There was something to be said for routine. Often it was the most sensible thing to do when working on a job. Take the time to learn the ins and outs of a person’s life to find the best, and most lucrative, pathway to their belongings. Santino and Val had survived so many years by being so good at being anyone but themselves, to take money right our from others’ noses and walk away unscathed. But unpredictability seemed to be something the mob worked harder towards, keeping their work under the radar of either Family and the police.
Sebastian had found a method that worked in between the two. There was a pattern to their meet-ups he was fairly certain Maeve was unaware of, and it was what worked to keep this place…safe. Any other time they might’ve been found within the first few meetups, especially with how heightened the ire was between the Monts and the Caps, but they were in the one place that neither Family seemed to even know existed. It had served him well before he had been dragged into their world, and served him even better as an escape from the life he was now trapped in.
It was a place he could be Santino, with no pain or anger hovering over his head, and Maeve could simply be Maeve, in a way he felt she appreciated, just as he did. They were stuck between two worlds, and for a few hours, every few weeks, the two of them could have this–and not have to worry about Montagues and Capulets, and the weight of orders pressing down on their shoulders.
Only a few minutes after he’d slithered to the ground, there she was. Right on time. “H’lo Maeve.” A vision in sensible shoes, carrying a box of delicious treats that made his stomach rumble with anticipation. Santino couldn’t quite help the smile that appeared on his face, making the yellowed bruises on his cheeks stretch and ache as he spoke, “Tis but a flesh wound.”
Normally Santino would’ve already been on his feet, working on the latest idea that had grabbed him one night and refused to leave him, or greeting her with delighted energy. Countless times before she might’ve walked in on him, fingers covered in charcoal from sketching out a new mural, to already half-way through a design with paint splattered across both clothes and skin, the wall slowly, but surely, turning into something beautiful. Tonight though, he had barely made it to their courtyard without stopping to take a rest on his way. With how slow his injuries were healing, he most likely, shouldn’t have left home, and would receive a thrashing from Valentine, no doubt, but he hadn’t wanted to miss this. Miss her.
“What did you bring this time? It smells delicious.” He reached for the box in her hands, wanting to deflect from the bruises covering most of his body, the most noticeable on his face, but he couldn’t quite help the slight wince as his reach shifted his cracked ribs in an unpleasant way. His smile grew, to hide the shade of pain in his eyes, hoping she’d missed his slip up, and let himself rest back against the wall, “Not sure I’m up for any painting today, though, so you might have to show off your skills for once.”
She could see her father’s face, if he ever found out about Santi. Thick eyebrows knit together, a frown, muttering stella mia - mia cara figlia, and other expressions in both Spanish and Italian, a flash perhaps of the anger she never sees directed toward her, yet something she is newly aware of in its direction towards others.
She could feel the waves of disappointment. Whispers about how not only was she soft, but she dared fall into friendship with a Montague, dared meet up in secret, keep something all to herself.
But that would never happen. She was better at keeping secrets than some might have expected, and she treasured these moments beyond any possible measure. Because they can be themselves, glimmers and sparks of what could have been, had this whole city not been so incredibly intent on damning itself to misery and horrors of fighting. If such a friendship as theirs was possible (no matter how gentle both of their souls were), that was only further proof to her that she could manage to burn everything to the ground, to show everyone the backbone of their society, of just how beautiful it could be, should they just look a little closer.
“It looks worse than that.” She looked at him. “I can help you, if you need it.” Maeve let her gaze take in as many of the marks on his body as she could, doing her best to stay very still. Because he didn’t want to make a big deal of it, that much she could clearly tell, clearly see, and it pained her - I want to take it all away, please, she wanted to whisper, but she bit her lip, simply continuing to regard him with gentle eyes. The same gentle eyes who had first happened upon him many months ago, watching him with a small smile until they finally talked and somehow her smile managed to grow -
and continue doing so, each time they came across one another.
Not that Maeve was ever truly someone to shy away from a smile, but the ones with Santino felt different. More special, somehow. Something all her own, and the best sort of secret.
“Lemon-blueberry muffins. Halfway to vegan, as they’ve got no dairy.” A grin. “You’re welcome to try one right now, let me know if they taste good.” She eagerly handed him the box, hoping that he’d enjoy her creation - hoping that they would be a good spot in his day - but also believing that she knew him well, and that she’d yet to fail him with one of her dishes. For a moment, at his next comment, she raised an eyebrow. “My skills?” A half-amused smile crosses her lips. “Santi, you may be terribly mistaken if you think my skills in the visual arts even half match yours.”
Maeve brushed her hand across her face. “If you’ve some pencils, I can try a sketch for you.” If only to distract you a moment until you will let me at least halfway care for your ailments.
areudirty
titsay
