Weekenders
i realised i've only been reblogging lately so might as well share what i've been busy writing — so three months ago i was neck-deep in an angsty slow burn that was actively making me sad to write (love that for me) and i thought. you know what. i need to write something that makes me HAPPY.
enter: a fluff fic. one weekend. two idiots.
it's bffs to lovers. it's fake dating. it's one bed. it has gotten. considerably less fluffy than originally intended. but the yearning is worth it (I HOPE!!!)
Summary: Twelve years of friendship, and Sebastian Sallow has supported her through every stupid decision she's ever made. So when she panics about her cheating ex bringing a date to their friend's birthday trip in France, he agrees to the most reckless plan yet: pretending to be her boyfriend for the weekend. It should be simple. They've been best friends forever. They know how to sell it! Except the line between performance and reality has always been thinner than either of them wanted to admit, and a weekend in Arcachon might be exactly what it takes for everything to implode.
Chapter 1 (Excerpt):
https://archiveofourown.org/works/79819336/chapters/209472266
The text she sent her very best friend in the whole wide world, Sebastian Sallow, at 7:43 on a Tuesday evening, was, in her defence, proportionate to the crisis. And she knew he was the only person who could save her. Because, like what she said: he is her very best friend in the whole wide fucking world.
Seb🧗🏅
Her: Seb. I am SPIRALLING 😵💫
Seb : Scale of 1 - 10
Her: 11
Her: No. 14!!
Her: SEB
Seb: Coming in 10
Her: Kk. I have beers ready. The GOOD ones 😇
Seb: Must be serious if you're cracking open the good ones on a Tuesday
Her: It IS serious! Hurry up!!
She spent the next ten minutes pacing the length of her kitchen, a feat easily accomplished since it was a Victorian townhouse in Shoreditch—three storeys of original cornicing, draughty sash windows, and a boiler that communicated exclusively through ominous clanking. It had "good bones," or so everyone said, but she hadn’t found the time or the funds to do anything about them since inheriting the place at twenty-two. The kitchen was still her parents' kitchen: same tiles, same uneven flagstones, same shelf where her mother had kept cookbooks she never actually opened. She’d moved her own life in around the edges, carefully, like a houseguest who didn’t want to disturb the permanent residents.
She cracked two IPAs, drained a third of hers in one desperate gulp, topped it back up from a spare in the fridge so it would look untouched, then drank another third.
The key scraped in the lock before she even reached the hallway.
Sebastian was still in his work jacket, bag slung over one shoulder, wearing the particular expression of a man who’d left the office in a rush and was currently reserving judgment on whether the exit had been warranted. He’d had a spare key for so long neither of them could recall the hand-off—some mid-twenties night after her third lockout, likely. It had been a matter-of-fact exchange that never felt significant, yet always had been. He looked her up and down - she was in joggers and a hoodie she was fairly certain was actually his, though neither of them had acknowledged this in the three years she’d had it - and said, "You’re alive. You have all your limbs. The building isn’t on fire."
"It's worse than a fire."
"Sure it isn't."
"It is worse than a fire."
He stepped past her into the hallway and dropped his bag by the door, took the beer she was holding out, and followed her into the living room. "Right. What's happened? Is it work? Did Martin (her one brain-celled of a boss) finally lose the last of his brain cells?"
"It's not work."
"Is it the radiator in your kitchen again? Because I told you, you need to get someone in. I patched it last time, but I'm not a bloody plumber and—"
"It's not the radiator, Seb."
"Then what—"
She snatched her phone from the coffee table, pulled up the group chat, and shoved it inches from his nose. He took it, his expression unreadable as he scrolled. He went up, then down, then read it a third time before looking at her.
"What am I looking at?"
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?"
"It's Garreth saying he's bringing someone. For the room assignments."
"Yes! Exactly! He's bringing someone. A girlfriend, Sebastian. A serious, actual, bringing-her-to-a-group-holiday girlfriend. Six months. We broke up six months ago, and he's already — he's out there just — living his life and bringing girlfriends to things like it's — like we didn't—" She made a sound that was part groan, part growl, part something that hadn't been assigned a word yet. "How dare he bring another girl to this when we broke up SIX months ago! SIX. Seb. How inconsiderate is that? How completely, breathtakingly inconsiderate—"
"—ARGH!!!" She threw her phone onto the sofa.
She launched her phone onto the sofa. It bounced off the cushion, clipped the armrest, and clattered onto the floor.
"Oh no! Oh no no no." She dropped to her knees immediately, cradling the device like a wounded bird. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, are you okay?" She inspected the glass, pressing it to her chest. "I'm so sorry. I'm taking it out on you. You don't deserve this."
Sebastian watched her from the sofa with his beer halfway to his mouth. "Are you done?"
"She might have a cracked screen, Seb. Show some compassion."
"Right." He took a long pull of his beer. "So your ex-boyfriend, who cheated on you, which - let me just remind you - makes him the villain of this story and not you, is bringing a date to Ominis' birthday, and you're on the floor apologising to your phone."
"When you say it like that, it sounds unhinged."
"It sounds unhinged because it is unhinged."
She stood up, clutching the phone, and dropped onto the other end of the sofa. "I just — I haven't seen him, Seb. Not once. Not since it happened. He just had my stuff delivered here like I was a returns parcel centre. And now I'm supposed to spend a whole weekend in Arcachon watching him be happy and in love and — what am I going to do?! How am I supposed to survive three days of beach and drinks and him snogging the shit out of some new girl while I'm just — there? Alone? Like the sad single friend?"
"You're not the sad single friend."
"I am literally the sad single friend. That is my exact title, printed on a name badge."
Sebastian set his beer down. For a heartbeat, she thought he was going to say something profound. Something to acknowledge the genuine, cold knot of dread in her stomach.
Instead, he picked up the PS5 controller and flicked on the telly.
"What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?"
"Are you — are you playing FIFA right now?! I am in crisis, Sebastian Sallow."
"You're not in crisis. You're being dramatic."
"I am NOT being—"
"You've always been dramatic, but this - this is the most dramatic shit you've ever said. Ever. And I was there when you cried at that advert about the dog."
"That dog had been WAITING for his OWNER and—" She caught herself. "This is not about the dog. This is about me walking into a beautiful French beach house and watching my ex be deliriously happy while I'm standing there with a drink I can't even enjoy because I'll be too busy trying not to have a breakdown in front of our friends."
Sebastian was selecting his team. He was actually selecting his team! WHILE she's having a moment! She wanted to throw something at him, but she’d already traumatised the phone and the beer was too good to waste. She sat there, vibrating with frustration, while he settled into the sofa like a boneless man entirely uninvested in her emotional survival.
She stared at the ceiling. Then at him. Her brain began rapid-fire processing, testing scenarios for structural integrity and finding them all catastrophic.
Option A: Don’t go. Stay home. Let Garreth and Joan have their lovely romantic French weekend while she stayed in London with her Sunday meal prep and her complete and utter dignity in tatters.
Pros: Dignity preserved (technically). No awkward encounters. Could wear pyjamas all weekend.
Cons: Everyone would know why she didn’t go. Garreth would know. She’d look pathetic. She’d look like she couldn’t handle seeing him with someone else, which she COULD, she absolutely could, except apparently she couldn’t because she’d just thrown her phone at her sofa. Also, Ominis would kill her. It was his thirtieth birthday. He’d planned this for months. If she bailed, he would be scary angry - the specific flavour of Ominis angry that was quiet and disappointed and somehow worse than yelling. And Imelda would literally flay her alive!Imelda had OPINIONS about people who let their exes dictate their lives, and she’d expressed those opinions at volume and at length, and if she found out the reason for the bailing was Garreth fucking Weasley, there would be consequences.
Rejected.
Option B: Go. Be normal. Be breezy. Show up, smile, have a lovely time, demonstrate that she was completely fine and had moved on and was absolutely not bothered by any of this.
Pros: Would demonstrate maturity. Would prove to everyone (including herself) that she was over it.
Cons: Garreth would see her. Alone. Six months after the breakup. Still single. And even though she WAS over him - genuinely, completely, she did not want Garreth Weasley back - there was something about the optics of it that made her want to crawl into the sea. He’d cheated on her, lied to her, had his stuff collected like a returned Amazon package, and never apologised. And now he’d show up in France with lovely Joan who probably didn’t even know the full story, and she’d be there alone, and it would LOOK like she’d spent six months not moving on. Like she’d been sitting in her house with her broken heating, pining. She wasn’t pining. She was FINE. But how do you PROVE you’re fine when you show up alone to this lkind of weekend getaway? You can’t! It would look pathetic even if it wasn’t. The vibes would be off.
Rejected.
Option C: Go with someone. Not alone. With a buffer. With a—
Her brain snagged on the word and wouldn’t let go.
Boyfriend.
If she showed up with a boyfriend, no one would ask questions. No one would give her pitying looks or careful check-ins or try to make sure she was okay. Garreth wouldn’t try to talk to her (would he even try to talk to her? God, what if he tried to talk to her?). She wouldn’t look pathetic. She wouldn’t look like she’d spent six months spiralling about whether she was unlovable or if Garreth was just a prick (he was a prick, she knew he was a prick, but her brain kept asking the question anyway).
She’d just look… fine. Moved on. Completely unbothered because she had someone too.
But she didn’t have someone.
She hadn’t been on a single date since the breakup. Hadn’t even tried. The thought of explaining the Garreth situation to a stranger, of sitting across from someone new and pretending to be interested while her brain was still processing the invoice from the last relationship — no. Just NO.
So. No boyfriend.
But.
She turned her head slowly to look at Sebastian, who was now fully horizontal on her sofa, playing FIFA. His player just scored and he made a small satisfied noise.
Sebastian.
Who was smart and funny and annoyingly fit and THERE. Right there. In her flat. On her sofa. Being useless.
Sebastian, who everyone already knew. Who she trusted more than anyone. Who wouldn’t make it weird or ask questions or expect anything from her except maybe beer and crisps and the remote back eventually.
Sebastian, who Garreth had always been weird about, actually, now that she thought about it. All those little comments. “You spend a lot of time with Sallow.” “You called him first.” “I’m just saying, if I didn’t know better—”
If Garreth saw her with Sebastian, he wouldn’t question it. He wouldn’t even be surprised. He’d probably think well, obviously, and then maybe he’d feel bad about the cheating (he wouldn’t feel bad about the cheating, he’d never felt bad about anything) but at least she wouldn’t have to EXPLAIN anything. At least she wouldn’t look like she’d been sitting at home for six months eating meal prep and having imaginary arguments with him in the shower.
AAnd honestly? Sebastian was the only person she could ask to do something this insane. The only person who wouldn’t make it weird or hold it over her or expect something in return. The only person she was comfortable enough with to even consider it.
Well???
She ignored the small voice in her head that pointed out there were several very good reasons this could, in fact, become extremely weird. Reasons she had spent four years very carefully not examining. Reasons that lived in a box labeled “DO NOT OPEN” that she had filed away and refused to acknowledge.
But those reasons were irrelevant. This was practical. This was just… logistics. A favour between friends. They’d done weirder things. That time in Norway when they’d had to share a bed in the hospital hotel and she’d woken up using his arm as a pillow and they’d just never mentioned it again. This was like that. Except they’d be pretending to date. In front of all their friends. Including her ex-boyfriend.
For an entire weekend.
She ignored the small flutter of panic in her chest.
The point was: Sebastian wouldn’t make it weird. He’d either say yes or he’d say no, and either way they’d still be fine. They’d survived worse. They’d survive this.
Probably.
Maybe.
It was possibly the worst idea she’d ever had, and she’d once tried to dye her own hair at 2 AM after a bottle of wine and had ended up with purple hair for three months.
But also.
Also it would work.
"I have a plan," she said.
"Mm."
"Listen to me, Seb. I've got a plan."
"Is it a good one?"
"It's a brilliant one."
"It won't be."
She turned to face him fully, pulling her legs up under her. "What if I'm not single?"
He didn't look away from the screen. "You are single."
"But what if I wasn't. What if I showed up with someone? Not just someone — a boyfriend. A convincing, very fit, credible boyfriend who Garreth already knows and already hates, which would make the whole thing—"
"No."
"I haven't even—"
"No."
"Seb—"
"Absolutely not. No chance. Not happening."
"You don't even know what I'm—"
"You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend at Ominis' birthday weekend to make your cheating ex jealous, and the answer is no." He paused the game just long enough to look at her. "It's a stupid plan! Nobody would believe it, and I'm not doing it."
"People would absolutely believe it!"
"They would not."
"Melds has been saying we're secretly together since the second year of uni!"
"Imelda thinks the moon landing was faked."
"She was kidding! Don't be daft."
"No." He unpaused the game. The little digital men resumed their pointless running. "Find another plan."
"You know I only bought this stupid game because of you. It's been sitting in my console like a parasite, and I could have had that storage space for something useful, and I resent it."
"You played it last week. You texted me your score."
"That's not the point."
She slumped back and watched him play. He was doing the thing where he leaned with his players, like his body language could change the outcome. It was endearing. But she didn't have the bandwidth for endearing right now.
"Fine," she said.
"Good."
"FINE! Since I'm alone in this. Since my so-called best friend won't even — fine. I'll orchestrate my own plan. And I'm sure you'd say yes when you hear it."
"I very much doubt that."
She unlocked her phone. Opened the group chat. Started typing, narrating every word with the theatrical gravitas of a woman who had nothing left to lose.
"Right. Here we go. 'Hi everyone—'"
"What are you doing?"
"'Sorry we've been keeping this quiet—'"
He looked away from the telly. "What are you typing?"
"Shhhh." She held up a finger without looking at him. "Go back to your little men."
"My what?"
"Your little men on the telly need you. They're running around, looking very confused without your leadership." She was still typing. "'But for room assignment purposes—'" She held the phone away from him, grinning now, that particular grin that he knew from long and painful experience meant she was about to do something monumentally stupid. "'It's probably time to let you all know that Seb and I are finally together—'"
"Don't you dare."
"'So we'll be sharing a room. Hope that's okay! Heart emoji or winky face, what do you think? I'm leaning winky."
"That is the most immature—" He paused the game and lunged for the phone. "Give me that—"
"Get OFF—"
"Give me the phone—"
"It's MY phone, Sebastian!"
They grappled for it — his hand around her wrist, her arm stretched over the back of the sofa, both of them half-laughing and half-furious — and she was twisting away from him, and his knee was on the cushion, and her thumb hit the screen, and—
Whoosh.
The sound was an unmistakable chime of a message sent.
They both froze. His hand was still around her wrist. Her arm was still above her head, pinned against the back of the sofa. He was hovering over her, close enough that she could see the exact second his irritation curdled into horror. For one terrible, suspended second, they stayed tangled, staring at the phone like it was a live grenade.
They both stared at the screen.
Her: Sorry, we've been keeping this quiet, but for room assignment purposes, it's probably time to let you all know that Seb and I are finally together. So we'll be sharing a room. Hope that's okay! 😉