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There are times when you wonder if Rose knows what she’s doing. You certainly do; the only uncertainty on your part is exactly how capable Rose is of maintaining a healthy flushed relationship. You have a sneaking suspicion that the answer is ‘actually not very.’
She baffles you, with her cryptic commentary and artfully veiled hints as to what she may (or may not) want. Rose is an enigma, even after two years. Her aspect may or may not be a cosmic joke at your expense, as she seems to take great pains to illuminate absolutely nothing. You’re forced to guess at her desires and motivations, and more often than not you are cringingly wrong. It’s extremely frustrating, but you speculate that asking her would bear no fruit whatsoever. She would simply smirk and make some jab at your repeated failure to divine the undivineable. At least she would be comparatively gentle in doing so; when it comes to you, Rose’s barbs never have any real bite to them. It’s a blessing, you suppose, if infuriating opaqueness could be termed a blessing.
You do not know if she pities you. She doesn’t seem to, at least not in the way to which you’re accustomed. What serve as flushed gestures for Rose are always small, and always private; her hand brushing yours, a kiss on the cheek when no one is around to see it.
She says that she loves you. You don’t know what that means.
Human romance is a difficult concept for you to navigate. You don’t think that it’s through any fault of your own; despite your lone attempt at playing the quadrants ending in tears and a broken moirallegiance, you consider yourself well-versed in such matters. Your reading has to be worth something, but given how Rose acts, it isn’t worth as much as it ought to be. In your professional opinion, her behavior is more suited to a moirail than a matesprit. When she seemingly does her absolute best to keep you pacified as opposed to anything else, there is only so much knowledge you can draw upon.
The apparent paleness of your relationship makes you uncomfortable. Rose, of course, says nothing about it. Many are the times when you’ve thought to raise the question, including today, but you decide against it as Rose idly licks her thumb and turns a page in whatever book she’s perusing.
Instead, you lean over far enough to practically stick your nose in what she’s reading and lay your chin on her shoulder. In return, she reaches up to run her fingers through your hair and along the length of one ear. Your anatomy fascinates her; your claws, your fangs, the slight curve of your horns, all prove intriguing. One of the first things that she did after meeting you was to ask to touch your horns. “Just in a scientific capacity,” she’d assured you.
You had knelt then, as there was no other possible way for her to reach. Rose has told you that you have nearly three feet of height on her; she must be in error, as human feet are as diminutive as the rest of them.
Contact with one’s horns is a delicate, personal thing, but you had pitied Rose a little even then, and as she reached over you hadn’t drawn back. Her thumb running over the crook in your left horn had been an odd sensation, but not one altogether unpleasant, so you had bowed your head and allowed her a double fistful of smooth orange keratin. After a moment, she had thanked you for your cooperation and let go, but as you had straightened up you’d seen her biting back a smile.
When you asked why, she hadn’t answered.
Since then, things had rapidly warmed between the two of you. Odd, what can start with a line of lavender text inquiring if any of your species have names. It amuses you how she says yours, with none of the harsher accents that the Alternian tongue lends it. You’ve never attempted to correct her pronunciation; you’re too fond of the way she says it now.
You’re probably too fond of a lot of things when it comes to Rose, even though she really doesn’t make for an ideal matesprit. It’s as if she has no idea how to be passionate, which frustrates you. Every time that you make red advances on her, she simply looks at you as though you’ve sprouted additional cranial spheres. Rose wields the raised eyebrow and faint smirk like a master, and inevitably you deflate and slink off to your room to design more clothing that she’ll never wear. Classic Alternian styles artfully drape on your bony frame, but on Rose’s curves they merely hang sacklike.
What you fail to do, Rose compensates for by knitting anything and everything possible to fit you. Thanks to her efforts, you have a wardrobifier full of scarves, sweaters, and prudently horn-holed hats, all unworn except for the cardigan you had donned to celebrate Human Christmas at Dave’s insistence. Rose had sported a matching one, which had ignited a pleased little ball of heat in your abdominal bone enclosure.
She intrigues you, this girl who supposedly adores you but deflects your ardor at every turn. To use Dave’s terminology, she drives you absolutely bugfuck insane in the best possible way. So why is it that despite a drunken kiss on the staircase and constant assurances that yes, Kanaya, she does indeed, she doesn’t seem to reciprocate your affections? Speeches about desiring to be shown all of the quadrants are all well and good, but you really wish that she would put her money where her mouth is. You need to ask, or you’ll never know. But this is Rose Lalonde that you’re dealing with, she of the terminal aversion to straight answers. Whatever conclusion you arrive at, the process of getting there will be a grueling one.
The thought of that interrogation keeps you awake at night as you toss and turn in your recuperacoon. Diurnalism is a habit you’d previously flirted with before SGRUB, but becoming acquainted with the humans has cemented it. You aren’t blind to Rose’s nocturnal wanderings, however. She doesn’t sleep much. Sometimes you wonder why.
Eventually, you come to the conclusion that like it or not, you’re going to have to confront her about it. The only way out of your dilemma is to ask Rose just what exactly she thinks she’s doing. Fixing that thought in your mind, you drift uneasily off to sleep. Thankfully, you’re able to avoid the memories of your dead friends and instead spend the night wandering a dream bubble containing a memory of your hive and gardens. It’s a pleasant few hours, and on some level you regret waking to face the morning void.
There is no difference in light in the Furthest Ring, and so you’ve come to rely solely on clocks to dictate your sleep patterns instead of any sun. The change was jarring at first, as you are quite enamored with light, but soon you became accustomed to it. That doesn’t make you any fonder of your current predicament, however.
After you pull yourself together enough to get organized for the morning, you elect to go find your human girlfriend and get this showdown over with.
Navigating the meteor takes some time, despite how long you’ve spent exploring. You wander through three laboratories, a sub-basement, and six transportalizer pads before finding Rose lounging on the couch in your impromptu study, just where you expected her to be. Apparently your meanderings were for naught, unless you were simply stalling. Delay the inevitable? You? Not a chance. As you approach, she looks up from whatever Troll Danielle Steele novel she’s perusing for research. Privately, you’re of the opinion that said books are less for research and more because Rose finds them secretly hilarious.
She nods briefly in greeting. “Good morning, Your Radiance.”
Without preamble, you decide to get to the bottom of things. “I have a question for you.”
She simply arches a brow. “Ask, and ye shall receive. What is it?”
You suddenly feel terribly foolish. What do you have to gain by doing this? Nothing but clarification. Then again, clarification is vital in any functioning-- oh god you’re rambling in your own internal monologue. You clamp down on those frantically fluttering thoughts and take a deep breath. “Do you honestly harbor any flushed feelings for me?”
Rose gives you a look that clearly indicates that despite how fond she is of you, she thinks you’re being an idiot, and returns to her book. “Of course I do, unless the value of my word has suddenly depreciated.”
A rising tide of irritation builds in the back of your skull. She’s not listening, and she needs to. This is important, damn it. Instead of arguing the point further, you pad over to the couch and gently force her book closed with one hand. “Rose.”
“Kanaya.” You wish she wasn’t so horribly flippant sometimes.
“Rose, I’m asking you a serious question.” She finally turns her inscrutable gaze on you, raising a hand to brush a curl of hair behind your ear.
“Absolutely. As you said, I’m ‘flushed’ for you. Where did all of this come from?”
“That’s not—“ You sigh and settle yourself on the end of the couch; Rose obligingly pulls her feet back to accommodate you. “You don’t act as though you do. You act as though your primary aim is to pacify me. You’re even doing it right now as you inquire to why I’m questioning the state of our relationship. It’s always the same kind of thing – ‘Oh Kanaya, you’re so silly, now let me calm you down.’”
Apparently it’s Rose’s turn to sigh, because she does so as she sets her book on the side table and beckons you down to her level. You grudgingly ease yourself down and curl your body against hers. Ah yes, more pale behavior. She just proves your point further. After a minute or so you become aware of her fingers playing around the bases of your horns, and you tilt your head gently in that direction, relishing the attention in spite of yourself. Rose is very quiet then, and for a little while you don’t think she’s going to say anything. When she speaks, it comes as a bit of a surprise. “A lot of human romantic activity is centered around keeping one’s partner stable and happy, and I suppose that in a troll context is could be construed as pale. The fact that I’m not exactly outwardly affectionate doesn’t really help, and I’m sorry for that.” What is this? Rose apologizing, and sincerely at that? Be still, your racing bloodpusher.
“What about what you’re doing right now, oh scratcher of horns?”
“I wasn’t aware that intimate gestures were within the bounds of moirallegiance too. Do you think I’d do this for Karkat?”
Oh.
Oh.
So this was all just a miscommunication? Oh god, you are so fantastically stupid. You bury your face in Rose’s orange-clad shoulder, hoping that she can’t feel the heat rising from your rapidly greening cheeks. At least this isn’t wholly your fault. Rose did just admit that she didn’t take the habits of your species into account. You mumble an apology into her shoulder regardless.
“Don’t apologize. It’s nothing that isn’t fixable.” Her fingers slide against the very base of your horn, and a shiver runs down your spine. Damn her, she knows just how to play you. “I have a proposal for you.”
“What, that you’ll never again exhibit any mistakable behavior?”
“Well, I was going to say that I’d endeavor to be more obvious in my affection for you, but if that’s what you want then I guess I can attempt unambiguity. Oops, I just expressed hesitation. My bad.”
Instead of replying, you lift your head in order to kiss her. What is it with you and falling for girls who are absolutely impossible? It’s endlessly exasperating, and yet you can’t seem to stop.
Oh well.
You peel your lips from Rose’s and purr, “I believe I can accept that proposal.”
“Excellent. Now pass me my book, the ceruleanblood and the heiress were just about to indulge in a forbidden tryst.” You roll your eyes, but hand her the blasted novel anyway. She kisses you again in thanks, and you let it linger.
This, you think, you can live with.