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#IF HE WINS THE TRIAL I PROBABLY WONT SEE MY PARENTS FOR A GOOD AMOUNT OF TIME. I AM LITERALLY GOING INSANE
ohheyitsokay · 3 years
Text
trials
this takes place in my ‘poly frontier’ universe
pairing: Will “Ironhead” Miller, Santiago “Pope” Garcia, Francisco “Catfish Morales, Ben “Benny” Miller and a female reader
wordcount: 2.1k
warnings: all fics in this series are 18+, poly relationship, domestic, romantic, and sexual intimacy. strong language, angst with a happy ending
summary: this one is a Santi story - he tries to bring another girl into the relationship, and learns instead how much he loves you
it wont be everyone's cup of tea but I felt like it was an important part of the story
note: don’t hate Santi! I think this is a pretty normal, and the best sunsets come after rain
>>
Santi was the first to branch out. He didn’t mean to – hated himself for it a little, but he did.
This – whatever this is, it’s a ticking time bomb, he told Will. One of has to do something before it breaks all of our hearts.
It was a lie.
They both knew it. But he had the money and the looks and the confidence and he was just hurt enough by the sight of you asleep in Ben’s lap one afternoon that he just… let it get to him.
Brooded and boiled until he was overcome with false righteousness and pure selfishness.
He didn’t look you in the eyes when he told you he was going to try to get another girl. It wasn’t that he was leaving what you all had, just that he deserved a chance at whatever he called balance. His gaze in the other men’s eyes was too bold – the look of a desperate man, terrified of being hurt so causing it on his own terms.
You nodded numbly, shocked in spite of yourself, scolding and scathing voices in your mind telling you not to be selfish. Not to be greedy.
He deserves more than sharing.
Tucking yourself into Frankie’s arms, you tried not to glare or cry and only failed at the latter. Because it’s not the dating another girl that hurt, really it’s not. Polyamory is hard, and it was always an open option. What hurts is his blatant choice to ignore the relationship his has with you, specifically, that he’s ignoring everything you and him have worked for, built with love and time and care.
Rubbing gentle hands over your skin, Will and Frankie and Ben shared looks as Santi stalks away.
Frankie corners him in the garage the next morning. You had slept between him and Will the night before, but they had all felt you toss and turn, all spent a fair amount of time staring at the ceiling themselves. His dark eyes are an insecure that shoots into Frankie’s core – it’s a look he knows, has spent months overcoming. He swallows hard, his words dying in his throat, and he simply shakes his head.
It almost breaks Santi in two, the first moment one of his loves betrays the damage he’s done, but he tells himself there’s no going back.
“Better now than later, when our parents hate her or –”
Frankie’s look stops him and he flinches away.
Will is at the bar he chooses without an invite, knowing where he’d be without having to even ask and they both try not to think of you at home with Ben, probably dripping flames. Santi wonders if it hurts more to watch him flirt, or to do it, but neither of them say a word to each other. In spite of it all, the respect his judgement, respect his choice, and that hurts too.
It feels strange to have others looking him up and down and to look back, smile with lust void of love and soak in the attention.
Before he succumbs to it, Santi wishes Will would come over, slide his hand around his neck and… stop respecting him so much. It would pull him back, but since he doesn’t, the thought dies under the burn of cheap alcohol.
-
She’s lovely, really, graceful like a cat.
Santi has kept her from you all for a few weeks now, keeping his dignity with distance. But now she’s here, in your home, and you should be jealous but instead you just smile sadly at her, and slip off to the kitchen.
He likes… coffee, dark roast, with just a clump of raw sugar. You’re stirring it when you realize they followed you, hovering at the door. The ache of it is less than it was before and they’re happy together, so for his sake, you sit down across from her.
She’s kind, friendly. Knows the gist of the situation, tells you she’ll go at your pace.
And it crashes into you, how he’s pinned you at a time when know one else is home, offering her up to you like a plea, a child who used the superglue to make a gift, never mind the fact that his hands are both stuck to it and burning.
It feels reasonable to have another woman around, to make the numbers less absurd, to – to help you. Her smile is a little shy and she takes you hand and she looks at Santi with such adoration that a knot loosens in your chest involuntarily.
She doesn’t joke about it, any of it, and you almost wish she would. It would be so much easier to hate her if she was shallow, or stupid, or something but she’s not, and when she smiles you almost think you could be friends. You wonder if you could make it work, like they do for you.
Ben and Will come home early, stepping in like the angels they are, planting themselves solid at your side like trees with roots deeper than they are tall. When Frankie comes home, he takes the spot of the two of them as their eyes draw Santi into another room.
“What the fuck, Garcia,” Benny is as hurt as you are by it all, maybe more.
“Shut up Miller.” He’s glaring, filled with venomous satisfaction at how well the two of you have been talking.
“Cant you see it’s for the better?”
There’s silence – neither of them agree, too confused by him to respond.
“Don’t you ever wonder,” Santi tries again, knowing they’re listening because they love him too.
“No.” They spoke in unison, which makes Will roll his eyes. Neither of them hesitate, and something in Santi cracks.
-
You poke holes in the bottom of a styrofoam container with a plastic fork. She’s long gone now, but the date still lingers as you poke at your leftovers and try to unwind each moment of the date like strings of spaghetti.
On the surface it had gone well, you had thought you had fun until you felt a burn of tears under your eyelids.
Closing them you sigh, breathing like you practiced, gentle tides of love and logic washing over a feelings you tell yourself are selfish.
When you open your eyes, your Santi is standing behind her chair, and you almost cant breathe.
He went away for two weeks to help with a mission, and he’s here, one side of his mouth higher than the other. You want to kiss it, but you smile instead, and say, “You missed her by a couple minutes, sorry,” and actually mean it.
“I caught her in the parking lot,” he sits slowly, carefully, and when he reaches for your hands it’s almost tentative. It makes you blink again, how his eyebrows are bending. For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t understand what it means, cant predict at all what he says next.
“I broke it off,” his eyes are in yours.
“I don’t understand,” you hear yourself say.
Santi searches for the words, like he had them but cant make them come out of his mouth.
“She’s not you,” he says. “I want you.”
You realize with a start that his hand is trembling, and he says your name in a way you’ve never heard before – like he’s terrified. That’s how badly he wants this, wants.. you. There’s no question in your mind, your eyes answer him.
It’s messy, not like a movie, the way he tugs you up and up and into his arms, the shudder of his broad shoulders and he buries himself into you as much as he can.
Like a hazy, blurry dream, your arms find their way around him, holding him like he’s fragile, another first.
He doesn’t say You’re enough for me, or You deserve the world, or anything dramatic.
Instead he says, “Can I buy you dinner?” And, “I’m sorry,” and “It’s been too long.”
And he says “I love you.”
-
He already asked the others, calling them each on his drive to you. Asked like he was young, if it was okay. Santi knew none of them had fallen in love with her, because even he hadn’t. But he had to ask for their permission as much as yours, to try to win you back.
They were more guarded than you, wary of his passion.
It takes time, and work.
He stays up later than he should talking with Benny about everything and nothing, hands nervously putting together snacks. When the younger man holds you, Santi teaches himself to join, to be held and hold you both. It feels good, which feels like guilt.
He works on that, too.
Frankie and him never talk about it. For weeks he thought his oldest friend had understood, more of less forgiven him without a word. One day they’re out for lunch, and his eyes flicker at the waitress, tucking her hair behind her ear. When he returns his gaze to the man across him, his blood runs cold. It’s been years since he’s seen furious determination brewing in Frankie’s dark, caring eyes, but it’s there now and he hates it. It takes discipline, to watch how he’s perceived as closely as he watched his intentions, but he does it.
It was easier than winning Will back.
“How long has your logic been shit?” Has your heart been in the wrong place this whole damn time?
“I just got on the wrong path, Ironhead.”
“Like hell you did,” his eyes were ice. “You let that happen.”
It would’ve been easier if he punched him. This wasn’t a kiss and make up moment either. The work ended up being long talks while you forced them to drive to pick you up when your car broke down the town over. Forcing words out being so honest it hurt, until has heart and throat felt raw. Making Will understand it was out of his own fears. Showing him how he was fixing it.
And weeks of letting with watch him again, eyes not missing a single touch or flinch or moment between you all. Actions to reinforce his words.
It hurt, but infinitely less than feeling distant from you all to begin with.
-
Will and your Catfish bring it up with you, one sunday afternoon as you tuck yourself between them and let their hands trace your skin.
“How are you doing?”
“I don’t know, Will. Better, I think. I missed him.”
Frankie places a row of warm kisses down the side of your neck.
“He missed you too. It’s Pope, he’s... he’s scared, love.”
“I don’t know if I believe that, yet.”
Ironhead grumbles at your confession, his big fingers squeezing the meat of your thigh.
“You gave him another chance, but you’re holding back. What does your gut say?”
“Unreliable - I’m in love with him.”
His head pops up and he kisses you before half-smiling. Frankie’s hand finds one of his, and they share a look.
“Can we tell you, querida? What we’ve seen.”
“Some objective evidence,” Will kisses you again.
“He loves us.” Another kiss. 
“You.”
-
It’s quiet as Santi flips through his latest files. The evening air is cool, and he should be getting ready for bed but you’re not home yet, and they’re all milling about waiting. You texted them how tired you were, what an awful evening you had.
“It should just be another couple of minutes,” Will says, and Frankie checks his watch. Ben wanders to the kitchen and they can hear him mixing hot chocolate.
When you walk through the front door, they fold you in their arms. Santi holds back, doubt still nagging at his mind. You let him back in, let him take you don't dates, but you didn’t fit together any more. He was running out of ways to communicate with you.
But you slump over, gently pushing aside his files and placing his laptop away before replacing it with yourself. Molding into him you sigh, and almost instantly fall asleep.
You’re small and vulnerable in his arms and the weight on his legs feels like trust.
The air in the room shifts, lighter, more breathable than it’s been in months. Adoring, proud eyes watch, and he wants to cry.
For the first time maybe ever, he’s sure that everything is going to be okay.
-
The bar was mercifully quite that evening, and if made it easy for you to find your love. A small, familiar feeling tugged in your gut as you made your way over to him, eyes on the waitress who was leaning over him with unwholesome intentions.
Then the feeling settled, and was replace with a warmer feeling. She was putting down a tray that had your order on it, and Santi was thanking her, distracted checking your message on his phone.
“Hey, handsome,” you said, the warm feeling spreading throughout your chest. “Can we actually get out of here?”
His brown eyes were big, dark lashes catching the low lights as he stared at you. Somewhere in his mind, he thought too protest because your drink just got there, but the words stuck on his tongue. 
“Yeah... yeah of course, baby,” He signaled for the check before standing to draw you in his arms. Saying no to you had never really been an option. 
The two of you barely made it to his truck before your hands were all over each other. You liked the feel of him, pinning you against the metal frame, the desperate way he kissed you.
Pope was saying something about how you looked so fucking sexy, needing him so badly you couldn’t wait. You couldn’t concentrate on them. 
“Pope,” you said against his skin, sliding your hands under his shirt. In response, he only made a soft groaning noise and increases his urgency.
"Santi," you tried again, before your own gasp cut you off.
"Santi - fuck - Santiago!"
The look he gave you was that of a dog, when you held the treat just out of reach.
"I'm yours," you said, pulling his head in to press against your forehead. "And you," you kissed him, hard, fingers gripping his beautiful curls. "Are mine."
"Fuck," you could feel his heartbeat, his pulse, he was pressing into you so hard, like he wanted to blur where he ended and you began. You knew he understood.
"I am," he said into your skin again and again that evening. Not selfish position, a promise and a proclamation: "I'm yours."
"I'm yours."
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