Work Text:
A modern day Narcissus admired his bloody reflection in the mirror. He smirked wickedly, ignoring the ache of his jaw and swiping at the red drip under his nose. In this life, his name was Harry Bingham.
He was so trapped in his thoughts, he only noticed the other figure in the mirror when her soft voice said, “You okay?”
The smell of jasmine wafted around him, almost disguising the metallic smell. It took him a second to take her in. She was dressed in what was far more appropriate for a Sunday service than a high school party—a light blue dress, grey cardigan, and black ballet flats.
He scoffed when she gasped upon registering the state of his face. Nobody could feign concern better than her—the furrowed eyebrows, flush in her cheeks, pink lips slightly ajar. It was no wonder she played the main character in all the school plays.
The boy, a few months older and several inches taller, met himself in the mirror once more. He gritted his teeth so hard the pain in his jaw intensified. No, he wasn’t okay, but she didn’t need to know that. If she ever saw him weak, she’d destroy him—he was sure of it.
Their momentary silence was far from comfortable, and only after a few seconds does the blonde approach him, closing the door behind her. She lightly pushed him aside, ignoring his wordless, aggravated reaction and opened the mirrored cabinet. Once she obtained the red bag with a cross, she turned to face his vexed expression.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Sit down,” She said simply, motioning to the toilet seat.
“What?“
She rolled her eyes and repeated her command impatiently.
She was prepared for a bite back. She thought that maybe he’d walk closer towards her, trap her against the wall, and mutter a thinly veiled threat. Perhaps, he’d tell her to leave in that low, cold voice he only saved for her during their heated debates. But instead, he betrayed his characteristic stubbornness and obeyed her with much disdain.
Shocked but satisfied with his choice, she let out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. She proceeded to wet the cloth with lukewarm water, fully aware that his skeptical stare was scrutinizing every inch of her body.
Turning back to him, she almost flinched. She’d once seen those brown eyes of his soften like milk chocolate, looking down and beaming at the girl he used to love. She was foolish to think he’d ever look at her that way, like she wasn’t the villain of his story. But as she gently rubbed the red from his face, his eyes were dark—so dark they were like the colour of the dirt he used to bury whatever bit of kindness he had left.
Slowly, he grinned maliciously—unlike the innocent smile he gave his former lover, but rather, like the Cheshire Cat scheming to send Alice deeper into wonderland.
“What, playing peacemaker earlier wasn’t enough for you? Now you wanna play nurse too, Cassandra?”
She sighed, already tired and regretting that she ever touched the railing of the stairs.
“What are you talking about? I just—“ She started, but he didn’t let her finish and pushed her hand away from his face.
“Shouldn’t you be helping your boyfriend instead of being here with me?”
Despite the fact that he had injuries, he was trying so hard to hide that he was hurting. She wanted him to let himself be weak for once. To show that he was human like everyone else.
For a second, she thought she got a glimpse of that weakness. Yes, it was clear he was physically in pain, but there was also another kind of pain, deeper than a cut. She saw it in the accusatory way he lifted an eyebrow and heard it when he emphasized “boyfriend”.
Suffocating the guilt in her stomach, she clarified defensively, “We’re not—he’s not my boyfriend.”
His gaze made her unsteady, going from her lips to the side of her neck which Harry discovered had a circular stain. He didn’t notice earlier because it was rather subtle and had been hidden by her blonde tendrils. For some reason, the thought of how she got it made him dig his nails into his palm. The mark looked ugly on her skin, like a crack in porcelain.
“Yeah, right. Everyone knows you two are fucking. But frankly, that’s something I’m pretty damn surprised about. I really thought Cassandra Pressman would wait until marriage to be deflowered by some—“
“Sounds to me like you care, Harry,” Her voice was shaky, yet dripping with odium. If Harry noticed, he didn’t say anything as he was more focused on how purple the bruise was under the bathroom lights.
His fixation with her otherwise pretty neck was short lived, and he snapped out of it. The boy scoffed, shaking his head, “I don’t.”
She thought otherwise. She saw the way his brown eyes averted from hers, and she thought otherwise.
Wordlessly, she pat the cloth on the abrasion on his left cheek. He shifted uncomfortably, but made no noise to indicate pain. An image of him from earlier flashed in her head, held down with his face against the rough asphalt.
She shook the memory off, ripping the plastic covers of a small bandage.
He huffed, “The fuck, Cassandra—“
She held up her hand. To her surprise, he shut up, letting her plaster it right on his wound.
He was almost angry at how careful and tender she was with him. But still, he allowed himself to relax under her touch.
“You’ve been drinking,” The girl remarked, taking note of his red eyes and the scent of beer mixed with his cologne.
“That’s why you’re top of the class,” He murmured snarkily, “Of course, it’s not a party if I’m not fucked up in some way.”
He watched her brush her perfectly framed bangs away from her forehead.
“Listen—“
“Don’t tell me you’re here to try to convince me to drop out of running for student body president because if you are, I swear to God, Cassandra, I-“
“Really, Harry? Is my wanting to see if you were alright really that unbelievable?”
He snorted, “You know the answer to that. Let’s be real, you don’t actually give a shit. You'd do just about anything to feel good about yourself."
“For fuck’s sake, Harry. Let someone help you for once.”
She grabbed his knuckles (a little more aggressively this time, he noticed) running the soft pad of her finger over the dried blood. His knuckles were bruised and bloody, making her wonder what the two boys were fighting about. All she could recall was shouting and a loud crash. The two were in a brawl, and she had to break it up with the help of Grizz. She still remembered the pace of Harry’s heartbeat when she placed a hand on his chest to get him to back off.
The only other time they’d ever been that close was during a debate. His six piece clad chest nearly collided with hers in the heat of the moment. He’d said something that stepped over the line, something a little too privileged for Cassandra. So, her pointed finger jabbed at his stupid expensive suit. All he did was look down at her with that patronizing look on his face. He wasn’t an arsonist, but there was something satisfying about being the one to ignite the flames in her eyes. It was only when their teacher told each other to cool off that they backed away. Harry won the debate, much to Cassandra’s chagrin.
“What were you two fighting about anyway?”
“It was nothing.”
It was her turn to scoff, “Bullshit. You look like a toddler used your face as a canvas for finger painting. It wasn’t nothing.”
He stared at her, a few heartbeats too long, “It’s none of your business.”
“Of course. Men and their inability to settle disputes without violence. It’s incredible, really.”
“He threw the first punch.”
She was surprised—she thought he’d started it—but she hid the surprise with a pointed look, “And you punched back.”
“You got me there,” He deadpanned, “I was defending myself.”
“You could’ve done that by telling him to fuck off and walking away.”
“Yeah, whatever,” He grumbled, rubbing at his uninjured eye. She pursed her lips, feeling defeated by his thirteen year old boy attitude.
The alcohol and the smell of iron burned her eyes, but she continued to scrub. Here she was, looking exactly like the nurse Harry mocked her of being. Her wounded soldier looked up at her, grinning like the devil, another shift in demeanour.
“How does he look?” He cocked a brow.
“What?” She asked, confused. She locked eyes with him in the mirror as she washed the blood off his hands.
“Is he as fucked up as I am? Is he worse?"
“I...” She started, suddenly feeling awkward, “I didn’t go to see him. Yet.”
She thought he was going to say something to fuck with her—something smug, accompanied with the familiar Harry Bingham smirk.
“So you went to see me first?”
But he didn’t say anything, and the quietness between them frightened her. She would give him a thousand pennies to know a single thought going through his head.
“You haven’t been drinking.”
“I don’t drink. Even if I wanted to, I can’t. I’m—“ She hesitated, “—driving Allie home.”
It wasn’t exactly untrue—it just wasn’t the main reason she didn’t drink.
“Ever the babysitter, huh?”
She didn’t respond. Instead, she rummaged through Luke’s cabinet for any kind of ointment that might help. She sighed in relief when she found a tube of Neosporin, just enough to smooth over his few facial cuts.
“You know, I still don’t know why you’re here," He pressed.
She met his stormy gaze for a moment, “I told you. I wanted to see if you were okay.”
“Yeah, no—I meant, at this party. You don’t go to parties.”
“Harry, the parties I don’t go to are yours. And that’s because I’m never invited to them.”
She said it with such sharpness that he felt like her tone could have cut him.
“Would you even come, Cassandra? I thought you might rather be cooped up in your room, tirelessly studying for exams that the rest of the class don't even know about yet."
“You know what? You’re right, Harry,” She sneered, stepping away from him, “We can’t all bribe our way into university like you. Some of us actually have to work hard because some of us don’t get things handed to us on a silver platter.”
Harry was smart—Cassandra knew that very well. He didn’t need to throw money at some Ivy League school to get in. And sure, it was childish to say something untrue out of spite, but she couldn’t hold her tongue in time.
“Fuck you, Cassandra.”
She stilled. Her lips parted as if she was about to respond, and Harry was looking forward to what pathetic comeback she had planned, but then, they closed; Harry only really noticed because his eyes were on them. When he trailed up to her light blue eyes, it wasn’t a surprise to see that they only held bitter resentment.
The ephemeral universe they’d created in the bathroom shattered when they heard two knocks and a voice from the other side of the door.
“Whoever’s in there, hurry the fuck up. I need to take a fucking piss.”
Cassandra’s eyes widened, looking panicked, whereas Harry merely rolled his eyes.
“Relax. Like anybody would ever think I’d do anything with you.”
Her face fell, and Harry almost regretted it until he remembered her comment from earlier undermining his intelligence.
Because she was Cassandra Pressman, she didn’t let Harry Bingham have the last word. She couldn’t. Instead, she pushed past him.
“Put a cold compress on your eye.”
And she hoped her kindness hurt him more than any of his wounds did.