A Handful of Stardust

IF YOU WANTED HONESTY, THAT'S ALL YOU HAD TO SAY

CHARACTERS: Celia Starling, Richie Carter

TAGS & TRIGGERS: 2000s, punk, emo, soft, band, injury detail, implied abuse

"Pass me y'r jacket," Celia says, holding out her hand. Richie puts down the make-up brush they're holding and hands it over.

"Not even a thank you?" they ask, patting more foundation powder onto the fluffy bristles.

"Whatever." Richie should know better than to expect something like that from her by now, she reasons in her head, and starts tracing her fingers over the patches on their jacket. A Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols patch sits next to a rainbow flag. Sell Your Soul to Punk Rock is emblazoned around the collar, next to a patch which reads Punch Your Local Fascist.

Richie tugs lightly on her wrist, an indication to lean forward, then starts to brush powder over a flower of purple-and-yellow bruising under Celia's eyepatch.

"Cel," Richie says, focused intently on the task at hand, "I got a question."

"Yeah?" Celia's fingernails tap against the studs which line their jacket's collar and lapels. Her eyes drift down to their shoes, crusted with dirt that they don't care about getting all over their carpet. They're ladder-laced in blue and yellow.

"Why're you so – I don't know – mad all the time?"

Her head snaps up. This isn't what she expected.

"God, I don' know. Weird question," she dismisses. "I though' y'd get it. Y're punk, aren' ya?"

Richie laughs, taking gentle fingers to Celia's injury and brushing the powder around a little to make it more even. "I guess. I'm not as permanently angry as you."

Celia scoffs. "Thought that was the whole point."

When they don't reply, she continues: "You think Roxy'll believe I got into a bar fight?"

"You're seventeen, güey," they mutter. "You can't go near a fucking bar."

"Well – ow, be careful – what else am I s'posed t' fuckin' say? I got impaled on one of y'r hair spike things?"

They frown. "Aren't we trying to hide it anyway?"

"She notices things."

"Stop worrying, dumbass." Richie grins, puts down the makeup brush, and admires their handiwork. "But we've gotta go under the eyepatch, 'kay?"

Hesitant for one fleeting instant, Celia unties the black ribbon and removes her black patch from over her eye. It normally sits under flat-ironed hair, barely visible – so the bruise wouldn't be, either – but her hair flicks about while she performs. Right now her hair is damp and strands are curling upwards and outwards, sticking to her neck.

Richie takes special care not to look her directly in that ordinarily-covered eye; it's solid black, like the pupil had spread and taken over the whites and browns of the rest of it, unnerving and reflecting blood-red. They sigh.

"Did you really put eyeliner on this one, too?" they ask, not exactly surprised.

"'S gotta be even," Celia answers, shutting that black eye while Richie applies makeup underneath the lid, obscuring the purple bruising. They sit back on their heels.

"Done."

Celia replaces the eyepatch while Richie packs up the makeup and grabs their jacket. She brushes her hair out back over the patch, and it fluffs up under her fingers. A little too forcefully, she pats it back down until it sits close enough to straight.

She stands, grabs her small black-and-white chequered bag, hesitates. Her eyes linger on Richie, their jacket and the liberty spikes on their head which droop a bit at the ends now the hair-gel has ceased to work as well. She bites her lip so hard it hurts, but manages to say, "Thanks."

"She has manners," Richie answers sarcastically, not looking up.

"Ha-ha." But she's smiling.

They aren't, not quite. "You're definitely okay with going back now? You can stay over, if you want."

There are no pyjamas in her bag, no toothbrush or phone charger or (less necessary) her hair straightener or favourite eyeliner. She's totally unprepared.

"Yeah. If y' don' mind."

They smile. It looks sympathetic. Celia's stomach turns, but she returns it, hating their pity. But she doesn't say anything as she drops her bag and sits back down on the bed. Richie stands as she does so, leaving the moment and the sympathy behind (thank God) as they finger through a box of CDs. Celia stares at her best friend's back and wonders how long this whole thing will last.