almost ghostly

dukemassetti‌:

december 8th | undisclosed alleyway 30 mins. after sunrise | closed for @maeve-petre and @ofcyrus

He doubted Maeve had chosen the meeting place. The alley was too far out of the way, between two buildings vacated in the aftermath of the Purge and the bombing. The perfect place to do their business, and if things went south, it was a locale that wasn’t frequented by foot traffic. This worked to Maeve’s advantage, but it had worked for the person she’d killed, too. He would’ve bet anything it was meant to be the latter that came out alive in the end, and the thought had his jaw clenched, hand curled into a fist before forcing himself to loosen up.

It wasn’t any different. He’d done this for several Capulets in his long history working with them. Everyone knew that Orion had a cleaner on speed dial, and paid handsomely to have her drop what she was doing if he asked. Maeve likely didn’t know, but she could have, if she’d bothered to look.

Orion killed more than most, after all.

He arrived first, but he wasn’t surprised, shooting a text to Maeve and letting her know he was on scene. Maeve had to convince her mysterious stranger to attend with her, while Orion was only responsible for himself. And cleaning up her mess, he added, but it didn’t annoy him. The more he thought about it, the more satisfied he was with this conclusion. He would’ve liked to have been there, as he had been for Rafaella and for Katerina, among others. He would’ve loved to witness the shift in her, that moment where a person leaps over the ledge into darkness and cannot return. But this way, Everett couldn’t blame him, and was actually on his side. He didn’t have to carefully choose his words or hide anything beyond omitting his pleasure at the occurrence. It really did work out almost perfectly, aside from Maeve’s life being endangered. If not him, it should’ve been someone else who had her back.

The scene was fairly gruesome. He hadn’t known what to expect and hadn’t bothered to ask for details, but she’d used a knife rather than a gun. Had she even brought a gun with her? He shook his head, studying the gore in a detached manner. The man had taken out the knife; rookie move. He may have survived if he hadn’t done that. There were signs of a scuffle, but if he’d had allies, they’d run and left him to die. Not very loyal of them.

Orion took the black gloves from his back pocket and slid them on. He was wearing a thoroughly paint-splattered long-sleeved shirt and jeans, with scuffed workman’s boots. They still had blood caked into the soles from last time, but no one noticed. If you wore clothes stained with vibrant paint, a little blood just seemed to blend right in. People assumed you had morbid taste in wall swatches and left it alone. Not that anyone was likely to see him; the alley was barely wide enough for his driver to back the van in. Maeve and her compatriot would have to squeeze around it, and anyone on the street would think it was merely a home deco company van.

Jane didn’t touch the bodies until they were in the van. It wasn’t her real name, but it was all he called her, and it worked for them. He had to get the evidence inside, and after that, it went who the fuck knows where. Somewhere it wouldn’t tie back to him; that was all he cared about. He took a moment to strategize as to how best to move him when footsteps interrupted his perusal. Orion spun on his heel, looking for Maeve, trying to gauge her expression before doing anything else.

She wanted to greet the morning before confronting it. She wanted to let the sun warm her skin, steal a few minutes from the day for herself before she must continue the worst night of her life. Maeve ended her call to Orion and slipped slowly out of the cover, grabbing a shirt that smelled like Cyrus and throwing it on before walking to the window. If she had a cup of coffee or tea, this might feel like a perfect moment; hands wrapped around a warm mug, admiring the city she loved and the boy she adored during their most peaceful moments.

A shiver ran through her. It was a terrible and tragic thing, to imagine having everything you wanted. To know you could have it if you had made the right decision, to know that it is out of your control and that the winds will move you wherever it pleases – even if it is right over the edge of the cliff, into black and unforgiving waters.

She turned towards Cyrus. Verona and its blistering sun watched as her eyes grew soft and her lips curved. She hadn’t known it could be like this. She’d imagined falling in love, being in love, acting out love a million times – sighing at the end of it each time, knowing it would feel wonderful.

She hadn’t known it could be painful, too. Her heart ripping itself out of your chest like this to live in another person; to surrender your own happiness to another, sometimes by choice and sometimes because you didn’t know how to not love them. Feeling the happiness and the pain at once, Maeve went to him, like he had summoned her even in his sleep, and knelt by his side of the bed. “Cyrus,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “We have to go.”

“We have to clean up the mess we made.”

The closer they got to the scene of the incident, the sweatier her palms became. She tucked them into her pockets and hoped Orion wouldn’t want to shake her hand or anything – not that he ever had, but she never knew quite what to expect from him on a regular day, much less the day he learned she had become a murderer.

It was a small thing to be in Verona. A useless and commonplace label. Her own father was a murderer, even Cat – the most beautiful and precious person Maeve knew – was a murderer. If she could forgive her best friend, then surely she could forgive herself.

When she saw Orion and a stone dropped from her throat to the bottom of her stomach, Maeve understood she would never forgive herself for this. She could do it again, and again, and again and again and again – and still, she would resent herself forever. She must, because the dead deserved it. The forsaken deserved her remorse.

“I’m… We’re here.” She wanted, more than anything, to hold Cyrus’ hand – but instead, she removed her hands from her pockets and wiped her hands on her thighs. “Just tell us what to do.” Not that I’ll ever do this again, Maeve wanted to add – but who knew if that was true anymore?

the sunlight that poured in through his window used to annoy him. it reminded him of the world outside, everyone waiting for him, everyone expecting things from him. but that morning was different. that morning, the sun came with maeve petre. he would open his eyes, and she would be there, and she would be his. and the sun would continue to hit him, and people would continue to expect too much of him, but he would have her. and now, as he felt her kisses pepper his skin, as he felt her voice radiate through him, and as he opened his eyelids and saw the gentle, caring look in his eye, he knew he would have his forever. and it would be with her. no matter what happened to them, they would always be together. 

a smile curled at the corner of his lips, but quickly disappeared as he remembered the night before. what they had left to do. he wondered what her mission had been, why she had been surrounded by all of those men alone, why they didn’t pair someone so new off with someone who knew better. and those thoughts would continue rolling in his mind the entire walk there, as their hands were kept apart, as the tension on maeve’s chest got worse, as he watched her go off into a world of remorse and regret. it’ll get easier, mon amour, he wanted to say. but he didn’t know if that was true, not for her. 

the saddest part was, that had she not been involved, he knew he would have already forgotten about it. how can a life so far from war breed such hate in his heart? such coldness? 

to think they had been so close once. that the company they shared was pure, and holy. that cyrus had found some sort of home in her arms. the concept of home had not been a part of his reality for most, if not all of his life. he went from hating living with his mother, to hating living with the relatives he was stuck with, to hating living in the same city as his mother. on one hand, cyrus lived for the rush that verona gave him. it never stopped moving, there was always more to be done, more for him to do, more ways for him to prove that he was good enough to advance in the capulet ranks. with that. came the ghosts of his past. 

he had seen her a few times up to now, though they had never had a conversation. he wasn’t ready for it. wasn’t prepared to see what it was his mother had wished he had been. perhaps it was because juliana was softer, well spoken, behaved. cyrus, when he was sent away, was none of those things.

and now, as they sat waiting for the train to move, ready to go to their destination, to close a final deal for the capulets, he found his hands shaking. not with fear, but with anger. in his mind, she had betrayed him. had been an aid in taking everything from him. perhaps he should call her sister, something he used to call her freely, perhaps he could continue to ignore her, talk business and nothing more. but he knew he would never get away with that, not with juliana, not when they hadn’t spoken in years. 

he wondered then, if his leaving was all a part of his mother’s plan to find a new family. one she could be proud of. 

he shook the thought out of his head, and, for the first time, looked juliana in the eye. “did you bring an umbrella? it’s meant to be raining where we’re going.” pointless conversation. useless. just like this mission. just like any time spent with her. 

how lucky she was, to be loved by so many. to be cared for like this by so many in her life, taken by the hand and led to a safe haven, rough hands washing the blood off of her with quiet diligence. she didn’t know if she believed cyrus, but she believed in this. she believed in the warmth of his touch, the depth in his eyes, the gentle press of his fingers on her body.

maeve closed her eyes. let this be right, she prayed like she hadn’t since her father first came home in the middle of the night with red splattered against his body, the shadow covering his eyes. let this be love.

when she opened her eyes and cyrus said, “you believe in love,” she knew it was.

his neck stretched before her and maeve put a hand against it, leaned as far as she could without falling to press her lips against it. “i won’t let that happen ever again,” she murmured against his skin, “i can’t watch you leave again.” i will do anything to make this worth it, she thought as she pulled away, this is the only end that justifies the means.

she could sense how dangerous the thought was, but she thought it anyways — she had too much to lose, now.

still, there was too much maeve in her and not enough miranda. “but can’t we protect those who are loved?” she asked, her kind heart stubborn as ever. “shouldn’t we at least try?” it’s cyrus who took his hands in hers but maeve was the one who held on tighter and tighter with each passing second, the edge in her voice growing desperate. “everyone is loved. you, me, the men we just… killed.” she shuddered.

“i would choose you, and papa and juliana and cat and everett and so many others,” maeve said, bringing their clasped hands to her lips and kissing his fingers, “but i just can’t let go of this feeling that every single person has someone who would die for them. and i took all of that away from someone.”

“i would do it again too, for you,” he said. and despite all that she just said to him, maeve smiled tenderly and nodded in agreement. “me too.” it scares me, she wanted to say, i don’t know what else i would do for you, murder and beyond. instead, she whispered. “kiss me again and remind me why.”

the memory of their last goodbye was still fresh in his mind. it replayed over and over when he closed his eyes, and continued to through all of the years they were apart. she was his best friend, his love, his entire world. they had grown together, had learned from each other, and whatever gentleness he had in his heart, he had learned from maeve. every good part of him was given to him by the only light he had left in his life, and for that, he knew, he would never let her leave his side again. he needed her like he needed air, and it was only solidified when they had kissed, and when they greeted death at their door. 

“if you’ll have me, i’ll stay with you forever,” he replied, his voice soft, and gentle. and in that moment, he meant it. he put aside the bloody towels, throwing them in the trash, and rested his hand on her cheek, looking into her eyes, feeling what it meant to be this close to her without fear. 

“you’re so selfless,” he replied, his fingers now tracing some of his favorite features of maeve. whatever smile lines she had, the curve of her jaw, her neck, her collarbones. he wanted to explore every inch of her, but he stopped himself there, meeting her eye once again. had it been anyone else, he would have felt a pang of jealousy hearing everett’s name on her tongue. but it was maeve. and she was so much better than him, so much more deserving of love than he was. he understood why everett would stay with her, guide her. he understood why she was good enough and he wasn’t. 

“you have to hold the people you love closer than those you don’t. or at least, that’s what i believe. had he killed me, what would you have done? if i had let that other man kill you, what would i have done? it would have only led to unresolved bloodlust, which would have further tainted your heart, caused you to hurt more people.” 

he shakes his head, looking into her eyes again, getting lost in them. how were they still so bright, so kind, so innocent? “we did what we had to do, maeve. don’t regret protecting yourself, protecting me. it’ll only put you in harm’s way in a city like this.” 

his eyes would forever move her. she could stand on the surest foundation, the highest pedestal, the safest fortress in italy; and still, with one look alone, cyrus could topple it over. it had been this way since they were children. when he presented a stolen peach and maeve felt a pang of guilt at the money the vendor was owed even as she took a bite and let the juice run down her chin. when he made a joke that rubbed her the wrong way and maeve would laugh, taking his hand and running her thumb over his palm as if her affection could cover whatever pain he masked.

her love was her greatest strength, but now, taking his hands into her own, maeve wondered if it was not her greatest weakness, too.

“mio amore, your hands are shaking.” afraid to break the moment between them, maeve spoke softly, a gentle knock on the door to cyrus’s guarded heart. she ran her fingers through his hair, letting her fingertips drag along his neck, his throat before she pressed her palm to his cheek.

she wanted to ask if he felt as uprooted as she did. if the pain bloomed within him, too. instead, maeve kissed him again — a brief touch of the lips, a ghost of the one they just shared. “of course i’ll stay. cyrus,” her mouth curved into a small and sincere smile, “i’m always going to stay.”

the smile dropped to the bottom of her stomach when she looked down at her clothes. splattered and ruined, she knew she’d burn them another night. and she would mourn and grieve the victim of all the love she had for cyrus. the man who paid the cost for her own happiness.

“some clothes would be nice.” she met his eyes and tried to smile again, though it fell flat. “i, um…” dio, she wasn’t ready to face it herself, much less reveal it to cyrus. but it was cyrus. they had grown up together, they belonged to each other. there wasn’t anything she couldn’t give to cyrus.

right?

“i’m worried that i’m going to become a different person now,” she whispered. “and that this means everything i believe is wrong somehow. you know?” she ran her thumb across cyrus’s cheekbone. “and i’m scared too, because… because i’d do it again. for you.”

her fingers on his skin tracing down to his neck sent fire through his veins, his heart skipping, and his body once again giving into her automatically. it was like, whenever she touched him, looked at him, she had found his off switch. suddenly, his racing thoughts stopped, and he felt at peace. if only for as long as her touch lasted. when she mentioned his shaking hands, he looked at them, then back into her eyes. nodding in response, as though that would be enough. 

i’m always going to stay. 

those were words cyrus would have never thought he would hear. never. but it made sense, it felt right spilling from maeve’s lips. not only because of their past, but because of what had just happened. they were tied by blood now, literally. the blood of the same man now staining both of their clothes, their skin, everywhere. 

“nothing you believe in is wrong,” he replied, guiding her with him to the bathroom, then sitting her down on the counter. he began to clean her up as he talked. something to calm her down, something to help her see that she was not bad for what she had done, and, hopefully, something to allow her to do it again in the future. he was sure, positive, that this would not be their last time spilling blood together. 

an image of his mother flashed in his mind. surely this was the beginning of it all. the beginning of her end. with maeve by his side, he could do anything. 

“you believe in love,” he replied, now looking into her eyes. "he was going to kill me. i was so close to being gone.” he exposed his neck then for her, the marks of his hands still alive on his skin. surely that would bruise later. “we’re in a war, maeve. all we can do is protect those we love.” he put the towel down when she was cleaned off, holding her hands in his, kissing her palms, the ones she had just moments ago used to take the life of a man. “i’ve never...done that. before tonight. before i saw you there surrounded by them...i knew how but i never did it.” he nods, looking into her eyes. “i would do it again too. for you. anything.” he leaves out the part of how good it made him feel, how he would do it again regardless of whether or not she was involved. 

it was one thing to kill a man. it was another to kill a complete stranger who you didn’t know, would never know. it felt sick, unholy, wrong, awful, nauseating — but when the skin of her palm touched cyrus’, it fell away. his touch was a physical reminder of who she had done it for, who she would do it for again. no one would touch him again, and maeve felt a soft and dull thrill that she was the one who kept him by her side.

she had promised herself to know everything. to demand the truth and find beauty in it, with a will like iron and a love like steel. she would not be denied reality for the sake of protection again — not from her father, not from anyone. she could feel that same mission drumming inside of her now. because she would never again be the little girl who watched, helpless and lost, as her best friend stepped on a train and out of her life.

was it too much to ask of verona? the entire truth, and all the love she craved? enough to fill her up to the brim, overflow and flood the streets of the city that raised her. was this the price of receiving everything she wanted from the world?

she followed cyrus automatically, feeling more and more suffocated by the question with each step. what were they running from? she didn’t understand. what were they running to? she didn’t have the slightest clue, and all she could do was let cyrus lead her as she prayed the night would end soon. she wanted to go home, no she didn’t want to go home, she wanted to be with cyrus, she wanted to see her papa, no the sight of her papa would break her, she wanted…

she wanted her mom. even with murder freshly added to her resume, maeve could still wish for such naive and stupid things. impossible things. lovely, fantastic, perfect things.

her internal screaming began to fade the moment cyrus put his hands on her cheeks, and maeve’s breathing slowed from ragged to even the more he said her name. it sounded right. it made her feel whole and full in a way that was unfamiliar. their bond had always run deep, deeper than blood and bone, and now — now, it was more. it was everything.

murdering someone for the sake of another could do that to a friendship, maeve supposed.

“i fucking love you.”

how did he know that it was just what she needed to hear? that those words were the only prayer she needed, the only repentance she could accept? her breath caught and what sounded like a sob ripped itself from her throat. “i love—”

his mouth was on hers before she could get the last word out, but she finished her sentence with her lips instead. one hand in his hair and the other on his chest, she remembered their first kiss, brave and awkward and sudden. he hadn’t kissed her like this, with ferocity and longing that she could drown in. and maeve had never kissed him, had never kissed anyone, like this either. deeply, like she was drinking from a well after wandering in the desert. like she was dying and he was the last breath of fresh air she would ever enjoy.

finally, she pulled away and searched his eyes. how can you love me when i just killed someone? she wanted to ask. instead, maeve finished what she had started before cyrus had interrupted her: “i love you.”

had he ever heard those words before? had anyone ever expressed such feelings of honest love and devotion? looked at him with eyes so fierce he felt as though he could burn just at the sight of them? his entire body ached for her, leaned towards her, ached for her touch in any possible way. and now that he had felt what it was like to kiss her, finally, with confidence, he knew that there was no going back. 

the universe had always wanted them to be together, though he wasn’t sure why until now. she completed him in every possible way. 

where he was cold, she was warm, where he thought too methodically, she thought with her heart. without her, he never got the full picture. verona, the world, everything around him would never be complete if he could not see the way maeve looked at them. and now, as she looked at him with love, as the words left her lips, he realized that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t meant to be this cold, unloving thing. he wasn’t meant to live his life manipulating people to get to the top of any side of this war. and right now, in their bubble, in his apartment, blood staining their clothes, he knew that he would always believe that his life was supposed to have been better than it turned out. 

if only that had been enough. if only it satisfied whatever heat burned in his chest, whatever thirst for power cursed his tongue. 

he might have felt what being loved for the first time meant, but he also felt what it meant to take everything away from someone. to be left with their life stained on his hands. and he would be lying if that didn’t feel just as good. 

power, afterall, quenched something in him he could never name before. 

despite these thoughts, his eyes, his movements, all of him remained soft for her. his thumb moving across her cheek, his forehead pressed to hers, closing his eyes as he kept her close, breathed her in. felt what it felt like to be loved. at least for a little while. and then he looked into her eyes again, “stay with me tonight.” this was mostly so he could make sure she was alright, but also for his own selfish gain. he didn’t want to say goodbye to her, not when his hands continued to shake with adrenaline. “i’ll lend you some clothes.”

The vitriol in Cyrus’s voice — however low, however muddled — is not, in any sense of the word, unexpected. Part of his chest rings with a hollow ache. Everett tells himself it’s the product of over-exerting himself before his wounds have sufficiently healed. It’s a good lie, realistic enough that he can cling to it without too much second thought, though that may have more to do with the constant state of hazy pain he’s inhabited for the past few days save for the few times Halcyon wore down his stubbornness and forced him to take his prescribed anesthesia at the expense of his mental acuity.

He allows a measure of silence. Whether he does it for himself, or for Cyrus, Everett isn’t sure. 

What do you say to a boy who was almost your son?

What do you say to a boy who hates you?

What do you say?

Everything.

Nothing.

Everett swallows, as if by doing so he can erase the bitter taste from his throat. His voice is still low and raspy from Warren’s hands around his neck when he speaks, breaking the stifling static that seems more unbearable than speaking would be. “If it were up to general medical advice, I would not be out of the house,” he admits neutrally. “But when Don Capulet calls, I go.”

he should have been kinder to him then. should have shown some kind of sympathy. empathy. anything. but he couldn’t. all he felt was more resentment, more anger filling his heart and leaving a bitter feeling on his tongue. of coufrse he would do this. of course he would try to get him to pity him. and yet, that was not where all of his anger came from. no. it came from his own inability to notice anything drastic like that about him at all. he was too focused on what had changed, on what was new, he hadn’t paid attention to what could be different. everything was different, how was he meant to notice something so drastic?

his stomach turned at the thought, his face contorting in something that looked like judgement, but deep down he knew it was discomfort. sadness. he had his heart broken once in his life, and it wasn’t when his mother sent him away. it wasn’t when he yelled at maeve from the train. no. it was when he watched everett walk away from him. it was when he, once again, was alone with his mother. a mother who could not love him the way a child needed to be loved. 

he was back to life before him. he was back to being alone. it was the beginning of years of loneliness, the beginning of south africa, the beginning of feeling alienated by his family, the beginning of everything. “a shame that your talents are waisted for something as petty as this war.” it was honest, but he intended it to be a blade in his heart. he had heard of him, of course. had kept closed tabs on him, had gotten every magazine that mentioned his name, would google him every once in a while when he found himself wondering of what his life could have been. 

that was always the first thing that had come to his mind. what more could he have accomplished, had his loyalties not been tied to verona? 

it should have been a harder decision… she thought it would be a harder decision. when capulet and montague alike flanked her on each side – crowding and entrapping her at the center of their bloodied circle, demanding wreckage and pain and a flimsy will – maeve would imagine her reaction to exactly this. i am not my father, she imagined herself saying, a halo emitting from every inch of her skin like a shield no war could shatter, i am not like any of you, because i still believe in love.

and yet, it was the love she worshiped that flooded her from throat to chest to belly to the bottom of her feet. it was love that turned the knife in her hand from a paintbrush to a weapon, made not for artistry or a fluid dance between two but a battlefield.

this was why people enlisted in wars, sold their souls to a cause that turned neighbors to enemies and old friends to foes. with the face of their child or their mother or their soulmate in mind, they pulled the trigger and did not dare close their eyes as, one after one, a stranger took their last breath and crumpled, exploded, collapsed. died.

for love.

if cyrus could not defend her – as her papa had, as everett had, as catherine had – then maeve must defend her own right to live on. to love on. to return home and promise her papa that yes, death was real and at their doorstep but it had already stolen too much from them, and she would not let him search for hope at the bottom of a bottle ever again.

and she would not lose cyrus again. not when it had taken many years and a sheer stroke of luck to find him again.

her heart hardly skipped a beat before maeve met his eyes and understood what cyrus was asking her to do. it was immediate, it was easy – and in a few moments, her resolve was set. the man had already forgotten her: the little girl who called for a man to save her sorry self, the girl who should have run away at the first opening but stayed. for love.

for love, she drove the knife into the arm that held cyrus captive. for love, she pulled the second knife from her back pocket and without trembling, shoved it into his stomach.

maeve didn’t look him in the eye as she ripped them out. she only looked for cyrus. “come on,” she said as if this was all part of her plan, just a silly ritual before they would grab a midnight snack or a glass of wine over candlelight. she held out her hand and flinched terribly when she saw how it gleamed red in the moonlight.

her voice shook this time. “come on,” she said again. “please.”

there was something almost holy about both of their first deaths occuring in front of the other. to take, to steal, to rob someone of their chance at life, in order to protect the most valuable thing one could have. love. and, as he slowly started seeing black, then white, he wondered if perhaps he had, once again, placed his love and protection in the wrong person. if his inability to keep the walls he had kept in place up would end up being his final end. he found himself wondering, for a moment, if his mother would cry. if everett would regret the lost days, if maeve would think about his dying breath and know, it was all for her. 

and then came the release, a sudden sharp influx of air filling his lungs, only to be spat back out with a cough. he heard her voice, but it was far away. the first thing he saw was her hand, stained red with blood, and then the eyes of the man who had lifted him up so easily, who had almost taken his life. he watched him disappear, and for a moment, cyrus felt powerful. he felt the most powerful he had ever felt. yet at the same time, met with an eerie sense of his own mortality. he could die so easily, had maeve not been there, he was sure the light that would be gone would be his own. 

he looked at maeve for the first time. her face was pale, her eyes frenzied. the blood, he noticed, had splattered across her face. he wonder if she knew, if she was in as much of a haze as he had been when he felt his blade course through flesh, when the heat that covered his hand didn’t feel like blood, but instead, of gold. he nodded once he had gained his breath again, taking her hand in his, and running as far away as possible. only to end up hiding, blocks away, almost across the city, in an alley. 

they couldn’t get to his apartment right then. they needed to make sure that no one had followed, that they were safe. he held her close, out of breath, but knowing she needed to feel the comfort of his body then. the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, he did not know if he was shaking, or if it was maeve. once he was sure no one was behind them, he ducked into his apartment building with her in front of him. he would not take his eyes off of her. he would not let her crumble on his own. cyrus was okay with taking a life but he knew, he knew, that maeve must be wishing to rip her heart out of her body. 

but the adrenaline. the rush. out of breath, he shut and locked the door behind him, taking a few steps towards maeve, putting his hands on either side of her face, using his thumb to wipe some of the blood away. “maeve...maeve...” there was nothing else he could say right then. no other words came to him. his voice was soft, and comforting, knowing how quickly she would unravel when everything had settled. “i fucking love you.” perhaps that could fill everything. the questions he had about why she was there by herself, the gratitude of being saved by her, the connection they had made that night. all of his beginnings, he realized, would always involve maeve petre. 

this was the beginning of spilled blood. of due reward. 

and then he leaned in, pressing his lips to hers, desperately in need of the softness, of the memories that those lips held. 

Cyrus is no longer a child.

It’s a jarring reality Everett realizes belatedly that he had no desire to ever face, the beginnings of a strong jaw emerging from baby fat and skinny shoulders attempting to form themselves into something more solid, more broad. He’s still in the autumn of his adolescence — if Everett remembers correctly, Cyrus is now either nineteen or twenty, a few years of growth spurts and voice cracks left before he matures into an adult — but the knowledge that he is on the brink of manhood reminds him all too painfully of what he could have had. Seeing Cyrus unravels all the tightly-stoppered dreams Everett began to smother the moment he threw his gun into the Adige at the age of twenty-six.

Working at C&R’s London office, living an honest life away from the mafia, the quiet contentment of domesticity, coming home to help Cyrus on his schoolwork and greet Vivianne with a kiss on the cheek —

He crushes the thought, cuts it short before he can choke on the bitter taste in his throat. “Don Capulet thought it prudent for me to accompany you as support. I believe ‘coach him’ were his specific words,” he clarifies, keeping as neutral a tone as possible. “I won’t interfere during the negotiation, but he did request for me to offer feedback afterwards as I see fit.”

why, out of everyone that could have been sent, did it have to be everett? he knew he was still young, still new to this life, but he was good. and he knew he was good. cyrus was manipulative, and able to get anyone to do anything he asked. he could match people’s personalities, get to their core, and through that, get them on his side. everett, of course, wouldn’t know that. he didn’t know him at all. how could he possibly give him good feedback? feedback that was actually constructive? 

he took a deep breath. none of that mattered now. it seems as though they won’t be making it to the upper floor of the building. 

It doesn’t matter how recently you’ve become an emissary. You have more field experience than he does — ten years of it. Go with him to the negotiation tomorrow. Coach him.

Il padrino’s voice rings in his ears, loud enough to drown out the biting throb lacing through his ribs. Everett should be resting right now considering the poor state of his health, but when Don Capulet calls, one has no choice but to answer. He’ll suffer through this two-hour meeting, seeing as the most physical thing he’s tasked to do is stand, sit, or speak, then spend the rest of the day ( hopefully ) passed out in his room. Everett plans to keep as still as possible, careful to not rip the stitches across his torso and in his back or to let the collar of his turtleneck dip low enough to reveal the ugly purple bruises choking his throat, and let Cyrus do the majority of the talking.

The prospect of seeing Vivianne’s son after nearly eight years sticks hard in his throat and is bitter to swallow. There are few things Everett left behind in that failed relationship that he truly, wholeheartedly regrets. One of those is Cyrus. Cyrus, a sweet young boy, watching an almost-family crumble to pieces before his horrified eyes. The thought wraps brutally around Everett’s conscience like thorny vines, squeezing out painful dread in thick, sickly drops. The feeling is so strong that he nearly allows the elevator door to shut when he sees the boy’s familiar frame, unsure of whether he’s ready to face one of his greatest failures, but instinct forces the words from his mouth.

Everett regrets it immediately, even though Cyrus has yet to look up and realize who he is. He regrets it even more when the elevator shudders to a halt, the small space now illuminated by the deep red glow of the emergency lights and filled with a heavy malaise, sepia-toned and steeped in long-forgotten memories. When Cyrus looks away, something unspeakable in his eyes, Everett finds that he isn’t surprised. It doesn’t make it easier. But he waits in silence, waits for Cyrus’s call to finish, waits for divine intervention to save him from the discomfort crawling under his skin.

when he hung up, he tried his best to remove whatever lump had formed in his throat, his brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of what was happening. of course he would see him again, it only made sense. but to have it happen in this way, when they were potentially stuck there for hours, felt like god playing a cruel trick on him, perhaps it was revenge, for what he had made maeve do earlier that month. perhaps it was the ghost of all those he’d wronged in his life, come back to tell show him the deep, aching feeling he had forced upon them. his heart hurt, his stomach twisted, begging for some kind of release, for air, for anything. 

but cyrus remained stoic. careful not to look at everett. no, he did not want to see how time had changed him, no he did not want to remember all of the fathers days he wished he had been there, all of the events he would be a part of. when he won his lacrosse matches, when he got scholarships to schools he wouldn’t attend, when he so badly wanted to call up any father figure at all, and tell them of his accomplishments. of his worries. he kept his gaze down, his brow furrowed still. 

december 7th at midnight, in a random verona alley. closed for @ofcyrus​

she had known it would be different without everett to protect her, but she hadn’t understood how much. if she had, she might have begged everett to stay. might have tried to outshine his ambition and brilliance, hold him back from his potential with a tug of his hand and a plea for him to remain her lighthouse forever. to keep her out of the darkness with his steady strength and the pleased lilt of his grin whenever she managed to surprise him.

— the thought of it was enough to make her stomach turn. she loved everett far too dearly to put him in a cage made of her own fear. but she did wish there was another way to root herself beside him. without him, who would protect her hands from the stench of blood? who would dare try to understand her heart that stink of good?

certainly not easton. he had sent her to rattle down a particularly shady client for their late payment. “a fight is pretty much guaranteed,” easton had said, not even looking at her as he spoke, “so be prepared — i’m not going to lose a soldier on the first day.” then he had paused, and maeve knew what he was thinking: would it truly be so bad to be rid of maeve, the soldier who was capulet only by name and not in spirit? they called her the fool, but she could read between the lines and understand what they meant was the weak link.

her curls had bounced vigorously as maeve lifted her chin at easton. “don’t underestimate me,” she’d said.

of course, she didn’t mean underestimate her stomach for violence. her lips curled in a secret smile. they all underestimated her strength, but how little they understood. strength wasn’t in the fall of a knife, the way it cut through flesh and scraped against bone. it was in the grip, and the grip maeve had on her humanity, her soul, her goodness was unbreakable. she would convince this shady group to listen with her heart in hand, alone.

it was an ambitious goal — if not a naive one.

the client was not alone, and when he stepped into the moonlit alley to meet her, his eyes flashed. she recognized the smell of whiskey on his breath, the same that marked her childhood when her father had yet to join the capulets’ rank. the others came behind him, and maeve nearly trembled as she recalled easton’s words.

but she didn’t. she refused. strength was in the grip, and she would not loosen her hold on composure before a challenge. in this, at least, she was a capulet. “pay now,” she forbid herself from tacking on please as she often did, “or they will not forgive you.”

“they?” the men shared a glance, chuckling in unison. “are you not one of them? will you forgive?” their eyes raked over her, gauging her strength, noting that she did not carry a gun. “even if we say please?”

they could smell the softness on her, and so they began closing in. maeve flexed her fingers around the handle of the blade in her hand. she’d yet to use paranza corta against more than a practice target — and she hoped she wouldn’t have to tonight, but she wasn’t sure she could see a way out.

but then she saw her way out. he stepped into view like a phantom, and she wouldn’t have noticed him if she had not already memorized the shape of him after many years of wondering how he had grown. “cy — coriolanus!” she called out, heart thundering in her throat. “please, help!”

coming home from a meeting, cyrus had seen maeve turn a corner. the streets of verona were dark, and sullen. every day seemed like a funeral, everyone out in their own separate directions. gone were the days of carelessness he had originally been welcomed with, and here were the nights where he worked tirelessly to give the capulets all they would desire, in order to give him everything he could ever desire. but maeve, the way she walked, carried herself, he couldn’t help but follow. 

he knew, in his heart, she never walked like a ghost. eyes focused in front of her, grip tight around...something. he couldn’t make it out from where he was.

 he didn’t make himself known right away, not until he felt things begin to escalate. sliding his own switch knife out of his pocket, he flicked it open, prepared to go after anyone who would dare touch a hair on her head. and then she saw him as he emerged from the shadows, and then she screamed, his eyes widening at the sound as his heart rate quickened. he’d been involved in quite a few fights when he was away, having learned how to from someone he had befriended, but nothing of this caliber. nothing with weapons involved. 

thankfully, no one had brought a gun. 

the gaze of the men flipped over to him, and he was quick to slide in, choke holding one, swinging his blade at whoever came close to him. until he stabbed the man he had in his grasp in the thigh. he felt the blade pierce skin, and it was as though everything around him stopped. 

this, he had come to realize, would be the first death at his hand. he watched the man fall to the ground, and did not have time to react before others came toward him. “miranda!” he screamed, grabbing the blade once more with too much force, and turning to swing wherever he could. it was messy, it was obvious he hadn’t been trained, but it helped him get through. when he realized the blade was too difficult, he moved on to his fist. giving the best fight he had with maeve at his side. 

or that was, until he was grabbed. the last man who had yet to run away, his hands around his neck, and slowly, his vision turned to static. his eyes frantically looking for a way out, his body twisting, begging for freedom. 

it shouldn’t have been so easy to get the information he needed to get, and it definitely shouldn’t have been so easy to call up and get an appointment. especially somewhere like this, where he had been checked for weapons at the door. he knew that they would be of great service to the capulet agenda, and that it would get him major bonus points with their boss. it was true, cyrus had been far too focused on his own agenda, and not on the one of the capulets. he needed to play the game properly, and he saw the note he had received to only push him further. sure, he wanted revenge on his mother for what she had done, but he also wanted a taste of power. 

she knew — hoped — that he was looking to get reacquainted with more than just the city. that this was more than a brief reunion, that this was the first step towards everything the both of them deserved to find in each other. in so many people, maeve had looked for cyrus. waited for someone to make her toes curl and her heart sing, fill her bones with a peace and comfort and warmth that she wanted to pour into a bottle and open on rainy days.

it didn’t matter anymore, if the first step away from each other had been her or him. she could see that now. “oh, i totally disagree,” she said as she took his hand, rising to her feet and mentally noting how tall he’d gotten, how she had to tilt her head up just a little more now that they were older. “i could recognize my city in a heartbeat, and i feel like even though some things have changed, everything important is exactly the same.”

his hand still in hers, maeve gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. “same with us, i think. even though i’m sure you went through a lot i couldn’t be there with you for, you’re still the same cyrus.” she beamed at him, “your letter proves that. an old friend, huh?” reluctant to let go, she pulled the letter from her pocket with her spare hand and held it up between them. “i’m going to frame this,” she announced. “and i’m never going to explain it to anyone else so it can belong only to us.”

it made sense. it always made sense. as soon as he saw her smile, it was like all of his anxieties, all of his searching, was all meant to bring him back to her. because no one could ever compare, no one could ever make his heart melt the way she did. if they tried, he shut himself off to them, turning himself away and closing himself off to keep himself from getting too close. because he would never let himself feel the way he felt about her ever again. it was reserved for her, and no one could take that from them. 

a smile curled up the corner of his lips, knowing what she meant when she said the streets stayed the same, knowing, somewhere in her heart, she remembered everything they had been through together. the running through the streets, the stealing peaches from carts, climbing onto roofs to get closer to the stars. “and you’re still the same maeve,” he replied, finding comfort in saying that. that even in their years apart, there wasn’t much to learn outside from events that may have occurred. “you want to display my heart for the whole world to see? i wrote that just for you.” of course, he was teasing, and that was evident on his features. he started guiding her to the exit, out onto the verona streets. coffee in one hand, meave in the other. he noticed, when they stepped outside, that the sun still radiated off of her skin like she was a part of it. 

Art is a tricky, finicky thing that Everett has never quite managed to master. It slips through his fingers, the minutiae of finding that certain je ne sais quoi that propels songs from obscurity to the top 100 and films from tiny festivals to blowing the roof of the box office. For a man that has always dealt with tangibles, the idea of pinpointing an arbitrary rightness is a veiled, mysterious task, an area in which he falls short when it comes to advising his clients. 

But Everett knows Cyrus. He’s seen his son grow from a boy to the cusp of manhood and cherished the privilege to guide him towards stabler footing on Cyrus’s coming of age journey. It’s moments like these where he completely sheds the professional skin of advisor. “A change of scene might do you some good,” he muses, considering their options. A moment of silence settles between them, the familiar kind that need not be filled. “Or a break from writing. Take a week, two weeks, a month. Work on your creative process instead.”

Everett smirks at the inquisitiveness in Cyrus’s voice, wholly innocent and just a tad sly. “He’s got himself una ragazza,” he confirms, eyes still trained on the road. “Odessa Vernon. There’ve been a few tabloid articles about them flying about since you left for tour.” He doesn’t mention that he’d called Easton the instant he’d caught wind of it ( and from a secondhand source, no less ) to upbraid him in true older-brother fashion for not telling him before he told the press. It’s a queer feeling, realizing that Easton is finally settling down. It makes him feel old. Everett said as much to Vivianne, who’d simply patted his arm sympathetically. “Don’t say anything too embarrassing about him while we’re having dinner, va bene?”

There’s pensive melancholy in the way Cyrus slumps against the seat. Everett takes note and files it away for later, when it’s just him and Cyrus and a quiet Verona street, when his son dares to slip out of his shell to voice his inner thoughts. For now, he’ll let it slide. “You mean Simon,” Everett elaborates, recalling the face of his old schoolmate turned music producer. “Mum and I are actually having him and his wife over for dinner in… two weeks, I believe? I’ll mention it to him then.” He glances sidelong at his son. “Writer’s block? Or is it the backing and instrumentation you’re having difficulty with?”

all cyrus can do as a reaction is nod, squinting his eyes as he tried to process his uncle easton dating anyone. ever. perhaps this meant that everyone had someone, and perhaps this meant it would only be a matter of time until he found his someone too. he was still young, afterall, what was the point in getting upset about things like that? there were girls throwing bras at him on stage, asking him to sign their chest after shows. of course he didn’t have to think about it. not now, not when he was never home. he knew his bandmates had enough trouble with touring already. 

Everett wags a finger in Cyrus’s direction as he slips into the driver’s seat. “I mean it. We’ve got reservations at seven at the Decamerone, which means we’re leaving at half six, which means you need to wrangle yourself into something presentable by then.” He leans forward, fiddling with the car’s GPS system and he sets the destination to Hotel Emelia. If he’s brisk, businesslike, it’s only because Everett is rushing past the logistics to get to what he’s much more interested in: Cyrus’s time on tour. “Actually, not just presentable — smart. Zio Easton is bringing his new girlfriend, and it’s good to make a positive first impression.”

A half-amused, half-perplexed smile curls his lips briefly. Easton’s never brought home anyone, much less a significant other, but it still doesn’t account for the unclassifiable feeling in his chest at the notion. As he pulls out of the parking lot, Everett hands Cyrus the aux. “We missed you, too,” he responds, tossing his son a quick smile. “Only one more month to go, and you’ll have some time to rest.”

as a child and teenager, he hated when his father talked to him like this. as if he didn’t know what to do and when. but as he grew older, he’d found that that was how everett showed his love, just like his mother showed love in a different way. so now, whenever he coddled him, told him to be sure to get anywhere at a specific time, he knew that he was just telling him that he missed him. and he loved him. as soon as they were in the car, cyrus turned on the stereo, keeping it relatively low as to not bother everett. his eyes lit up with curiosity when he mentioned his uncle’s girlfriend. he’d never known him to be with anyone before, nevertheless someone he likes enough to introduce to the rest of them. “girlfriend?” he asked with a slight smile, perking up a bit in his seat.