“Fucking be careful, mate,” he yelled at the fighter, who was stood a few feet away watching us, his hands fidgeting on the hilt of his sword.
“Sorry!” he called again, then resumed biting his lip anxiously.
“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” Phil asked me, and I nodded. “Can you stand?”
He held out his hand, and I took it, letting him pull me to my feet. As he did, the huge hole in the side of my skirts fell open, and I could clearly see my hip through it. I gasped.
“Phil, I’m so sorry,” I said, looking up at him to see his gaze fixed on the hole, too.
“Why?” he asked, reaching out to grab the fabric, and I shuddered when his knuckles brushed against my exposed skin. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He bunched the hole closed and handed me the fabric to hold whilst he stood back and looked at it, then nodded, seeming to make a decision.
“Put your shawl around your waist, and come with me.” He held out his hand again.
I took my shawl from where it was draped over my arms and fastened it like he’d shown me, so it just about covered the giant tear, then took his hand.
I followed him as he pulled me through the festival grounds, back the way we’d come, towards the entrance. He paused a few times to check the festival map on his phone, but he never dropped my hand. Eventually, we came to a tent with a red hospital-style cross and a needle and thread on the side, and Phil pulled me inside.
There were a few other cosplay-clad festival goers inside, sat at the central table or stood on pedestals, mending their costumes. One side of the tent was lined with shelves full of plastic storage boxes, each labelled with a different item, from eyelets to thread to sheets of leather. In the middle of the table was a tray with scissors, needles, pins, and seam rippers.
Phil had me stand next to a table, then walked over to the section of thread boxes, scanning for what he wanted. Once he had the right colours– off white, and a brown that roughly matched our tartan– he came back and sat down next to me, bending so his face was level with my hip.
“Thank you,” I said as he removed my shawl and began to pin the tear in the underskirt shut first.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said softly around the pins he held between his lips, his brow pinched in concentration. “It won’t be perfect.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said, shaking my head, which I apparently did with my whole body, because Phil put a hand on me to remind me to keep still, glaring silently at me. His hand pressed into the back of my thigh, so high that the tips of his fingers grazed my ass through my skirts. I wasn’t sure if he could tell where he’d touched me, but I certainly could, and I definitely went still, which I supposed was the desired effect.
When he moved his hand and resumed pinning, I continued, careful not to move this time. “That’s not what I meant,” I said. “Thank you for coming to check on me. For caring.”
“Of course I care if you’re hurt,” he said.
Which, true; it was pretty basic human decency, not any particular affection. But the way he’d rushed over, the urgency in his eyes as he’d scanned me for injury– it hadn’t felt decent. It had felt almost desperate.
“You know what I mean,” I muttered, though I wasn’t sure he heard me, as he didn’t respond. “Are you managing to enjoy yourself at least?” I asked, a bit louder this time, but again I must have moved.
“Hold still,” he said, raising his voice slightly as if I were a disobedient puppy, and I rolled my eyes as I stilled, ignoring the shiver his stern voice sent up my spine.
“Yes, I was,” he said as he threaded a needle and started stitching the underskirt. “But then you had to go and get stabbed.”
“You literally just said it wasn’t my fault.”
“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t stressful.”
As annoying as he was being, I knew Phil didn’t need any more stress– he’d been head down on these stupid costumes for weeks, and I knew Ethel had been needing him more and more during the day. And it showed on his face; dark circles hung under his blue eyes, heavy with exhaustion.
“Are you okay, Phil?” I asked, willing him to look up at me– to tell me exactly what was weighing so heavily on him. Was it Ethel? Was it work? Was it me, and whatever had almost happened between us in the river last week? I’d thought I was doing the right thing when I pumped the brakes– doing what he would have wanted, too– but maybe I was wrong? I didn’t want to think about the implications of that though when he had his hand up my skirt.
He didn’t meet my gaze, and the pull of the fabric against my skin told me he was still hard at work down there.
“I’m fine,” he said, almost robotically.
“Okay, but arewefine?”
That got a reaction, at least– Phil’s fingers paused their work and he sighed, though he still didn’t look up at me.
“Does it matter?”
