war has begun, and if they're not careful, a fatality will tear them down.
NO SMUT OR SEXUALIZING ━ if any of the triplets are uncomfortable with this fanfiction, it will be taken down immediately.
matt sturniolo x fem! oc x chris sturniolo (LOVE T...
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𝖑𝖛. Get Through It
Maeve
IT'S STILL DARK OUTSIDE when Maeve wakes, roused by shuffling across the room. She tenses on instinct, ready to fight. For a moment, she's puzzled by the sight of Matt in the same room as her. Then she remembers everything that happened yesterday. His near death, and the way it broke them both, shattering whatever resolve they'd had before.
He's already dressed, looking regal in the soft light of a few candles. Maeve watches for a second, seeing him without any kind of mask or shield. He looks younger in his fine clothing. His jacket is a deep blood-red, trimmed in black, with silver buttons as the cuffs. The pants match, tucked into oiled leather boots. He doesn't wear his crown, which is discarded on his desk. He moves slowly, fastening the buttons up his throat. Shadows ring his eyes. He looks more exhausted than he did last night, if that's possible. Maeve wonders if he slept at all, or if he spent the night tortured by the prospect of seeing Chris again.
When he realizes she's awake, Matt straightens, shoulders squaring toward her. He fills the kingly mold quickly. The transformation is small but unmistakable. He puts up his guard, puts on a mask, even with Maeve. She wishes he wouldn't, but she understands why. She does it, too.
"We leave in an hour," he says, finishing with his buttons. "I've had some clothes brought into the salon for you. Choose whatever you like. Or . . ." he stumbles, as if he's said something wrong. "Whatever you want from your own wardrobe."
"I didn't exactly bring my wardrobe to a battle, and I don't think I can fit into one of your uniforms," Maeve replies, chuckling slightly. With a reluctant groan, she stretches out of the blankets and shudders at the touch of the cold air. She sits up, intensely aware of the tangled braid over her shoulder. "I'll find something. Should I look a certain way?"
A muscle feathers in his cheek. "However you wish," he says, his voice oddly strained.
"Should I be distracting?" she asks, gingerly trying to work the knots out of her hair. Matt looks at her fingers, not her.
"I think you'll be distracting no matter what you wear."
Her chest tightens with warmth. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Matt."
But he isn't wrong. It's been months since she last saw Chris in the flesh, his form retreating through the surge of a panicked crowd. Reva ran with him, defending her new husband from the attack on their wedding in the capital. It was a rescue mission, not just for Maeve, but for dozens of newbloods manipulated into his service.
She could wear a potato sack and Chris would still devour her with his eyes.
Yawning, she pads across the room and into the bathroom for a quick, blistering-hot shower. It helps clear her head, wash away the lasting sleepiness. After, she enters the salon to find a rainbow in the semidarkness. With a slight burst of concentration, she makes the electric lights flicker to life overhead, illuminating the chamber full of various garments. She's glad for the wide choice of clothing, but even more grateful for the emptiness of the salon. No maids to attend to her hair and face, no healers to work away the gnawing exhaustion or liven up her body. She's given only what she needs, which is exactly what she wants.
