"If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed."
―Walter Langer
This was originally part of a chapter from BRR Extras, but to make the time line clearer and expand on Bar and Clementine's relationship from the 'before', I added it and put in some new bits and pieces.
Anyways, please enjoy and leave comments! I want to know how I did.
Chapter 1:
First Lie - Freshmen Year
"Red!" Coach Coelle, the gym teacher, bellowed out as he pointed at him. "Get onto the field, boy!"
"Suck my dick, Cockelle," Bar sneered, a glare finding home on the teen's face as he looked at his teacher. His busted lip felt heavy with every word and his black eye was twitching with every breath—the ache a cruel reminder of a cold fist and a colder home.
"It's Coelle," Coach seethed, mouth opening and fist clenching like he's about to have a mental breakdown right then and there and scream at him.
But then he took a breath and—probably after reevaluating some questionable life choices such as teaching high school gym—promptly excused Bar to go wait on the side, completely done fighting with him like they had been doing for the last five minutes.
All his teachers knew, at this point, that giving him detention was pointless.
There'll always be the next argument, the next stubborn refusal.
Bar rolled his eyes, not caring that he frustrated the Coach. He just wanted to get away from everyone and sit down for a couple minutes, not play a stupid game. He had enough bruises, there's no need to make more because some halfwit throws the ball at him too hard on purpose.
He knew he wasn't well liked—the group in the corner that was throwing him disgusted looks and gossiping among themselves weren't being as subtle as they thought.
He knows everyone saw his interaction with the coach, that they saw his anger.
He knows what they say about him.
Everyone saw him as some heartless asshole, so what was the point in trying to convince them otherwise? He knew that the title wasn't far from the truth.
His father was a monster. That makes him one, too.
Bar watched with his arms crossed as the rest of the kids in the class kicked the ball around, grateful for the break from the running track as they played together.
Friends were side-by-side, joking around and shoving each other or laughing.
Bar wished his friends—Gus and Law, two people who were really the only ones that were kind to him in this hell hole of life—went to the same school as him. Maybe that way he wouldn't feel so alone.
Or maybe they'd just get sick of him after a while, everyone else seems to.
His eyes cut across the field as a loud squeal rang through the air, catching onto short raven curls that went just below the chin and minty eyes. Freckles littered onto smooth cheeks and a too-small but cute button nose.
Ivory Astoria.
The girl he had a hopeless crush on—and bullied.
Bar didn't like hurting her, not really.
But there was this sick part of him—the one that dug its claws into his mind, a darkness that swarmed thick and heavy in his mind—that screamed, Don't you want to know what it feels like to be in control of pain for once?
He tries to ignore it, but that never works. There's always pain, always the next bruise, and he's tired of it being his.
He feels worse, after. The other part of him, one equally as terrifying, cries and yells and kicks, telling him Don't mess this up, don't mess up, don't mess up.
But he always ends up doing that anyway.
Ivory and he have known each other since Kindergarten, that's a solid eleven years of existing in the same space, and he's pretty much terrorized her since. Bar knew her pretty well, knew how she looked when she was happy, sad, and anything in between. He knew her smile like the back of his hand and he knew what the different twists in her lips meant.
It was hard, knowing so much but not getting the chance to know more, purely due to his own behavior. Not that he had any right to know more, but he knew how kind she was.
She gave a lot of people the chance to be her friend.
If he wasn't a bully, if he didn't treat her like that, would he have gotten that chance too?
He watched Ivory as she kicked a ball back and forth with Elijah, who Bar knew was one of her two best friends, both of them smiling widely as they laughed back and forth about something.
They were so normal, just two kids being kids—something he never got the chance to do.
She always looked a bit magical, like she was glowing with happiness and love and it pissed him the fuck off.
Why did she have to be so... alive? So there?
Why couldn't he stop himself from feeling those things for her; things she wouldn't ever feel for him? Why did he have to be so fucked up, liking the girl he hurt?
Who the hell does that?
Bar fucking Red, apparently.
"Come on, guys." A couple feet away, an asshole named Wilson Creed that Bar absolutely despised laughed this out to his friends. "I bet you she'll cry."
"No way," Reid, the asshole's friend, snickered. "She's gonna snitch on you."
The reply was confident. "She'll be too hurt for that."
"Don't get caught!" He whisper-yelled, eyes nervously glancing over to where the Coach was standing across the yard, scolding a different group of boys for God knows what. "Just push her as hard as you can and come back here. Thirty seconds max or you don't get the cash."
"Shit dude," Creed laughed out. "I can do it in twenty. Ivory's weak as hell."
They were going to try and hurt his girl?
Who the fuck do they think they are, and why the fuck do they think they can get away with that?
Bar, without giving it much thought, strode directly up to Ivory, getting between her and them. "Ivy, stop playing that damn game and come here."
Ivy. That's what he called her.
It's because you're like poison ivy, he had told her one day, annoying and always where you shouldn't be.
It was a shit nickname and Bar knew she hated it, but if he called her anything else, things that he'd much rather keep a secret would come out. Things he wasn't ready to say. Ones that he was sure would just make her think he was crazy.
Ivory paused what she was doing, looking at Eli—who was glaring at Bar, shocker—with wide eyes before turning to the bully herself, short body looking delicate in her shorts and long sleeve shirt.
Delicate but fully willing to beat his ass if prompted, he knew.
Ivory dished it out as much as he threw it in, she could hold her own; verbally anyways, physically was another thing. The girl was a damn pipsqueak, which is a thing Bar would never dare take advantage of.
That's crossing all kinds of fucked up lines even he wouldn't step a foot over.
If there's one thing in life he refuses to be, it's his father.
"What do you want, Oly?" Her expression was sour and so was her tone, but her eyes lit up as she called him that.
It was her form of revenge, since she was one of the only people that knew his full name and gave him a nickname of her own. She remembered it from Kindergarten, back when he was called Bartholomew and wasn't so picky about who he let receive his affection or give him some themselves.
He was called Bartholomew until he hit second grade and his classmates would snicker out the name, calling him a monster because of his never-brushed hair and too big clothes.
He was then called Tholly until fifth grade and stopped when teachers would sneer it out from the front of the class with a Why don't you just do your work? They didn't know he was too tired to focus in class and refused to ask his father for help on the homework.
Then in sixth, he was called Bar and it stuck. A fitting name for a monster, they all said. Fitting name for the boy who always shows up to class with bruised cheekbones, busted lips, and broken knuckles. Fitting for the boy who fights.
High school hit and then the name Bar started to make people think he was a drunk and he'd get flashes of his father's hand curled around beer bottles every time he heard it.
So now, now he just went by Red. It was simple, easy. Yeah, it reminded him of blood and swollen black eyes and the stains on his father's hands but there were worse things to be called; worse things to remember.
The older he got, the less willing he became to share himself with those around him.
The nickname—he hated it, simply because of how happy it made him. How it made him feel special, like there was someone out there who cared about him past the monster, past the bloodied reputation.
He hated it because he didn't deserve to feel good.
Didn't deserve happiness.
"Come here," Bar demanded, standing tall five feet away, his dark eyes flashing over to Creed's ostentatious group that were now scowling and not willing to approach her while he was there.
Good, he thought. Stay away from her.
"No," Ivory crossed her arms over her chest, a small frown on her face as she stared right at him. Her eyes—they were searching for something while looking at him. He didn't want to know what she found.
Bar leaned just a little closer to her, dark eyes holding contact as much as he could with one busted up. "Would you rather me come to you? Who knows how close I'd get."
It was a dick move, making her feel pressured to do something, he understood that, but he also had to warn her about Creed without seeming too nice. She'd be even more hurt, and disappointed, if he was acting like he cared and then went back to his bad behavior.
Better to be bad all the time then to be good on occasions and leave people with a false sense of hope.
Bar knew that he was a bad person.
He didn't want to give her, or anyone else, expectations that this fact would change. He's hurt her enough.
Ivory huffed and slowly moved closer, close enough that Bar could feel his body heat being pulled in by her, bodies almost brushing, side by side. It was intoxicating, having her this close. Dangerous, too.
All he wanted to do was pull her to him and hold her, he wanted to see if those hugs everyone seemed to be so happy to get could make him feel good, too.
He wanted to feel safe for once.
But safe wasn't for him so he shook the feeling off and let his lips pull into a scowl as his eyes drifted back to Creed, whose posey left him to his sulking over the lost opportunity for quick cash.
"You see that dickhead standing like he has a stick stuck in his ass?" Bar asked, jerking his chin to Creed who backed away once he saw the bully's eyes on him.
"Yeah? What about him?" Ivory questioned, briefly looking at the retreating form before looking back at Bar. "Did you finally find a friend who's just as good at picking on others as you?"
"First off, shortass, the only person who I talk to around here is you, so don't fucking think otherwise," Bar snarked out, "and I'd rather go blind than be Creed's friend. Stay away from him, understand?"
"Don't call me that, Oly," Ivory scowled back, fully knowing those words would be ignored and her minty eyes were curious as they looked between his dark ones. "Why do I have to stay away from him?"
"He's an asshole."
"So are you, and I don't stay away from you."
What a great decision maker.
"You should," he said, a half-shrug to his shoulders that made his bruised ribs ache all the more. It was hard to breathe, but he's walked off worse. "And if you don't avoid that fuck, you won't like what happens."
Ivory took a step back as if she just remembered she was talking to her bully instead of a friend and glanced down, "To me or...?"
"I don't recommend finding out." He said—even though the answer was no, fuck no. He would never lay a fucking hand on her, even if his words could be icy and hurtful.
"Oh—"
Without warning, a goddamn soccer ball came flying through the air so fast that he couldn't even blink and smacked Ivory right in the face, sending her crashing to the floor with a noise of pain and a loud bang!
"Holy fuck," Bar instantly crouched down by her, wondering where the hell her best friend went. He wasn't equipped to handle this shit alone! "Are you okay?"
"What..." Ivory touched her nose, eyes widening when she felt the blood that was now going down her face, dripping onto her previously unstained light blue shirt. "Why am I—"
"You should watch where you're standing," Creed interrupted, smirking down at her as he walked past, just out of reach. "Wouldn't want to get in the way again, Ivory."
Maybe he should watch where he fucking walks because pretty soon he's not going to be able to.
"I'm going to fucking kill him," Bar seethed, moving to stand but his girl slapped him in the chest, stopping him.
"No," she mumbled, eyes watering and he could see her nose throbbing as she tilted her head back. "You get into enough fights."
Fights? Oh. Right. She believed that, too.
"Don't do that," Bar grabbed her chin, not caring about the blood he got on his hand—they got stained with the red, sticky liquid enough that it barely even registered—as he pulled her head down. "The blood will go to your stomach and you'll throw up, idiot."
How was she supposed to know that? His mind sneered. She's not messed up like you, she doesn't deserve to get hurt like you, so she hasn't been.
"Don't call me an idiot and help me up."
"Don't tell me what the fuck to do."
"Please stop being mean to me right now," Ivory begged, tears starting to go down her face and Bar couldn't help but to nod. She's making him weak at the fucking knees.
He helps her stand, only then noticing the blood on his gray shirt—knowing that his dad will give him hell for ruining another one of his clothes in a 'fight' but couldn't find it in himself to care.
Not when she was hurt.
"I'm taking you to the bathroom to get cleaned up," Bar grumbled, "and then I'm finding Creed and we're going to have a nice talk."
"Throwing a punch isn't part of sign language." Ivory sassed him, wincing as she lightly touched her already-bruising nose, body leaning against his to keep upright.
Did she hurt her leg, her hip? She did fall pretty hard...
He disregarded the warmth of his crush's body against his but it was hard—he wasn't used to physical contact that didn't result in bruises and a big part of him, the touch-starved part, just wanted to wrap himself around her and never let go. To have her hold him tight enough that he no longer felt like breaking apart.
Continuing to walk her out of the gym, he ignored the fact that she wanted to tell the Coach where they were going and just dragged her along as gently as possible. Mr. Coelle was already yelling at Creed, so he knew that the asshole would get in trouble since he saw what happened.
There's no reason to waste time.
"It's part of the 'I'm going to fight you' language," he continued the conversation as soon as they got to the hallway. "Which you don't know about at all because your some goodie fucking two shoes or some shit."
"I hate you."
"Yeah, I know."
Bar wanted her to, it makes ignoring his feelings easier. It made the what ifs a little quieter.
Silence ensued and the only sound that went around the hallway was their footsteps and breathing—hers being a little labored with a plugged nose and him shuffling in pain ever so slightly at how his ribs ached.
They entered the girls bathroom, Bar rolling his eyes when a blonde screamed at him angrily before leaving, him locking the door after she left. He glanced back to where he had lifted Ivory onto the counter only to find her minty, teary eyes still watching him.
Don't give me that look, Bar wanted to beg. Don't look at me like that with tears in your eyes. I can't handle it.
Instead, he took a deep breath in and got right to work, washing his hands and then grabbing a bunch of napkins and running them under cold water.
"This might hurt," Bar stood right in front of Ivory, giving her three seconds after the warning before he tilted her head to the right angle and began to take care of the blood.
He cleaned up what had stained her face, then slowly cleaned her nose. He knew how much touching a tender nose hurt and was glad she didn't break hers even if it would definitely bruise more than it already was.
Bar found it kind of hard to focus when she was so close, smelling like her ambrosia shampoo and old books with those gorgeous as fuck eyes watching him but he managed to do so for the most part.
He got new paper towels, making these a little warmer since her nose was also turning red from the cold water along with being blueish-purple from that stupid soccer ball.
"How did you know about the no tilting head thing?" Ivory asked, poking at her face in the mirror once he was done cleaning her up and she could breathe properly after blowing her nose, too.
Bar looked up at her with his dark eyes sad, more scared than he wanted to admit. "I get into fights a lot, remember?"
This was the first direct lie he told her.
"Right," Ivory nods.
And she believed him.