then it must not have been terribly important to him. You can leave it at that. You’re happy to leave it at that. “You don’t have to.” But you aren’t in the habit of refusing a warm meal, or in the habit of denying him.
“I want to,” Sylvain says, and it sounds like an oath. “I like spending time with you. And spending money on you. You know that, right?”
“Well, I,” you stammer as he takes your hands, so small in his own. He’s got wide palms and elegant fingers, a pianist’s hands, you remember telling him.
“Because sometimes it really doesn’t feel like you know how much you mean to me,” he continues, plowing through your noncommittal mumblings without hesitation. It’s so different from the flimsy, idle flirting you’ve become so familiar with, that you’ve learned to ignore.
“I—” How did you respond to that? “I just… didn’t want to assume…”
“I know, because you’re sweet like that,” Sylvain says with a forlorn sigh. He threads his fingers through thick red locks.
“We can go out, if you want. I’d like that,” you say, both to change the topic and to appease him. He knows this as well as you do, but he doesn’t argue. A smile teases the corners of his lips.
He shepherds you out of your apartment and into the black car waiting out front. The restaurant you pull up to but fifteen minutes later is a diner, not too expensive, but not bargain bin cheap. Much to your relief, you are seated on the less crowded side of the diner, granting you a relative amount of privacy.
It’s comforting at first, as you shuffle into the dark blue booth, until you come face-to-face with Sylvain, whose intentions you are still floundering to comprehend. He looks completely and entirely at ease, idly perusing the menu with hooded brown eyes. And he’s more dressed up than usual.
Sylvain, born into wealth and prestige, takes a special delight in dressing in ways his father would simply despise. But today, he’s in a clean blazer and button up, leaving you even more unsettled and uncertain.
Maybe he just felt like dressing extra nice today. Maybe you’re overthinking it.
“So… the landlord fix the heat, yet?” he asks. Was he at all going to address what happened last night? Or had it all been some feverish dream conjured in your drunken stupor?
“He did. It more or less works now,” you reply with a weak laugh. Sylcain tilts his head and squints, before sighing.
“Alright. I thought a change of scenery would help, but you look ready to explode. Do you wanna talk about what happened—”
“What did it mean?” you blurt out. “Why did you do it? Has Dimitri not been… available enough recently? Is that why?”
“Woah, woah, woah,” Sylvain’s eyes widen, his hands raising in a gesture of surrender. “One at a time. Give me a second here.”
You settle into an uneasy silence, staring at him over the pickles and coleslaw the waitstaff brought out to the table, left untouched.
“Sorry,” your voice dies into a mumble.
“I—I know what happened last night was really sudden, but I want you to know that it was all completely genuine. What Dimitri and I have is… unconventional, sure, but it wasn’t anything like that. I wasn’t using you or anything,” he spits out the word ‘using’ with a grim shiver, as though repulsed by the idea. “Have you… ever heard of an open relationship?”
You have. From reality television and message boards in which mostly women complained at being pressured into them. The concept, whilst foreign, seemed untenable in the face of modern dating and all its challenges. Most of what you saw were complaints, rife with envy. Though, perhaps r/relationshipadvice isn’t the best source of unbiased information for these kinds of things.
Regardless, you likely should have expected this from someone as experimental and affectionate as Sylvain. Not because of his negative reputation. You’ve never put much stock into the nasty rumors spread about him. If anything, you should have expected it because of how open he is, how his affection is easily immense enough to blanket multiple people.
“Well, we’ve been talking about it—with Felix too—”
You’re incredulous. “You’re dating Felix too!?”
“Probably should have started with that, huh? But yeah, for a while now. He’s told us to keep our yaps shut about it. You know how he is,” Sylvain shrugs noncommittally, glancing around for good measure, as though Felix would burst from the walls just to strangle him.
You can’t imagine Felix telling anyone about having a girlfriend, let alone two boyfriends who are also intimately related with each other. So you nod again. Before Sylvain can respond, a waitress returns to take your orders with a flat smile. You order something simple, lighter fare in case your stomach happens to revolt against you. Her gaze lingers on Sylvain for an extra moment, clearly appreciative. Because, despite what numerous scorned ex-partners may insist, he is a very handsome fellow.
“Anyways, as I was saying, we’ve been talking about this for a long time, and we want you. All three of us.” Sylvain says.
Huh? You must not have heard him right.
“I’m sorry?” You say with wide eyes and a blank smile.
“All three of us want you.” Sylvain repeats, and the revelation is enough to send you slumping back into the seats.
The three of them? And you? The very idea is laughable, an absurd concept dreamed up after a serving of bad beef. You would have had an easier time believing that you wer simply a warm, wtt hole for them to fuck—a spur of the moment choice meant to spice things up one of their countless nights together. You’re friends, which means you’re easily accessible. The feelings wouldn’t be any deeper than they. They couldn’t be. What have you done to warrant such affection?
“I don’t know what to say. To that.” you say numbly.
“You don’t have to give me an answer now,” Sylvain soothes, voice honey and molasses. You drag your index finger down the side of your glass, savoring the sting of the wet, cold condensation. “I know it’s a lot to take in. I just wanted you to know that you mean so, so much to us, and that last night wasn’t some fluke.”
Silence settles between the both of you. And Sylvain seems content to leave it at that. He gives you the time to absorb all he’s dropped on you. Time feels liquid, the smooth jazz and cool color scheme of the decor urging you into a hazy, almost semi-conscious state. You stop thinking, after another minute of quiet. You don’t want to think. Not right now. Not when you’re so tired.
You’re not sure how much time passes. When you blink back into awareness, it’s to Sylvain gently calling your name, his fingers stroking up your forearm. The touch is gentle, but you jerk backwards and immediately feel horrible when his face falls.
“Sorry. I was just… thinking.” you murmur.
“No, that’s okay. I was just asking if you wanted to have dessert here, or go for something after?” Sylvain gives you another winsome smile, steering the conversation away from the tangled, gnatted mass it has become in your head. It takes hardly a moment to slide back into the usual tempo, to think about something else, something else, anything else. It’s made easy when he steers the conversation, letting you rattle on about your latest passions. He rests his cheek on the palm of his hand, smiles soft and eyes as fond as you have ever seen them. His ability to simply listen and continuously feign interest endears you to him immensely. For a moment, if only briefly, you can pretend someone is genuinely interested in what you have to say.
It’s a different, more adult type of playing pretend, which he’s likely honed over years of stuffy corporate meetings and charity balls and donation drives his father uses to curry favor with the general public.
Still, it’s nice to be indulged.
Like the gentleman he is, he pays for dinner. And then dessert. He escorts you home with a hand on the small of your back. He opens doors for you, leaves you at the door of your apartment with only a small embrace. It’s hard to believe that this Sylvain and the one you encountered last night are one and the same. It becomes easier when you remember how little you give in return.
Maybe, last night was the least you could have done for him in exchange for the adoration he insists on lavishing you with.
It makes sense, but it leaves you feeling distinctly hollow as you trudge in and out of the shower for a second time. An hour after you return home, you’re already wrapped up in bed. The blankets and pillow cases are freshly washed. They still smell of the flowery detergent you used, cool and buttery as you nuzzle into the cushion, let yourself sink into the folding embrace of the sheets.
Two hours later, you jolt awake, staring into the nighttime dark with wide, wide eyes.
Are you pregnant?
