She isn't sure how long she stays there, sitting with her back to the fridge and hugging her knees to her chest. What she is certain of, though, is that she's not crying – her eyes are dry and her mind numb, as she bites on her bottom lip and stares at the wall in front of her.
Should she be crying?
Hell, she doesn't even know.
She doesn't even raise her head when she hears the door opening, but she doesn't need to – the muffled curse is enough for her to know who entered the room.
The door opens and closes again, and the music is turned off seconds later, August ushering everyone outside in a couple of minutes. No doubt her best friends will have a hundred questions, and no doubt they will worry, but for now Emma is simply grateful for her foster brother. Even more so when strong arms sneak beneath her knees and around her shoulders.
Years ago, she would have resented that – the obvious display of weakness, relying on someone who isn't her. But this is August, and she isn't that child anymore, so she snakes her arms around his neck and lets him hold her to her bedroom.
He sets her down on her bed and kneels in front of her.
"Do I need to kick his ass?"
She can't help it – she snorts. It comes out a little too hysterical to her liking, but oh well. And she shakes her head too, for good measure, because she knows August wouldn't need much prompting to defend her honour and punch someone in the face.
(She pretends not to notice that he knows exactly what – or, rather, who – the problem is.)
"Okay, duckling," he goes on. "I'll be working in my room for a few more hours, call me if you need anything."
…
(She wakes up to her birthday gifts on her desk and a few panicky texts and voicemails from Mary Margaret and Ruby.)
(Nothing from him.)
(It doesn't bother her, or so she tells herself.)
…
Neither of her best friends comment on the birthday disaster when they see her at school that Monday morning, and Emma is grateful for that – she still hasn't proceeded what happened yet, mostly because she spent her Sunday watching reruns of Project Runaway and pretending nothing happened. She knows it isn't healthy, knows she will have to face her actions (and him) at some point but – well, she'll take denial over anything else right now.
Mary Margaret still throws her that look though, the one that means she knows, and it reminds her of the Miner's Day festival and the conversation that had followed.
She doesn't want to think about that, either.
Which is exactly why it comes back to slap her in the face.
Mainly because her locker and his are a few feet away from each other, and the chances of them not using them at the same time were, well, close to zero. She resents her life for now being a bunch of chick flick clichés because of course she has to meet his gaze just when she closes the door of her locker, and of course she can't look away for a couple of long seconds.
(Her heart does that weird flip, the traitor.)
Killian stares back, and she reads the worry in his eyes, reads the questions too. And maybe that does it for her, how hesitant he is, because next thing she knows she's walking away from him and telling herself it doesn't matter. Ruby can have her money if she wants.
She's done.
Which is exactly why she can't not look above her shoulder one last time. He looks like a puppy that just got kicked, defeat written all over his face and suddenly her throat tightens, her eyes prickle. She enters the first bathroom she finds, leans over the sink with a heavy sigh. When she looks at her reflection in the mirror, she's not even surprised to see the same anguish in her own eyes.
She's done.
Or so she tells herself.
...
She falls head first on her bed, frustrated groan muffled by the pillow as she kicks her mattress twice for good measure. She hates herself for that – for that obvious and disgusting show of weakness, for that traitor of a heart not listening to her brain. She can't believe this is happening, can't believe she –
No.
This isn't happening, thank you very much.
She's just confused because everything about that situation is confusing, and so her heart thought it was real feelings when in fact it was only playing pretend. She understands the confusion – it was pretty good acting, after all. But that's it. Made up. Fake. Not real.
She groans once more, a bit more loudly, until she remembers August is probably working in the next room and she doesn't want to risk him checking up on her – she doesn't want to risk explaining herself, knowing fully well he'll ask for explanations at some point. Explanations she can't give right now.
So, with a sigh, she rolls around until her feet touch the floor again, and forces herself up. Homework. Homework will do wonders in the 'let's forget about everything' department. And so she falls on the seat by her desk, grabs a textbook at random – geography, wonderful – before opening it at an even more random page and starting to read.
And it works.
For, like, five minutes.
Because soon Emma's attention is grabbed by the gift still waiting on the shelf over her desk, the gift she purposefully didn't open yesterday – August had brought them all to her room at some point when she was sleeping, which was as sweet as it was disturbing. Of course her friends hadn't listened to her and had bought her gifts despite her wish. And of course he'd bought something too.
Something still wrapped. Something she's not curious about. Not at all.
So she grabs it, not without a sigh, as she reads the tag attached to it, written in that stupidly elegant handwriting of his.
To the loveliest of girlfriends, x Killian
She tries not to linger on it, to focus on opening the damn thing instead.
A laugh escapes her when she discovers what's inside.
…
He leans against the front door once it's closed, head falling against wood in a soft 'thumb' as he lets out a sigh. His lips are still prickling, cheeks probably as flushed as his mind is confused. He closes his eyes and chases the remnants feelings of their shared kiss, but all he sees is the panicking look in her eyes when she'd pushed him away, the fear and heartbreak he saw there before she raises all her walls up between them, her eyes wide in their lack of emotions.
He sighs once more as he runs a hand through his hair, mumbles a 'blood hell' that barely starts to encompass his feelings on the matter.
"You're back early."
He opens his eyes to Liam standing there, arm folded on his chest and one eyebrow raised in what is both a question and a judgement – he can shove them both up his arse, because Killian is so not in the mood.
"That bad, huh?" he adds, just to rub it in.
"Sod off."
Both eyebrows fly up Liam's forehead – it is so not Killian's style to curse, after all, especially when dealing with his brother. But hell if he cares as he drags himself up the stairs and falls on his bed with a groan. Her smell is everywhere, flowers and cinnamon and alcohol, and that alone is the sweetest of nightmares.
…
The nightmare continues for the next couple of days, and he can barely stomach the way Mary Margaret looks at him when she meets him in the corridor between classes, that perfect mix of pity and sorrow. He wonders what she knows, what she was told – he knows his Swan alright, and maybe she didn't say anything at all, maybe Mary Margaret only guessed.
And of course he sees her, because fate is cruel that way.
(He's stared at his phone all Sunday long, as if it would help, as if it would make it ring with a call or a text – desperate for anything from her, really.)
(He went to bed that Sunday evening knowing he'd been fake-dumped. Or something.)
He sees her and he has no idea what to do, so he just stares at her like the moron he is, and forgets to breaths when she looks back. Nothing happens, he wasn't clueless enough to believer otherwise, and she flees the scene in a matter of seconds, that same frightened look in her eyes.
She still glances at him above his shoulder, and he hates his traitor of a heart for beating a little faster.
…
He's neck-deep in his history paper, mind full with Cold War and Berlin's Wall and Soviet Union, when his phone starts ringing. He'll deny the high-pitched yelp that escapes his lips as he almost falls down his chair.
Because – bloody hell – because it's her ringtone.
(She was playing with his phone a couple of weeks ago, because hers was apparently dead, and it had involved her downloading a ton of useless apps and even more useless games as well as changing her own ringtone in his contact list. He still has no idea why she chose the main theme from Pirates of the Caribbean, but she found it hilarious and he knew better than to question it.)
He almost drops the phone as he throws himself at it, and has to stares at the screen for long seconds before he's able to pick it up because – well, because his brain probably stopped working for a second there, what with her name written on the screen and all.
He's pathetic that way.
"Hello?" At least his voice sounds composed, that's a first.
"Tell me the dog doesn't die."
And –
What?
"What?"
"The bulldog. Tell me he doesn't get eaten by one of the Godzillas."
He chuckles – the conversation is rightfully unreal at this point, and all he can do is chuckle as he pinches his nose and shakes his head. Is he even surprised, at this point, that she's acting like nothing happened, like she didn't ignore him for two entire days?
Not really, no.
"The dog doesn't die."
"Well, that's a relief."
She doesn't add anything else, and he can hear the muffled sounds of the movie in the background as she watches it. It shouldn't do things to him but it does because – because she promised to watch it, forever ago, and she opened his gift even if she was clearly upset and – it does things to him, okay.
"Hey, wanna watch it together?" she asks after what feels like a lifetime of silence. It takes them a few minutes to synch the movies, but then he's lying in bed with his laptop on his stomach and his phone against his ear, listening to her comments as the story unfolds. It's mostly gasps and little 'ah', with a throwaway 'man, Idris Elba' in the middle – it makes him smile, how responsive to the movie she is.
("I want to be Mako when I grow up."
"Don't we all."
He isn't sure, but he thinks he hears her snort in reply.)
("That Aussie accent is a joke.")
("Gosh, the Sons of Anarchy finale…"
"Spoilers."
"Sorry.")
Silence stretches between them as the credits roll on the screen, and he feels uncertain, uncomfortable all of a sudden. And he hates that, hates that she keeps him on his toes all the time like that, that she's toying with him even if she probably doesn't realise it. Hates that he doesn't know how to react to her half of the time.
"Emma…" he says, tentatively.
"I don't want to talk about it."
Oh. "Okay, but – like –"
"Yeah."
And it speaks volumes, that he understands what she means in that 'yeah' alone. He closes his eyes and sighs, as silently as possible for her not to hear. "I'll see you at lunch tomorrow, then?" He makes sure it sounds like a question, makes sure to leave her a way out if needed.
"Okay…" Pause, then, "Thank you. For the DVD."
"You're welcome."
…
Emma stares at her phone after she hung up, stares at it for a really long time, still trying to process what just happened.
She's been doing that a lot, lately.
She grabs her pillows and presses to her face and screams into it until her throat hurts.
