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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𝖝𝖝𝖛. Campbell
Maeve
EVERY MORNING starts the same way. Maeve can't stay in the bedroom; the birds always wake her up early. Good, that they do. It's too hot to run later in the day. The Piedmont base makes for a good track, though. It's well protected, the boundaries guarded by both Montfort and Piedmont soldiers. The latter are all Reds, of course. Dawson knows that Baraka, the puppet prince, is likely quietly scheming and won't let any of his Silvers past the gates. In fact, Maeve hasn't seen any Silvers at all, apart from the ones she already knows. All of the abilitied are newbloods or Ardents, depending on who you speak to. If Dawson has Silvers with him, serving equally in his Free Republic as he says they are, she hasn't seen any.
Maeve laces her shoes tightly. Mist curls in the street outside, hanging low along the brick canyon. Unlatching the front door, she grins when the cool air hits her skin. It smells like rain and thunder.
As expected, Matt sits on the bottom step, legs stretched out on the narrow sidewalk. Still, her heart lurches in her chest at the sight of him. He yawns loudly in greeting, almost unhinging his jaw.
"Come on," Maeve chides him, "this is sleeping in for a soldier."
"That doesn't mean I don't prefer to sleep in when I can." He stands with exaggerated annoyance, all but sticking his tongue out.
"Feel free to go back to that little bunk room you insist on staying in at the barracks. You know, you'd get a bit more time if you moved to Officers Row ━ or stopped running with me altogether." She shrugs with a sly grin.
Matching her smile, he tugs on the hem of her shirt, pulling her towards him. "Don't insult my bunk room," he mutters, before dropping a brief kiss on her lips. Then her jaw. Then her neck. Each touch blooms, a burst of fire beneath her skin.
Reluctantly, she pushes his face away. "There is a real possibility my dad shoots you from the window if you keep this up here."
"Right, right." He recovers quickly, paling. If Maeve didn't know any better, she'd say Matt was actually scared of her father. The thought is comical. A Silver prince, a general who can raise infernos with a flick of his fingers, afraid of a limping old Red. "Let's stretch."
They go through the motions, Matt more thoroughly than Maeve. He scolds her gently, finding something wrong with every move. "Don't lunge into it. Don't rock back and forth. Easy, slow." But she's eager, thirsty to run. Eventually, he relents. With a nod of his head, they begin.
At first, the pace is easy. Maeve almost dances on her toes, exhilarated by the steps. They feel like freedom. The fresh air, the birds, the mist brushing past with damp fingers. Her even, steady breath and steadily rising heartbeat. Matt sets a good clip, keeping her from sprinting until her lungs give out. The first mile passes well enough, getting them to the perimeter wall. Half stone, half chain link topped with razor wire, and a few soldiers patrol the far side. Montfort men. They nod to the pair, used to their route after two weeks. Other soldiers jog in the distance, running their usual training exercises, but Matt and Maeve don't join them. They drill in rows with shouting sergeants. It's not for Maeve. Matt is demanding enough as it is. And thankfully, Dawson hasn't pressed her on the whole "resettlement or service" choice. In fact, she hasn't seen him since her debriefing, even though he now lives on base with the rest of them.
