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The sound of a knock at the door works its way through the fuzz in Rose’s brain. When she hears it again, louder, coupled with a calling of her name, she opens her eyes.
She throws the covers back and sits up with a groan, every muscle in her body still aching; whatever this bug is, she’s REALLY over the everything-hurting part of it. Reaching for her worn cotton robe and tugging it on, she ties it tight around her as she shuffles to the door.
When she opens it, she almost closes it right away again. And she doesn’t have the energy to stifle another groan (this one of annoyance rather than pain).
“What do you want?” she asks, voice still lower and raspier from all the drainage and coughing (which make talking still something of a pain).
“I heard you were sick,” Armitage Hux says.
“And?” She crosses her arms and leans against the door.
“You haven’t been in class the past few days. I wanted to check in.”
“Why? To gloat? Or tell me how godawful I look?” Later, with a clearer mind, Rose will register the small frown he makes at the suggestion.
“You don’t look awful,” he finally says.
“I look like shit and we both know it.” She pushes herself away from the door (gently) and steps aside to let him into the townhouse apartment she (usually) shares with Rey, Kaydel, and Jannah. As he steps in, Rose finally takes notice of the grocery bag in his hand. “Shouldn’t you be in class right now? Normally, we’re in poetry screaming our heads off at each other.”
Hux, to her surprise, laughs.
“I wouldn’t say we scream, per se,” he says. “And Professor Holdo canceled for today. Emergency dental work.” Rose winces.
“Shit, that’s almost worse than whatever I’ve got going on,” she manages before ducking her head into her sleeve to cough.
Well…not so much cough as metaphorically hack up a lung (and literally hack up a glob of nasty green gunk). Hard enough to bend over, tearing up from the force of it and how her throat already feels so raw from all the drainage and all the coughing already and how miserable she feels and how she has to look like this in front of Hux, of all people. A perfect storm of suck.
“Shut up,” she rasps preemptively to Hux, dabbing at her watering eyes with the sleeve of her robe. A box of tissues appears in her line of sight. Looking up, she sees Hux holding it out to her. After a moment of hesitance (and suspicious glaring), she takes it, turns to pull a tissue free and, as delicately as she can, spit out what she just lodged free from coughing so much.
What a hell of a way to star her last semester of college.
“I’ll make you some tea,” Hux says.
“You’re so fucking British,” Rose mutters into the tissue, spitting the last of the gunk out and folding it up. When she looks up, she sees Hux moving towards the kitchen. When she walks in, she sees him peering around.
“Don’t suppose you have a kettle?” Hux asks.
“Remember how I just said you’re so fucking British?” Rose says, walking past him to open one of the pantry doors. She pushed as high up on tiptoe as best she can. Hopefully, she can knock the cord off the shelf with her fingers so she can tug the kettle down—
“Don’t strain yourself.” Rose nearly jumps at the light touch of a hand against her back, and she steps aside for Hux to retrieve the kettle with ease. (His freakish tallness comes in handy, much as she hates to admit.)
“You realize I’m probably contagious, right?” Rose says. “Like…whatever your angle is in pretending to be nice, it’s not worth getting this. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”
“No angle,” Hux says, flipping the faucet handle, holding the kettle under the running water to fill it. Rose watches, puzzled, and tries to discern if her sickness has somehow caused her to hallucinate this almost decent version of Armitage Hux currently plugging in the kettle and turning back to the bag he brought with him, digging out a small metal tin and popping it open. Or maybe the multitude of fever reducers and decongestants and cough suppressants are the culprit behind the hallucinations of Armitage Hux—the guy who’s made her life hell for the past eight to nine years—fishing out a bag of some sort of tea (that’s likely from the U.K. because U.S. tea is fucking weak or some such bullshit) and dropping it into a clean mug, before turning back to the bag.
“You’ve been out of classes for long enough that our professors were starting to worry,” Hux says, taking out a folder. “I volunteered to copy my notes from each lecture and give them to you.” Rose blinks.
“Why?” she asks.
“Because the professors asked the entire class who would take up the mantle,” Hux answers, almost in the form of a question.
“No, I mean…why bother to do that for me at all?” Rose asks. “All we’ve ever done in class is debate, fight, and try to best each other on test scores. You could have just as easily not bothered so my grades could tank.” She pauses. “Or who knows? All your notes could be complete bullshit and unrelated to what was actually taught.”
“Do you really consider me capable of such…such a low and insidious scheme such as what you’ve proposed?”
If Rose didn’t know any better, she’d think he almost sounded hurt…honestly, he almost looks it…and the manner in which he tosses the binder on to the small table between them only punctuates his seeming hurt. (Maybe it’s just the meds, though.)
“If I’m going to best you in grades, I intend to do so fairly,” Hux finally says.
“That sounds more like the Hux I know,” Rose says, sliding the binder over to her and opening it. Sure enough, she recognizes Hux’s fastidious scrawl, takes note of the colored tabs dividing small stacks of paper, each tab clearly labeled with the name of one of their classes. “I’ll look at these when my head doesn’t feel like it’s stuffed with fiberglass insulation.”
“If you like, I can ask our professors to confirm what was taught, to confirm that I am indeed not sabotaging you.”
“I believe you,” Rose says, flipping the binder closed. “You’re an asshole, but you’re not a liar. Or a cheater.”
“No. I’m not.” Rose almost winces at the sullen snap in his voice. “Nor have I ever believed you to be so.” Rose nods. Fair enough.
“…you think Mitaka was one?” Hux snorts at the mention of their former high school classmate.
“Would certainly invalidate his valedictorian status,” Hux says.
“Yeah, but then it would just go to Kaydel,” Rose says, mentioning their class’s high school salutatorian. “And I know for a fact she worked as hard as we did. Though she wasn’t competing against anyone.”
“Well-deserved on her part, then,” Hux acquiesces. “And then we would share salutatorian status.”
Rose just barely suppresses a scoff and an eyeroll. Yes, despite all her studying and hard work and determination to show Hux she was smarter than him, they’d both managed to graduate from high school with the same goddamned ridiculously high GPA (though not as ridiculously high as Kaydel or Mitaka).
But the past few sentences shared with Hux have seemed almost…decent? And, for some reason, she doesn’t want to spoil it.
“What else is in your bag of tricks, Mary Poppins?” she asks. (Okay, she doesn’t want to completely spoil things, but she and Hux have traded barbs since being high school freshman. It comes as naturally as breathing.) Hux ignores the barb and reaches back into the bag.
“Soup,” he says, revealing a rather large Tupperware container full of what appears to be chicken noodle soup. Rose raises her eyebrows.
“How much takeout did you order?” she asks. “And why?”
“Not take out,” he says, not looking at her as he turns to open the refrigerator.
“Okay…then how much Campbells did you buy?”
“It’s homemade soup, Rose.”
“…who made it?”
“I did.”
Maybe she’s been standing too long, or maybe the idea of such a concept stuns her that much, but Rose reaches behind her for a chair and manages to find the seat before her buckling knees send her to the floor.
Armitage Hux—Armitage Hux—made her soup. Homemade soup. A lot of homemade soup. She tries to conjure the mental image of Hux standing at a stove, stirring a large wooden spoon in a pot of soup, but nothing. Not even in the most embarrassing pink frilly apron.
“Why?” The only question on her mind and on her lips.
“Hmm?” Hux looks at her again.
“We hate each other,” Rose says, pointing back and forth between the two of them. “Why are you being so nice?” Hux purses his lips, looks away for a moment…and there it is again. That hurt Rose keeps imagining she sees etched into his features.
“I don’t hate you, Rose,” he finally says, almost whispers. “I’ve never hated you.”
The whistle of the kettle pierces the air of the kitchen and the moment. And Hux turns away to unplug the kettle, pour water into the mug. Rose looks down, tries to suppress a cough or two. Unfortunately, one cough leads to another round of hacking. She glances up at the microwave clock…too soon to take cough syrup again, and she ran out of Ricola a while ago…
She folds her arms on the table and buries her face in them. Exhausted from coughing and aching and sniffling and…and also just so confused about Hux, and the revelation that he apparently doesn’t hate her…which…she has no idea when that started. He has to be lying when he says he’s never hated her. Has to be.
Faintly, through the fuzz in her head, she registered the clinking of a spoon against china. Something brushes lightly against her elbow. She lifts her head enough to see steam billowing from the mug of tea Hux has just placed in front of her.
“I added a little honey,” he says quietly. “Helps with the sore throat.” Rose reaches for the mug, not bothering to grab for the handle. Immediately, she snatches back her hand, hissing and cursing in pain. Hux doesn’t even blink. “It’s still too hot to drink.”
“No shit,” Rose hisses, shaking her hand as though she can disperse the pain like drops of water. “I’ll just leave that to cool for a bit, I guess.” She shoves away from the table and stands, tugging her robe more tightly around her as she wanders back into the living room. Hux follows her; she doesn’t acknowledge him.
She pauses in the middle of the room at a sudden sensation. She peers up at the lights in the ceiling, hoping the sensation will go away.
“Rose?” So caught up is she in trying to suppress it that she doesn’t hear the slight tremor of terror in Hux’s voice.
But nothing doing. She launches forward with a mighty sneeze, almost toppling face forward into the coffee table. Probably would have done had Hux not bolted forward to get a hand on her arm, to steady her.
“Are you all right?” he asks, rather pointlessly as she coughs and sniffles in the wake of such a mighty sneeze.
“Fucking peachy,” she manages with a weak thumbs-up. She reaches for the box of tissues she’d left on the couch and pulls one out to blow her nose, trying not to blow so hard (more than once, the sound of her blowing her nose has been compared to a car horn, a foghorn, an airhorn…she loves her roommates, but they can be jerks sometimes).
She doesn’t try to fight Hux guiding her to the couch to sit down as she clears her sinuses out as best she can. When finished, she tosses the tissue into the little garbage can she’d set up next to the couch before looking back up at Hux, who’d stepped back to the other side of the living room, near the chair on that side.
“Why did you come over again?” Rose asks. “With all the soup and…?” She gestures vaguely. “And the tea and the…did you say? I can’t remember.” Hux regards her for a minute.
“I wanted to be your friend,” he finally answers.
“…oh.” Rose nods faintly.
“I thought, perhaps, after eight or nine years of bickering, we could finally bury the hatchet,” Hux continues. “…I just didn’t realize the depth of your dislik—well…not dislike, hatred, for me.”
“You used to turn around in orchestra and fine-tune my cello for me after I’d finished tuning it,” Rose snaps. “All the time. Even after we came here. Explain to me how I wasn’t supposed to at the very least dislike you for the dick-est of moves?”
“I do seem to recall you warning me the next time I did that, you’d bite my finger off,” Hux says (almost with fondness, it seems…Rose really hopes she’s imagining that).
“Damn right, I did,” she says, settling back in the couch and crossing her arms. “And what happened the next time you tried?”
“You bit me hard enough to scar.” Hux holds his finger up. Though too far away to see properly, Rose smirks knowing that, around his index finger, some evidence of her justified reaction remains. Hux lowers his hand, his thumb running over his index finger, likely where the scar is. “Regardless…in retrospect, I behaved abominably. Immaturely. Whatever other adverb you’d like. And I apologize.”
Rose blinks.
“…okay?” Rose says. “I mean…you don’t do it anymore, so…apology accepted, I guess.” Hux nods.
“If there are any other grievous transgressions I’ve committed against you for which you’d like an apology…”
“When I think of them, I’ll let you know,” Rose says. “…you really never hated me? Ever?” Hux shakes his head. “Because I’m tempted to call bullshit on that.”
“What gave you cause to think I hated you? Or what gave you cause to hate me?” Hux asks (almost pleads).
“We fought—we fight all the time in classes,” Rose says. “Don’t try to call them debates, they are actual fights sometimes. Year after year, we’ve always tried to best each other in everything. Test grades, GPAs, first chair in orchestra…the aforementioned finetuning of my cello. What else was I supposed to think?” Rose shakes her head. “Sometimes I was convinced you followed me from high school to college so you could keep making my life miserable.”
“That we ended up at the same campus for the same studies was a coincidence, I assure you,” Hux says. And Rose begins to think the hurt she keeps seeing flicker across his face anytime she insinuates to such strong feelings of dislike…that maybe it’s not the meds or her imagination… “You’ve really thought so little of me the entire time you’ve known me.”
Not a question this time. And not even really directed to her. More said to himself while just happening to be in her presence. Almost regretful.
“Hux…where is all this coming from?” Rose asks. “This…change of heart or whatever?” Hux just shakes his head, scoffs at the notion of a “change of heart,” it seems. “Whatever’s going on, it’s really confusing me and my head hurts enough as it is.”
Everything does, really. Not to mention being freezing…she tugs at her robe as though she hasn’t already bundled it as close to her as she can manage.
“Your tea’s probably cool enough to drink now,” Hux says rather suddenly. Without waiting for a response from Rose, he turns back towards the kitchen. Rose looks around for a blanket, wondering where in the hell her roommates hid them and why always out of reach, as Hux returns with the cup. “Still a bit warm, but manageable." He holds it out carefully to her, and she takes it from him, one hand on the handle, the other gingerly holding the mug. As he said—warm to the touch, but not so hot as to burn. She sips from the mug.
“What kind of tea is this?” she asks.
“Chamomile,” he says. “My mum always made me some when I was sick. …is it not good?”
“Dude, I can’t taste anything right now,” Rose says, taking a larger sip. “I register warm and maybe a little sweet, but that’s about it.”
“Probably the honey.”
“Probably.”
Maybe a bit of a placebo effect, but the tea with honey does seem to ease the pain in her throat a little…even if she has no idea what it tastes like. Even helps warm her a little from the inside out…but not much. She leans forward to set the mug on the coffee table and push herself up.
“What do you need?” Hux asks.
“Was gonna get a blanket…I’m freezing,” Rose says.
“Where do you keep them?”
“Uh…should be one in Kaydel and Jannah’s room…my room, too, but my germs are all over it.” Rose moves to stand again, but Hux steps forward to take her shoulder. “Really, Hux, I can get—”
“You’re sick,” he says as gently as the push to her shoulder. “You should rest. I’ll find you a blanket.”
“I…okay, fine.”
“Which room?”
“Down there—” she points behind her “—to the left.” Hux nods and walks away. Rose shakes her head before leaning to the side, bringing her feet up so she can lie on the couch, propping her head against the wearing cushion of the arm rest. “Hux?”
“Need me to find something else?” he calls.
“No…just wanted to tell you I don’t hate you.”
Rose closes her eyes, just for a moment. Hux’s footfall alternates between tapping lightly against the exposed floor and being muffled by the rug she and Rey had bought at the Solos’ garage sale last year.
“You don’t hate me?” he repeats. She opens her eyes again, watching him walk into view.
“I think I thought I did because I thought you did, but…” She sniffles. “And yeah, I’ve definitely disliked you and you drive me crazy, but…I don’t think I’ve ever really hated you.”
“Oh.” His fingers curl into the blanket draped over his arm.
“Thought you should know.”
“…thank you.”
“I mean, I’m still gonna yell at you when you’re being stupid in class, but…”
Hux says nothing in response, but unfolds the blanket. Rose reaches up for it, but Hux just murmurs something about taking care of it before draping it over her. He tucks the fleece beneath her feet, around the rest of her, carefully, gently, asking if this is all right. Rose just hums in response. Finally, Hux drapes the last of it over her shoulders. She rests her head more firmly against the arm rest, some of her hair falling in her face. She tries to blow it out of her eyes, closing them when Hux reaches up to brush the strands away from her forehead, his knuckles dusting against her skin…
…his hand freezes, and then he presses the back of his hand more firmly against her forehead.
“Rose, do you have a thermometer?” he asks.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Where is it?”
“Bathroom.”
Hux’s hand darts away from her forehead, and Rose opens her eyes again at Hux’s faster footfall. She lifts her head slightly at the clattering in the bathroom, pushing herself up with her palm as Hux rushes back.
“What—?”
“Here.” Hux holds the thermometer out to her. She takes it, pressing the start button and tucking it under her tongue. “You felt very warm just now. I know you said you’re freezing, but…how long has it been since you last checked?” Rose shrugs, not opening her mouth. “How long since you last took anything for a fever?” Rose shrugs again.
“Didn’t have one,” she tries to say through lips pursed and teeth clenched around the thermometer, which seems to be taking its sweet time taking her temperature. (What she gets for buying the cheapest one CVS had available.)
Finally, it beeps, and Rose takes it out. She blinks, tries to read it…but everything seems to spin too much, and she has to rest her head again and close her eyes. Hux gently takes her wrist to take the thermometer from her.
“…shit.”
Well, that’s probably not good.
“What’s it say?” she asks, keeping her eyes closed.
“I think you need a doctor,” he says, a tremor in his voice. She feels him try to pull the blanket away, and she grips it tight.
“No, I’m freezing,” she whines.
“Rose, your temperature’s just under 103.” Hux wrests the blanket free of Rose’s weak grip. She once again tries to push herself up to sitting, but dizziness overcomes her once more, and she lies back down, coughing into her sleeve. In the distance, she hears Hux on the phone with someone…something about her condition…says something about seeing someone soon, so he must be leaving.
But instead, his footsteps fade back in as he approaches her.
“I’m taking you to urgent care,” Hux says.
“No—”
“Rose, they need to look at you before your temperature can get any higher.” Hux gently maneuvers Rose up to a sitting position, keeping hold of her until she feels steady enough to sit on her own. “Do you think you can stand?” Rose stares at him vaguely. “Can we try?”
“‘kay,” she says.
With Hux keeping hold of her hands, she stands with him, manages not to wobble too much. With soft and gentle encouragement, he walks her over to the wall near the entryway and the front door. He moves one of her hands to curl around the corner of the wall and says something about grabbing his coat real quick and then he’ll help her out the door. Rose nods faintly again. She hovers in the entryway, gripping but not gripping the wall.
Another cough wrenches its way up from her chest, and with the force of it, she collapses with a cry amidst the hacking.
“Rose?!” Hux runs back in, crouching down next to her, running a hand over her back as the coughing calms, assuring her he’s right there, it’s okay, it’s going to be okay. Rose can barely keep her eyes open anymore…barely aware of much of anything when they are open.
“Okay…I’m going to carry you down to my car, all right?” Hux says. Before she can answer properly, he settles one of her arms around his neck before tucking his arms around her waist and beneath her legs to carefully lift her up. She cries a little at the surprise of being lifted, her other arm instantly flinging up to his neck to join the other, to cling to him, everything still spinning, even in his arms.
“It’s all right, Rose,” he says. “I won’t let you fall…I promise. I’ve got you.”
In the midst of the dizziness, she can make out his eyes…those icy blue eyes in the midst of that fire-red hair…it brings something back, the fire in his hair…
She manages a nod for him before closing her eyes, resting her head against his shoulder.
Even when needing to free an arm to open doors, Hux keeps strong hold of Rose. As he promises, he doesn’t let her fall. Not out the door. Not down the stairs. Not even when they hit the freezing January air that sends her into violent shivers the moment it hits her, restricts her lungs, causing her to wheeze. All the while, he keeps murmuring assurances to her, how everything will be okay once they get to the doctor, she’s doing so well, not too far now, he knows it’s cold, the car will be warm, it’s going to be okay.
He’d managed to snag a parking spot close to the dorm, so it’s not a long trudge through the snow. As they reach the car, Hux slowly sets Rose down, still keeping hold of her as her feet touch ground. Her fingers dig into his arm as she rests against his shoulder, still trembling.
“You’re doing so well, Rose,” he assures her. “Almost there.” He tilts his head down to press his forehead against hers. She faintly remembers her mother checking her temperature in such a manner when she was little and running a fever. Perhaps Hux is simply doing the same.
She opens her eyes, dark brown meeting ice blue. The winter wind whirls around them, blowing some of his hair into his face…fire-red hair…winter…that memory from earlier sparks even brighter…something she read a long time ago…
“…winter fire…” she murmurs unknowingly, absently reaching up to push it back, missing entirely, almost hitting his forehead were it not for his free hand catching it.
“What did you say?” She misses the tremor in Hux’s voice.
“Your hair is winter fire…”
She’s quoting something, she knows that at least…something that came to mind when looking at Hux…what the rest of it is, she can’t recall…brain too fuzzy, everything spinning too much. She closes her eyes again. Hux keeps a tight hold on both her and his promise not to let her fall.
He opens the passenger-side door and guides her into it, buckles her in, closes the door. Her head lolls to the side as he buckles up behind the wheel, turns the car on, programs in the address to the urgent care center he’d called earlier.
With every turn of the car, her head lolls this way and that, but Rose doesn’t notice, as lost in a feverish fuzz-filled haze as she is. As the car warms, her wheezing subsides slightly.
She’s completely out by the time Hux parks, unbuckles her, carries her in, telling the receptionist he called earlier…his voice fades in and out to Rose…trembly and tear-filled…something about a boyfriend or girlfriend…fades out more and more as dreams fade in…not just dreams…snippets of memories…
***
Junior year, high school. Hux wins the cellist spot in the ensemble for the Corelli Christmas Concerto at the holiday concert. Just edging out Rose, much to her chagrin. A few days before the concert, Hux comes into orchestra with a broken wrist. Refuses to say how it happens, sulks throughout class. That is, until he interrupts their conductor’s fretting over who will take his place, speaks to him so quietly that no one can hear.
When all is said and done, their conductor clears his throat, congratulates Rose for being the new cellist in the ensemble for the Corelli.
To this day, Rose has no idea what all Hux said to their conductor to convince him that she was the next best choice. On the one hand, she feels as though she should be grateful, but on the other hand, she has to learn new music well enough to perform on par with the rest of the ensemble.
Given Hux tells her following the concert that she “wasn’t half-bad,” she thinks she pulled it off. But it’s hard to tell.
***
End of junior year, college. One night at one of Poe’s ridiculously raucous parties, Rose steps out for some fresh air, a reprieve from the sticky thick heat of the party atmosphere.
She stumbles upon Hux sitting on the porch, halfway into a bottle of some dark brown liquor, taking a long pull, ignoring her arrival.
She manages to wrestle the bottle away from him. He may be an asshole, but she doesn’t want to see him in the hospital with alcohol poisoning.
Fuck her, he’s 21, he can drink as much as he wants now, and he’s got a good goddamn reason to do so.
Rose settles herself on the porch next to Hux, asking what the reason he is.
He snorts. Why the fuck should she care?
Less caring, more repaying a debt. If he recalls? Freshman year?
He stares at her with glassy unfocused eyes, like cracking ice, before he looks away and begins to speak.
About his father’s death. And how Hux doesn’t miss him at all…he was a piece of shite. But he feels as though he’s SUPPOSED to miss him because it’s his DAD. And he can’t.
Rose says nothing as Hux launches into tirade after tirade with each remembrance of his father—each insult hurled his way, each injury bestowed upon him (that broken wrist junior year of high school? His dad. He just lied and said it had been something else). How abominably his father had treated his mother. How his last conversation with his father, he just went the fuck off, volleyed back every barb, every biting word, his father had ever dealt him, and then just stormed out.
Lord knows Rose has called Hux many names and many things, but…none so cruel or spiteful as his father had called him. Never with as much meaning as his father. Nevertheless, watching Hux brush away tears he so stubbornly tries to hold back, pretend he isn’t shedding because his father isn’t worth them…she finds herself regretting many of the things she’s said…she never would have if she’d known…
Before she can do something potentially foolish like touch him, his face takes on a sudden pallor, and he stumbles forward off the porch, towards one of the bushes in the front yard, and Rose winces as he heaves.
Ben finds them later, Hux still hunched over the bush, thankfully no longer vomiting…Rose standing by his side. He knows what to do, he says, pulling Hux up to standing; he can take it from there. Rose thanks him, smiling. Ben just nods.
Rose remains on the porch longer after Ben and Hux have faded from view.
***
Senior year, high school. Prom.
Rose had made a pact with her best friend, Ben Solo, back when they were freshman. If neither of them found proper dates for prom their senior year, they’d go together. Every other dance every other year, didn’t really matter.
Really, there’s no one else she really wants to go with…well…sort of. Had you asked her three or four years ago, she could have named someone else…but that didn’t work out.
She and Ben dance some, but mostly just have fun looking at everyone’s dresses and tuxes, see who all came together. Phasma, one of Ben’s friends from speech, asks Ben for a strictly platonic dance, since her own date’s being a stick in the mud…hasn’t danced with her once all evening. Rose looks in the direction of where Phasma nods; somehow, she isn’t surprised that Armitage Hux would be an absolute stick in the mud.
Rose is fine to take a break while Ben and Phasma head out to dance. She sips from her little plastic cup of godawful punch, sways a little to the beat of the song, hums along with the melody.
A voice interrupts her reverie. For whatever reason, Hux has decided to make conversation. Namely, voicing surprise that she came here with Ben.
And why should that be a surprise? Or does he mean it’s a surprise she managed to find a date at all?
It just seems an unconventional pairing to him, is all.
As opposed to whom?
In lieu of an answer, Hux just purses his lips and looks away, in the direction of Ben and Phasma, half in a slow dance, but mostly just overdramatically singing the lyrics of the power ballad to each other (much to the entertainment of those surrounding them). Rose laughs at the spectacle.
…she looks lovely.
Rose glances at Hux, who appears as nonchalant as ever, merely observing the crowd. She rolls her eyes, thanks him, unable to hold back a small smile.
…he looks very nice, too. (It’s not a lie; he’s always cut an infuriatingly fine figure in a suit or a tux at every orchestra concert.)
Hux looks back over at her, perhaps shocked that she deigned to compliment him. Chances a small smile…something almost strange to Rose, him smiling…strange in it being new, not strange as in unfitting on his face. Rather, he should smile more. It suits him.
He glances down at his wing-tip shoes, clears his throat. Since both of their partners are currently unavailable, THEY could always share a dance…if Rose is willing.
Rose crosses her arms. He’s ignored Phasma all night, but all of a sudden, he wants to dance with HER? She calls him out on it.
Hux rolls his eyes. He supposes Ben has been a far more attentive date.
Not that it’s ANY of his business, but Ben is her best friend, and they came as friends. She knows Hux thinks Ben can probably do a hell of a lot better than her or whatever, but—
Hux didn’t say that. At all. If Rose could KINDLY stop putting words in his mouth…
The power ballad ends and gives way to some ska punk throwback from the 1990s. Phasma rushes over to grab Hux’s arm, pulling him out of the argument and dragging him on to the dance floor; he is going to dance ONE song with her, SO HELP HER GOD.
Rose glares after Hux. Doesn’t take her eyes off him when Ben asks what’s wrong, what did he say, does he need to kick Hux’s ass for her, not that she isn’t perfectly capable of dishing out said asskicking—
No, Ben, it’s all right. He doesn’t need to kick Hux’s ass.
Well…she looks pissed. Meaning Hux must have said SOMETHING to her.
It flummoxes Ben, at first, when Rose tells him Hux said she was lovely. Makes a little more sense when she tells him Hux asked her to dance, after ignoring Phasma all night.
But really, it’s nothing.
She’s content to watch Hux cringe as Phasma tries to get him to loosen up. He’s a REALLY bad dancer, and seems to be painfully aware of it (not that Phasma seems to mind all that much).
Rose couldn’t have better revenge if she tried.
***
Sophomore year, college.
Enric Pryde, some snooty conductor for some well-to-do orchestra in the U.K. comes to visit the campus for a week. Sit in on classes and rehearsals. Make comments here and there. Some complimentary, some snide.
Rose can’t say she thinks much of him. Tries to ignore his leer and focus on the music instead, not flinch if he leans in a bit too close when complimenting the elegant arc of her arm held out just so as her fingers dance up and down the bridge, or the delicate curve of her fingers around her bow.
(She never thought she’d be grateful for Hux’s quips, but every time, Hux interrupts with some equally snide comment, though far nastier than any he’s ever aimed at her. He matches Pryde beat for beat in snark.)
And Hux always lingers when Rose packs up her cello at the end of rehearsal to leave with her, or steps back into the classroom to tell her someone needs to talk to her about something for class or she promised to share notes with him. Because Pryde always tries to keep her after, asking her what seem to be the most innocuous of questions but the tone, the glint in his eyes…it takes all her willpower not to visibly shudder.
She says nothing to Hux about it, and he says nothing in return. It’s just how the week goes.
That is, until the last day. Before orchestra even starts, Rose chatting with Jannah and some of the other woodwinds about this and that and the other (namely, hurray, last day with Pryde…anyone else get sort of a creepy vibe from him?). Hux turning his cello, glancing over at Rose’s (probably itching to finetune it for her, the prick). Pryde approaching.
She thinks nothing of it. That is, until a loud clatter echoes through the room.
When Rose looks over again, Pryde is sprawled on the floor, clutching his nose or his chin, and Hux looms over him, icy eyes blazing, before launching himself at Pryde again. Their professor, already close to the scene, pulls Hux away and barely gets into chastising him before Hux whirls on and turns the tirade of him. Did he even HEAR what Pryde was saying about one of his own STUDENTS? Has his abominable behavior this entire week slipped past his notice?
Their professor tells Hux to save it. Calm himself. This matter can be tended to with a calm and rational discussion in his office…probably the dean’s office as well.
Pryde clambers to his feet, one hand still clutched over to his face, muttering something about never being so disrespected in all his life. Hux fires back that nothing he’s done this week was respectful, so he merely extended the same courtesy.
Once again, their professor raises his voice to put an end to it. Asking what on earth has gotten into Hux?
Rose’s stomach turns as two sets of eyes flicker over in the direction of Rose. Jannah tugs Rose behind her, takes hold of her hand, squeezing it tight.
Rose doesn’t see Hux in rehearsal at all the following week. Or in classes. And when he returns, he clearly does not want to talk about it. Rose doesn’t ask.
Not right away, she doesn’t ask.
When she does, all he’ll tell her is he was making comments about her. Horrible…vulgar things that dragged him into it (he won’t repeat the, they’re far too foul). And Hux could not abide such hateful treatment of Rose any longer.
Evidently, Rose wasn’t the only female student he’d had an eye on; several of her fellow orchestra members had approached the professor with concerns. And the professor had overheard enough to ensure Pryde would never be invited back.
That said…Hux DID commit an act of physical violence against a guest of the college. So…suspension for a week.
Rose’s stomach churns. At whatever Pryde must have said about her…at the memory of that sneer and leer…at Hux getting himself suspended because of her…perhaps if she’d said something sooner—
Hux stops her. Evidently, she’d voiced that last bit aloud.
She should not blame herself. The only one to blame in all of this is Pryde. For being an absolutely horrendous, atrocious piece of filth excuse of a human being. For his part, Hux has no regrets. He’d punch Pryde again. Every time.
Hux has no tolerance for men to treat women so abominably.
He storms away before Rose has a chance to react. To ask further questions. To THANK him.
She doesn’t know if she has the heart to address it again…clearly, it’s a sore subject for Hux, and likely will be for a while.
Still…that evening, after finishing up a paper for history, she sends Hux an email. Just with the words “Thank you for everything that week.”
He does not respond. He doesn’t address it in their next class or at their next rehearsal. The closest they get is their eyes meeting while setting up at rehearsal one afternoon. Rose nods. Hux nods back.
That seems to be enough on that front.
***
Sophomore year, high school.
In geometry, the teacher received a call near the end of class. She stops Rose as she packs up her books. The principal wants to see her.
Rose wracks her brain for anything she may have done that warrants a visit to the principal…she doesn’t THINK she’s in trouble, but who knows…maybe Hux planted some rumor or something.
It takes her four minutes to walk from the classroom to the principal’s office. She leaves the principal’s office seventeen minutes later. Her feet take her in the direction of the front door to the school, a walk that should take approximately five minutes after she stops at her locker.
She opens the lock to her locker not looking at it, muscle memory kicking in as her mind remains disconcertingly blank, the talk with the principal still settling in. She doesn’t open the locker, but rests her head against it.
She knows when she opens her eyes, the tears are going to fall.
And she only clenches them shut tighter when she hears Hux call her name, a questioning call.
She turns her head away from the direction of his voice, says something about how he should be in class right now, should he?
Pot, black, kettle, calling. What’s SHE doing out of class?
She ignores him, yanks her locker open and throws her books inside.
He’d heard a rumor about her being called down to the principal’s office? Any truth to that? She grips the side of the locker tight.
It’s been a really shit day and she doesn’t need any of this from him right now, so can he just fuck off?
He just leans against the row of lockers, chiding her for her language, says he can report that to the principal if she keeps it up.
She slams her locker shut. Smacks her hand hard against the metal of the door for good measure. Both are enough to get Hux to jump away from the row of lockers. Seems about to tell her off until he catches sight of her face as she can no longer keep it from crumpling.
What’s wrong? What happened? She shakes her head as her shoulders begin to shake with stifled sobs. He repeats her name. Asks who did this, who made her cry.
The fuck does he care? She manages to get as much out before covering her hand to mask a sob that bubbles out of her.
He says her name again, almost in a plea.
She can’t look at him. But finally tells him.
Her big sister’s coming to pick her up. Her grandpa died.
With that, she can’t hold back her weeping any longer, leans her head against her locker again, folding her arms into her face to shield herself from Hux as much as she can. Hating herself for letting him see her like this. How he’s just playing nice, he doesn’t really care…
…even if he says he’s so sorry. Even if he reaches out to touch her shoulder.
…and then she doesn’t care anymore. She falls into him, sobs in earnest into his shoulder, fingers digging into his shirt. Slowly, his arms find their way around her, one hand patting her back, making small circles.
She doesn’t care anymore that it’s Hux. That Hux had to be the first of her peers to find out about this. That Hux is the one having to console her. She’s never going to see her grandpa again so…what does it matter?
He’s THERE and she needs SOMEONE to just hold her and let her cry and tell her everything will be okay, even if it won’t. So he’ll have to do until Paige gets here.
***
Freshman year, college.
Rose and Ben make good on another “pact” in the vein of the one they’d made regarding senior prom.
Namely, being each other’s firsts.
They’d already been each other’s first kiss, at age eleven or so, just to see what it was like. So…why not share more firsts?
Ben asks at least fifty times throughout if Rose is sure she wants this. That she wants to do this with him. Yes, yes she’s sure, if he asks that again, she’s gonna bite his stupidly large ears.
Honestly, the whole “waiting to share that with someone you love” deal…Rose isn’t sure it’ll ever happen. No one ever really took notice of her in high school. She figures it’ll be the same in college. So she’d rather her first time be with someone she trusts. And she trusts no one more than Ben…he’s her best friend.
There’s SOME awkwardness, as there likely would be with ANYONE’S first time. But they’re both aware of it, and kinda can’t stop laughing throughout—which, funnily enough, helps alleviate any awkwardness. (Also helps that Ben is just…REALLY good at kissing.) (She also finds out that biting his earlobe? He’s totally into that.)
It ends up not just being a one-time thing. There’s a lot to learn about sex, lot of things to try, and hey…practice makes…not PERFECT, but “more skilled for potential future partners later on in life.” It’s also just great stress relief.
So she and Ben tiptoe the line between “best friends” and “more than friends,” though she hates to use the term “friends with benefits.” It just seems like another amorphous intangible term between the two.
Though they do go on some outings that outsides would consider to be “dates.” And sometimes, they walk across campus hand in hand. Mainly in winter, when it’s cold.
One fine winter afternoon, they’re doing just that, rushing to the library as light, powdery snow whirls all around them. Ben, having longer legs and therefore a longer stride than Rose, practically yanks her arm out of her socket from running. He apologizes profusely when they reach the awning to the library, and they spend a few moments dusting snow off each other’s hats and jackets.
Her face is freezing. She presses the back of a gloved hand to her cheek. Probably pink from the wind, they feel that way…she’s gonna need some lotion when she gets back to the dorm.
Ben surprises her by leaning in to kiss her cheek. She’s right; her face IS cold. He kisses the other cheek, say something about an attempt to help warm her up. Rose giggles as he kisses the tip of her nose, too, which apparently also has turned delightfully rosy thanks to the wind.
Anything else needs warming up? He doesn’t even try and hide the way he looks at her lips. She rolls her eyes, tells him to slow his roll, they can “get warm” after they study.
He takes her hands in his. That a promise?
Another eyeroll before she punctuates the promise with a quick kiss (and his face is just as cold as hers…also, she should lend him some of her chapstick, this winter wind is doing neither of them any favors).
If the two of them are quite finished, they’re blocking the way out.
Both Rose and Ben jump at the sound of Hux’s voice. He glares at them from the entryway to the library, sufficiently bundled up to brave the weather. His eyes go to their joined hands for a moment, and Rose swears he looks almost pained…almost sick…
He shoves by them without another word, nearly knocking Ben over in his haste to leave. They both turn to watch him storm into the storm, hunched into himself, hand tucked firmly into his pockets.
***
Senior year, college. First semester.
Rose narrowly edges out Hux for first chair cellist in the orchestra at the beginning of the semester. Hux, to his credit, takes the loss graciously. Even tells her she deserves it. He may edge her out in note-for-note perfection, but she plays with far more emotion, far more meaning, than he’s ever been able to manage. What does the song matter if there’s no feeling behind the notes?
Rehearsals for their annual Christmas concert—the last one of their tenures at college—fly by. One of the pieces offers the opportunity for Rose and Hux to duet. In spite of all their verbal sparring, their frequent attempts to best each other, when they play together, it’s a thing of beauty. Unmatched harmony, bringing out the best in each other, the technician and the performer.
The beginning of every December, the orchestra travels to an orchestra hall downtown, a couple hours away from campus. They pile into coach buses, stay overnight, play at the hall, drive back next morning.
A bittersweet feat, this year, given it’s the last time for it.
Even more bittersweet for Rose, given just…everything in life so far.
Outside of the pressure of being first chair and the added responsibilities that come with that, classes are hellishly busy, studying seems more frantic and incapable of keeping up with, and Ben…
…well, Ben meets a freshman named Rey. And he falls in love within three minutes of knowing her, basically. He agonizes for a bit over the age difference (she’s JUST out of high school and he’s JUST about to leave college). It takes Rey kissing him soundly and telling him don’t be afraid, she feels it, too, to convince him to pursue something with her.
So…Rose loses her…not friend with benefits, not stress relief. Her…she can’t say boyfriend because they never put labels on it (but she realizes, all too late, that she sort of wish they had).
Point is, much as she denies it, the sexual frustration really doesn’t help, either.
So the last orchestra performance at the orchestra hall? Fraught with tears. Which is true for basically every senior every year, but for Rose, with everything else happening in her life (having just passed the anniversary of her grandpa’s death a few years back), it’s just…a lot to handle.
But thankfully, she’s 21. And their professors don’t really care if their students indulge in a glass of wine or two when they’re not on campus. And Rose really needs a freaking drink. And the hotel they’re staying in just so happens to have a bar.
Which is where Hux finds her, deep into her second glass of cab sav.
While she doesn’t know everything going on in Hux’s personal life, he can’t hide the “oh god, I’m a senior and I’ll never get to do this again in this context” blues as well. That has to be the only explanation for his presence at the bar.
He sits next to her, at the very least, as she nurses her wine, wincing at the burn.
They sounded good…she sounded good. She nods. So did he. She toasts him wryly and tosses her head back to knock back the rest of her wine.
What’s he drinking tonight? Hux shakes his head. Nothing for him. Rose frowns. Then why’s he sitting at the bar?
Roommate kicked him out. Walking in on him making out with his girlfriend and turned right back around. Rose snort-laughs. Sucks for him, dude.
At least it was just kissing, though…and not…well…Rose nods. That would be pretty traumatic.
The bartender stops by and asks if Rose wants a refill. She asks for the check instead. Half-whispers to Hux about needing to get back to her room before her roommate can do the same thing to her.
She kinda can’t handle that anymore than has already happened.
Hux’s brow creases. What does Rose mean by that?
Rose shrugs (though in her mind, flashes of a few Wednesdays ago flicker through her mind—baring into Ben’s room for notes for class and being greeted with the right of Rey straddling Ben and kissing him quite thoroughly).
Wine must demolish her poker face, because Hux asks if she’s all right. She just shrugs again. The bartender drops the bill off. Rose stuffs some cash into it (including a very nice tip), and pushes away from the bar, stumbling a little. Hux reaches out to catch her.
Maybe he should walk her back to her room…she seems a little unsteady. Rose mutters in the affirmative. Why not?
As they walk, Rose finds everything awful about this semester pouring out of her. How Hux was lucky not to get first chair, it just comes with so much responsibility and she can’t help but feel like she lets the cello section, their conductor/professor, the entire orchestra down at times.
And it’s coming up on the anniversary of her grandfather’s death and she just…she regrets that she never got to share any of this with him, that he never got to see her play, that she hopes he would have loved it, he always loved certain composers (listened to Handel’s Messiah every Christmas, without fail). And yeah, it’s been a few years, but it still stings.
And their classes, good lord, he needs to tell he he’s been suffering through their classes as much as she has because she feels like she’s drowning and floundering and other bullshit metaphors for being overwhelmed.
By the time they reach Rose’s room (and it takes her a few tries with the key), when she opens the door, it is thankfully empty.
No roommates making out with their girlfriends…their younger, prettier girlfriends.
Well…that statement feels loaded with something.
And despite telling Hux to shut up, everything about Ben gets told, too. That it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it DOES, and she feels so stupid that it does. Like…they’re still friends, and she knows she’s never going to lose Ben completely from her life, they’ll probably be friends until they die (and even in the afterlife), but…
…it just hurts…and it feels like everyone else she knows has someone, and she has no one…and it just feels so lonely sometimes…
She doesn’t realize, until Hux reaches up, that tears have begun to slip down her face. And once she notices, she can’t stop them. Doesn’t fight it when Hux folds her into his arms. Just buries her face in his shoulder, holding him tight.
It’s too much…it’s all too much…
Hux says nothing, but just holds her and lets her cry.
A breakdown was bound to happen at some point tonight. Whether or not her roommate for the night was here. But she isn’t. Hux is.
Hux happens to be there. And she needs someone.
She pulls herself away from him, reaching up to wipe at her face, say something about probably ruining his tux (she gestures at the damp patch left behind by her tears). Probably ruining her makeup…between the crying and the wine, she must look a fucking mess right now.
She doesn’t. Hux assures her. She looks lovely as always.
Rose’s eyes travel from the damp patch on his shoulder, take in the rest of his figure…the state of his tux.
So does he. She glances up at him again. At that hair, always perfectly gelled…the sudden itch in her fingers to reach up and muss it up…those icy blue eyes, that always seem to melt a little when looking at her…
…she thinks about Ben and how long it’s been…and where she is with Hux and how he thinks she’s lovely and he’s here and she needs…she just needs...
Rose surges forward and crushes her mouth to his, swallowing his small surprised gasp. One hand fists into his lapel, the other snaking up the back of his neck to dive in to his hair, thread through and break up the gel. She tastes the salt of her tears and pushes the last vestiges of wine on her tongue into his mouth as she tugs him closer, tries to push his hands to palm at her curves, to her back, to the zipper of her dress, pulling some of it down as best she can—
Hux wrenches himself out of the kiss, but Rose chases his mouth with a plea. Her lips skate over the corner of his mouth in the pursuit, move to his jaw, his neck. Hux lists off reasons not to do this (she’s been drinking, the night’s been emotionally fraught, her roommate could come back at any time) but Rose can tell—from the way his knees weaken ever so slightly and from the hitches in his breath and his delicious little moans—that with each kiss and nip to his skin, he gives in to her.
She tries to tug at his bowtie, join their mouths again, succeeds for half a moment. But the moment her hand slides down the buttons of his shirt, reach the buckle of his belt, Hux pushes her away with stronger resolve. A stronger call of her name. A stronger “No.”
But…please. She just needs…and he said she was lovely, he must want…
Hux shakes his head. Not like this.
Why not?
It’s not fair.
What, just because she’s had a couple glasses of wine? She’s not blackout drunk; she has enough capacity to know she wants this.
Hux remains steadfast. She’s lonely, and the semester has been a long one, and…and she would regret it the next morning. He knows she would. She doesn’t want HIM, she just wants companionship. In any other setting, this would not be happening between them. He’s all too aware. So they need to put an end to it now; if he doesn’t, she’ll hate him forever, and he’ll hate himself forever.
Rose stares at him, still breathing hard, shoulders of her dress loose from where she’d unzipped.
And finally, she tells him, in a very low voice, to get out.
When asked to repeat, she snaps it, clutching at her dress to cover herself up again.
Get out. Fuck off. He doesn’t get to tell her how she’d act in the morning. If she’d regret it. If he doesn’t want her, fine, just like everyfuckingone else, but fuck him for presuming to know what she thinks, what she wants and doesn’t want.
He doesn’t leave. Rather, he argues back, because of course he does. Because just because she’s okay with this happening while she’s had a bit to drink, it doesn’t mean he is. He wouldn’t do such a thing with ANYONE if they’d been drinking. Not to mention, SHE’S presuming to know what he thinks, so…pot, black, kettle, calling.
Then what the fuck does he mean by this not being fair? Not fair to her? Because she’s had a couple glasses of wine?
Yes, in part, but—
But NOTHING, she’s FINE with it, so what can the fucking problem be, unless he’s lying and doesn’t think she’s lovely enough to—
It’s not fair to him.
…that shuts her up because…what the fuck does THAT mean?
He says it a second time, less passionate and abrupt…more subdued in the repetition. No less anguished, though.
It’s not fair to him.
She has no words for that because…what the fuck does that MEAN?
He doesn’t stick around to explain. Just combs a hand through his hair and moves for the door, leaving without another word. Rose’s knees buckle, and she sits on the edge of the bed, trying to parse out what just happened.
Even next morning, after not enough sleep, a liter of water, and a mouthful of painkillers, she still can’t figure out why hooking up wouldn’t have been fair to him. And she can’t dwell on it for too much. It’ll just be searching for an answer she knows she’ll never find.
And she has enough of that to do for finals.
***
Freshman year, high school.
Rose Tico falls for Armitage Hux upon first sight. This new boy, moved from the U.K., walking into English class that January morning.
Pale, lanky, blue eyes, and the most beautiful fire-red hair. He likes reading, he has a cat, and he plays the cello. (Just like her…her mind immediately conjures up visions of gorgeous, romantic duets, playing in perfect harmony.)
As he passes by her desk to sit at the only free desk in the back, she offers him a smile. He doesn’t return it, but those eyes do regard her.
She can barely pay attention to the lecture on haikus, how deceiving they can be in their seeming simplicity.
That weekend, she asks her best friend, Ben, if she can borrow his calligraphy set. She’ll be so careful with it, she promises, she just needs to do a thing with it.
It takes a few tries, and her calligraphy work is nowhere near as fancy and sophisticated as Ben’s. but finally, the little haiku she wrote is ready to go. That took a few drafts as well, along with consulting notes from class to see if bending the 5-7-5 rule was okay if the haiku just worked better that way.
She asks Paige to drop her off early at school the following Monday morning; she promised Mitaka she’d meet up with him before their algebra test that morning and go over some notes (no such thing).
Really, she just needs to ensure she arrives earlier than Hux so she can slip the poem into his locker with no one noticing. And she pulls it off.
She leaves it unsigned, not wanting to show her hand too early. But maybe he’ll ask around, wonder who left him such an amazing and beautiful poem. He has to find them. Maybe he’ll be delighted it was here, and they can go get tea somewhere.
She doesn’t lurk around to wait for the exact moment he finds and reads it. Just waits to see if he says anything at any point during the day, since they seem to share a good number of classes.
Her ears perk up at lunchtime, when Phasma asks that that folded-up bit of paper is. But when he says nothing…something stupid…got stuffed into the wrong locker…and on and on with excuses that just…crack her heart.
Then orchestra comes. Hux hadn’t had his cello with him during his first week in class, but he does now. Their teacher seats him next to the first chair, a rather nice senior girl who can catch him up to speed on the pieces they’ve been practicing.
As they tune, Hux turns to look at Rose. She offers another smile. Instead of returning it, or saying “Hi” or anything polite, he reaches down and fiddles with the fine-tuning pegs of her cello. Even though she’d finished tuning her own instrument and thought it sounded fine. He glances back up at her in almost a glare. One she returns as best she can until their teacher asks them to take out the sheet music for the Copland.
She regrets the haiku. So much. Wonders how she could ever have written something for such a…she doesn’t have words for him.
She just knows he doesn’t deserve her words. Wishes she could snatch back the paper and rip her carefully calligraphied words to shreds. …though given how he felt about it, he likely already did.
She still remembers the haiku, though. Ends up turning it in to her English teacher as part of an assignment (not like anyone else will read it). Because she honestly can’t craft a better haiku:
Your hair is winter fire.
January embers.
My heart burns there, too.
***
When Rose opens her eyes again, she finds herself in some sort of hospital bed. Her eyelids are heavy and slow to open, but breathing feels as though it comes easier, her throat a little less sore.
She’s not cold anymore, either.
A hand holds her hand; she squeezes it. Probably some kind nurse.
“Welcome back to the waking world, Miss Tico.”
Rose’s eyes dart in the direction of the voice. Sees a nurse with long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, scrubs cotton candy pink.
“Was touch and go for a bit there,” she says, tapping here and there on her electronic pad, making notes. “Fever was spiking pretty bad when you came in, but…” She smiles again. “Looks like we’re out of the woods now.”
“Oh…” Rose nods a little.
Only then does it register that the nurse’s hands are both busy—one holding the pad, the other typing on it.
This whose hand is Rose holding? Whose thumb is stroking along the top of her—
“Your boyfriend brought you in just in time…hasn’t left your side hardly at all.”
Rose turns to see Hux holding her hand. Eyes glossy and a little red. Pleading. Just go with it.
“Hi,” she murmurs.
“Hi,” he echoes. He reaches up to push some of her hair away from her face, and she finds herself leaning into his touch.
A window behind him frames him, the tips of a snowclad tree visible through the frost-tinged glass.
And the quote that had been on her lips so sleepily before comes back in full, with the memory of its origin still fresh in her mind:
Your hair is winter fire.
January embers.
My heart burns there, too.
***
A week or so later, Rose returns to classes. But just a few days after, Hux stops appearing in classes.
Ben says something about staying with Finn and Poe for a few days because he doesn’t want whatever Hux caught (he’s happy Rose feels all better, by the way).
So Rose, immunity to whatever she had still high, ventures forth to Hux’s dorm, care bag in tow.
She knocks lightly. When Hux opens the door with a slight cough, she holds the bag up.
“Thought I’d return the favor,” she says. He blinks, silently steps aside to let her in. “How are you feeling?”
“Been better,” he rasps, voice thick and strained (likely from coughing up mucus). “Honestly, it’s not so bad. It’s just contagious, and I don’t want to get anyone else sick.”
“So…you won’t need me to rush you to urgent care?” she asks. “Pretend to be your girlfriend?”
“Jumping right into that, are we?” he asks.
“Well, we haven’t talked about it yet.”
Hux sighs as Rose sets her bag down on the table between the living area and the small kitchen, withdrawing from it a box of tea her mom would always brew whenever she or Paige weren’t feeling well, along with full Tupperware.
“Cháo gà,” she informs him, holding the Tupperware up. “Vietnamese hybrid of chicken soup and congee. My mom’s recipe.”
“Thank you,” he says, reaching for a tissue. “You’re not scared of getting sick again?”
“My immunity’s through the roof,” she says. “I’ll be fine. You want me to make you some tea?”
“I…that would be lovely, yes.”
“Go sit down. You’re sick. You should rest.”
Hux obeys quietly, padding softly back to the couch, a box of tissues and a blanket at hand.
“Anything else I can grab for you in here?” Rose calls as she fills a kettle with water.
“No,” Hux calls back. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“So why did the nurse think you were my boyfriend?”
“I didn’t say anything to give them that impression, if that’s what you mean.”
“You sure about that?” She plugs the kettle in, reaches for the mug that seems to have fully dried on the drying rack.
“Though I did not blatantly state as such or refer to you as my girlfriend,” Hux elaborates, “I suppose my demeanor must have given them that impression.”
“I’m guessing not too many people barge in with their S.O. in their arms begging desperately for help,” Rose laughs.
“Rose—”
She jumps and whirls around, Hux having joined her in the kitchen.
“Sorry,” he says.
“It’s fine, it’s fine…you should go sit down—”
“Rose, when the nurse said it was touch and go…” Hux glances down. “What you don’t know it we arrived just barely in the nick of time. Any longer and your fever may have spiked to a level that could have done permanent damage or…”
Rose’s arm drops, mug hanging limply at her side, fingers loosely curled around the handle.
“I may have said things along the lines of ‘Please don’t leave me’ and ‘please stay with me’ because I genuinely thought for a few moments that you were going to die…that’s how dire everything was.”
“…oh.”
She honestly, truly, had no idea.
“Well…I’m still here,” she finally says.
“Yes…thank god, you are.”
Perhaps sickness has made Hux more earnest, less inclined to joke. Or maybe it’s just…the disheveled-ness.
Hair free of product, loose and almost fluffy. He hasn’t shaved in a while, a healthy stubble coating his cheeks and chin.
Unbidden, the urge to run her fingers through his hair and find out just how soft it feels…the curiosity of how much his scruff would scratch her skin…both thoughts dash through her head, send a little thrill through her heart.
Thankfully, the whistle of the kettle interrupts any further similar thoughts.
“I’ll have this ready in a minute,” she says, turning away from him to hide the blush blooming across her cheeks. “Honey?”
“Yes, please,” he says, his footsteps retreating to the living room. It takes her a moment to find the honey, but with the tea well along in steeping, she pulls out a couple of small boxes from the bag she brought with her.
“Don’t know if you had any Mucinex,” she says, walking into the living room, “but the doctor recommended this for the next time bronchitis like that comes around. Helps clear out the gunk in the throat REALLY well.”
“Worth a try…Advil Cold and Sinus isn’t cutting it,” Hux says. “What’s the other one?” He points at the arm she holds behind her back.
“Children’s Dimetapp,” she says, revealing the medicine.
“…are you calling me a child?” Hux asks.
“No, it genuinely works better than most other things,” Rose says. “Plus, it tastes better than Robitussin.”
“You’re not wrong,” he says. “Thank you.” He leans over to take both boxes and set them on the coffee table in front of him. While he’s close, Rose reaches out to brush the back of her hand against his forehead, pushing his hair back. “I’ve been monitoring my temperature. Hasn’t been too bad.”
“Still…” She draws her hand back, moves to the other side of the table, sits next to him on the couch. “Can I show you the way my mom would always check my temperature when I was growing up?”
“The thermometer’s in the—”
“No thermometer needed right now.”
“Oh…all right?”
“If…just let me know if I need to back off, okay?” Rose asks. Hux nods. And slowly, she reaches up to touch the side of his neck, her fingers dusting over his stubble. With her other hand, she combs his hair back (so soft), keeps it pushed back, and leans to press her forehead to his. He draws in a breath, holds it.
His forehead, while warm, doesn’t appear hot to the touch in any concerning way…perhaps a mild fever, if that. Perhaps he’s just been keeping warm under blankets.
When he leans into her touch, presses more firmly into her hands, she draws in a breath. The tip of his nose brushes against hers. His breath ghosts over her lips.
That snaps her back into her senses, and she (not too abruptly) pulls away.
“Where did you say the thermometer was?” she asks, voice a little higher than normal. “You don’t feel too warm, but…probably safer to check, just in case.”
“Yes…” Hus nods, glancing down. “In my room.” He points towards a hallway. “On the left."
“Be right back,” she says, darting in the direction of said room, spies the bathroom, ducks in there first, shutting the door behind her.
“Get a grip, Rosie, get a grip,” she mutters to herself. Since her stint in the hospital, all those memories coming back when she was out…even more flooding back after the fact, all these seeming annoyances in the time she’s known Hux that, now, somehow seem completely different with the revelation that he doesn’t hate her…that he never had…
…she’s been trying to reevaluate her own feelings for him. She’d meant it when she’d said she never truly hated him—greatly disliked, certainly. Calling him an asshole, most definitely. But hate? Never as strong as hate.
Then remembering her foolish little crush from the beginning…that stupid haiku…and it had all gone downhill from there…she wonders if she’d ever TRULY stopped crushing on him, way deep down somewhere in her heart, no matter how much she insisted he was the worst.
Anyway…not like he ever found out who was behind that haiku…probably doesn’t even remember it anymore.
She washes her hands before leaving the bathroom (Hux IS sick after all, and despite her immunity, she doesn’t want to get it AGAIN). Then makes for his room, flicking the light on. Minimally decorated, a succulent or two in the window, a corkboard with notes, a calendar, a few pictures of his cat, Millicent…
The thermometer rests on the edge of his desk. She walks over to retrieve it. As she does, glancing over the corkboard once again, something caches her eye, and she has to double-take, because no way.
But yes. Hidden beneath some Post-Its, with notes jotted about upcoming tests, she spies some familiar fancy penmanship…and she lifts the ends of the Post-Its to confirm:
It’s her haiku. A little crumpled and wrinkled and curling at the edges, but hers.
“…Rose is everything okay? You’ve been in here a wh—”
She turns to see Hux stiffen at just what she’s looking at. His eyes almost unreadable.
“…when I was sick…when you were taking me to urgent care…” she says slowly. “I remembered a line something I thought I must have read a long time ago. But as I got better, I remembered more. That I hadn’t just read it…I’d written it. And then, I remembered the rest.” Her hand falls from the corkboard. “January embers.”
“My heart burns there, too,” Hux finishes, eyes shining, a smile playing at the corners of his lips, Rose’s heart pounds in her throat.
“You’ve held on to it this whole time?” she asks. He nods. “Did you…did you know who it was from?”
“I didn’t at first,” Hux says. “At first, I thought it was from Ben; he was the only person our age I knew who did calligraphy. Then one day at lunch, he said something about a friend needing to borrow his calligraphy set for something, and I put two and two together, and just asked which friend. He said your name…” Hux steps in a little closer. “I’d hoped all these years, but I didn’t truly know until a couple of weeks ago…when I was taking you down to my car, we were outside, and you said my hair was winter fire…only then, I was certain.”
“But…why?” Rose asks, throat choking, voice trembling a little. “I was so awful to you.”
“As we have established, I was not blameless, either,” Hux reminds her gently. “But…I still recall my first day at my new high school, walking to my new desk in English class, and the most beautiful creature gracing me with a smile.”
A smile blossoms on Rose’s lips as he speaks. His own smile widens.
“Soon after I found the poem…after I hid it from those whom I hoped were new friends, so I wasn’t teased relentlessly both at school and at home…your entire attitude towards me changed. I realize now, far too late, you may have felt spurned by my lack of response, but I can’t say for certain. …I don’t know if it was abysmally foolish of me to just play along with your sudden shift in how you treated me, but if it mean continuing to talk to you…”
“…yeah, I overheard you at lunch one day saying it was nothing, the little thing you found in your locker,” Rose says. “That it must have gotten lost, was meant for someone else, just…all these things that, you know…when you’re a stupid fourteen-year-old, they break your heart.”
“And when you’re an equally stupid fifteen-year-old, you say without a second thought because you don’t wat to get teased. But also…some things you want to keep to yourself. Treasure them.”
“…I thought maybe you’d thrown it away.”
“I would never. Could never. Even before I suspected it was you, just…knowing something thought me so…so beautiful…”
Rose steps forward, reaches up to brush away a tear that springs unexpectedly from one of Hux’s eyes. He raises a hand to cover her own, keep her fingers pressed against his cheek.
“So…when you said you don’t hate me…” Rose says, “…that you’ve never hated me…” She knows what she hopes the answer will be, but she tries not to assume…
“I love you.” It is. “I’ve been in love with you for years.”
“…funny way of showing it.”
“I know…I’ve been horrible…” He reaches up, moving his hands to cup her face. “But please believe me when I say that I have always loved you and I have always wanted you.”
“You’ve always wanted…” Rose’s eyes widen at the implication, and she steps out of his touch. At one of the memories that had played in her mind through her fever dreams. “Oh god, last semester…when I…I’m so sorry…I didn’t—”
“You were overwhelmed, you were grieving, you were lonely, and despite all your instances to the contrary, you were indeed inebriated,” Hux says. “Under no circumstances could I have allowed such a situation to carry out…I would never forgive myself to taking advantage of you in such a state.”
The full weight of what he’d meant by that night “not being fair to him” seems to hit Rose in full. Even back then, a few days in the wake of it, she’d known he was right. No good would have come from that night had he given in.
“All that said…” He notches a finger beneath her chin and tilts her head up so she looks him in the eyes…those beautiful blue eyes… “I have always, and will always, find you lovely. And I have always, and will always, want you.”
The finger beneath her chin…his right index finger…she glances down, recognizes the faint imprints and scarring that remain from her bite so many years ago, when she’d been so angry and so fed up with him…
Neither of them have been in the right all that often when it comes to this relationship, this rapport, but she does feel as though were retributions were often disproportionate.
She reaches up to hold his wrist, keep it in place. Does not look away from his eyes as she tilts her head to press a kiss to the scars around his finger. His eyes visibly darken; a thrill shoots through her spine. She debates nipping at his fingertip, playfully, just to see how he reacts…
…but then he turns his head away, sneezing abruptly, coughing and sniffling. And she remembers her original purpose for coming over. Why she was here in the first place. Because he’s sick.
“We should put a pin in this,” she says, reaching for a tissue from the box on his night stand, hands it to him. “Talk things out more when you’re better.”
“Are you certain?” Hux asks, taking the tissue. She waits to answer until he finishes blowing his nose.
“Well…you seem very certain of your feelings for me…I think I still need to sort mine out some. High school freshman me is ecstatic right now, but…the me that’s spent the last eight or nine years fighting with you, competing with you…” Hux nods.
“Take all the time you need. Wherever your feelings end up lying, I will respect them.” Rose nods.
“In the meantime…get well soon?” Hux laughs a little, but it morphs into a cough.
“I will certainly endeavor to do just that,” he says. “May take a bit of time, depending on how long it lingers.”
“Hopefully not too much time,” Rose says. “Because I really, really want to kiss you again. At the very least, I’m sure of that.”
“I’d like that as well.” His voice and eyes darken a little, and Rose is tempted to say the hell with waiting for him to recuperate, the hell with waiting to sort her feelings out, and pounce on him then and there…but she remembers just how miserable she’d felt when sick. And how, even if his case is much milder than hers, he’s likely mired in some of that same misery.
“Maybe it’s best if I leave now,” she says. “Let you rest some more. I just wanted to drop some things off.”
‘You don’t have to leave,” Hux insists.
“I know…but it’s probably better if I do.” He nods. “But if you need a ride to urgent care, let me know. I’ll happily volunteer to play your girlfriend again.”
‘Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”
“Urgent care or playing your girlfriend?”
“…both? Ideally, urgent care won’t be necessary and I’d be able to call you my girlfriend for real.”
“And that right there is why I should probably leave. Can’t have you sweet-talking me when I still need to sort things out in my head.”
Hux nods. It’s a more complicated matter than just “oh, a common one-time misunderstanding that’ll never happen again.” Hard to unpack possible romantic feelings from years-long animosity. But it needs to be done.
Hux walks her to the door, promises Rose he will rest as soon as he closes it, will keep her updated on how he’s feeling. Likewise, when she’s ready to talk, she’ll reach out. And she’ll email him her notes from class as soon as she gets back to her dorm.
The last thing she sees as he closes the door is his smile. It likely mirrors her own.