last year i abstained, this year i devour

Christmas.

It isn’t a holiday that’s held much meaning for Vivianne as of late. Because her son hasn’t been around to make it matter or to give it any special meaning in eight years. It’s the one holiday she’s cordially refused to spend with Cosimo and his daughter, despite the invitations that have come annually over the last three years or so. No matter her feelings for Juliana, no matter her investment in Cosimo the man and Cosimo the leader, the idea of watching father and daughter bond over the exchange of gifts and holiday cheer is one that only threatens to douse Vivianne in bittersweet misery that she’d rather do without. 

“I didn’t mean ‘one of my lapdogs’,” She rebukes him in what would’ve been a sharp tone if her mouth didn’t feel like it was stuffed with cotton. “I meant-…” But she doesn’t know what she meant. Vivianne shakes her head, frustrated by her own inarticulation. “Careful, Cyrus.” She says instead, allowing her voice to cool a fraction as it washes over his ears. “The ones you refer to as ‘lapdogs’ are the same superiors to whom you’ve chosen to swear allegiance.” She’s picking at fluff on her bedsheet as she speaks, but looks up to meet his eyes when the last word falls. A point. A reminder. 

‘Comment vous sentez-vous?’

How do you feel, he asks her and an involuntary shiver runs down her spine. She wonders why it matters to him, she wonders whether it truly does. Does her son want the truth out of her in order to mock her with it? Tear whatever’s left of her pride into ruby-red ribbons to gift to a laughing Bernadette or any other of his newly-dusted playthings? Does he want the truth in order to lambaste her with it? For throwing her life away for Juliet, the daughter of the man who’d bound her to the same life that she’d refused to allow for Cyrus?…

Better, now that you’re here, her heart wants to confess. 

Scared, now that you’re here, her mind objects instead.

She admits neither truth as she blinks at her son and then looks away. “Tired. Sore.” Vivianne tells him plainly, extending a mere sliver of the truth he seeks - and yet a sliver larger than she’s offered to most of the guests who’ve come to visit at her bedside. Cyrus won’t know it, but it’s enough that she does. “Were you at the Theatre? Did anyone-…” Hurt you, she wants to ask but her tongue wraps itself around the safer choice of words, almost as if on automatic: “- Did you get in any trouble?”

“Careful, Cyrus.” Normally that tone makes him want to cock a brow but instead, he heaves a shallow sigh, a sound made up of a mix of an underlying temper and a restlessness not easily remedied. There were so many ways this scenario had played out in his mind but none of them equates to actually living it.

Despite the way he had been sundered from his childhood, the safety of a loving mother’s constant presence and the sheltered life she had had him lead... Despite the growing pains due to the rending of familiar ties, Cyrus had grown up strong and fearless to a fault. It is what drives him to goad Vivianne, seeing as she’s chosen to be la capo bastone before a mother. He asks as he starts to pour her a glass of water from the warm flask set on the side table, “Do I have to be careful around you, too?” 

His gaze is pointed just as hers is and full of intent, hoping the full insinuation of his question translates across the short distance between mother and son. Do I have to be afraid of you, maman? To outright ask her that is to project some sort of vulnerability he does not care to display and to imply that he still needs, or worse, wants, her to protect him. 

Cyrus does not need nor want it. Coriolanus, on the other hand, has use for it...

But he’s been careful as to whom to swear his allegiance to. They most definitely had not needed to install him as an emissary but they did it anyway and perhaps his mother’s curt reminder of the respect owed to the Capulet name and all it stands for acts to serve as more than that. A warning, maybe. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them unless, of course, you tell on me.” He knows a thing or two about those. 

With that, he holds out the half filled glass of water to her. Parched as she sounds, she must want it more than she’s willing to say. “Tired. Sore.” He hadn’t thought she’d verbally admit that to him which makes him listen a slight bit more closely.

“I did. Some trouble with Cassian and a Montague I heard someone call Mercutio.” The truth comes forth without resistance. He chooses his words to manoeuvre her into spilling some of her own truths. Unknowingly even after all this time, Cyrus is still after that shred of evidence that her maternal instincts toward him hasn’t yet shriveled up despite himself. “After we knocked them down, I went looking for you.” A lie. Wanted to should have been the words to use.

The Capulets were an organization with roots extending to many areas of Verona. Most only saw the beautiful blossoming structure of the Cathedral, with a few buds of the associated properties tied to the lucrative name. There were few who saw just how vast things stretched below the surface, just like roots to a plant or the cathedrals that Orpheus had explored (and the piece of which that was gifted to them). Theodora was, of course, one of them, the reason their newest branch was growing as vast as it was. They knew the drug business was not all their fingers latched onto. There were weapons to sell and art to procure and other foreign deals that their ears did not hear (but their own network ran vast, so rumors did get to them fairly quickly). Cyrus, it seemed, was beginning to learn just how many roots the Capulets had planted, how many his mother had a hand in sowing. 

They know everything that traverses these holy halls and everything that creeps within the ghostly ones below the ground. They know Cyrus before he even approaches. “Well, I’ve heard many a thing, but we’re not here to rattle off rumors or play little ice-breakers, are we?” Their voice was all knowing, their smile was welcoming. Step into my kingdom, it said. “Yes, I’m supposed to give you a briefing before you see Orion about the details. We should make a point to go over that plan. But I’ve also heard that you’re curious about something outside of your own domain. Specifically, I’ve heard you’re curious about mine.”

Rumours never unnerved him but he knows, like an infestation, it’s something to worry about especially if it becomes uncontrollable. But more often than not, Cyrus finds his talent laid in pulling strings like a puppeteer. “What... All work and no play? From what I’ve heard about you, I assumed you were the fun one.” A roguish grin spreads across his features, but from beneath his lashes vigilant eyes cast a wide glance over the meticulously arranged stacks of paperwork. He has no doubt those papers must at least contain some inkling as to what the innovator’s golden concoction comprises. And like the very first time he learned about the effects of the opiate, the blaze inside him begins yearning to learn the secrets that hold the gilded key to il sangue di Faerie — he and likely the rest of the world. 

“You’re right but I’ve already had a talk with Orion and we’ve acquired our leading man.” He holds up a thin, black folder. In it is a few vital information about the logistics of their plan for la festa dell’amore that he suspects they already knew about thanks to the workings of the church of Capulet and possibly Orion’s chats with them. So now he knows that how things worked here. “That part’s settled. The only thing that’s left is your actual products...” He slides the file over to Theodora though he does not lift his hand away just yet. He is intent on pulling their earthy hues to his, the same blue as his mother’s. For a second, he wonders what they see in him. Do they glean the same glacial ruthlessness Vivianne Sloane has come to be known for? Or do they see in him something wholly different — a fury catching fire?

Coriolanus has been studying the jockey for a few days now. Thus completing the first part of an elaborate scheme as required by Don Capulet. The emissary levels the man with a grave nod as he enters before extending a hand to the equestrian. Though he grasps nothing but air and disdain, the emissary latches onto the knowledge that everything is coming along as planned and will soon be set on a stage of mud and broken bones.

"Signore Fernando,” Cyrus starts, his fingers lightly tapping on the black file across his lap. “I’m happy to see that you’re able to join us today.” Despite your initial, but understandable, refusal. A glance at Orion Massetti beside him tells Cyrus that the thought also possibly crossed his mind, though perhaps he is less forgiving. “I would ask you forgive us for being so...forward —” for threatening you “— but time is of the essence.” 

Cyrus tosses the man a flash drive in which contains the means of their persuasion; incriminating evidence of his use of anabolic steroids on his horses. Easy, but effective. “If word gets out, you’ll be ruined, you know. But we’re not here to do that. We have use for your talents, if you’ll consider listening.” 

For one long, gaping, terrible moment, Vivianne thinks her son will put one foot in front of the other and walk straight out of the ICU, without a backwards glance. 

Straight out of her life — because wasn’t that what she deserved?… Wasn’t it what she’d demanded; time and time again, with each phone-call to or from Cape Town when he’d plead to return to Verona, to her, and she’d denied him?… 

But when he stops and turns to look at her, when three words leave his lips and mean more to her than he’s intended - more than he would like them to mean, surely - then Vivianne’s heart pitches up from the pit of her stomach to the base of her throat in one, motion-sick leap.

The minute her son’s eyes level on hers, she understands. There’s no quarter to be given here, it’s not pity that compels Cyrus to heed her plea - it’s expectation. Vivianne swallows. Her palms feel sweaty suddenly, and her pulse races; betrayed by the beeping monitor she’s hooked up to. Her gaze skirts towards the machine; cursing it, willing it into a steady rhythm - or even complete silence. But of course, the insensate piece of equipment keeps on beating a fraction too quickly… Confessing the sort of secrets the mother could never express in words. 

The language of a tell-tale heart.

She has a million things to ask; if he’s okay after the events at the Theatre, if anyone tried to hurt him, if anyone’s seen him enter the ICU that might make the connection between mother-and-son and target him accordingly - and chief of all - why he’s come. But when she opens her mouth to speak, nothing comes out but a “Quel jour est-il?” What day is it, she asks, and it would come out casual and apathetic, were it not for the careful way in which she sits up, eyes never leaving his. “Es-tu seul?” Are you alone?

If someone had placed their ear to his chest, they would know that his own heartbeat mirrored hers the moment she started to speak. Because in that moment, Cyrus felt reduced to a child watching as his mother struggled to stay alive. Though it can’t be that difficult, he’s convinced... As the soldati say she’s Vivianne-motherfucking-Sloane. And in that moment, he’s reminded of how the soldiers refer to his mother and is almost in awe of how she’s denied Death his claim despite the deep wound to her side. So formidable, this one. 

Quel jour est-il? Es-tu seul?

The drumming behind his ribs spikes as the words that leave her lips feel so...cold despite the pain he sees in her eyes. Strangely, it feels more familiar than anything else she might say because he knows that that’s somehow as warm as she would get around him. It’s only reasonable that she’d be more concerned about everything else but him despite Death’s wilting touch on her shoulder. Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his navy jacket, he says with nary a tear in his eye. “C'est le jour de Noël...” It’s Christmas Day, he says it like it should mean something but he knows it doesn’t. Holidays don’t mean anything anymore between them; they were merely days that will inevitably pass.

“Et non, je ne suis pas seul.” And no, I'm not alone. “The doctor outside says she will attend to you shortly. But if you mean if one of your lapdogs have followed me, then yes. I’m alone in that sense. And before you ask — Cosimo is in his castle mulling over a retaliation, I’m sure. Though, I’m not so sure about his daughter, Juliana...” The events of Teatro Nuovo is still under wraps and only a few were privy to the details of the altercation between his mother, Juliana and the Montague adviser, Rallis. And Cyrus is not among those with that knowledge.

But he lets it hang in the air, knowing it might be a little cruel of him to dangle any information he might have pertaining to her sweet-faced charge and not give it to her. It’s cruel and unsavoury and he thinks it’s something she might do, so he relishes those quiet seconds before asking his mother this; “Comment vous sentez-vous?” It’s been years since he stepped away from a place of love and empathy for his mother, so while it is against his better judgement to ask her How are you feeling? as if anything she says will be the truth in full, he does it nonetheless. How is she feeling? Helpless, he hopes.

She doesn’t realize until Cyrus is in her arms again that she has yet to forgive Vivianne for sending him away like he’s a package sent to the wrong address, or a letter she would rather not read. The memory returns, a slap across her cheek: waiting for him to call, checking the mail to see if he wrote her a letter, glaring at his mother when a young Maeve happened to see the Capulet underboss crossing the street. And just like that, loneliness floods her chest again, a ghost revived to life – and all because Cyrus is returned to Verona and to her.

Holding him should feel right. Natural. Like no time has passed and all the horrors of the world are far behind them. As long as this is possible – two friends who can find one another again in a city on the brink of ruin – then there is some good in the world. There is hope.

But he lets go, and his voice has grown deep and rough over the years; for a moment, Maeve wonders if she would even have recognized him if they passed each other in passing. The cool rush of air to her fingertips as they leave his cheek shatters all illusions of childhood innocence – it makes her heart physically ache, and it’s too much disappointment for Maeve to carry. Her father has cast her out. Her hands are sticky and black with blood. Her soul is wrinkled and dry. And her friend – her best friend from when she was a little girl, with small fists and high hopes – almost seems like a stranger.

Almost. A long beat of silence passes them by as she studies him, searching for signs of the boy she loved. The eyes are darker now, but they are still as lovely as they once were; and when he laughs, the hope bubbles in her chest again. When his forehead taps against hers, Maeve closes her eyes and breathes him in. Yes, this is her Cyrus. The warmth of him, the tender familiarity. This, she remembers. She remembers it well, though she’s ignored how much she missed him for years.

“Maybe not long enough?” She raises her brows and wonders what he means, if he’s seen unspeakable nightmares that he has yet to heal from. Life as a Capulet has surely been hard and weary on her; has life not treated Cyrus kindly, either?

It’s a sobering thought, one Maeve suddenly realizes is more likely than not. His mother is Vivianne, after all; how unlucky he is. Perhaps that rotten luck followed him around after his departure, too.

He asks her how she’s been, and Maeve doesn’t want to tell him. Like she is a still a child, she stubbornly fights the request for her honesty. The tales she has to tell have blunt and dull edges; they are tired stories of those who take a leap of faith and break their backs on the rocks below. She has nothing kind nor beautiful to offer him – and Maeve wants Cyrus to have only kind and beautiful things. He deserves as much – and so does she.

It’s only for the love she still has for Cyrus that Maeve is honest with him. “I’ve been… okay,” she says with noticeable hesitation. “Tonight’s been a little rough though, if I’m being honest. I’m not in the best shape right now,” Maeve admits with a helpless laugh. It’s out of her hands, her papa has always been out of her hands. “My papa is pretty upset with me – I told him… Well. He wasn’t happy when I told him I was going to be a Capulet, and he’s even less so now that I’ve actually… done Capulet things.”

She won’t tell him she has committed unforgiveable sins, suffered the unspeakable consequences. She won’t tell him that she watched the life leak out of a man’s eyes with tears in her own. She won’t tell him it still haunts her as she sleeps, no matter how ferociously she runs from it during the day.

“Other than that, things aren’t too bad. I couldn’t go to college because–“ because my papa needed me, “–I just didn’t know what I wanted to study. So now I work at this little flower shop and it’s been really nice.” Maeve peers up at Cyrus from beneath her lashes, more curious about his story than her own sad one. “What about you?”

For a moment, the air around them seems to be imbued with an invisible magic that shields them from the outside world. He could see no one except Maeve and no one could see them. He feels safe for the first time since returning, safe to let his hell-hound thoughts rest, safe to close his eyes. His other senses take over and he dwells on the feel of her fingers intertwined with his. He notes how they were once small and bony but now feel strong and less embellished the with gummy worm rings he’d tied around her index. That thought makes it possible for the small smile on pressed upon her crown to grow. 

But the magic only lasts for a moment and the illusion disappears when her question captures his full attention. And he realises he wants her to know. “If I had stayed away in some other part of the world maybe the reality of my life wouldn’t feel so stark. It’s more...more than I remember.” The distance between him and his home placed by his mother created a mirage. He remembers Verona to be as golden as the paint lining the columns of the cathedral but now upon closer inspection he knows the gold is purely a deception to conceal the blood that flows freely down the street-veins of the city. “I don’t know. I’m a mess, if you can’t tell.” He laughs because he doesn’t want to let bitterness creep into his voice. So, instead he pulls his gaze up at the girl who was looking straight at him with warm brown eyes.

He hears the dithering lilt to her voice and wonders if she think her secrets are too heavy for him to carry or too defining for her to share. Would they define how I look at you? he thinks to himself, almost sadly because he knows he’ll have to come to terms with the fact that there’s not one person in Verona he could trust to be honest with him despite what she says. He doesn’t hold it against her though, because the shrillness in her laugh tells him that maybe while she wishes things were different, she couldn’t change it. He feels the same way. “Well, you have me now and I you. So, you’re welcome to crash here if you need to. I get it, I absolutely understand...parents, huh. Mine’s worse than yours I’m willing to bet. At least he didn’t ship you off to a different country,” the jest brushes his vowels in the way he didn’t suppose it to, terse and a little sorry for himself.

He wants to hear everything about what she’s been up to and he was ready for them to have the reunion he had once wished for but the way she says Capulet things... Cyrus looks at her with those blue eyes touched by storm clouds. “What? What things, Mimi?” He asks, curiosity taking the forefront of emotions playing in his voice.

    He surveyed the ruin with a furrowed brow, picturing the Falco name upon a fine brass plate. This would be his gift to the city that had never appreciated him, an homage to the parents that had never once thought him truly worthy of the illustrious and respected name. He combed his fingers through his hair, thinking of all the work that would have to be done in order to accomplish the vision he had laid out – a new bridge, stronger than the last but imbued with the stones of the bridge that had been rent apart by the petty grievances of two mobs who had been at war for so long that they had begun to repeat what affairs they were fighting about. “This is all where it happened,” he confirmed with a nod, turning to Cyrus with a rather curious quirk of his brow. 

    “I’m surprised we aren’t still on the news,” he mused, turning to look back at the ruin. Was it not worth noting how the bombing had happened? Or why? Or who had committed such a violent act against a city that had enough violence in it? “But there’s no doubt the rest of Verona is glad to have shined in a less-than-ideal limelight for a short amount of time.”

    Cosimo for one, was likely relieved to not have to smother the story. The more government eyes there were on Verona, the less likely select clientele would be willing to visit. And they needed to in order to see and hold the products for themselves. Whatever could have possessed the Montagues to make such a bullheaded move, he wasn’t sure, but in their determination to fuck over the Capulets they had almost done the whole city in. “The grand attraction of the Castelvecchio was that it had withstood against the test of time for so many years,” Mikael explained, slipping his hands into his pockets. “And then it had been rebuilt. Destruction is poetic, si, but the true beauty is seeing destruction give way to creation. That, mio ragazzo, is what we will attempt to do.”

“Why?” With his brows creasing in confusion, Cyrus asks as if the other man’s surprise shouldn’t be a given. “It’s obvious someone’s been paid off. At the news stations, I mean. More eyes on us, means more eyes on them.” He says them pointedly but with little disdain lacing the syllable. Though, in truth disdain is what he harbours for them. The mobs. Cosimo Capulet. Damiano Montague. They’re all the same and while he’s picked a side for now, Cyrus is convinced that it’s only one of them who are the lesser of two evils. “But it won’t last long, I think you know that. Verona’s self-made gods can only hold off the masses for so long. Sooner or later, someone will start writing, speculating and worse...coming up with conspiracy theories.”

He can almost see it set in a black, bold font captioning a YouTube video of a person explaining their theories on what exactly happened on that fateful day on the Castelvecchio bridge. He sweeps his palms wide in the air and pauses with fingers splayed out, as if he could see a news headline spreading across the space between his hands. “THE BOMBING OF VERONA: AN UNDERWORLD WAR OR GOVERNMENT COVER UP,” he announces before laughing it off. “It would be funny, sì?” Funny because the truth of it all is darker and goes deeper than anyone might imagine it to go and he of all people has somehow obtained the privilege of a front row seat to that spectacle.

“In other words, we’re here to distract the citizen and to paint the Capulet name in a good light, where it’s because of our patron people will come together to rebuild after a great tragedy.” His cynicism is obvious now and seems to seep into the lines of his smile as he faces Mikael without hiding it. “I assume Don Capulet will be funding your creation, Signor Falco. Don’t mistake me — I’m genuinely thrilled that you want me on your project.”

She doesn’t know what calls her up from the dark and insensate abyss that envelopes her; manufactured by the steady drip-drip of a narcotic fluid that’s trickling into her veins from a nearby IV bag. She doesn’t know what calls her, but it feels like she’s forgotten how to answer. There’s the torpid flutter of her eyelashes as she tries to fight against the instinct to stay under, to sleep for as long as the drugs will allow. 

At some point, too late, her lids open; eyes tearing instantly in response to the harsh overhead lighting of the ICU. Someone’s turning away. It’s a cruel trick of the light that makes her see Cyrus where it’s undoubtedly just the pivoting form of a nurse or a doctor or someone equally uninteresting come to check up on her. The estranged mother blinks away the mirage in the hopes of dissipating it but another glance at the retreating figure reveals that it is indeed the only visitor that she could both stupidly yearn for and fear in equal measure. Vivianne opens her mouth and a voice comes out so tremulous it’s awful and unfamiliar to her own ears. 

“Cyrus…?”

But he doesn’t stop in his tracks, doesn’t even hesitate. And whether he’s phantom or flesh, Vivianne is desperate to keep him from leaving so fast. She struggles to sit up, only to be weighed down by her sutured middle. Fingers grasp frantically for the bed’s metallic railings. She needs to get up, needs to see him, needs to- “Cyrus, attends!” Wait, she begs. 

— And Vivianne Sloane never begs.

“Cyrus, attends! “

All at once everything seems to stop as well as start. It is a contradictory feeling because as he wills his heels to halt on the pale tiled floors, he feels his heart start racing against his will. It is like a scene in a movie where the protagonist knows a monster lurks just behind his shoulder, where he knows if he turns around he’d have to face the nightmare which has been haunting his steps for so long. But what if he doesn’t turn around? Will that shadowy beast be banished simply by not being acknowledged? Perhaps in fairy tales. But in reality, Cyrus is nothing if not fearless. If anything, he welcomes the challenge.

So, he turns around with his face veiled with the indifference he's made a habit of reserving for his mother. But at the sight of her and her broken body and, by the sound of her voice, her wounded spirit Cyrus feels a tightness wrap around his neck. The words he’d rather swallow and choke on than spit out bobs at back of his throat. He doesn’t let himself linger on them especially when he locks eyes with his maman. Though what he does let himself feel is the pity that shines in his eyes, not with tears ( never that, not with her ) but with a kind of pity one saves for a cause for regret or disappointment.

Nevertheless, he knows how to be civil.

“Je suis ici,” he says as he closes the gap between them, though not near enough she can easily touch him. I’m here. The words are neither the comforting sort nor the biting type but rather a statement and an invitation for her to say more. If Vivianne Sloane can beg once, she can continue begging.

WHEN: February 10th WHERE: The Cathedral of Verona WHO: Closed @lacoriolanus

The day was more or less normal for Theodora. The morning saw lab work, making more batches of faerie’s blood and separating doses for distribution, with a few moments dedicated to their nearly-complete side project. After lunch it was time to retreat to a back room in the Cathedral to finish some papers they’d been behind on, which brought them to the space they occupied now. Much of their focus had been on this new product and all it could do (and all it had done to them in the tests they’d performed already), and while those higher up knew Theodora was on the brink of something to further propel the Capulets ahead, they figured they couldn’t ignore the more mundane tasks any longer, lest they want to be absolutely swamped when things really take off, hopefully within the next few weeks if all went well.

They were expecting these footsteps down the hall. Word traveled fast in Verona if you knew where to listen for it, and Theodora always knew which walls were talking. But there was often more than just word of mouth that gave them the information they coveted. There was a feeling one received when eyes were upon them, no matter the source. There was a sensation of knowing your name was on someone’s mind for a particular reason, a burning hatred or a woeful desire or an intriguing curiosity that had not yet bloomed with answers to the questions being sought. Then, of course, there was observable behavior. The lingering of another’s eyes for just a second too long or their presence in a space where it is not normally found can give off the hint if you were paying enough attention, and Theodora liked to think they were quite good at paying attention.

“Come in, Cyrus,” they instructed, noticing his frame in the doorway. “I’ve heard you have something you’d like to discuss with me.”

That morning, as Cyrus looked at the calendar and he realised he was only four days away from executing his first important Capulet-dictated task. To a degree it excited him to know that he’ll at least be one step closer to proving that he’s come to accept and to live the Capulet truth; that the kingdom of Verona is for the taking and nothing less. In fact, it’s exactly why he’s come looking for one of their best, a fellow emissary at that. Theodora Moreau. He’s heard only praises trailing in the wake of their name. They are the mob’s innovator, their enchantress scientist. It’s as if combining science and hardcore drugs makes for a little magic, according to the way they market fairy blood. Cyrus, upon first hearing about the Capulet’s self made opiate, had struggled not to scoff at the name.

It’s no doubt an impressing feat but fairy blood? 

Nevertheless, he goes to see its creator.

Mimi. Sometimes, it takes only one word to shift the universe, anchor it to reality and bring it back into perspective. With one word, the pieces that are scattered and without meaning click into place. She’s a girl again, a child whose palms are free of callouses, whose smile holds no understanding of pain. Mimi is the girl Maeve longs to protect, the child she has sworn to hold at the core of her being.

On Cyrus’s tongue, wrapped in the familiar — and yet, brand new — cadence of his voice, Maeve begins to feel like Mimi again.

She turns, almost self-consciously. She wonders if he will recognize her after all these years. Her freckles are darker now, her curls are tamer now that she’s learned the wonders of serums and creams. Her heart weighs heavier and it shows in her eyes, a new dimension in her gaze that reflect the depth of all the pain she’s survived, the hurt she still shoulders.

“Cyrus.” She says his name in a breath. Before he can respond, Maeve is in his arms. Arms curling around his waist like they’re children again.

Some friendships become part of your blood. Until loving them is natural, until loving them is innate. You cannot run from who you are, Maeve has learned. She’s learned that she cannot escape the love she has, too. For once a shard of her heart is given, it will never be returned. Her papa, Easton, Catherine, Santino… they’re all proof that no matter how hard love becomes, it survives. Even when you don’t always want it to.

But caring for Cyrus is like breathing. It’s like laughter in the midst of a rainy day, like sunshine after the storm. It’s easy. She leans back and looks up at him without breaking her embrace, unwilling to pull herself away from him still. “I can’t believe you’re back. How long has it been?” She unloads one arm from his torso and lightly touches his cheek with her fingertips. “I’ve missed out on so much.” With a voice as soft as it is gentle, Maeve insists, “Please, tell me everything.”

During the first few months that he spent in South Africa feeling as if he had been a castaway, Cyrus had pleaded with the stars and with his Dio for deliverance from his strange island-prison. Because despite all the riches and opportunities that surrounded him, all he had wanted was to go home — to go back to the place he was familiar with, to the people in whom he had found shelter, and to a state where ignorance was finest bliss. But when his prayers had fallen on deaf ears, he called his mother from 8,000 miles away and begged her to take him back. He had asked her, sometimes frantically, other times desperately, to forgive him for all his sins ( for he thought it was his sins that prevented him from being wanted ) and promised he would play the part of a repentant son. And even though she took the time to listen to his confessions and acts of contrition, she refused him still, effectively causing the first of many cracks in his golden chest. But the shining and shattering innocence in him experienced its deepest rupture when his simple request to talk with his best friend had also been denied.

Since then, he’d kept his most important wishes quiet. The ones he’s always been afraid of voicing out in case the wind decides to spirit them away from him. The ones he now has to extricate from the depths of his molten heart, carefully sieving through memories he had messily pushed aside into the corners of his psyche. Maeve’s face had been among those dusty echoes of the past. For that one moment before she turned around, he’d wished and hoped to see her same beam again. He could barely recall what she had looked like, only remember that she had short curly hair and warm brown eyes. He braces himself for the flood of emotion he expects to hit.

But as he meets those eyes, he curses himself for ever thinking that for one second they could ever return to the children they once were.

For even in the dark, he could see that she carries a weight with her. And he hears it in the way she says his name, as if it is a cry for help, for any comfort he is able to provide. He feels it in her embrace, the way she wraps her arms around him as if she is at sea and he a piece of driftwood. He doesn’t know what to make of it. He wants to tell her to let go, that she doesn’t know him nor he her, but it feels so good to at least pretend they had never changed. That they were still the same children who met at the park, only taller and with all their teeth.

“Neither can I,” he says honestly, as he hesitates but ultimately settles with wrapping his arms around her shoulders in a hug before letting go. “I don’t know. Too long, I think. But also, maybe not long enough.” He shakes his head at the last bit before covering her hand with his briefly. “I think we’ve both missed out on a lot of things, no? Too many to recount in one night.” If they were children, he would have leaned into her touch. But time and distance have reduced them to familiar strangers meeting in the city they both call home. So, gently he pries her fingers and arm away, replacing the touch of his cheek with both of his hands.