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

Billie took a slow breath, trying hard not to cry, not to fall backwards down a metaphorical hallway, not to slide so easily from this semi-controlled, mostly-present state into either desperate pleading, or panic — or both. All options felt extremely close to the surface; one misstep and she was going to lose her balance. She focused on her breathing, on the way her hands felt. She clasped them together hard, fingernails biting into her skin.

Make shit up long enough, and you forget what the truth is, I guess.

She could remember how still everything had felt on New Year's eve, in that wintery way, where the breeze had blown but had no leaves to flutter, no grass to ripple through. It wasn’t as cold tonight, but more importantly, the trees all had their leaves back (she could hear the audible shhh as they brushed against each other) and the grass was long and untended. There was so much more movement, more motion tonight.

She hadn’t been drunk last time they’d talked like this; she remembered every word with crisp, painful clarity. He’d asked her the same question the night he'd broken up with her; she’d said that she didn’t know, and attempted to explain what it felt like from the inside of her mind. She was sixteen now; she’d spent just over half of the life she was old enough to remember as Billie. Half her life spent repressing, half her life spent learning and unlearning how to see her identity, her life, herself through specific lenses. She hadn’t explained it well then at all — he hadn’t given her a chance, not that she blamed him for it — and she felt too drunk to be able to do it now, too.

I don’t trust you. He’d said that to her, what, half an hour ago?

“I don’t know,” Billie said, eyes on him. It was honest, but she was sure he’d hate it, just like he had last time. She had never made plans to tell anyone, but would it have happened, eventually? Maybe not if her aunt was still alive. She heard the music from the house now, dull and distant, as if it had only just started playing when she'd thought of the woman who'd been her guardian from ten to fourteen. It hadn’t felt important for the past however-long-since-they'd-apparated-here, she supposed. Her world had become very small for a short while, the sound of her own racing heartbeat so much louder than any background noise.

Billie wondered distantly if Phillip could even understand how it felt to not-think about something enough that his brain did circles around it without him, or to believe two conflicting things at once. It wasn't his style; he wasn't malleable, like her. Wasn't easily convinced, even — especially? — not by his own mind, his own will. Phillip thought through things, and if he couldn't do that, then he tore through them.

He liked the truth, and he liked it clean and undividable.

"Phillip," she said, her voice uncertain and tired. She just breathed the next words, her emotions getting the better of her. "Can we talk about this — when I can think?" It was the same thing she'd said not too long ago, sitting on the bench he'd taken them to. He'd been softer then, and she'd been drunker, but the central point of it all was the same; she didn't have the capacity to do this here, now. With Killian gone, and Phillip's anger — his anger and hurt and attention — directed only at her, she felt like she had just enough space to ask.

Months ago, Phillip had asked the same question, and Billie's answer had not changed. It was not like he would have expected it to, but Phillip was not thinking straight about anything. Asking the same questions and expecting different answers was just another byproduct of this hell ride of a night. Phillip shifted his weight when the music from the house hit his ears. Reminding him that he had not wanted to come back here and honestly never thought he would. The party was not far from where they were standing now, and he wondered how long until Killian came back with his Gryffindor friends.

His name on her lips made Phillip turn back to her, his eyes sliding away from the direction of the house and back to Billie's. He remembered when he had loved how she said his name, but it felt wrong again. And the constant change was tiring. "Can we talk about this — when I can think?" Bille had asked, much the same as she had earlier in the grove, and he looked away. His eyes were falling from hers and lingering on the too-long grass around her feet. Phillip took too long to think about what she asked because everything had changed, again.

"I don't know," he answered finally, eyes rising again to look at her, but while he was looking at her, he wasn't really looking at her. Phillip didn't want the closeness of eye contact, he didn't want her to repeat his name, and he hoped she wouldn't give back the jacket. It'd smell like her but mixed with alcohol, and he didn't want it. The teenager picked at the scabs on his knuckles, falling quiet again, and tried to steady his nerves. He needed to apparate out of here soon, and getting spliced would be a perfect addition to the night.

He didn’t know. He didn’t know if he still wanted to talk again, in the future.

It really shouldn’t hurt so much; it wasn’t as if she’d thought he’d ever want to talk to her again two hours ago. He didn’t know, though. He didn't — but that was okay, she thought. That was okay — if that was what he wanted, then that was what she wanted, too. She was far too tired, far too close to sober, now, and far too in love, still, to want anything else.

He didn’t know. Okay.

Now, talk.

“Okay,” Billie breathed, feeling his dismissal like a physical thing, pressing against her chest. Pressing her away. Don’t cry. Billie scuffed one foot against the grass, resisting the urge to take a step backwards. The proximity was too much, she thought. Too much for him. He looked at her, but she could only hold eye contact for a moment before she glanced away, first towards the trees at the edge of the property and then up a little, towards the moon.

She blinked a couple of times, intent on keeping her tears inside. The moon was pretty, she thought. Not very bright, but pretty and thin like a curved upholstery needle, or the curve of a fingernail imprint left in a palm. She relaxed her hands intentionally at the thought. It was a pretty night — romantic, under different circumstances. It occurred to her distantly that it was later than last summer's curfew. She hadn't ever seen him this late outside of school except for that one time.

“Okay,” she said again, nodding as she made herself look back at him. “Well, if you do…” She kept nodding, letting him finish the sentence in his head. It was just a nicety anyway; I don't know clearly meant no to her, in this circumstance. Billie swallowed against a dry throat, then stilled herself.

Phillip felt like this was probably nearly the end of tonight, and it was almost bittersweet. He'd missed Billie more than he could put into words; it was like a physical aching he felt all the time. He thought about her constantly, everything was a reminder, and tonight he'd finally gotten the chance to be close again. And that had been so, so nice, and then it had all fallen apart. Phillip hadn't thought things could become more broken than they already were, but they had. And everything was worse now that he had been gifted (or tortured) with that tiny glimpse of what they used to have. Like it had been right there, almost within reach, they had agreed to talk later, and now it was all ripped away again.

"Well, if you do…" Billie began, and Phillip nodded slowly. "Yeah," He breathed, no spite or venom in it, just the twinges of sadness pulling at the corners. "I should go now," Phillip said after a short pause, and his own words irritated him. He should have gone a long while ago, he should have never brought her back to Maidstone in the first place, he should have done a lot of things that he didn't. He brushed his hands together, willing himself to stop picking at wounds or they would never heal, and looked away.

A surge of noise came from the house; it sounded like chanting, some ill-advised encouragement for teenage alcohol poisoning. Then the drunken hollering of excited teenagers followed, and Phillip grimaced. "You should drink some water." His words were soft compared to the commotion up at the house, and Phillip took a step away from her. Pausing because he wanted to say something, but nothing made sense. Good night? (too late for that) Goodbye? (was too final) See you later? (he hoped, but would not admit)

Nothing fit.

Billie nodded again, kept nodding like everything was totally fine. Because it was. Or —it wasn’t fine, but if she just kept breathing, if she stopped herself from doing anything stupid—

“Do you need — anything?” she asked suddenly, her throat thick. “Are you ready to apparate?”

It felt ridiculous to be asking if he needed anything, because what would she get for him? Another adult who could take him somewhere? Laughable, he’d never allow it. Maybe she could just leave him alone here, she thought, because it would probably be easier to do if she wasn’t standing right in front of him. Her chest hurt at the thought, and Billie brought one hand up, curled her fingers just below her necklace habitually.

She thought again of the night they’d broken up, and resisted the urge to touch the small, half-circle scar she still had on her waist. She’d felt the sting when he’d splinched her, just a tiny bit, but she’d gone to bed before dealing with it that night. Woken up with a little dried blood on her sheets. She’d been meaning to get a salve for the scar, but… Well, she’d do it. At some point.

A selfish part of her wished she’d worn a top and skirt instead of a dress, wished he’d put his hands on her waist earlier instead of her thighs. To what end, she had no idea; it was too twisted to linger on.

“I will,” she breathed, like a promise, her eyes studying his face as if she didn't think she'd ever see him up close again.

"No, I'm good, thanks," Phillip said quietly, robotically, almost as if he were on autopilot. He didn't think about her questions before he answered them; he just answered them. Phillip always said the same thing when someone asked if he needed something. And it was always no.

Thinking about apparating, though, he wondered if he should take a few more minutes to clear his head. He had been splinched before, and he knew he did not want it to happen again. When Phillip had dropped her off on New Year's, he'd somehow managed to splinch them both. And, despite everything, Phillip was still thankful that he'd hurt himself more than her. Phillip's shoulder had been torn open, small enough for a healing potion, big enough to leave a scar, but the splinching had only cut a little bit of Billie's hair off. No severe damage, nothing that wouldn't grow back on its own.

In the end, Phillip decided to risk it. The idea of standing here any longer than he had to be was a heavy counterweight, and he was not in the mood for a walk. "I'll be fine." He replied, but he took a deep breath and let it out slowly anyway. One last effort to stele himself against the countless number of thoughts that could creep in and distract him halfway back to Marin's.

There was nothing left to say tonight, and Phillip was tired. He imagined she was half drunk by now, probably a nagging headache settling in. He wondered if she would drink more or if he should offer to go in and break up the party for her, but he didn't.

Phillip took yet another step back, a few more inches between them before the magic folded around him, and he disappeared into the night.

/end

Billie watched him take a step back. She nodded when he said he'd be fine, hoping it was true.

When they were together, Phillip never used to leave first. He’d never let her see him go. Every goodbye in Craven in summer ended with him waiting at the porch stairs until she’d gone inside, and every late-night goodnight at school ended with him lingering at the bottom of the Ravenclaw girls’ dorm steps until she'd gone up. Even the last couple of times she’d “spoken” to him, she’d said goodbye first, gone to bed first.

The only time he’d ever left her was the night he broke up with her. It felt so twisted, so wrong, that this felt so much like that. She tried to memorise everything about the moment, just like she had that other time, nervous that she’d never be this close to him ever again. She cursed herself for not remembering to do exactly that when she’d kissed him earlier tonight, and he’d kissed her back. She should have paid more attention to the way his hands felt when they were on her body, the way his stubble felt under her lips. She looked at his hair now, a little too-long at the sides. She studied his silhouette against the distant trees, the expression of concentration he had on his face.

Philip fluttered out of her view. He might have fluttered out of existence, for all she knew.

Billie exhaled, then sucked in a cold breath as if she’d just come up gasping for air. Her lungs hurt a little. Everything hurt a little; the barrier between physical and emotional pain seemed to lack any kind of substance tonight. Her anxiety had her muscles tense and sore. She felt sick. She glanced down, noticing for the first time that her shoes were quite damp, and that the damp grass had made her calves wet and itchy.

Phillip was gone. Billie shivered, then pulled her jacket more tightly around herself, then stopped. It wasn’t her jacket, it was Phillip’s. Phillip had left his jacket here, on her body, and she couldn’t just follow him to give it back; he’d blinked away from her, folded space to reappear somewhere far, far away. She couldn’t do that, yet.

She really felt that disparity echo in her chest for a moment, and her mind drew parallels across their lives without much effort on her part. He could really just reappear at any moment, if he wanted to. He had that power. She found her feet stubbornly rooted to the spot, just in case he remembered his jacket and came back for it, even though she knew he wouldn’t. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t. Out of pride, or hurt, or just a reluctance to be near her. Her only options were to wait, or leave.

Billie swallowed against a dry throat. Her mouth felt sticky, her stomach queasy and her skin... She needed a shower. Her green eyes were drawn to the house — a beacon in the dark, she’d thought not too long ago. Billie found herself wondering where Killian was now, and if he was okay, and if he’d ever want to be near her, ever again. Was he with someone who felt safe to him? (Mavis?) She was still upset, still taken aback, still so, so hurt, but she hoped he wasn’t alone; she thought he was hurt, too. The blonde wiped fresh tears away with the edges of Phillip’s jacket sleeves, feeling very young all of a sudden. Too young and foolish and inexperienced to deal with any of this. She didn’t have the emotional resilience or the clarity of mind to try to fit everything together yet, but the guilt had begun settling in under her skin, as it always did. Her mind was spinning up the usual patterns of self-chastising, self-punishment. She’d work out the why as she went.

They were both gone. Billie waited for a moment more, focused on her breathing, the cold air, and the too-big jacket that she felt guilty for keeping and finding comfort in. She waited until she’d stopped crying properly, and until her hands had stopped shaking so she could take Mavis’ butterfly clips out of her hair and pocket them. Okay. She nodded once, just to herself. Time to go. She waited until she’d regained as much composure as she thought she could in a matter of minutes, and then she begun the slow, heavy walk back to the house.

Every tense moment, every harsh word, weighed on her as she made her way back, alone.

— end —

epilogue ––

Killian woke up the next afternoon with the distinct feeling of someone having replaced his brains with jello. He said as much to Nora as he staggered to the bathroom, who laughed at him.

The memories of it all were hazy, as he tried to lay it out the next morning at breakfast. Well, brunch. Dad had made breakfast and left it in the oven, so it was just Killian and then Nora at the table.

All this stuff with Billie was leading to the longest conversations Killian had had with Nora in... Christ, five years? Since he went away to school? He wished it was something better drawing them together. A common interest, not Killian begging for advice on how to be a teenager from someone who was just out of that age range.

Nora said it sounded complicated. Killian said it felt simple. It went on like that for hours.

Nearly forty-eight hours after Killian left Maidstone, he wrote his letters. Sixty hours later, he dropped them off at Diagon Alley. Very carefully in both, there was no invite to see either party. He wasn't even sure he wanted to see Mavis, though she lived just up the road. It could all wait until the break was over, he thought. Killian put his wand deep into his trunk when he got home from Diagon. For the rest of the break, he was going to be ordinary. No magic. No hysterics. Just Killian, alone, in a comic book shop or a used bookstore, batting at Easter decorations and lying about his boarding school to the church ladies. Just Killian, alone, picking up basketball and football games at the community centre where no one remembered him. Just Killian, alone, and normal.

From: Killian Buckley, c/o Diagon Alley Post Office, London, England To: Billie Fay, Craven, England Billie, I said a lot of stuff I shouldn't have the other night, I think. I can't remember exact words. I won't apologize for how I feel, but I will apologize for how I expressed it. Mum says that alcohol doesn't change who you are, just loosens your filters. So, now you know, I guess. I should have asked why you had a panic attack, before. I still don't know. Please let me know if that was something I did. I keep thinking it was something I did. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry for asking you to be someone you aren't. I'm not sorry for wanting better for you. You told me once you would 'understand if you hate me' or something. That bothered me, the assumption that any anger or bad feeling automatically meant long, immutable hatred. I'm angry, still, because I won't lie to you, but I do not hate you. I just need some time to be angry. The whole break, maybe. I don't know where Donnelly lives –– could you please fill in the address on this other letter and send it along. I owe him some apologies, too. Thank you for hosting the party. Yours, still, –––– From: Killian Buckley, c/o Diagon Alley Post Office, London, England To: Phillip Donnelly, _________________________ Status: A separate sealed envelope, with a blank on the address for Billie to fill out the address. Donnelly, I'm writing this mostly for Billie's sake, I think. I can't bring myself to not resent you for hurting her earlier this year, even though I've been trying. I've been thinking about what I can remember about our conversation two nights ago. The exact words are hard to remember, but I think you said something to the effect of "you don't know what you're talking about." I keep thinking about that. I would like to know what I'm talking about. I doubt you want to share with me, after all that, but I'm willing to listen. For Billie's sake. So, let me know. See you at school.

––f i n––