The Past

The first time Rosaire saw a bruise on Wiley’s arm, he’d believed him when he said it was just an accident. 

Wiley had been enrolled at the same academy as Rosaire earlier the previous year. Despite being in different classes, the two had come to an unspoken agreement to always walk to school together. Rosaire had done it only as a courtesy at first, but had gradually gotten used to the routine. He rose each morning several hours before Wiley, dressed and groomed himself, ate his breakfast, and then performed his morning prayers. Once done, he’d do a little light reading as he diligently waited for Wiley to finally wake up. Without fail, only a minute before they’d have to leave, Wiley would actually roll out of bed, shove on his uniform, and the two would depart. 

Wiley was still tucking his shirt in as they walked that morning, causing Rosaire to notice the dark purple mark just above his wrist. 

Rosaire usually made a point of not speaking during their daily commute, but upon seeing the mark he instantly broke his silence. “You’re hurt?”

Wiley quickly yanked his sleeve down, letting out a pleasant laugh. “Pfft, you mean this? I bumped into my dresser this morning.” He bonked his forehead with his palm. “Stupid, right?”

“This is why you should rise at a reasonable time,” Rosaire pointed out dryly. “You’re always rushing. It's unseemly.” 

“Got it, got it, no need to lecture me,” Wiley replied with a chuckle, raising his hands as if to surrender. “I’ll be more careful next time, promise!”

But that bruise was just the beginning. 

Every few days, Rosaire would catch a glimpse of another. Wiley would do his best to hide them but they were growing larger and large by the week, painting his skin in yellowing purple marks. Whenever Rosaire questioned him about it, Wiley would offer a different excuse. Each was followed by an easy smile and an empty promise that he’d be more careful next time. 

The final straw came when Rosaire noticed he’d parted his hair differently one morning. Bright wisps of red hair fell over his eyes, completely obscuring them. Rosaire’s gut twisted instinctively at the sight. 

“It's improper to have hair in your eyes,” Rosaire remarked.

Wiley simply shrugged. “So?”

“So?” Rosaire echoed. “Remove it. You look indecent.” 

Wiley’s eyes narrowed, leaning closer. “And if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll do it myself,” Rosaire flatly replied. Before Wiley could say another word, Rosaire’s hand shot forward, gently pushing Wiley’s bangs from his eyes. 

Rosaire’s body instantly stiffened at the sight he was met with. A dark, glistening bruise rested beneath Wiley’s eye, the skin swollen, the bruise painfully fresh.

Rosaire’s gaze went dark. “Who did this?”

“No one,” Wiley casually replied, his expression unchanging. “I just fell. Don’t worry about it.” He attempted to brush past him but Rosaire caught his wrist, holding him in place. 

“Who did it?” he repeated, more forcefully this time. 

Wiley sighed, seeming to realize he wouldn't accept another excuse. “It doesn’t matter. I’m handling it.” 

“Unacceptable,” Rosaire whispered through gritted teeth, his grip on his wrist tightening. “What has been done to you is inexcusable and the perpetrator must be properly reprimanded and brought to justice.” 

Something unreadable flashed across Wiley’s expression, his eyes widening ever so slightly before he suddenly burst out laughing. 

Rosaire blinked, confusion overtaking the darkness in his gaze. “Why are you...?”

“You’re just so melodramatic,” Wiley explained with a chuckle. 

Rosaire ruffled at the accusation, at last releasing Wiley’s wrist. “No I’m n--”

He was cut off as Wiley’s hands suddenly shot forward, firmly cupping the other boy’s cheeks in his palms. With a grin, Wiley squished them together, causing Rosaire’s face to look like a disgruntled fish. 

“Stop it!” Rosaire snapped, his words nasally and nearly unintelligible thanks to his squished face.

Just as Rosaire moved to smack his hands away, Wiley abruptly yanked his arms backwards, releasing him. The sudden action left poor Rosaire awkwardly swatting at air.

Rosaire glared at him, his gaze murderous. “Outrageous,” he huffed, his face burning beneath his icy expression. 

Wiley feigned an innocent look, pointing to himself. “Who? Me?”

Rosaire’s brow twitched. “Yes, you.”

Always you, Rosaire thought angrily, this outrageous behavior is always, always, always—you. 

How could one person be so shameless?

Still fuming, Rosaire sulkily crossed his arms. “You are utterly abhorrent.” 

“That’s a big word,” Wiley observed with a smile so smug Rosaire wanted to punch it off his face. “Do you actually know what it means?”

Rosaire’s lip curled. “Of course. To be abhorrent is to be disgusting, loathsome, and repugnant.”  

“I see,” Wiley murmured, crossing his arms. “So, is that how you really feel about me?” He took a step closer. “You find me disgusting?” Another step, bringing them closer still. “Loathsome?” He leaned in as he took his final step towards Rosaire, bringing them nearly nose to nose. “Repugnant?”

Rosaire’s body had gone stiff, finding himself tongue tied. The way Wiley had said each word made him feel as if they’d been thrown at the half-blood before. Rosaire’s chest tightened at the thought. 

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Rosaire answered softly, “I seem to have misspoken. I just meant…” He sighed, his brows drawing together. “I don’t understand why you always tease me.”

Wiley blinked, staring at him as if  he was some sort of idiot. “You mean you really don’t know?” 

“Obviously not,” Rosaire retorted. 

Wiley’s eyes crinkled, his lips curving upward. “It’s because you’re cute when you’re flustered.” 

Rosaire’s brief bout of sympathy for him instantly shattered. 

It took all of his self restraint to refrain from strangling Wiley right then and there. “Outrageous,” he muttered under his breath. “Outrageous, outrageous, outrageous, outrageous…”

Wiley simply smirked, brushing past him as the half-blood roughly ran a hand through his hair, letting his bangs fall back over his eyes.

They walked the rest of the way in silence.