✧.* nancy ੈ✩‧₊˚ @bills5lut - Tumblr Blog

berlin

masterlist prompt list

note: writing this as if its current billie as writing it any other way feels wrong.

synopsis: you watch billie slowly get worse throughout the tour, and despite your best efforts to help her, it all comes to worst in berlin.

warnings: mentions of mh, su!cide references, sh references, angst, fluff

los angeles

your suitcase is open on the bed, half-folded clothes spilling out like a soft, defeated sigh. billie’s is beside it, empty except for a single crumpled hoodie she tossed in an hour ago and hasn’t touched since. she’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the foot of the bed, scrolling aimlessly on her phone in this slow, irritated rhythm that says she doesn’t actually care what she’s looking at.

“bills,” you say, holding up a pair of her cargo pants. “do you want these or not?”

she barely glances up. “i dunno. whatever.”

“you have to pack more than ‘whatever’.”

she grunts. a non-answer.

you let out a breath, long and warm, then toss the pants onto her lap. they slide off her legs and onto the floor. she doesn’t pick them up. she doesn’t even react beyond a tiny twitch in her jaw.

tour starts in two days. you’ve both known this for weeks. yet she’s acting like she got surprise-drafted.

you move around her room, pulling things you know she loves: the soft grey sweatpants she wears on planes, the stupid fuzzy socks with the bears, her favourite oversized tee that smells like her perfume no matter how many times it’s washed.

every time you add something to the suitcase, billie’s eyes flicker up for half a second, then drift back down again. detached. not moody in the fun way. quiet in the heavy way.

you try for lightness. “you know, you’re the only person on earth who sees the words ‘european tour’ and reacts like they’re getting sentenced.”

she doesn’t laugh.

you sit beside her suitcase. “come on. london? manchester? dublin? fucking paris, babe. you love paris.”

she shrugs. “sure.”

“‘sure’ is not the enthusiasm i’m looking for.”

billie sighs, head tipping back against the bed frame. “i just don’t feel like going.”

you look at her then, properly look at her. her eyes are tired, a little unfocused. shoulders stiff. her mouth set in that flat line she gets when she’s holding something in instead of letting it out.

you soften immediately. “baby.”

she doesn’t look at you.

you crawl forward across the bed, palms sinking into the duvet as you move, sliding onto your stomach. then onto your knees. then finally over the open suitcase between you. billie watches you now, but only because you’re physically blocking her phone.

you cup her face gently, thumbs brushing her warm cheeks. “you love europe.”

she huffs a breath through her nose, not quite a laugh and not quite annoyed. her eyes flick to your mouth, then back up.

you lean in and kiss her, slow, warm, coaxing. her lips soften but she doesn’t fully kiss you back, not with her usual spark. you do it again, a little teasing nip to her bottom lip this time.

“tell me you’re excited,” you murmur against her mouth, trying for playful, for light, for spark.

she mumbles something into your lips that isn’t english and definitely isn’t enthusiastic.

you pull back. “what was that?”

she glares weakly. “i said i’m excited. kind of.”

you pout dramatically, sitting up straighter, knees planted on either side of her thighs now. your hands slide down to her shoulders as you settle into a loose straddle. “nooo. say it properly.”

her eyes trail down your body like you’re annoying and irresistible at the same time. “you’re so annoying.”

“say it.”

billie leans forward to kiss you again, clearly trying to distract you, to end the conversation without participating in it. you pull back with a little laugh, hand on her chest to hold her in place.

“nope. not until you say it.”

she groans into a half-smile. “fine. i’m excited.”

you raise an eyebrow. “bils.”

billie rolls her eyes dramatically, head falling back for a second. “okay. okay. i’m excited for tour.” she drags the words out like she’s being forced to read from a teleprompter at gunpoint. “there. happy?”

you grin, lean in, and kiss her properly this time, slow, lingering, deep enough that her breath catches and she tries to chase your mouth when you pull away.

then you grab the nearest folded shirt and toss it at her chest. “good. now fucking pack.”

she blinks, startled, the shirt sliding into her lap. “rude.”

“you deserve it.” you grab another thing, a hoodie this time, and toss that too.

billie snorts, scoops up a random piece of clothing off the bed behind you, and throws it at your head without even aiming. you catch it mid-air out of pure reflex.

you launch it back at her. it hits her shoulder, sort of hangs there across her collarbones.

“hey. that’s my fucking bra.”

billie shrugs, leaning back on her palms like she’s lounging on a beach chair. “don’t mind your bra in my face, baby. you know that.”

she grins, but only for a second before it fades into something quieter, softer, tired around the edges.

you reach out and squeeze her knee. “pack.”

she sighs, but this time she actually leans forward, grabbing the cargo pants you tossed earlier. she folds them messily, tosses them into the suitcase, then grabs a tee, then a pair of socks.

slow, resigned, but doing it.

you watch her with a small smile, staying close, ready to keep her from sinking back into her phone or her head. billie keeps packing in silence for a minute, shoulders loosening just a fraction, not happy but cooperating.

you slide off her lap and onto the floor beside her, bumping your shoulder gently against hers.

“see,” you whisper, kissing her cheek. “not so bad.”

she leans into you for a moment, barely, but enough.

“still don’t wanna go,” she mutters.

“i know,” you say softly. “it’ll be fun. promise.”

billie nods, almost imperceptible, then reaches into the pile for another hoodie.

packing continues. slowly. but she’s doing it.

london

london is always colder than you expect. different kind of cold, heavy, wet, settling into your clothes and staying there. jet lag doesn’t help. neither does the fluorescent hallway light that flickers every few seconds outside the dressing rooms.

billie’s been quiet since you landed. not dramatic quiet. just the slow kind that creeps over her shoulders and pulls her inward, like her body is preparing for impact. tour always shifts her. you expected this.

the green room is warm, though. lamps instead of overhead lights. soft couches billie insisted on. a little corner fridge humming in an uneven rhythm. you sit on the sofa with billie between your legs, her back to your chest, her hood pulled up even though she’s indoors.

she’s scrolling something on her phone, but you can tell she isn’t really seeing it. her thumb keeps pausing halfway through a swipe, her eyes half-lidded, her breath slow.

you rest your hands on her waist first, light, testing. she doesn’t flinch, just exhales, body softening against yours. so you let your hand move up her spine, gentle pressure through the fabric, small slow circles near the base of her neck.

billie’s shoulders drop a little. not fully relaxed, but less braced.

you don’t ask her anything. you’ve learned not to force it on days like this. she’ll talk if she wants to talk. if she doesn’t, you’ll feel it long before she says it.

you switch to rubbing between her shoulder blades, slow and steady, your palm warm against her hoodie. her breathing deepens by a fraction. her head tilts back onto your shoulder, just enough weight that you can tell she’s letting herself lean.

“you’re tired,” you murmur, soft, low.

she gives a small grunt of agreement. nothing more.

you press your lips to her forehead, a slow kiss, lingering just long enough that you feel her inhale. her skin is warm from nerves or travel or both.

billie closes her eyes. “hate first nights,” she mumbles, not quite complaining, not quite explaining.

“i know.”

“hate being away.”

“i know.”

your hand never stops moving on her back, grounding her, coaxing her body to unclench. the green room hums quietly. voices echo faintly from somewhere down the hall. the setlist taped to the wall stirs every time someone opens a door nearby.

billie sits there, silent, heavy, small in a way she only ever gets right before a show. you can feel her mood, that low fog that settles on her during tours, the tension between duty and exhaustion, the performance switch she hasn’t flipped yet.

when her handler knocks on the doorframe to say ten minutes, billie groans, pushes herself up, and immediately sways a bit. jet lag hits her unevenly, like she’s on a boat.

you steady her waist. “you okay?”

she nods, too quickly, rubbing her eyes. “yeah. yeah.”

you watch her pull herself together, hood off, jacket on, hair adjusted, rings straightened. she goes quiet again, but this quiet is different. focused. the mask settling in place.

then she goes onstage.

and the thing is onstage she looks fine. more than fine. electric. her voice fills the arena in that familiar swell, her jumps are sharp, her banter playful, her smile convincing enough that you catch yourself thinking maybe you misread. maybe she’s adjusting. maybe the tiredness was just tiredness.

she does the whole show like she’s plugged into something brighter than human energy. you watch from the side, arms crossed, trying to relax your chest. she looks good. she looks present. she looks like billie.

during the last song, she laughs at something a fan yells, head thrown back, hair damp from sweat and heat. the crowd roars. it’s loud enough to shake your ribs.

she’s okay, you think briefly. maybe she’s okay.

but after the last bow, after she leaves the stage and disappears backstage with security and crew buzzing around her, you walk back to the green room alone, letting people flood past you. your body is already relaxing, ready to fold into the post-show calm.

you push the green room door open just enough to slip inside, expecting to find billie wiping sweat from her face or fanning herself or mumbling about needing water.

instead, before the door fully shuts behind you, you hear her voice. a small, broken-sounding exhale.

not pain. not crying. just… worn out in a way that’s too private for a hallway.

you stop. the door is still cracked open. from your angle, you can see the hallway behind you and the small strip of green room in front of you.

and in that strip, you see billie.

she’s standing in the middle of the room with her head tucked into finneas’s shoulder, arms hanging around his ribs, her whole body leaning into him like she’s trying to disappear into his hoodie. finneas has one hand at the back of her neck, the other on her upper back, steadying her without saying anything.

billie isn’t crying. she’s just folded in on herself, breathing hard, jaw tight, eyes closed like the air’s too heavy.

you freeze, fingers curling against the door, not wanting to interrupt, not wanting to intrude. not wanting to announce yourself and snap her out of whatever fragile thing she’s holding onto.

your teeth catch your bottom lip, from concern that hits so fast you have to swallow to keep it down. a little ache opens in your chest, slow, sharp, quiet.

she didn’t look like this onstage.

she didn’t look like this ten minutes ago.

you stay there in the doorway, barely breathing, watching her shoulders rise and fall against her brother, watching the way her fingers cling to his back, the way her whole body sags like something inside her gave out the second the spotlight turned off.

your stomach twists. not fear exactly, but that steady, low pulse of worry you’ve learned to recognise on her tough days.

this isn’t just tired.

this is something heavier.

you bite your lip harder, hand tightening on the doorframe, and keep watching. afraid to enter. afraid to leave. afraid to miss anything important.

billie stays pressed into finneas, not saying a word.

and you stand there, hidden by the half-opened door, heart thudding slow and worried, wishing you knew what was happening in her head.

manchester

manchester rain has its own sound. a thicker kind of tapping, heavier on the windows of the tour bus, like someone drumming fingers on glass just out of sync with your heartbeat.

the bus is parked behind the arena, lights dimmed to a faint amber glow. everyone else went to their bunks already. crew voices drifted off one by one until the whole bus settled into that quiet post-show emptiness.

billie didn’t say much after dinner. she ate half her pasta, pushed the rest around her plate until you quietly took it away. she brushed her teeth without looking at herself in the mirror. she took off her stage rings and lined them up on the counter, then stared at them for a long minute like they were a problem she couldn’t solve.

now you’re both in the little bunk bed, slightly bigger than a twin, barely enough room for the two of you unless you’re tangled. but you’re not tangled tonight. not really. you’re on your back, shoulder touching hers, the blanket pulled up to your collarbones.

billie lies on her side facing the window, her head near your shoulder, your legs touching only at the shins. the rain streaks across the glass in crooked, uneven lines, breaking and joining as the bus rocks subtly from the wind. she’s been staring at the window for too long. not watching anything, just staring, eyes unfocused, lashes heavy.

she hasn’t blinked in a while. her breath is shallow, chest rising too quickly for how still she is.

you shift your hand on the blanket, knuckles brushing her arm. she doesn’t move.

“bills,” you whisper softly, not a question, not a prompt. just her name. just reminding her you’re there.

she doesn’t answer. she swallows instead, jaw tightening. her fingers twitch at her side, a restless, uneven movement. at first it seems like she’s just adjusting her hand, but then the twitch becomes a small repetitive motion two fingers tapping against her wrist, then sliding, then tapping again.

you watch her for a moment, trying not to overreact, trying not to jump in too fast.

she pulls her arm closer to her body under the blanket, her shoulders curling a little. and then her fingers change rhythm faster now, sharper, moving in those tiny circles you’ve learned to recognise instantly.

you reach over and touch her waist lightly. “come here,” you murmur, voice low.

she hesitates, then rolls toward you slowly, like gravity’s dragging her instead of her own choice. her forehead touches your shoulder first, then she nudges her face into your chest, nose cold against your shirt. her body folds in on itself as she slides closer, one leg hooking loosely around yours.

you wrap an arm around her, palm on her back, and that’s when you feel it. her hand moving under the blanket, wrist twisting slightly, knuckles brushing your ribs as they move.

scratching.

hidden at first. fast. shallow but relentless.

you catch her wrist gently, your hand sliding beneath the blanket until your fingers hook around hers. “hey,” you whisper, soft, not scolding. “c’mon, baby. stop that.”

billie exhales through her nose, a tiny frustrated sound. “it’s fine,” she mumbles into your chest, voice muffled. “it’s nothing.”

her nose presses harder against you, breath warm for a second before it turns shaky. her body tenses, then softens, then tenses again like she’s trying to keep still and failing.

you feel her hand trying to curl back toward her own wrist, subtle but unmistakable.

without saying anything, you shift your grip, guiding her hand away from her body, pinning it loosely against your stomach. not rough, not forceful, just enough pressure to stop her. she resists for a second, twisting her fingers against your hold, a quiet huff of air escaping her.

then she gives up.

her hand goes limp. her forehead presses harder into your ribs. a breath catches in her throat, not quite a sob, not quite a gasp, just a broken inhale like she ran out of room in her lungs.

you lace your fingers with hers, weaving them tight so she can’t slip free. her palm is warm, almost sweaty. her grip tightens a moment later, too tight, tighter than she usually holds you. you let her. you breathe through it.

your free hand slides into her hair, fingers combing slowly from the base of her skull upward. long, slow passes. repetitive. grounding.

her breathing wavers again. then again.

“sorry,” she mumbles suddenly, voice barely audible. “sorry… i’m sorry.”

you kiss the top of her forehead, lips resting there for a long moment. “hey. it’s okay.”

“it’s not,” she whispers, breath shuddering against your shirt. “i’m just… i don’t know.” her words wobble. “i’m scared.”

your hand pauses in her hair. “why, baby?”

“i don’t know.” she shakes her head against you, a small frantic movement. “i don’t know. i’m just… tired.”

you hold her tighter, her hand still pinned in yours, her fingers twitching despite your grip.

“i know,” you say softly. “sleep. i’ve got you.”

she shifts closer, burying her face deeper into your chest like she’s trying to disappear into you entirely. her legs tangle with yours more firmly this time, her breath stuttering every few inhales.

you kiss her crown slow and deliberate, pressing your lips into her hair until you feel her relax by degrees. she leans into it like she needs it, like it’s the only thing keeping her anchored.

her hand twitches again in your hold. tiny, tired spasms. her fingers trying to move even though she’s halfway to sleep, halfway to panic.

you squeeze gently, thumb brushing a slow circle over the back of her hand.

“it’s okay,” you whisper into her hair. “i’ve got you. just breathe. i’ve got you.”

billie’s breathing steadies a little. not fully. not peacefully. but enough.

her body softens against yours, her grip loosens, then tightens again, then loosens, muscle memory fighting exhaustion. her face is still pressed into your chest, her breath warm and uneven. her fingers twitch even as sleep starts pulling her under.

half-awake, half-anxious, she mumbles something that doesn’t fully make sense, just slurred fragments of words.

you keep stroking her hair. slow. steady. almost mechanical in its gentleness.

rain taps the window. the bus hums. billie’s body finally settles heavy on yours, breath catching every so often, fingers still twitching faintly inside your hold.

you don’t let go. not for a second.

glasgow

glasgow feels colder than manchester. different kind of air. sharper. clean in a way that makes the inside of the arena feel stale by comparison. billie has been getting quieter with every city, but glasgow is the first place you actually feel her slipping away inch by inch.

the dressing room becomes billie’s safe zone. or her avoidance zone. hard to tell which. she stays inside with the door half closed, hood up, headphones on even when the room is silent. people knock. she says one minute. people ask if she needs anything. she says no without looking up.

you sit outside the room sometimes, scrolling your phone, listening for her footsteps. usually she would drift out and climb into your lap or lean on your shoulder or kiss your cheek without thinking. now hours pass where she barely looks at you.

breakfast is a mess of early call times and too much fluorescent light. you sit together at a little round table. billie has a bowl of oats in front of her that she does not touch. she stirs it once, twice, then drops the spoon and presses her fingertips to her forehead.

you try for something gentle. “you want fruit instead? or toast?”

she shakes her head. “not hungry.”

lunch is the same. she picks at a slice of apple for maybe ten seconds then pushes the plate away and drinks half a cup of coffee she definitely does not need. her leg bounces under the table. she keeps pulling at her sleeve.

you try again anyway. “maybe try eating something small.”

she looks at you like the suggestion is a foreign language. “after the show.”

she won’t. you already know.

later, you are both in the green room, sitting on opposite ends of the couch. you are eating a handful of nuts because the day has been too long and you have no idea if you ate lunch yourself. billie is sitting curled into the corner cushion, knee pulled up to her chest, staring at a rigging cable on the wall like it is hypnotising her.

you hold out a few nuts, palm open. “here. just have a couple.”

she shakes her head without looking. “i said after the show.”

the thing is she sounds annoyed even though her voice is quiet. like everything is scraping at her skin. you pull your hand back slowly and eat the nuts yourself.

she does the show. she performs fine. better than fine. sometimes her voice cracks a little between songs but the crowd does not notice. you watch from the side stage, arms crossed, chewing your thumbnail. she is keeping it together. at least out there.

back in the bus later that night, it’s just the two of you. the crew is still loading equipment outside. the bus rocks when someone climbs the steps.

you sit beside her on the small couch. she has her legs tucked under her, sleeves over her hands. you try to ease into it.

“you didn’t eat today,” you say softly.

instant tension. her shoulders go rigid. she does not look at you.

“i said i will eat.”

you take a breath. “you said after the show. that was three hours ago.”

she exhales sharply, irritated. “can we not do this?”

you try choosing your words with care. “bills. are you taking your meds?”

the reaction is immediate. sharp. her head snaps up.

“you’re not my mother.”

“i know i am not. i never suggested that bills”

“then stop treating me like i need parenting. why do you never trust me?”

“i do trust you.”

her eyes flash. “no. you do not. you keep checking every little thing i do.”

“i’m worried.”

“i am fine.”

“you’re not eating.”

“because i’m not hungry.”

“billie. please”

“what.”

her voice cuts the air. the argument is not really an argument. it’s billie getting angrier, more defensive, more tired with each sentence. you keep your voice low. calm. apologetic halfway through even though you are not sure what you are apologising for.

she accuses you of hovering. of treating her like she is fragile. of making everything worse. you keep saying okay. i hear you. i am just trying to help. she keeps pushing back, sharper each time.

eventually you both fall silent. heavy silence. uncomfortable silence. you look at your hands. she stares at the floor.

a few hours later there are other people on the bus. crew. friends. music playing softly from someone’s speaker. you sit beside billie on the long couch while people talk around you. she does not say a word. she sits with her arms crossed, eyes on the floor, foot tapping. you can feel the anxiety coming off her in little waves.

you try something small. you wrap an arm around her shoulders, just a gentle anchor. a reminder.

she shrugs you off immediately. not violently. more like a flinch. a push. and then she leans away from you entirely.

the rejection stings in a way you didn’t expect. you pull your arm back to your lap and pretend you’re not embarrassed.

after a while you excuse yourself and go for a shower. the water is too hot but you stand there anyway, forehead against the wall, letting it run down your back until you stop shaking.

when you walk back toward the bunks your hair is still dripping. a towel is clutched to your chest. your socks pick up the cold from the bus floor, sticking a little because they’re damp.

you slide the curtain open expecting billie to be scrolling her phone or half asleep.

she is curled on her side, face turned away from the light, shoulders shaking almost imperceptibly. silent crying. barely audible breathing. you freeze in the doorway of the small space.

“bills,” you whisper. “can we talk.”

she inhales sharply at the sound of your voice. not startled. more like she is bracing for something.

and it hits you in that moment. billie hasn’t touched you once this entire tour unless you moved first. not a kiss. not a hug. not even brushing your sleeve.

you swallow it and focus on her instead.

you keep your voice gentle. “do you want me to lie with you. we don’t need to talk. just lie together.”

she shakes her head without turning around. “can you sleep in a different bunk tonight.”

it hits harder than you expect. your eyes feel hot almost instantly. there is no argument in you. you just nod.

“yeah. sure.”

your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to. embarrassing. but it is all you have.

billie finally turns her head. her face is blotchy. her eyes wet. she looks guilty in that way people do when they push too far and know it but have no strength left to fix it.

you swallow and force a tiny smile. “can i have a kiss goodnight.”

the words feel strange coming out. humiliating. like you’ve gone back in time to some insecure version of yourself you thought you grew out of.

billie reaches up and cups your cheek for the first time in days, barely touching you. she gives you a small kiss. quick. soft. sad.

“goodnight,” she whispers.

“goodnight,” you murmur back.

she lets go and pulls the curtain shut between you.

you step into the next bunk, lie on your back, stare at the ceiling where the led strip light glows faintly along the edge. you listen to the hum of the bus engine and the faint sniffles from the bunk beside yours.

you do not sleep. not even a little.

dublin

it’s supposed to be a fresh start after glasgow, but the morning feels like walking on glass. you hardly speak. billie’s in her hoodie, sleeves half over her hands, moving slow and deliberate, like she’s trying not to set anything off inside herself. you’re exhausted in that very particular way that comes from loving someone who’s hurting and not knowing where the safe footholds are.

you try to give her space. not dramatically. just quietly existing beside her. hyperaware of everything: the way she avoids your eyes, how she doesn’t say good morning, how she only nods when the driver greets her.

you watch her slip into the venue with one of the assistants, and it’s a relief when you realize she’s with finneas most of the day. you tell yourself she’s probably better off with him right now — he can read her differently, and she leans on him when she doesn’t want to lean on you. it stings a little, but you breathe through it. you’d rather she be safe than cling to you out of obligation.

later, in the green room, you spot finneas by the kettle, fiddling with a tea bag like he’s forgotten what it’s supposed to do.

he looks up when he hears you come in.

“hey.”

“hey,” you answer, stepping closer. “how is she?”

he exhales before he speaks. that’s how you know the truth isn’t simple.

“she’s safe,” he says. “but… i’m worried. she’s not saying much. she’s like… somewhere else.”

you nod, throat tight.

“i figured.”

he hesitates, thumb rubbing the edge of the tea packet.

“you should reach out,” he says gently. “she needs you.”

your stomach twists. “i’m trying not to push.”

“i know. but she’s scared. and when she’s scared she doesn’t know how to ask.”

you nod again. you can’t tell if you appreciate the advice or feel sick from the pressure. maybe both.

when you head back to the bus later in the evening, the door clicks shut behind you and the whole corridor is still. you hear it immediately, the small, uneven breaths coming from billie’s bunk. you move closer. the curtain’s half-open. she’s curled up on her side, hoodie bunched, cheeks blotchy from crying. her wrist is tucked under her chin like she’s been trying to hide it even in sleep.

she looks up when she hears you. her eyes are wet, wide, tired in that raw way that breaks you every single time.

“im sorry” she whispers, barely a sound, like her throat’s scraped raw.

you don’t even climb in gently. she reaches first, grabbing at you with both hands, tugging you into the narrow space. you’re barely settled before she’s climbing onto you, straddling your hips, pressing her forehead to your collarbone like she’s starving for it.

her nails dig a little into your sides, not intentionally rough, just desperate. she’s breathing hard, crying harder. her thighs press around you like she needs something solid under her or she’ll disappear.

“baby,” you murmur, smoothing her back, “it’s okay. i’m here.”

she shakes her head against your skin.

“no, no, i’m sorry,” she whispers, voice cracking. “i’m so sorry.”

you hold her tighter, fingertips at the nape of her neck.

“shh. it’s alright. you’re okay.”

but she’s already pulling her hoodie off, movements frantic, then her shirt, bra undone halfway before she even finishes getting the fabric off. her hands find you immediately, under your top, over your stomach, your ribs, your tits. her palms are warm and shaking.

she leans in, kissing you like she’s drowning. deep, messy, tasting like tears and leftover stage sweat. she grinds into you a little, just enough to feel contact, not enough to be deliberate. it’s instinct, not seduction.

she grabs your top and starts tugging. not carefully, not even looking at what she’s doing. you catch her wrists gently.

“hey,” you whisper, cupping her face so she has to look at you. “slow down. i’m here.”

she shakes her head again, more tears spilling.

“i need” her voice breaks. “please. i just… i need.”

“i know,” you say softly. “i’ve got you.”

you stroke her hair, trying to ground her. her breath stutters. she gets frustrated for a second and pushes your hand away, a sharp movement born from panic more than anger.

“billie. baby.” you hold her cheeks again, steady but gentle. “breathe.”

her face crumples instantly.

“i’m sorry,” she sobs, collapsing into your shoulder. “shit, i’m sorry, i didn’t mean. i’m so sorry.”

you wrap both arms around her and rock her slightly, kissing her temple, then her neck.

“it’s okay. i’m not upset. i know you’re tired. i know.”

her hands slide under your shirt again, slower this time, just wanting warmth. skin. contact. you let her. you keep kissing her hairline, jaw, the soft spot under her ear. anything that tells her she’s safe.

she grinds lightly against your hips again, but it’s barely movement, more like her body trying to anchor itself. you kiss her slow, really slow, lips lingering, letting her settle. her tears taste salty on your tongue.

her breathing evens out eventually, still shaky but softer. her forehead stays pressed to your chest. her hands remain under your shirt, palms warm and unmoving against your ribs. every now and then her fingers twitch like she might pull away again, but she doesn’t.

you keep one hand on the back of her head, thumb stroking the little patch of hair behind her ear, the way you know calms her. she melts into it.

minutes pass like that. then longer.

her weight loosens. her legs go slack around you. she’s not fully asleep, but she’s drifting, half there, half not, clinging even in sleep.

you kiss her crown.

“rest,” you whisper. “i’ve got you.”

her breath catches, then steadies again. one more whisper of a sorry slips out, barely a sound.

you squeeze her gently.

“you’re okay,” you murmur. “just sleep, baby.”

she finally does. not deeply. not peacefully. but enough. and you hold her through every shift, every twitch, every small, frightened inhale.

you stay awake long after her breathing slows, watching the dim corridor outside the half-open curtain, listening to the engine hum beneath you both, keeping her safe while she sleeps on your chest like she needs your heartbeat to stay tethered.

paris

it’s late enough that the streets feel hollowed out. everything’s damp, washed in that soft yellow streetlight glow paris does so well. rain slicks the pavement, reflecting car headlights in broken ribbons. you walk side by side, your coat collar turned up against the cool night air. billie’s hood is pulled low, hair sticking to her temples where the mist caught her.

your fingers are laced tightly. she keeps squeezing your hand every few seconds, not rhythmic, not intentional just these little pulses, like checking you’re still there.

she starts talking before you even make it to the end of the block.

“i feel like i’m relapsing,” she says quietly, not looking at you. “not with… not with the big shit. just… i don’t know. with everything else. my brain. i keep wanting to scratch again. or shut down. or disappear. it’s stupid.”

you don’t interrupt. you bite your lip and keep walking, your thumb brushing her knuckles lightly. if you say something she might stop talking, and billie has barely talked at all. her talking is good.

“i feel guilty all the time,” she goes on. “like i’m letting everyone down. like every show is… i don’t know… like i’m falling off or something. i feel disconnected. even when i’m talking to people on stage. it feels like i’m talking through a glass wall.”

her jaw clenches mid-sentence, tight enough that you hear her teeth click for a second. she’s rubbing at her wrist, thumb digging into the spot she always scratches when she’s spiraling. you watch it, concerned but quiet.

she keeps rambling, thoughts jumping.

“the pressure’s different this time. i don’t know why. maybe i’m older. or maybe i’m just tired. maybe i’m boring. i feel boring. and i’m scared you’re bored of me too sometimes. which is insane. i know it’s insane. i don’t know what i’m saying.”

another squeeze of your hand. harder this time.

“i don’t feel real some days.”

you swallow thickly, pressing your palm to hers. you want to say something. anything. but she’s still going, words spilling like she’s afraid they’ll choke her if she stops.

“i keep thinking about home. and then i think about how i don’t even know what home is anymore. and i feel guilty about that too. and finneas is worried. and i can’t even tell him why. or you. i don’t know why. i’m just all fucked up.”

her voice cracks on the last sentence. you squeeze her hand, more grounding than comforting. she looks relieved by the pressure.

you walk like that for a while, her voice a steady stream, you silent and present beside her. every so often she bumps your shoulder like she’s checking if you’re still real.

by the time you reach the hotel lobby, she’s quieter. not calmer, just emptied out. like she ran out of steam.

upstairs, the hallway is dim and soft. keycard beeps. door swings open. billie toes off her shoes with a sigh that sounds too old for her age.

she stands in the middle of the room, pulling at the hem of her hoodie like she’s overheating from the inside.

“a bath would be nice” she mutters.

“okay,” you say gently, already moving to the bathroom.

you run the water warm, add bubbles because she always calms down with them. you light the stupid tiny hotel candle she joked about earlier. you set out the fluffy towels. you’re trying to build something soft for her to fall into.

when you turn, billie’s standing in the bathroom doorway. naked. shoulders slouched. eyes dull in a way that hits you in the stomach.

you pause, confused, because she’s usually shy about being looked at like this.

“billie?”

she swallows, eyes flicking away.

“i meant… together.”

a beat. just long enough to sting with guilt because you genuinely thought she wanted space.

you nod softly.

“of course.”

you don’t explain. you don’t apologise. you just step toward her and kiss her shoulder, light and brief.

you strip slowly, not making a moment out of it. she watches you with that same distant sadness, like she’s not sure she deserves your closeness.

you both climb into the tub, the water sloshing over the sides. her legs slot between yours, your ankles brushing. she rests her head back against the edge but keeps one hand on your thigh like she needs the contact to stay afloat.

you pass her the wine glass. she takes a sip and gives it back to you. you drink too. then she steals it from your hand again and finishes the rest in one quick swallow.

her voice starts again, softer but still spilling.

“i don’t know who i’m supposed to be right now.”

you trace your thumb over her knuckles.

“i’m not handling anything right. i keep thinking i’m messing up every second. and then i see you looking at me and i get scared you’re gonna get tired. and then i hate myself for thinking that.”

she takes a shaky breath.

“and then i feel guilty for talking like this at all. like i should be grateful. i am grateful. i’m just… i’m fucked up.”

her foot nudges yours under the water. she doesn’t even notice she’s doing it.

you barely get a word in. every time you inhale like you might answer, she’s already onto the next thread, the next worry, the next confession. she spirals in circles, no point of resolution in sight. you let her. you just listen. you know she needs the release more than she needs your advice.

the candle flickers. bubbles drift. water cools too fast.

she whispers something about regret. about missing you even when you’re right here. about hating herself for snapping at you. about not understanding why she’s so scared all the time.

you squeeze her hand again. your thumb keeps that slow, steady motion along her knuckles. it’s the only thing you can offer that doesn’t interrupt her.

she keeps talking until her voice fades into a tired mumble. then silence settles, heavy but not hostile.

there’s no resolution. not tonight.

amsterdam

it feels like the whole tour has been building toward something you couldn’t name before. but now, in amsterdam, it starts taking a shape that scares you.

billie’s body is giving out before her mind does. she’s pale most mornings, unsteady on her feet, always needing to lean on a wall or your shoulder. she moves like everything weighs more than she can hold. there’s a moment backstage where she’s walking toward the water cooler and her knees buckle so suddenly you don’t even think, you grab her by the elbow, steadying her before she hits the ground.

she laughs it off.

“i’m fine. relax.”

but her hand trembles when she reaches for the cup.

you stop pretending not to notice.

she’s drinking more too. not sloppy drunk, just that steady, numb type. the “i want the edges gone” type. wine in the dressing room, vodka sodas before bed. her tolerance is high enough that nobody around her freaks out, but you feel it. you can taste the alcohol on her breath when she kisses you goodnight. you can smell it on her hoodie when she crawls in beside you.

her shows are somehow still immaculate. the crowd has no idea she’s breaking down between songs. but rehearsals? she’s not going. you wouldn’t have known until you heard finneas in the hallway outside the green room before soundcheck.

his voice is low but sharp.

“bill, you can’t skip again. we need to run the transitions. what’s going on?”

a beat of silence. then billie snapping back, tired, frayed.

“i said i’m fine.”

“you’re not.”

“leave it.”

you sit on the green room couch pretending to stare at your phone, teeth digging into your lip. you hear every word. you’re frozen, not wanting to intrude, not wanting to seem like you’re eavesdropping, but also afraid to move in case the sound alerts them. your heart is thudding so loud it feels visible.

when the door opens, billie walks in like the argument never happened. she spots you. something in her face loosens, or collapses. hard to tell which. she walks straight to you, no hesitation, and then she just drops into your lap. full weight. head to your shoulder. arms around your waist. like she’s been holding herself up all day just for this moment to fall apart.

you don’t question it. you wrap your arms around her. one hand on her back, the other on her head. her body relaxes almost instantly. heavy. too heavy.

within minutes, she’s asleep.

in the middle of a fluorescent lit green room, with staff walking past the door, with her brother somewhere pacing the hallway, with her makeup half done, she’s fully out.

you look down at her face. there’s a twitch in her cheek, her breath uneven, fingers curling weakly into your shirt. it hits you then, the physical reality of her fragility. how close she is to the edge. how small she seems. how wrong it feels that someone who commands arenas can crumble like this in your arms without anyone else noticing.

you hold her until call time passes, until even the lighting tech stops asking where she is. when someone finally knocks to tell you it’s time to load out, you whisper,

“yeah, okay. just give me a second.”

you pick her up carefully, her arms instinctively tightening around your neck in sleep. she’s out cold. her hoodie slides up her arm as you lift her, and that’s when you see them.

fresh marks.

not just scratches.

not just irritated skin.

actual self harm marks.

angry. red. some barely scabbed. some older.

your chest burns. your stomach drops. you almost drop her.

you whisper her name, shaking her lightly.

“billie. billie, wake up.”

she stirs, barely coherent.

“mmm… what?”

her voice is thick, slurred with exhaustion.

you shift her in your arms just enough to look at her forearm.

“baby… what is this?”

she blinks slow, unfocused.

“don’t,” she mumbles, already turning inward, trying to tuck her arm back against her body. “just sleep. please.”

“no,” you whisper, voice trembling. “no, this is serious. billie, look at me.”

she shakes her head, curls back into you, eyes shut.

“stop. i’m tired. just sleep with me.”

“billie,” you try again, firmer. “you need to talk to me. you can’t”

“shut up,” she mutters into your shoulder. quiet, pleading, not cruel. “just… stop. please. just sleep. please just sleep.”

your jaw tightens.

“no, listen to me”

she jerks slightly, the tiniest flinch, as if the firmness of your tone slices her open.

“stop,” she whispers again. “i don’t want to do this. just stop.”

you’re not trying to be cross. you’re not trying to scare her. but everything comes crashing in at once, the skipped rehearsals, the shaking hands, the dizziness, the snapping, the drinking, the spiralling, the way she’s been shrinking away from the world, from you, from herself.

“billie,” you say, more force in your voice than you intended. “this is not nothing. i need you to listen.”

she turns away from you. literally rolls over in the bunk once you finally get her into it.

shoulder toward you.

back curved.

breathing uneven.

eyes shut hard like she’s bracing against a storm.

within minutes, she’s asleep again. or pretending to be. you can’t tell.

you stay awake. staring at the wall. air thick. heart heavy. the engine hum feels like it’s vibrating straight into your chest.

you reach for your phone with shaking fingers.

you text finneas.

fin i just saw bills got sh marks. she’s relapsed

didnt realise it was this bad

it takes him a minute. too long. then your screen lights up.

shit.

ik. i had a feeling.

im gonna talk to mom abt flying her out w dad.

might help.

dw ik its bad but it’ll be ok i think.

you stare at the message. the part where he says “it’ll be ok” feels like a blanket thrown over a wildfire.

you sit there in the dim bunk corridor of the bus, billie’s soft breathing behind the curtain, the city lights flickering past the window.

and for the first time on this tour, the reality hits full force.

she’s falling apart.

and you might not be enough to stop her from hitting the ground.

berlin

berlin should’ve been a reset.

new city, new venue, new schedule.

but the second you step off the plane, you know.

billie’s not here. not in the way that counts.

she walks through the airport with her hood up even though it’s warm inside. shoulder hunched, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded like she didn’t sleep at all on the flight. she’s quieter than usual, which at this point doesn’t even alarm you, but something about the way she moves, slow, robotic, slightly behind everyone, makes your stomach twist.

at the hotel, she disappears straight into the shower without a word. thirty minutes go by. then forty. you check the steam under the door twice. she eventually comes out with damp hair and a blank expression, like the water washed nothing off.

by the time the show rolls around, she’s running on fumes.

soundcheck is short. too short. she skips half the run-through, waving finneas off when he tries to cue her in.

“i got it,” she mutters. “it’s fine.”

it’s not fine, you can tell, but she keeps brushing past every attempt to ground her.

her team mutters to each other. you hear one whisper to another, “she’s off today.”

you pretend you didn’t hear.

the show is rough.

worse than amsterdam. worse than glasgow. worse than anything this tour.

she misses cues. her mic technique’s sloppy. she forgets a lyric mid-chorus, shakes her head hard, tries to recover. at one point she steps toward finneas for their usual banter and he gives her this gentle, worried look and she recoils like he slapped her.

you watch from side-stage, heart in your throat, because she looks terrified. not of the crowd of herself.

when she comes offstage, she’s vibrating with panic. makeup smudged, hair stuck to her forehead, chest heaving.

finneas walks up to her, calm and careful.

“hey. what happened out there?”

she snaps instantly.

“i don’t want to fucking talk about it.”

“bill, we need to figure out….”

“i said i don’t want to talk about it.”

she storms down the hallway.

when she barges into the green room, she’s already in mid-rant, eyes glassy with tears she won’t let fall.

“that was fucking terrible,” she mutters, pacing. “everyone watched me fuck up. i looked like a joke. a fucking joke.”

you move toward her, hands up gently.

“baby, it’s okay. everyone has off nights.”

she laughs harsh and humorless.

“no, they don’t. not like that.”

you try to soothe her, voice soft.

“rehearsals are important, that’s all. it’s your image. you’re the image. it matters”

and the second you say it, you know it’s the wrong phrase.

her whole body goes rigid.

she turns toward you with this expression you’ve never seen before, wounded, betrayed, furious all at once.

“so it’s my fault?” she says quietly. too quietly.

you shake your head. “no”

“you’re meant to be on my side.”

“i am.”

“then don’t say shit like that.”

you reach for her arm. she jerks back.

“don’t blame me for being fucked up.”

“i didn’t blame you. billie, that’s not what i said.”

but she’s spiralling too fast to hear nuance.

“this is ridiculous,” she snaps. “everyone thinks i’m the problem. fine. i’ll be the problem.”

she pushes past you and storms out. the door slams so hard the mirror rattles.

you go after her.

“billie.billie, please.”

she whips around.

“fuck off.”

it knocks the air out of you.

she doesn’t wait to see the look on your face. she just disappears down the hall.

you stand there for a moment, blinking hard, swallowing down the sting. the green room feels painfully bright.

finneas appears beside you a minute later.

“where’d she go?”

“i don’t know,” you whisper.

he sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “i’ve never seen her this bad.”

you sit down, elbows on your knees, staring at the floor.

“she’s… she’s not well, finn.”

“no,” he agrees quietly. “she’s really not.”

you let out a long breath.

“she yelled at me. like… really yelled at me.”

he gives you a sympathetic look. “she’s scared. when she’s scared she lashes.”

“i didn’t even say anything bad.”

“i know.”

you rant a bit, not angry, just overwhelmed. he listens, nodding, rubbing slow circles on his knee like he’s trying to calm himself too. he mentions maybe calling their mom earlier than planned. you nod, half-listening, your mind drifting to the hallway billie disappeared down.

eventually you check the time.

it’s been too long.

you go.

you search the backstage hallways, dressing rooms, catering, the side entrance. nothing.

by the time you make it back to the hotel, your nerves are raw. your key fob is glitching, blinking red before finally turning green. the delay feels wrong. suspicious. the hallway is too quiet, too still.

you step inside.

the room is dark.

too dark.

no light from the bedside lamp. no rustle of blankets.

you don’t see billie.

then you hear it.

deep breaths.

not normal ones.

laboured, uneven, like someone trying not to cry but losing the battle.

“billie?”

your voice cracks.

you drop your bag and rush toward the bathroom.

the door is cracked an inch.

you push it open.

and the world stops.

she’s on the floor in the corner near the shower tiles, knees drawn up, body hunched forward. she’s wearing those soft pj shorts and the oversized tee she always sleeps in.

her wrists.

deep, angry cuts.

red, raw, some bleeding still.

worse than anything you’ve seen before.

her breathing is jagged, shallow, panicked. her face is blotchy, streaked with tears. her hands tremble.

“billie oh my god.baby.baby..”

you’re on the floor with her in seconds, knees hitting tile, hands already reaching, voice shaking.

you stroke her hair, pushing it off her damp forehead.

“oh baby, what happened? oh my sweet girl…”

you grab two wet flannels from the sink, pressing them gently to her wrists. she flinches violently.

“i know, angel. i know, i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i have to, baby.”

her breath comes out in a broken sob.

you lean closer, wrapping one arm fully around her shoulders, pulling her into your chest while keeping pressure on her wrists with the other hand.

“come here. come here, sweet girl. i’ve got you. talk to me, bills. please talk to me.”

and she does.

at first it’s jumbled, incoherent.

“i messed everything up. i can’t do the shows. i can’t breathe. i’m sorry. i didn’t mean. i didn’t mean. i’m so fucking scared, i don’t know why i did it. i don’t know”

she’s gulping for air between phrases, trembling so hard her teeth knock.

you kiss the top of her head over and over, whispering,

“you’re okay. you’re okay. i’m right here. i’m here, baby. i’m here.”

she clings to your shirt with her fists, curling into your lap, trying to hide in you. her breathing is still rough, chest tight, like she’s on the edge of another panic attack.

“billie,” you murmur, voice shaking, “do you want finn?”

she nods.

tiny. weak. immediate.

you wipe her cheeks with your sleeve even though she’s still sobbing.

“i’ll get him. i promise. i’m not leaving you.”

one hand stays on her back while you fumble for your phone.

you need to come. now. bathroom. please.

he replies instantly.

omw

seconds later he’s at the door. you don’t even have to explain. he sees her. he freezes for a heartbeat, then drops to the floor on her other side.

“hey, hey, bill,” he whispers, voice cracking even though he tries to steady it. “i’ve got you. we’ve got you.”

between the two of you, she slowly calms.

slow breaths.

less shaking.

her fingers loosen their desperate grip.

her shoulders drop.

still crying, but softer.

when finneas finally stands to give you privacy, he squeezes your shoulder. hard.

“i’ll get mom on the phone,” he murmurs. “just… keep her safe.”

then he leaves.

you stay.

you clean her wrists as best you can. fresh flannel. cool water. soft touch. she winces every time but doesn’t pull away. she’s watching you like she’s afraid you might vanish if she blinks.

you carry her to bed because she’s too weak to stand properly. she tucks into you instantly, face buried in your chest again. she keeps talking, small fragments, the kind she only lets spill when she’s cracked wide open.

“i didn’t want to… i just… i felt like i couldn’t breathe. i didn’t know what to do. i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

you kiss her forehead, her temple, the corner of her jaw.

“i’m not going anywhere. you hear me? i’m right here.”

you tuck her beneath the blankets. then you climb in beside her, pulling her tight against you.

she falls asleep eventually, wrists bandaged, face pressed into your neck, breath still shaky.

you stay awake long after.

watching her.

holding her.

listening to her breathing.

afraid to close your eyes.

berlin becomes the night everything changes.

the night it stops being stress or burnout or tiredness.