Fashionably Late

Cyrille was left speechless, stunned with the feeling of barely contained rage bubbling underneath the shock. How was it even possible for one person to piss him off so completely in the space of a half an hour? How could he throw all of his kindnesses back at his face with such confidence, then walk out of the room without pants or shoes on?

He brought his hands to his face as he smothered a frustrated scream into his palms, letting one of those statements settle uncomfortably under his skin. He was a fool for thinking Atreus had any sense of self-preservation underneath that devil-may-care hedonism, and had no idea how Lasair managed to wrap that sinner Bas around her finger at all, even if she’d thrown it all away in the end.

But the longer Cyrille stood, and then sat on the edge of the bed when his knees gave out on him, the more Atreus’ despicable words came back to him.

So he needed to use his reputation to his advantage, did he? So his husband was destructive when upset? So all eyes were on the perfect one to see what would happen?

Cyrille’s eyes narrowed as their hands lowered, fueled by the beginnings of spite forming under his tongue. Far be it from him not to take his husband’s thoughtful advice.