Chapter Text
There’s something about the first moments of awakening, when you’re caught between the fantasy of dream and the reality of waking life, where you have to make the decision to sleep or rise. It’s where Hux remains perched on a Friday morning, hovering quietly on the razorblade of consciousness, until the sounds of a rousing city push him over the edge from fifteen stories below.
A glance at the clock shows that it’s 5:28. Two more minutes until the gritty vocals of Chris Stapleton blare their way out of his speakers, greeting him with their morning kiss. Their rawness may seem incongruous with the sleek greys and soothing beiges of his apartment, but Hux knows that there are times when, cradled between the lines of Whiskey and You, he has never felt more at home.
He stretches, then swings his long legs out from underneath the sheets. The cotton sateen is as crisp and cool as a set that costs nearly a grand should be, but Hux’s lean and wiry body takes up surprisingly little space in the expanse of his king-sized bed. Twelve steps take him to his yoga mat, two shakes and one readjustment has it perfectly aligned on the floor. Another two steps and he’s switched off those bluesy lyrics that he knows by heart, exchanging them for the ambient noise that’s supposed to transport him out of the urban chaos and into a zen-like state. He sits, back straight, the pressure from the mat and his flitting thoughts slowly trickling into nothingness, save for the steady inhalations and exhalations from his nose.
Fifteen minutes later, and his skin is pounded pink by the shower’s steady stream. The droplets patter against the wall of glass, flattening then oscillating as they start their steady slide. One hovers and clings; it manages to catch the light which streams from the window in just the right way, refracting the whiteness into colorful bows opposite the sun.
Hux turns and greets the stream, his hair turning dark as the air becomes laden with the smell of cedarwood and Clary sage. He has three more minutes to indulge in its heady scent, four before brushing his teeth, and another six before he needs to dress in the neatly-pressed suit that hangs in his impeccably organized closet in its dedicated space. He does a quick calculation in his head as the traces of soap wash off him, the foam whirling several times and disappearing, before gurgling down the drain.
It’s been well over a year. One year, one month and two days, to be exact, since getting clean.
.~O~.
“Look what came in today from Skywalker’s Ranch on the North Fork.”
Hux eyed the collection of berries, plump and bursting with color against the bland beige of the molded pulp. “Nice,” he said. He caught a whiff of their sticky, sugary sweetness as the barista passed the container under his nose with a grin. “Nice try,” he amended. “What are you planning to do with them, anyway?”
“I’m not going to pervert them by throwing them into a blender, that’s for sure. Fruit as fresh and pure as this needs to be savored. Maybe toss it with a little honey and basil, and sprinkle it over some granola or quinoa. Want to try?”
“Thanks, Sloane, but not today. I’ll just have my—” Hux stopped as Sloane popped a bistro box on the counter, topped off by the arch of her brow.
“You know, if I wanted attitude, I could just head on over to your competitor down the street.”
“They’re on every street. And since the hospital lies east instead of west of the 6, I’m assuming that you went out of your way for the food. It’s either that, or the sass.” She leaned forward, her dark eyes sparkling with challenge as she pointed to the neatly wrapped package. “Do you want something to drink with that?”
Hux huffed in mock indignation. Sloane was beautiful, but carried a hard edge. It was a requirement, he was sure, born from the necessity of handling the impatient AM crowd. “It’s not for the customer service, that’s for sure,” he replied, his lips curling into a smirk. “I’ll have the Muleskinner blend, black. Just like I always do.”
“Oh, I know you do,” Sloane said airly. She returned with his coffee, the dark roast fragrant with a trace of berries and spice. Hux took a sip and sighed happily as she rang him up. “I’m just thinking that you’ll surprise me, one of these days. Do something different. Start off with something small, though, so I don’t keel over from the shock.”
Hux watched her pointedly. He headed in the direction of his usual spot at the counter that looked out onto the busy street, before turning deliberately towards the center of the room. Sloane stepped back, her hands clutching at her chest in exaggeration as Hux sank down into one of the overstuffed chairs framing a table clearly meant for two.
It was only after he had laid the slices of his hard-boiled egg over the multigrain bread and separated the mélange of fruit that Hux realized he had woefully miscalculated. In his effort to make his point, he had forgotten to pick up a copy of The Times. He looked back; although Sloane was busy with another customer, her sharp eyes missed nothing, and to head back and retrieve his daily paper from the rack would be an admission of failure he could not permit.
A copy of Time Out sat on the table next to his, its cover happily unwrinkled and stamped with this week’s date. Hux pilfered it, glancing quickly at the restaurant listings in between his bites of cheese. He skipped over the predictions for the Yankees and the Mets, perusing the lineup for The Governor’s Ball and scanned the movie reviews, until he reached the section simply entitled “Art.”
It’s been awhile since Hux has shown the slightest interest in “Art;” he doesn’t pretend to understand half of what passes for it nowadays, anyway. The thought of meshing chicken wire and candy wrappers with biodegradable waste and then presenting it to the public with a name as pretentious as Utopia Kills smacks of either a con job or a grandiose delusion. He moves to flip the page, when something catches his attention from under his thumb.
Included with information on their upcoming exhibits are the blurbs for five “Artists to Watch.” Hux’s focus narrows on one in particular; the artist’s face stares out from the glossy page, his black hair dipping below the line of his shoulders, amber eyes shy even as his lush lips spread wide into a cocky grin.
It’s been one year, seven months, and thirteen days since Hux has seen that face, and even longer since he’s seen that grin. Hux’s world begins to tilt, the rest of his breakfast left uneaten as the past he had thought long dormant comes rushing back.