[maidstone] stars in still water { kill / phil }

How had things spun so wildly out of control? Clumsy in her urgency, Billie stepped closer to Phillip, a hand raised like she was going to touch his chest. He wasn’t even looking at her. She felt even smaller in his oversized jacket, felt so incredibly out of her depth here. “Phillip please — please go,” she insisted, trying to talk over both of them. Her heartbeat was pulsing away in her ears louder than any of the voices.

Panic. Billie felt far too alone to be standing in between two of the people she cared most about in the world. It reminded her of a similar way she’d felt on New Year’s eve, and while she hated the comparison, her chest really was aching in that exact way. She hated conflict, hated violence; by most metrics, Billie was a fragile girl. Her eyes were wet again.

And she’d never seen Killian like this.

Abandoned, he’d said. All you wizards are the same. She’d seen Phillip be frustrated and dismissive before. She’d seen him angry, hurt, defensive and closed off. It helped, probably, that she'd spent the last hour with him. Even if she'd been too drunk to properly talk about anything important, she felt closer to him right now that she had in months. Ki, though— Crimes of your parents. “Killian, stop,” she said, spinning back to him. Hurt was written all over her face as her eyes met his. She wanted to push them, physically, away from each other. She wanted to close her eyes, wanted to leave. Of course, did no such thing.

“You—” she cut herself off, rapidly shaking her head. There was accusation there, this time. Hurt and accusation and tears. Her voice was tight with emotion. “You just — You have no idea. Would you just, please, stop."

So Billie had told Killian first.

He couldn't even think she had told Killian first because she had never actually told Phillip.

He had to learn about it on his own, instead of from her. In a moment, Phillip imagined the scenario. Imagined what it had been like when Billie had confided in Killian, her closest friend, and Killian had listened, been there for her. Phillip never got that chance, though; he wondered if he'd of responded any differently. And as that scenario passed by him, another question surfaced, what else had she told Killian instead of him?

It didn't happen often, but every once in and while Phillip felt like he learned something that might break him in two. For years Billie had been the most important thing in his life. Too important, it was unhealthy how critical she was to him. And now, like another nail in the coffin, Phillip realized Killian had been more important to Billie. More trusted. And he sunk a little. She looked at them both, back and forth, stuck in the middle, but Phillip felt so far away again. They had made some progress tonight; he'd thought, no, he had hoped, but that was all gone. If it was Billie who lied, and Killian who was shouting, then why did Phillip feel so humiliated?

The embarrassment only fueled his anger, and Killian's words pushed him over the edge. "No, fucking clue," He reiterated what Billie had said, though he knew they weren't on the same side. She'd asked him to leave, tried to shoo him away before Killian had said it, and now Phillip understood why. Phillip couldn't see Billie's face, but he could hear it in her voice; he'd seen her cry too many times; he knew that voice. Phillip was pissed, angry at Killian for making accusations, and Billie for calling him Maidstone in the first place. "It was never about that." He lied. It was about a lot more than just that, but who her parents were was undoubtedly a part of it, and Phillip hated that Killian was right about something.

Billie was asking him to stop. To stop, again. It was always stopping, with Billie. Stopping on the edge of deeper conversations, phrasing her words carefully to make it seem like it was his idea, his offer to pull them back from the conversational precipice, over and over and over again. It was never allowed to be personal, and Killian kept opening his heart up and met walls and he was tired. So, so tired of it.  It had been a letter but he couldn't help hear Adam Nyugen's voice in his head, the line from his January reply that had haunted him – But I didn’t think that this was a white girl!! shit – and wonder how the hell he let himself get tangled up in this.

Billie looked like she was about to cry. Killian let his heart be hardened, and filled with anger towards her for the first time.

You have no idea. "You're right," Killian snapped back, somehow making a concession sound like an accusation. "How can I have any idea? You always want to stop, just on the edge of something, something," his tongue was betraying him, turning to lead and falling heavy on his teeth, "anything real. So how the hell was I supposed to learn? How the hell am I supposed to know if the only person you let in is, fucking," he jabbed a thumb at Phillip, "him!"

Killian had half a mind to ignore Phillip's comment, because who the fuck cared about Phillip Fucking Donnelly right now? It was never about that. "You're a goddamn liar, and you're stupid too if you think anyone here believes that." He was going to regret some of these words in the morning, but right now anything beyond this moment, this tight circle on the edge of the property, didn't exist.

You’re right.

Killian said it straight to her, and it was the first thing anyone had said to her for a while now. Billie froze, shocked both at being acknowledged after what felt like an immeasurable amount of time, and at the way he was doing it. It didn’t matter what the words were; he could have said anything to her in that tone and she would have wished for the grass beneath her feet to part and swallow her whole. It was surreal — it was Killian — she half felt like she was falling already.

And, just — panic.

“That — that’s not fair,” she responded quickly, quietly, tears spilling down her cheeks on both sides. Her words, her voice, lacked the blazing conviction that seemed to come to Ki so easily. She lacked the loudness — both in volume and presence. She sounded unsure. She hated it. Billie wiped her tears away with the back of her sleeve with a rushed, clumsy movement. “I told you,” she breathed, hurt in a way that made her feel sick. It cut her into pieces to open up about those things, and she’d done it with Ki. If that didn’t matter to him, if this was how he felt—

Billie was upset that Killian felt like she hadn’t opened up to him. She was an empathetic person, a person who would usually validate other people’s experiences before even considering her own, but she couldn’t imagine how he could possibly feel like that, and for once, she wasn’t willing to pretend she could. It hurt. She was also upset that he was being so awful to Phillip, who was only here because she’d needed him. Upset that he couldn’t understand why she’d open up to a boy who’d loved her for a long time, who’d been there when one guardian had died, when she’d had to move again, who still felt like family to her, even now.

She was upset that he was upset with her; she wanted to argue on so many fronts, make so many points:

— She had opened up to him.

— Why did he think it was hard for her to be open?

— “Why do you think it would be Phillip,” was what came out, rushed through her lips as Ki spat more words at the boy behind her. Phillip would hate it, but she couldn't help it. Her words, the feelings that had been kept so neatly under her desperate need for them to stop fighting, under her layers of politeness, demureness, reluctance to do anything except agree, were bubbling up now, finally overflowing in disjointed sections. Any remaining barriers or filters had dissolved in alcohol and intense swells of emotion. Her tongue felt heavy and unwieldy, but the words came quickly.

“Don't you see — who do you think I felt safe with for the first time after—? Either of us would do anything to have a family like yours,” she said emphatically, tangenting a bit as her mind skipped ahead. Her heart hurt on the anything. The words spilled out heavy with emotion, pleading for him to understand even though she was frustrated and drunk and trying to make some kind of upset point. “But we didn’t — we had each other. Why do you think it would be him?” He probably wouldn’t even like her at all if she’d never been close with Phillip; Billie had been so much shyer and more socially maladjusted before they’d spent time together. “I just—” she cut herself off, swallowing those words before they could come out.

I love him, she wanted to say, in the tense she shouldn’t use, with him standing right behind her. She exhaled heavily. She was crying, still; her cheeks were wet and stray hairs tousled by the breeze clung to them. She brought up shaky hands to drag them behind her ears, and her hands lingered by her neck.

For a moment, everything felt so obvious to her; the intensity of her relationship with Phillip, the way that he still felt like home to her, the dynamics that had been in play when everything had imploded. Killian had no idea what she would have done to have parents who were alive and recognised her — to live with family who’d seen her grow up — to matter to people who’d loved her all of her life. Killian, with his loving and present and not-in-Azkaban and not-vanished and not-crazy and not-dead Mother and Father and — her heart hurt for Phillip — sister, did not understand. Did not understand what she and Phillip had found in each other, or why he hadn’t been able to stand that she’d lied, or that she’d lied about that.

It probably didn't make much sense out loud, but internally, she felt like she'd found an answer to everything, some kind of thread that tied all of the pieces together.

How had this night gone so erratically and irrationally wrong? Phillip sucked in another breath as Killian railed on him some more. Baseless accusations, or fuck, they might have been born from things that Billie had told him. Phillip had no clue what she might or might not have said to Killian now. Killian was right, and it was about her parents, but it was about so much more than that. More than the Gryffindor would never understand, Phillip was sure of that. Even if he had the energy or the need to explain it, even if Billie told him every little thing, Killian still wouldn't get it. They were from different worlds; he couldn't possibly understand.

Killian spoke again, but this time he snapped at Billie, and Phillip's mouth hung open slightly. Phillip's first instinct was to interrupt, to say something that would bring Killian's aggression back to him, but instead, he was quiet. The words made him feel uncomfortable; Phillip was familiar with what Killian was describing. With the way that Billie dodged anything that resembled a question about herself. The fact that Killian thought she only let Phillip in while he was still reeling to learn she'd told Gryffindor her secrets but not him was mind-boggling. He felt uneven from it.

And Billie stepping in made the whole world turn upside down. Phillip's mouth closed as Billie began, and he watched the back of her as she spoke. Explaining things he didn't want to be explained, Phillip's frown reached across his face, his eyebrows furrowing together. Billie's explanation felt like something had been broken open—every wound, every painful memory, all spilling onto the grass; he wondered if Killian could see the worry on his face. Even though she hadn't gone into detail, Phillip felt like she was telling Killian his life story, and he didn't like it. Hearing her talking about family, indicating what they had lost and what Killian still had, made Phillip angrier. These things weren't just hers to share, and Phillip wanted her to stop, "Billie," he started, but she continued.

Phillip clung to every word as she whittled their relationship down to a singular motivation. She might have been defending him to Killian, and maybe it was all coming from a good place that Phillip should found comforting, but as always, his mind went another way. To Phillip, Billie had just reduced their relationship to nothing more than a bandage, and it hurt. He felt like she'd explained that they were hopeless when they found each other, merely replacements for the families they had lost.

Billie was everything to him, and this felt wrong. It wasn't like these things weren't true or that he didn't understand. They had grown closer because they had both lost things; they knew what it felt like when the rest of the world told them to move on. But Phillip thought it had grown into so much more than that. He'd never pressured her to talk about her family or what she had lost because he knew what that was like too. Phillip asked questions, but he never pushed for answers. A part of him had always expected they would get there one day when Billie was ready, but he'd never thought her family would be Death Eaters. That had changed everything, that had broken whatever foundation they had built their friendship on.

"I just—" She'd stopped herself, and Phillip could have spent the next year coming up with possible things she was thinking, but he spoke instead. "Billie, it's fine." Phillip was quiet, but his words were strained, plagued with irritation and exhaustion. And then, he turned to Killian and spoke, his voice rougher again. "I don't care what you believe." The only opinion that mattered was Billie's, and Phillip didn't think he could handle any more truth tonight.

That’s not fair, pleaded Billie. I told you. She was crying. She was always crying. It was just a fact. He could deal with it when it was circumstantial crying, from exam stress, from the Hufflepuff Prefect being catty at her in the bathroom. They did what they were supposed to do, most of the time. Unlock the part of him that made him was to comfort her.

But when those white girl tears were aimed at him, used to persuade him to do what she wanted, which was always, always, always to drop the subject? Well. Last time he had been blindsided, but sober, able to check himself. Now, he only frowned, biting his lip, turning his heart into stone.

Why do you think it would be him? Killian opened his mouth to respond, closed it again and rubbed his jaw like he had been hit. They had each other? What the hell was that supposed to mean? That was just, that was just relationships, your boyfriend was not supposed to envelope your whole world, every warning Mum ever gave Nora was ringing in his ears, why was Billie defending it?

“You just, what.” Killian felt unsteady, not from the pot or the beer but just from how intense everything felt. Everything was going too fast and slowed way down, like his whole soul was shaking out of sync with his body. If he felt anything else, any more feelings, any emotion any stronger he might just vibrate out of his skin.

It was so obvious what she was going to say, what she had stopped herself from saying. Killian’s stomach twisted, hard, sharp, painful. “You still love him,” he said quietly. “Jesus Christ, you still love him. After all that.” He clenched his jaw. “After he threw you away. After whatever it is you have in common wasn’t enough. Christ, Billie. Have some more self-respect than that.”

Of course she was still in love with Donnelly. There had been nothing to indicate otherwise, and no reason for Killian to care if Billie was in or out of love. No reason at all. Looking at her now, tears running down her stupid soft skin, he felt like a hulking brute, and hated her, hated her for casting him in this role.

Either of us would do anything to have a family like yours. It played back in his head like a horn, loud, disorienting. Either of us. There was something he was missing, there was some piece that neither of them would give him. A noise, somewhere between a groan and a growl, rumbled out from the back of his throat.

Fine. They could have their stupid secret club. Just one more of those in this lousy magic – no, not even, just this goddamn world that Killian was being shut out of. Look, there was Phillip making the subtext text for him – I don’t care what you believe. “‘Course you don’t,” Killian said, verbal shovel in hand, primed to dig himself into an early grave. “It’s pretty clear you don’t care about anything, anyone who isn’t obsessed with you.”

His head hurt. Pounding drumbeat at his temples. He wanted to hit Phillip, crack that unkind jaw into a hundred pieces, but he was too unsteady on his feet to do so. Killian let out a sad, bitter snort instead, turning back towards the Maidstone house.

Phillip said her name.

He’d said it when he’d come to get her tonight, to get her attention — Billie, are you okay? — And when their hands had touched, a warning — Billie — and when she’d kissed him and he’d kissed her back — Billie — then stopped — Billie, wait.

“I just...” She repeated herself when Killian asked, but she didn’t finish her sentence. If all of this had been happening an hour ago, when she was far more drunk than this, she probably would have had a lot more to say about everything.

Billie, it's fine.

“It’s not,” she said, but she didn’t look at Phillip this time.

Killian said her name a lot. It was just a slight difference in conversational styles, she thought; Killian was more emphatic, more direct. He said people’s names to check in, to make jokes, to be affectionate, to make points. Billie did it too — everyone did — but it felt too familiar to say people’s names in conversation all of the time. For her it was usually with people she was close with, and most of the time she just used people’s names when she was trying to make sure they understood the importance of something. When she wanted to bestow conversational weight.

You still love him.

It wasn’t his business; he shouldn’t be so upset with her. The moment felt elongated. “Of course I do,” Billie breathed, not daring to look over her shoulder. Her hands lingered by her neck; she moved them up to her face, shaky fingers touching her hairline above her eyebrows before she made herself place them back down by her sides. She was feeling a little far away from herself again, a little disoriented by how overwhelming her feelings were, or how overwhelming her environment was. She pinched her thumbnails into the sides of her middle fingers.

More awful things were falling out of his mouth, and she felt a touch of that same despair she’d felt with Phillip on New Year’s Eve. It wasn’t the same; Killian wasn’t her person, she wasn’t in love with him, didn’t feel like she was losing the ground from beneath her feet, but he was standing in front of her saying things that felt like they were meant to hurt her, and he didn’t seem to want to stop. Didn’t seem to want to stop and listen, even if he’d said the opposite only a moment ago. It had really hurt her that he’d implied that she hadn’t shared, hadn’t opened enough. Sometimes she felt exhausted from sharing bits of herself with him; he either didn’t care about how difficult it was for her to do, or didn’t know, or he didn’t care about her.

“No,” she said. It felt like the millionth time she’d said it. That was exhausting to do, too; Billie Fay said no to no one and nothing. She shook her head. Even drunk and exhausted she had to drag the word out of herself; it resisted like a fish hook in her throat. “It’s my fault,” she added in a quiet, urgent voice. At least that part was easy.

Most of the time, most of Billie’s feelings led back to guilt, one way or another. Happiness, frustration, sadness. Her breakup with Phillip was entirely her fault, but she also felt very on the precipice of understanding that all of this — this confrontation, right here — was entirely her responsibility, too. The process was so familiar that it almost felt comforting; the guilt twisted her up inside, it made her take every moment and memory out of context to be autopsied by her own unsure hand, and it made her sick to her stomach, but there was a kind of clarity that came with guilt, too. Blaming herself was clean, uncomplicated and so much more achievable than blaming anyone else. She wished for that kind of clarity right now. She was almost there.

If Killian would just stop speaking to and about Phillip, she thought. And if she could just move past the hurt and shock of what felt like a rejection. People didn’t speak like this to people they wanted in their lives (there was that despair again, but tinged with a kind of acceptance, like somehow she’d been waiting for this this whole time — which was ridiculous — but felt so pure in the way it made sense to her), so he must, just, not want her or something. Her thoughts skewed sideways here; she tried to ask so little of the people she cared about, but maybe just her existence—

He said her name again: Christ, Billie. Have some more self-respect than that.

And she said nothing, just shook her head.

I don't care what you believe. That had been Phillip, a moment ago, and it wasn’t aimed at her.

“Stop,” Billie said again, her voice small, again. That wasn’t aimed at Phillip, either, but he was turning to leave. Obsessed? He wasn’t completely wrong, but he still had no idea at all.

“Ki.” She said his name, but it was quiet, and he was walking. There was a part of her — the paranoid part — that didn’t want to let him leave when it felt like she’d just had all of her insides laid out on the grass in front of him. There was a more panicked part, terrified of rejection and abandonment, that wanted to go after him too. Breathe warm apologies into the cold night air between them, whether she thought he was wrong or not. She didn’t have the pride or ego or “self-respect” not to plead; if Phillip wasn’t here, standing right behind her, she’d be running.

But he was.

"You still love him,"

Killian had said, and Phillip felt his breath catch again. The thought had been there, in the back of his mind, but not because of what had happened with Killian or what Billie had said in the last few minutes. When she'd called him tonight, the idea had popped up, creeping in at the edges, but he'd ignored it. And when she'd told him how much she missed him, I just miss you, all the time, she had said, the thought had pushed in a little further. The more he'd thought about it, the more it made sense, and the more he felt capable to face his own feelings. He still loved her too, of course, he did. Breaking up wasn't clean or even, especially the way they had done it. It wasn't like a Lumos charm; you couldn't just turn off love.

"Of course I do,"

Phillip stopped— stopped thinking, stopped moving, stopped breathing. Just stopped. He stuck where he was, so surprised to hear her say it out loud, and then finally he took a breath. She'd said it to Killian, but he felt like she'd said it right to him, at him, even though he couldn't see her. Phillip felt like he was out of processing power; this was too much to think about right now; his brain would melt. Not even what Killian said next was capable of bringing him out of the stupid he'd fallen into. Dumbstruck was a good word, and if Phillip had the presence of mind to think of good words, he'd of picked that one.

Unable to process the onslaught of thoughts and feelings that crashed against his walls, Phillip was still. Dead in the water as Killian turned around to leave, and Billie tried to stop him. He stared at the back of her; Phillip had never felt so completely lost.

Billie confessed to it. Something sunk heavier in Killian's gut. Of course she did. He kept talking, anger and disappointment swirling around him like errant spells. Billie was trying to push back against him, for once, and he would have been proud if it had been about anything, anyone else. How could it be that this bastard was the one that Billie would bare it all for? After a month of hiding and a tearful day in Killian's house and just, everything?  Stop, Billie said. Killian didn't stop.

(A small, small, slowly sobering part of his mind was watching in horror. But Killian did not stop talking.) 

Ki. It was the nickname he signed his letters with, it was meant to be affectionate. A sign of trust. Never let them disrespect your name, his father had said, lips pressed close together, looking over an eleven-year-old Killian sweating in his new robes in the living room, eyes wide with marvel over his new textbooks. He had hardly been listening, too excited with the prospect of magic, real magic, just on the other side of a train ride. He remembered the warning now, cursed himself for letting Billie have a monosyllable. Could be worse. He had almost told her about his mother's nickname for him, Kiyo, and if that fell out of her mouth now Killian might just vomit.

He clenched his jaw, stilling his steps for a moment. "I thought you didn't deserve her, Donnelly. Guess I was wrong. You two are perfect for each other." There was no hint of resignation in Killian's voice as it floated back over his shoulder. It was hurt, and bitterness, and acidic, acerbic words, flowing straight off of his tongue without any thought. He didn't believe it, intellectually, but it just felt true. If Billie wanted to be treated badly, then, as her friend, why should he bother to stop her?

He knew why, but Killian was too tired to keep up the rage.

Throbbing pain. Stars behind his eyes. Killian didn't look back. He could hear the last whisps of whatever conversation those two were having as he walked away, biting down so hard on his lip he began to bleed. What was left to say? He was out of words.

[out]

if Phillip wasn’t here, she’d be running.

But he was.

So she didn’t move for a moment, just watched Killian turn, speak, walk. She felt a bit outside herself again, and really worked to calm her breathing, relax her shoulders, calm her mind. She raised one hand to cover her mouth; she felt nauseous, she felt shocked, she felt nervous about what words might come out of her lips.

It twisted her up that he thought so little of Phillip, but it really stung that he thought so little of her. Not even because she’d disagree, necessarily; Billie saw herself as the least interesting, least important — just the least — of any pairing she’d ever been in. She’d err on the side of believing any criticism levelled at her. It just all felt so out of nowhere for her that she hadn’t properly processed it. Hadn’t they been teasing each other just a few hours ago? Hadn’t she looked for him first, because he felt safe, to her?

He hadn’t had alcohol before, really. This is what you do, right? You make a toast and clink the neck of the bottles? She’d teased him for assuming she would know. How had that only just been earlier tonight? And all of these things had been simmering under there the whole time? Fuck. Billie felt sick, but she pushed it away, to be processed later, because—

“I’m sorry,” she breathed through her fingers, because Ki was gone. This was for Phillip.

Phillip had just found out that she’d shared things with Killian she hadn’t with him (and she knew how that would twist him). He’d heard her give tiny pieces of him, them, away to make a point. He’d just heard her admit that still loved him. Billie didn’t want to look at him, she just wanted to disappear. She turned back to him anyway, her two steps clumsy, her gaze low, eyes wet and red and full of hurt. She lowered her hand, said his name. “I— I’m so sorry, Phillip.” 

She didn’t understand it all yet — wasn’t sober enough to fit the different parts together — but somehow she’d taken more good things from her life into her hands and demolished them. She still didn’t get why Killian was so upset; she didn’t know the inside of his mind well enough to make out the shapes. Later, she was sure she’d try. For now, she just met Phillip’s eyes, feeling nervous and hollowed out and too-filled up all at once.

Phillip felt that time had come to a crashing standstill, and it wasn't easy to move into this new space. Killian had walked away, leaving powerful words in his wake, and they kept echoing in Phillip's mind. You didn't deserve her, and You two are perfect for eachother and how Killian had spat it at him. Phillip felt consumed by everything that had just transpired. It was too much to list out, but his mind stretched to think about all of it at once. All the layers, underlying ideas, and overlapping words, it was so much. Phillip was angry at everything and sad, but he mostly felt betrayed, again. Billie had told Killian so many things that the wizard wished she had not. Sharing some things before, and some things right in front of Phillip, and each one hurt.

And Killian had accused him of so much more, reminding Phillip of the things he had done and said and how he had not deserved Billie in the first place. He was not sure what hurt more, that he had done some of those things, or that Killian had been right. Looking at Billie again, at the moment before she turned around, he was sure it was the first thing. Killian hurt his pride, but hurting Billie broke his heart.

Everything was quiet for the first time in a while; even the sounds of the party not far from where they stood seemed muted. Billie spoke first, and Phillip shook his head even though she could not see him. He wanted to back away as she turned around, but he was rooted in this spot. He was overwhelmed by every thought that raced through his brain, unable to focus, unable to articulate all of the things he needed to say now.

Billie had told Killian her secrets.
Billie had trusted the other wizard more.
Billie had told Killian his secrets, too.
Billie still loved him.

How was he supposed to respond to all of that in one breath? An hour wouldn't have been enough time to process all of it, let alone the seconds between when Killian walked away and Billie looked at him.

His mouth opened and then shut, and Phillip had to fight the urge to curse for no reason. His teeth grit together again; it was too much to hold her eye contact right now, so Phillip looked away as the lump formed in his throat. Finally, Phillip took a deep breath and looked back at Billie, "How could you?" It was all-encompassing, a question that addressed every single second of the last ten minutes. But Phillip doubted he would be given satisfaction from the answers.

She felt too tired, for this.

Too tired to gather herself together, to pull her mind and her thoughts to the front, to the present. Her heart was still hurting, her head still reeling, her tongue still heavy. Kilian — she wanted to push the thought of him aside for now, but it seemed impossible. She might be able to make him out still, if she looked back over her shoulder, but it didn’t matter whether or not she could see him. She cared about him, loved him, and he’d hurt her and was hurt or angry or upset, or she’d hurt him, or she’d done something wrong or, or—

How could you.

Phillip.

“I’m sorry,” Billie said again, shaking her head quickly. He was looking at her again, now. A part of her wanted to just apologise and apologise and apologise until he got sick of it and left her here, but he'd hated that last time. Hated that she hadn't tried to explain more, or defend herself. What was there to defend? Any bad he thought of her was probably right.

It had all happened so quickly; how had she managed to crush everything into tiny pieces in a matter of minutes? Things between her and Phillip had been ruined months ago, but tonight he’d promised to speak with her again when she was sober. (Whenever you want to, he’d said). She’d kissed him, and before he’d stopped her, he’d kissed her back. (I miss you too, he’d said). She’d promised Ki they could stargaze here in the summer. (Summer, then) Were these promises dissolved, now? She wondered how it had happened so quickly. All of the words turned themselves over in her mind.

Billie wiped her cheeks again, with the too-long sleeves of both hands. What had he asked? How could she what, exactly? She tried to guess her biggest crime through his eyes.

“You were right,” she said, her voice shaky. “I should have told you.” She swallowed, resisted the powerful urge to drop her gaze. “A bit after we broke up…” Breathe. ‘Broke up’ sounded so juvenile here, she thought distantly. Her voice sounded so nervous, even to her own ears. “I, talked to him a bit. I told him.” Truthfully, she’d been worried Phillip might tell someone. Worried that Ki would find out that way, or some other way, like Phillip had. It felt too wrong to stay friends with him without him knowing, especially after the way things had happened with Phillip.

Billie said she was sorry again, and Phillip shook his head again. Not to say that he didn’t believe she was or that he refused to accept it, but because it was too little, too late, and everything felt unimaginably far away. Billie was steps from him, but there were miles and miles between them now. Everything he’d learned, all of the worries he’d had that came true, and all of the things that turned out to be worse than what he had feared, it was just shy of enough to cripple him. He felt overwhelmed, and he had only lost one person tonight; Phillip couldn’t imagine the way she might have been feeling, not that her friendship Killian was at the top of his list of concerns right now anyway.

He just kept staring at her now, as she began, telling him he was right and explaining when she’d told Killian, and something rang back in his mind. “Why him?” Phillip asked, repeating the words Killian had asked not that long ago, though it felt like forever now.

“Why did you trust him more than me?”

Phillip felt like his heart was hanging on those words like he’d put it on a clothing line and sent it toward her, and she could easily unclip it. Like he knew the truth was more than he wanted, but he had to ask for it anyway. Phillip always had to learn the damned truth, even when it hurt him, even when it destroyed what little he had left.

Sometimes he wished he’d never learned any of it, but those were fantasies. It was better to know now than to find out later, he had tried to convince himself so many times, but it was such a challenge. Especially now, as she was finally telling him something, all he wanted to do was reach out toward her. To meet her halfway on that stupid clothing line metaphor, but he couldn’t. He was too hurt, too upset, and she was still drunk.

He fought back the urge to wonder if this was just the alcohol talking. Hazy thoughts pushed together in a drunken effort to fix things or push the difficult conversations back down to the hidden place they usually lived.

He didn’t want her apologies, just like last time. Billie wanted so badly just to tear herself apart and give him any piece of her he’d take, and she was fully aware that that metaphor was so dramatic, but. She couldn’t help but feel it.

Why him.

It sounded just as ridiculous to her as it had when Ki had said it. The answers to both were so obvious, so starkly clear from her perspective, that it felt almost performative to answer the question. But she kept that feeling off of her expression as best she could, this time.

“Because,” she started, trying to sound even and measured and not coming remotely close, “After you, he was my next closest friend.” She wanted to stay calm, to answer his questions as best she could without drowning in her feelings, but the currents were strong; it was so difficult to tread in this space. “And…” She trailed off when he asked another question. This one was less ridiculous, and hurt a whole lot more. She swallowed, her gaze slipping momentarily from his before she quickly looked back at him.

Her cheeks were still wet, but she wasn’t actually crying right now. She felt jittery again, like she wanted to bounce her knee or wring her hands or do something. She took a breath, exhaled. “I wish it was you,” she said, trying not to let the words rush out of her. The wish and you were emphasised a little too much for her liking; she was really trying not to plead again; she didn’t want him to feel manipulated.

“I wouldn’t have told him,” she added. She didn’t say the If you hadn’t found out, but it was there in between them.

Why him, why him, it just kept repeating in Phillip’s mind, like some twisted mantra or lyrics to a song he wished he’d forget. Why had she trusted Killian more than him, more than someone she’d known for years, more than someone who loved her the way that Phillip still loved her. Phillip couldn’t make sense of it. He had told Billie everything about himself, she knew things no one else ever would, and he felt like a fool for how one-sided it had all been. Phillip had shared the good and the bad with her, the happy memories, and his fears about things he might forget, like what his mother’s voice sounded like; he had given her everything. And in return, Billie had kept her past hidden from him.

But not from Killian.

She began to explain, and Phillip focused on his breathing. One breath in, one breath out, nose, pause, mouth. Phillip spoke again when she trailed off, reiterating his question but this time with a more defined focus. Of everything, her lack of trust in him was still Phillip’s biggest concern. It stung more than it was Killian, of course, but it would have hurt no matter who she had told because she hadn’t told him.

Phillip wished it had been him, too, desperately. He’d gone over it so many times now, all of the different scenarios, how things might have turned out differently, how it was probably his fault that she hadn’t told him. Somewhere down the line, he must have done something wrong. Something that Killian had apparently gotten right. And Phillip knew he wasn’t a great person; he was a shitty friend and a bad boyfriend, grumpy, antisocial, and all other things he was sure people said about him. Still, he was always the best version of himself for Billie, but his best hadn’t been good enough.

“I wouldn’t have told him,” Ah, so there it was. Like a little lever that clicked into place, and suddenly, things were a whole lot clearer. Phillip understood what she was implying, and he hated it. Billie hadn’t told Killian because they were best friends or because Killian was better than him. She had told Killian because Phillip had found out. “So you were never going to tell anyone, were you?” He asked, his shoulders shrugging as he spoke, the disdain so evident in his voice. Phillip did not trust easily; he’d been surrounded by liars his whole life, and before, Billie had always been the exception, but now, she was the standard.