Chapter Text
It began with a glance.
Gideon had shown up one minute before Decomposition Ecology began, and for those brief few moments between arriving herself and the ruckus, Harrowhark had tucked herself away comfortably in the back corner of the lecture hall, where the lighting softened, and the empty seats created a barrier between herself and the rest of her peers. She had somewhat of a reputation for doing so, as she entered her sophomore year of Canaan University, so the others knew to keep their distance.
Harrow was not here to collaborate; she was here to excel.
The door swung open, the metal handle creating a loud thud as it slammed against the wall. The chattering of the room fell immediately, everyone’s eyes moving toward the source of the sound. Skipping past the gasping and flinching reactionary phase, Harrow looked as well, curious to see what kind of circus clown made a wrong turn and wound up here.
Looking up from her notes, Harrow makes direct eye contact with Gideon Nav.
Harrow’s distaste for Gideon Nav- or Griddle, as she called her- was not born in this room, and it would most certainly not die here, either. Her nostrils flared as she recalled the memories, not a single one pleasant, of their time in high school together. Gideon had been the star of the Drearburh High School football team, although Harrow could not quite bring herself to recall, or care for, the position she played. What she does recall, however, are the cheerleaders that hung off her arms, batting doe-eyes, silently begging to be the next girl Gideon took behind the bleachers. It was grotesque, the thinly veiled mating display students were subjected to in Gideon’s presence.
There is a small satisfaction in knowing that, as hard as she tried, Gideon never managed to experience the freedom that she wanted. As Student Council President and top of their class, Harrow levied true weight and authority. Students knew that she could undo them, avoiding her in the halls the way that prey avoided a predator. It was just as well; she had never been sociable, and preferred to avoid pointless small talk. But her status afforded her power, which she oftentimes used to inform teachers whenever Gideon found herself wrapped up in some lecherous scheme. By the time they graduated, Harrow made sure that oaf’s record was coated in as many stains as possible.
So how the hell had Gideon managed to get into this school, let alone this very class?
Perhaps there is a physiological reaction sparked by the unconscious realization that you are well and completely fucked, but Harrowhark Nonagesimus was never one to listen to anyone, or anything, but her own mind. The shiver rolls down her back like a tidal wave, building up from nothing and crashing on her spine, and yet her expression does not change as she stares back into Gideon’s eyes. Her lips remain defiantly downturned, brow furrowed just enough to fully display her immense displeasure. Their rivalry was still alive and well, even though their previous lives were practically worlds away. Harrow knew it in the slight taunt of Gideon’s expression.
Despite her best efforts, Gideon takes Harrow’s judgment as an open invitation, and she finds herself pressed against the chilled concrete of the wall next to her as Gideon occupies the empty seat next to her. Harrow says nothing, even as the awkwardness permeates her lungs. She promises herself that she does not care. She is not here to collaborate.
When their professor arrives, a man with a small build and a near constant grin who insists on being called only “Teacher,” the air finally seems to move once more. Although it is only the first class, when Harrow opens her notebook, a quarter of the pages are already filled with her scribbling, barely legible handwriting, detailing the various carrion that feast on decomposed livestock, as well as detailing cases of carrion consuming human carcasses. If someone could manage to decipher her scrawl, it is very possible they would be concerned about her extensive understanding of death and decay. And considering her increasing irritation with the six-foot-tall Amazon who saw fit to invade her personal space and even dare to smirk at her while the lecture began, perhaps they were right to.
“You got a pen I can borrow?”
Harrow’s hand stills.
“No.”
She resumes writing, allowing herself the moment of a deep breath, to keep herself from fraying at the edges while Teacher explains the schedule:
“There will be three tests, as well as a cumulative exam at the end of the semester. Page four of the syllabus breaks down how much each exam is worth.”
She flips the page, using a highlighter to circle the values. Gideon leans over and her breath fans on Harrow’s face. Without thinking, she scrunches up her nose, fingers twitching in distaste.
“There’s definitely a curve for these tests, right?” As if assuming Harrow would agree, she bumps her ribcage with her elbow, that same increasingly aggravating lopsided smirk painted on her face. Why would she even come to class if her only intention was to socialize while important information was being explained? Harrow had worked hard to be here.
“Would you be quiet?” Harrow’s voice comes out more like a hiss, knuckles white as her fingers curl around her pen. Gideon raises an eyebrow, her eyes scanning over Harrow, before she returns to her own packet. Harrow still feels her gaze, even as the conversation finally dies, as she returns to mentally organizing her work for the semester, lips moving only slightly in tandem with her thoughts.
One may say that concentrating while eyes are so obviously on you is difficult, but Harrow knows the sensation well by now. Considering her role at her high school, and as the top of her class here, Harrow’s capabilities have always drawn eyes. She refused to let her back bend to them, to allow them the satisfaction of seeing her shrink. Back straight, shoulders back.
You are the best for a reason.
And the best she will continue to be, even if Gideon Nav sees fit to focus on her instead of her academics. That was her grave to dig, and not Harrow’s to jump into.
Finally, she felt herself falling into the groove of the class. Gideon seems to have learned her lesson, and keeps her lips firmly shut. If she cared enough, that might have made Harrow smile, but she finds herself much too absorbed in the curriculum to care for what effect she has had on the willing idiot to her left.
They would learn about insect anatomy, necrophilous insects, thanatology, and the use of this work within the lens of criminal cases. Harrow could already feel the adrenaline that learning something new brought about. Her pulse quickened, the competitive blade of her tongue sharpening. Leaning forward in her chair, her lips quirked upward. Imperceptibly to most, but never to her. Nobody could read Harrow better than she could herself.
In her excitement, she had failed to notice one crucial detail laid within the syllabus:
“Throughout the course of the semester, you will all be expected to work on a partner project, where you will create a model to display the decomposition cycle of any species of your choosing. It is simple enough, and I believe the partner-work helps with a topic like this!”
The wave crashes in Harrow’s throat. Her jaw sets, already seeing where the tide takes her. Gideon turns her head, golden irises boring through the side of her own. The saltwater is on her tongue and Gideon smirks.
“Hey, wanna be partners?”
Harrow is going to drown.
***
Later that evening, while the last streaks of sunlight began to recede, Harrow stared up at her ceiling from her desk chair, attempting to understand how she had found herself in this annoying predicament.
After class, she had approached Teacher to ask about working on the project alone. The idea elicited a chuckle from him, as if delivered by a petulant child, and Harrow’s annoyance with him slowly grew.
“Miss Nonagesimus, anyone could do this project alone! But I made it a partner project for a reason.”
His voice held a carefree lilt to it, as if he had never felt a negative emotion before. From behind her, Gideon snorted, leaning in close to her ear.
“See you around, partner.”
Harrow did not give her the satisfaction of a reaction, staying stone-still as the door swung open, slamming against the wall once more, and finally drifting shut. Then, and only then, did Harrow allow herself the relief of an aggravated groan.
Now, in her desk chair, she replayed this moment over and over, attempting to understand why Teacher would force them to participate in a partner project if it was simple enough to complete individually. She worked better alone, she would produce higher-quality work without the anthropomorphized ball and chain known as Gideon Nav hanging off her ankle. It was annoying, infuriating even, and it was going to last all semester.
The smell of coffee wafted through the air; it was Harrow’s first cup of the night. By now, it had almost a calming effect, a familiarly bitter taste to help her think. She could do anything, right? She can survive this project, or even better, find a way to get out of doing it with Gideon.
Just as she had begun to steady, her liferaft no longer swaying in heavy turbulence, her phone vibrated, buzzing against her desk and drawing her gaze. Giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the brightness of the screen, Harrow reads the message:
ianthe gave me your number ;) excited to work with you
Her anger, now, was spent. Harrow had allowed herself the moment to be angry, to curse whatever mischievous deity despised her so. Now was the time to plan, to find her path through the trees.
Her fingers work quickly along the keyboard, shooting off a message before descending back into the mountain of textbooks sprawled on her desk:
I wish I could say the same, Griddle.