42. An Extant Form of Magic #3
It’s relatively empty despite the good weather, the floods of bucket-toting families and day trippers favouring a different stretch of coast. Bastian and Briar have been taking a lot of walks like this, just the two of them, in the cool summer mornings and late at night, their shoulders always close enough to touch.
‘My father’s been trying to call me,’ Bastian says grimly, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walks. His hair is tucked behind his ears, and with the addition of an argyle jumper, he looks sweetly benign and utterly miserable.
‘Are you going to talk to him?’
‘No,’ says Bastian. ‘What’s the point? I’m a disappointment. I could have raised the family to new heights, instead I ruined his life. What’s new? He ruined mine a long time ago.’
‘Good for you,’ says Briar. It’s new for Bastian, talking about his childhood like this, and his time at Temple; sometimes, on these walks, it all unspools out of him until his voice is hoarse.
They come to a stop at a big driftwood sculpture of a wrecked ship, so large and sturdy you can use it as a bench, and sit down side by side, Bastian scuffing his shoe in the pebbles.
‘I think Alistair tried to call me from his family’s house,’ he says roughly. ‘The number looked familiar.’
‘You didn’t pick up?’
‘No. I don’t have anything to say to him.’ Bastian sighs. ‘They’ll have all closed ranks around him. His family, his lawyers. Feels hypocritical to say that he should be in prison, because - well, so should I. But I hate that he’ll never face any consequences for killing that girl.’
‘I know.’ Despite the Temple raid, there have been no actual arrests. Good Templetonians always cover their tracks. ‘He’ll know what he did, though.’
‘He doesn’t care. He’ll find a way to rationalise it. He always did.’ He kicks another pebble, then frowns. ‘Watson came and found me last night and brought me wine,’ he says, sounding very troubled by the whole ordeal. ‘What’s her angle?’
‘Begrudging respect. Shared ex-boyfriend. A lot of guilt. And Westby told her not to open it if she couldn’t finish it, because it was expensive and nobody else was drinking red.’
‘Adams keeps being nice to me, too.’
‘I think he likes you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Okay, well, I’m not.’ Briar squints fondly at him. ‘I know you don’t want them to forgive you—’
‘I don’t.’
‘But sometimes,’ Briar continues, ‘people do it anyway. Horribly selfish, I know.’
‘Shut up,’ says Bastian, but he leans into Briar’s shoulder with a heavy sigh. ‘Does it sound . . . absurd, if I tell you it was easier being loathed? Knowing that people hated me, thinking that you . . . well, that at least I knew where I stood.’
‘No,’ Briar says. ‘I think it’s comforting sometimes, to put yourself in a role and go, yeah, this is me.’ Aggressor and victim; hero and villain. ‘But that’s not how life works, is it?’
‘No,’ Bastian says. ‘And you . . . you still . . . ?’
He seems to be waiting, constantly, for the other shoe to drop; for Briar to decide that actually, they’ve made a mistake, they’re not in love with him at all.
Briar can’t blame him. All they can do is be there, day after day, in the hope that eventually their love becomes so mundane to him that he stops watching it like a horse about to bolt.
‘Yep,’ they say. ‘I still love you.’
Bastian pulls away, embarrassed, retreating into himself; but when Briar kisses him, he makes a pleased noise, and decides to stay.
It’s hard to remember, on a day like this that promises to be soaringly blue, with salt spray on the breeze and Hadley’s reluctantly vegetarian brunch cooking in the oven, that this is just a moment to catch their breaths.
Briar’s not stupid enough to believe that the thaumaturges out there who hold them responsible for the fall of society can be kept at bay forever, even with Bastian and the public on their side.
But right now they feel like they could live here forever, caught between the mistakes of the past and an uncertain future, hoping it can’t catch up to them as long as they keep their eye on the horizon and Bastian’s hand clutched tightly in theirs.
Things are about to get bigger. Louder. Yesterday Westby received one phone call from the actual Prime Minister, and a second from the president of Imperial College London. Very soon, they’re all going to have to make some real decisions.
For now, Briar is content to sit by the fire with their friends and watch them bicker and embrace, play chess and share texts, shout themselves hoarse and then cover each other up with blankets when one of them falls asleep on the sofa at the end of the night.
They’ll keep holding Bastian steady, finding excuses to touch him whenever they can, never not thrilled when he tentatively touches them back.
Standing on the beach, a little battered by the wind as the waves keep on coming, Briar puts an arm around him, and he leans ever-so-slightly back into their embrace.
In some ways, it’s easy; they did it a thousand times before, a lifetime ago, when they were different people. Now they get to try again.
And it might not be perfect, but it’s good.