There's a Big, Black Sky Over My Town

“You don’t know who I am.”

To her credit, the Scottish witch delivered her words soberly, in spite of the way her hands shook by her sides. She swallowed back the bile that had bubbled up into her throat and she tried to channel some sort of Gryffindor-ness. Technical term. Something, anything that would make her brave in those moments when she felt as though the wind had been taken out of her sails before being torn down and burned and discarded in an undignified heap. Millie. The memories. A breathy, humourless laugh passed her lips and Livia let her head droop, her mind cynically querying why it had to be those memories. Why couldn’t she have corrupted a childhood memory that didn’t matter? Why did it have to be them? Why did they have to disappear from his mind?

“You’re right,” she lifted her head, her shoulders rising and falling in … she didn’t even know what. “You’re right. Of course. You can’t … be with someone you don’t know. You’re right. I should … I should go.”

She brought her hand to her mouth and turned towards the door, desperately trying to stop herself from crying. She told herself that this didn't matter – that … that there was so much else in the world to cry about. Only, she couldn’t. She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe that he didn’t know her, that this had happened, of all things, and she couldn’t believe how much it hurt.

Dropping her hand, Livia took in a shaky breath and pushed herself into the living room, urging herself to collect up her things. Parchment folded at irregular angles as it was shoved into her backpack. She dropped her book three times before finally slamming it in and she was half tempted to abandon her pens and buy some more later just because she couldn’t bear the extended stay that gathering them up again would require of her.

Slinging her bag onto her back, Liv straightened herself up and screwed her hoodie up in her hands, wishing that she could find something witty and lasting to say to him.

“Simon,” she found herself saying, her lips moving without really bearing in mind any sort of plan. “I met you in Diagon Alley. I got to know you over coffee. We played at being a princess and a highwayman at a renaissance faire and … we laughed and we … we were happy, I think. I got the privilege of meeting you. The privilege of being able to … well,” she brought her lips together and shrugged her shoulders, the action almost as though she was saying that it was evident, the logical end of that sentence. “If you’d like to see, I can get the memories to you but that’s alright if not. I’ll … do you … do you …. just …” She closed her eyes, willing herself to gain some sort of control on her words. “Simon when you look at me do you feel anything? Actually, no. Don’t answer that. I don’t think I can stand to hear it. I’m … I’ll go.”

Simon's throat closed up for a moment, panic clenching the walls together when he saw Livia's reaction. Like she had realized something he couldn't begin to comprehend. That frightened him into silence, even as she said she would go. He just stood there, his arms hanging, relaxed at his sides. What else could he do? In truth, he expected her to just disappear without another word, but when she spoke he was oddly relieved.

The coffee. The faire. She kept talking but it didn't even matter, because Simon was staring at her now, absolutely baffled. Those bits and pieces would've meant nothing to someone else, but all and once and so suddenly that it nearly pained him, Simon remembered. The coffee. Of course. And the princess and the faire, yes. Obviously. How had he been so dense? Livia. Right.

She said something about memories and leaving and he couldn't stop himself after that. It was too much. He felt horribly, horribly guilty for causing that expression. For making her want to run away from him. That was the opposite from what he wanted. So he broke form, leaving the kitchen and striding over to her so he could face her properly. His hands reached up as understanding flickered its way into existence on his face. Simon's fingertips brushed her cheek, uttering her name almost desperately. He added on an endearment in his native tongue, stepping closer as he let his shoulders relax.

"I'm sorry. I- something was wrong. I don't- ...don't understand what happened. But Liv, I- ... I think I remember. I can't imagine what would've made me forget you, of all people. How could I? I'm so sorry."

His spare hand reached for her sweater, throwing it aside once she released it, and waiting for the thud of the couch when it landed before snaking that arm around her back. The fingers at her cheek delved into her hair and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Then one to the upset furrow between her eyebrows. He leaned back slightly, his gaze questioning. Then, painfully tempted to test the waters, he rolled his lips together. Wet them just a touch, and leaned in, closing his eyes in case she rejected him because of how suddenly he had changed. Just in case. He didn't expect that she would, but crazier things had happened.

Simon blinked, slamming him back to reality and the cold air from his kitchen's vent. He'd always had that poorly-timed flair for the dramatic. As it were, he didn't remember. He hadn't called her by the correct endearment in his daydream, by the way, reader. Just, you know, to calm the anxiety about that. No, but he had been hopeful, obviously, that she could jog his memory. Otherwise something so pleasant and, frankly, cheesy, would not have come to mind.

No, he didn't cross the room or anything like that. But he did apologize.

"I wasn't trying to hurt you, Liv. That's the last thing I would want to do. But I just... I don't know what you're talking about. So I don't know what to say. I'm sorry, but..." He lifted a shoulder, visibly disappointed.

Her question, if the daydream had come true, would have near done him in. But this Simon? He just crumpled even more before her eyes. "I so wish I understood. But I just... I feel lost. Forgetful. I'm so sorry."