A Long Way to Sunrise
I started writing this before Christmas, hoping to post it for the holiday. Then I was hoping to post it for New Year’s Eve. I will now pause for your knowing laughter.
Okay, now that we all have that out of our systems, I made up most of the holiday traditions and superstitions in this story, or plucked them out of whatever dusty store room my brain stashed them in when I read them ages ago. The exception is the food that Bix makes, which are dishes I chose because Adria Arjona was born in Puerto Rico.
A Long Way to Sunrise
They'd spent the day making the house ready for the new year, cleaning it top to bottom. After they'd finished, Bix had fallen asleep mid-afternoon, which was also traditional.
When she woke, it was well after dark. She sat up, pushing the heels of her hands into her eyes, and muttered, "Bluuuuugh," into her wrists. She had the kind of headache you got from falling asleep at a strange hour and sleeping more than a nap's worth.
The house was cold and quiet, and she shivered against it for a moment, annoyed. This was wrong, all of it. Just wrong.
On Ferrix, Life Day and the new year were midsummer holidays. Oh, of course the technical end of the year, by the Imperial calendar, was a month and a half later. But everyone on Ferrix knew the year really ended and began a week after Life Day, with Last Night and First Morn.
And the week in between, when the salvage yard and most businesses were closed, was when everyone celebrated, the sun pouring cheerfully down on them as they cooked holiday food, took gifts around the town, and held parties in the streets.
But Gangi Moon was almost perfectly opposite, as far as seasons went. They'd come away from Ferrix in a late-blooming and chill spring, and landed here in the middle of fall, already turning back to cold and dark.
To Bix, it just felt as if she was stuck in the middle of a winter that would never end.
"Stop that," she said aloud, and forced herself up out of bed.
She dug her fingers into her scalp and massaged until the tension eased, then undoing the tie at the end of her braid and combing her fingers through it until her hair spilled loose over her shoulders. She shook it out, considered her reflection in the night-dark window, and smoothed down as much of the frizzies as she could.
Then she undid the ties of her quilted jacket and the shirt underneath it, and the drawstrings of her pants, letting everything dangle loose so as not to stay tied to anything from the old year.
She'd never trucked with such superstitions before. She was Bix Caleen and she controlled her own destiny. But now, humbled and sobered in more ways than one, Bix felt the need of all the luck she could get.
With all her clothing loose like this, the chill got to her, so she pulled her blanket off her bed and wrapped it around herself. She peeked over in the other room at Brasso's bed, but it was empty. Maybe he'd gone out to get something.
She got herself some pernil from the chiller box, noting that it was close to gone, and packed the savory shredded meat into one of the sweet dinner rolls they'd made the night before Life Day. Brasso's recipe, passed from his mum and his nan, his family's Life Day tradition.
After she'd eaten her makeshift sandwich, he still wasn't back. Frowning, she assembled another one with the last of the pernil. "Bee?" she called out.
After a moment, she heard the little droid’s servos shifting and his wheels rolling slightly - his version of a sleepy query.
She went into the hall where they'd put the charger they'd managed to find. "Hey, Bee," she said, crouching down. "How's your charge?"
"Eight-t-t-ty percent."
She frowned. He'd taken to spending longer and longer on his charger lately, with a far slower charging time. "We need to get you a better charger."
"This is f-fine."
"It could be better," she said. "Where's Brasso gone to?"
"Outs-s-s-ide. In the b-back." They had a patch of back, not even big enough to be dignified with the term yard.
"All this time?" She opened the back door and found him sitting on the small, square step.
Something about the slump of his shoulders made her go out to him. "Brass? What are you doing out here? It's cold as balls."
"Just thinking," he said, with a slur at the edge of his words.
He had a bottle of something set down by his feet. She frowned at it. "Are you drunk?"
Brasso would have a drink at the pub or with friends, but she'd never seen him drunk, or even heard of it. She'd always figured it was because of his dad.
"Lil' bit," he sighed. "Just a lil' bit."
She handed him the sandwich and the last roll. "Here. Soak up some of that in your belly."
He took it. "Is this the last of it?"
"Yup. Best to get everything eaten before First Morn." She leaned up against the house and wrapped her blanket tighter around herself. "Thinking about Jezzi's message?"
"Don't know what's worse. That we're not home or that they can't celebrate proper." He was still holding the sandwich, picking at the crumbs flaking off the edge of the bread.
She kicked her heel uncertainly against the house. Usually it was her down in the dumps, and Brass trying to cheer her up. What would he say if she came up with this? "It was still Life Day, a week ago," she offered. "And tonight's still Last Night."
"No private gatherings of unrelated persons," he said gloomily. "No leaving your house after curfew. No sound above a certain decibel level. Permits for any community gatherings."
Translated, that meant no parties, lasting far into the night and inviting everyone on the street and half the town besides. No open-house day at the cramped row flats where Brasso had lived for years, where everyone threw open their doors and wandered from flat to flat, laughing and eating and drinking.
"No concert," he said. "Think of that, Bixy. No concert at the school."
Oh, now, that was taking it too far. "Nobody goes to that concert if they don't have to. It's completely dire."
He battled for a moment, then admitted, "Well, yeah, it's bad, but it's nice to know it's there all the same. I sang in that concert thirteen years, and you did too."
"Yeah," she sighed. You smirked at your friends and neighbors who had to turn up to that concert because their kids were singing, knowing that someday it'd be your turn to sit through it for some kid you loved.
He shook his head. "Isn't right," he said. "It's not the way things should be."
She couldn't say anything to that. Knowing she wasn't going to be home for Life Day, or for Last Night, had dumped her in the swamps for most of the month. She'd dragged herself to her feet most days because Brasso worried so much when she didn't, but the day after Life Day she hadn't been able to get out of bed at all. She was looking forward to being through it and not having to think about what she was missing anymore.
"A lot of things aren't the way they should be," she said. "But tonight's still Last Night."
"They won't be permitted to celebrate," he said darkly. "All those people in the streets. All the noise and the shouting, and the trumpets and the drums when the sun comes up. Like another riot."
"Still," she said. "I think they will."
"They bulldozed our wall, Bix."
Just thinking it made her sick. That had been part of Jezzi's message too. The wall - the wall of all their people -
"Our kin are rubble and gravel," Brasso went on. "You think the ones who did that will care for First Morn?"
"But Ferrix people'll stay up for Last Night," she said. "Even if it's behind closed curtains. Even if they have to stay out of the streets. Even if they can't sing the last moon down or cheer the sun when it rises. They'll stay up."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because we are."
He twisted around and stared at her a moment. There were tears in his eyes. He looked away, wiped his nose, then reached down for the bottle. "This rotten stuff is doing my head in, and no mistake."
"Best pour it out, then."
"Rather make a rebel's cocktail with it." He sloshed it thoughtfully, then sighed and flipped it upside down, letting the cheap stuff glug into the dirt. "But there's nothing for us to light on fire here, so pouring it out it is."
She wrinkled her nose. "From the smell of it, a rebel's cocktail is the best use for it anyway."
He was still holding the sandwich, and now he took a meditative bite. "Did I tell you this was really good?" he asked with his mouth full.
"You did."
"You didn't make any of your rice this week."
"I made rice."
"Yeah, and it was good, but not the special rice you make, with the sort of - " He waved the half-eaten sandwich. "The beans in."
"Arroz con gandules," she said.
"That's it. Yeah. S'good."
"I couldn't get the pigeon peas," she said. She'd barely been able to get the seasoning for the pernil, which had come as a nasty shock. There were so many Mimbran families, or families that had been Mimbran recently enough to still cook the food, living on Ferrix that things like pigeon peas and good spices were a basic staple in the grocer's. Not here, though.
"Ah,” he said. “Sorry about that."
She hugged the blanket tighter around herself and made her voice brisk. "It's just food. It's all right."
She'd told herself that over and over, the day she lay in bed. It's just food. There's no reason to feel so awful about it. Don't be so silly.
He shook his head. "You used to make that all the time back home. I remember you brought a great dish of it when my dad died."
She probably had; it was her go-to for occasions like that. Mostly because if she made a big enough batch there was plenty left over for her even after she'd taken some to whatever family was grieving or celebrating.
"Surprised you want any, with an association like that."
"I do, though. Every time I took a bite, I knew someone was thinking of me." He finished off the sandwich, rubbed his hands together briefly, and tucked them into crooks of his elbows. "Same with what everyone brought."
She nudged him with her foot. "Mine was best, though, right?"
"Of course," he said. He gave her a sly look. "Better'n Jezzi's famous green beans. But don't tell her I told you that."
"It goes with me to the grave," she said solemnly.
She thought of when her own dad had died. She'd been too numb and exhausted to think anything but food I don't have to cook about the dishes that crammed her chiller box. But Brasso was right. Every dish had been brought by someone who was thinking of her.
Maybe that was why they all did it. Bix had never thought of it more deeply then, that's what you do.
Brasso hadn't brought anything, but nobody expected anyone living in those dinky flats to actually cook. He'd come with the other Sons of Ferrix, as her dad had been a Son. Before they'd loaded her dad's body onto the decorated salvage sled, he'd offered her a moment alone, and she'd said no. Fuck. No and burst into tears.
He'd wrapped her up in his arms until she'd cried herself out, leaving skies only knew what on his shirt. She'd burrowed into his embrace for at least five minutes more beyond that before pulling away to blow her nose and wash her face.
A chilly gust set her shivering, and she squeezed in next to him on the tiny step. He shifted to make room for her, but they were still hip to hip, which she wasn't complaining about. "You're sure you're still warm enough?" she asked.
"Haven't been so warm since the summer." He smoothed his hand down over the coat she'd gotten him for Life Day - dark brown, sturdy, hard-wearing.
His red ceremonial coat, which he'd worn when they fled Ferrix, had stayed in the closet even as it got colder and colder, the bitter wind whipping off the sea. He wanted to keep it nice, he'd said, and added another layer on top of the several he was already wearing.
She'd saved up as much as she could from the fixes she did for the second-hand shop in town, and the "errands" they ran for the Rebels, and spent multiple afternoons sifting through the offerings at the second-hand shop until she found one big enough, thick enough, and with only some tears in the lining and tatters at the hems. She'd taken it to the repair shop to get those fixed.
She'd been prepared for a fight, as she didn't have the best reputation in town, and she was pretty sure she'd gotten in a fight with the shopkeep's son during one of her benders. But credits spoke every language, and the stone-faced woman had taken the order and haggled without obvious resentment.
"You're not half-bad when you're not drunk and mean," she'd said when they came to an agreement.
"I'm still mean," Bix said. "Just not drunk."
The woman had actually cracked a small smile at that. "I'll have the coat ready for your man before Life Day."
"He's not - we - we're just - " Bix had fallen into confused silence at the shopkeep's raised brow, and escaped when another customer came in. There'd been no more words about her man when she'd gone to pick it up, but she'd been self-conscious the whole time.
But it was a damn nice coat, and the repairs were almost invisible. She petted the heavy material with satisfaction.
When she looked up, she realized Brasso was studying her with furrowed brows. "What?" she said.
"Just noticed you weren't wearing your jewelry." He cleared his throat. "Not the last couple days."
She touched the edge of her ear. She had never felt completely dressed without some kind of jewelry on, mostly in her ears or braided into her hair because necklaces and rings were liable to get caught as she was making repairs.
He'd given her a set of ear cuffs for Life Day. She'd put them on immediately and he'd smiled and said, "There we are. Didn't seem right, Bix without some pretties on."
At the hotel, the ISB had taken all her jewelry off her before - well. Before. She hadn't had any since.
"Yeah, I took them off," she said. "They're inside, on top of my clothes chest."
"Saving them for special?"
"No, they just, uh, I needed to fix them."
He frowned. "Did they break?"
She gave in and admitted, "The metal made my ears itch, all right? But I'll get some varnish and paint the insides and I'll be wearing them every day again."
"Any kind of metal that doesn't make your ears itch?"
"Yeah, the kind that's too expensive for us right now." Which was why she hadn't said anything before. She nudged him. "Don't fret on it. I've had to do that with almost every piece of jewelry I ever owned."
"If you're sure," he said, still doubtful.
"I'm sure. I love them."
Another chilly gust snuck over the wall. A shudder racked him, swiftly suppressed.
"Brass, you are cold."
"I'm fine."
"I felt you shiver. Here." She opened her blanket and draped it over him. He didn't argue further, just tugged the other edge around himself.
Draped over two, it didn't quite cover them. But the warm bulk of Brasso's body made up for it. She tucked herself up close to him and slid her arm through his, fitting them together.
"Wouldn't mind some of that summer heat right about now," he said.
"What'd you do for Last Night a year ago?" she asked.
"Spent it with some of the lads from the yard. Aladon and Denz. At their place. It was nice."
"I spent it with Timm,” she admitted, like a shameful secret. “For the first time. See what that got me.”
He tilted his head down towards hers. "I think that's the first I've heard you talk about him," he said. "Not even since we left home. Since he died."
"Well, he wasn't the most popular person in Ferrix, once it got around he'd called the Imperials in on Cassian. And people were strange about talking about him in front of me. Either they thought I should be a grieving widow or they thought I should spit at the sound of his name."
"Which is it?"
"I don't know. Most of the time I just want him alive so's I can kick his ass. What an idiot."
"Won't argue that."
She looked down at her feet and kicked them in the dirt of the yard. "Do you think," she said, mostly to the dirt. "Do you think if I'd just managed to love him the way he wanted - "
"Then we wouldn't be here?" Brasso finished. "Mmm. Maybe."
She'd expected him to deny it, and shot him a betrayed look.
"Then again," he continued in the same tone of voice, "if Cassian Andor hadn't riled up the corpos like he did, they wouldn't have been after him in the first place, for Timm to turn in. And come to think of it, if Maarva and Clem hadn't taken it in their heads to adopt a half-grown boy from wherever it is they found him, he wouldn't have been on Morlana to rile up the corpos at all. And you know, if Naboo hadn't elected Sheev Palpatine Senator in the first place - "
"All right!" she said. "All right. I get it."
"And," he said more quietly, "if I'd been able to hold them off a little longer, they mightn't've caught you."
He sounded actually serious about that. How long he been stewing on it? She squeezed his arm. "Even you couldn't have held them off that long," she said. "And where would I have gone, anyway? There were too many of them. If I'm not to blame, you're not either."
"No," he said on a sigh. "No. The ones to blame are the Imperial Shithead Bastards."
"Yeah."
They were quiet together for several minutes.
"Don't feel bad about what you couldn't feel for Timm," he said in a low voice. “That's not really something you choose."
She sighed. She had a lot of regrets when it came to Timm. She'd taken advantage of his devotion, it was true. And she'd told herself that she'd made her own stance clear - just for fun, just to pass the time - when she knew full well he thought he could talk her into more. She shouldn't've let that go on. Look how it had ended. But -
"You're right," she said. "Even if I'd wanted to, I don't think I ever could've loved him. Not that way."
"My mum used to say hearts don't beat on command."
She swallowed hard, looking down at the dirt again, feeling her own heart - the one that had been so careless toward the man in her bed - soft and yearning toward the man at her side. "Be easier if they did."
He sighed heavily. "It would at that."
She cast about for a change away from dangerous subjects. "You don't talk about your mum much," she said.
"Well, she's been gone a long time. Near twenty years. You remember her?" he asked, almost hopefully.
She wished she could say yes. But if she did remember Brasso's mum, it was as another face in the formless mass of adults that most little kids saw. "I remember people talking about her."
"And what is it they said?"
Better'n that Jakin ever deserved. Ardeth is probably the reason Brasso turned out so good. "Just that you're a lot like her."
He smiled as if he could hear the things she wasn't saying, and they fell silent again.
"What time is it?" he asked after a while. "Can't tell without the moon."
"It said after two on the chrono when I woke up. So later than that. By a good hour, I’d guess. Maybe more.”
He sighed. "It's almost down at home."
The last moon of the year, a tiny sliver of a thing. Tradition said the old year ended when it set.
She nudged him. "Go on then. Sing it down, Brass."
It was a child's tradition, singing the last moon down, so he sang a child's song, soft and sweet. It was a lullaby that Ferrix parents sang to their babies, so there had never been a time Bix hadn't known it, and probably Brasso too.
He had a clear, unselfconscious tenor voice, and she rested her head on his shoulder and listened to the words for maybe the first time in her life.
It told of a bird in the depths of winter, in the ice and the cold, in the smoke of its breath and the chill of its toes. But the bird sang, defiant, promising the winter-frozen world that spring was closer than it had been at the start.
He finished the song and fell silent. She shut her eyes and sighed, picturing the last moon slipping down over the horizon, leaving them all together in the pause between years, before the first sun rose.
When it did, they would all rush out into the street if they weren't there already, shouting and cheering, blowing trumpets, banging drums. In the tower, the anvil sang out note after note of joy and greeting, until the Time Grappler's arms got too tired to go on. Superstition said the longer he could go, the better year it would be.
The adults kissed, at least those who had someone to kiss did, and the kids ran around screaming with the unhinged glee of kids who were so tired they couldn't see straight.
Then everyone went home and slept for most of the day.
The day after that, the salvage yard would reopen, the shop owners would put out their shutters, and normal life would resume.
But before all that came these breath-held hours of darkness.
"Bix," he murmured.
"Mmm."
"I know it's not sunrise yet. But I'd like to kiss you."
She lifted her head and opened her eyes, and he was looking at her very steadily.
She'd always thought his eyes were a dark grey, but this close, she could see green and even a touch of blue blossoming out from the pupil, like a common flower you never bothered with until someone you loved gave you a bouquet of them.
"I'd like you to kiss me," she said.
He lifted his hand to her cheek and closed his mouth over hers.
She'd kissed him once before, drunk and angry, and he'd stood there passive, like kissing a stone wall. She'd told herself afterwards, hungover and smarting, that she probably wasn't missing anything.
Oh, how wrong she'd been.
His lips brushed soft against hers, lifting away, returning. His beard-scruff scratched, and he tasted of pernil and a hint of that rotgut and something that seemed to be just him. His hand was warm on her cheek, and if she could have lived the rest of her life in this moment she would have.
His hand shifted, his fingers sinking into her hair, and a shiver went through her that had nothing to do with the cold.
She wanted to deepen the kiss, slide her tongue into his mouth, crawl into his lap, guide his hands into her shirt, grind down until she felt him harden under her -
And then what?
She turned her head, breaking contact.
A year ago, Timm had kissed like this, in this same between time, and she'd taken him into her bed.
See where that got her.
"Something wrong?" he whispered. His breath ghosted against her cheek.
"It was lovely, Brass," she said softly, smoothing her hand over his coat-front. "But you've been drinking, and we're both of us homesick, and we - we're both the nearest thing to Ferrix either of us've got right now. So I think we should stop. Before we do something we shouldn't."
His fingers were still in her hair. He let them fall, the motion tugging softly and pleasantly at her scalp. "You've good sense."
"Not always," she said ruefully.
He got to his feet, the blanket sliding off his shoulders.
She caught it, shivering with the loss of his body heat. "You okay?"
"Yeah." He looked down at her. "You should go inside. It's dreadful cold."
She got to her feet, slowly, trying to work out his expression in the darkness. Was he hurt? Upset? Annoyed? Relieved? "Are you coming in, too?"
He rubbed his hand over his face. "I think I should take a walk. Clear my head."
"Yeah, all right," she said. "Don't you freeze out there."
"Not with this coat on, I won't," he said, and detoured around to the side gate.
She went inside, hugging the blanket tighter around her, resisting the temptation to bury her face in its folds and try to catch a whiff of his scent. She told Bee that Brasso was fine, he'd just gone to get something they needed, and the little droid was wise enough not to ask what could possibly be needed so urgently that he went out in the wee hours for it.
She washed the dishes the pernil and the sweet rolls had been in, and pulled out the beans to set them soaking - something she'd forgotten before she fell asleep. She took down all the blankets and sheets they'd washed and hung up to dry, making the beds with scrupulous attention to smoothing out every tiny wrinkle.
In all that time, Brasso still didn't come back.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, brushing out the tangles in her hair, trying not to worry. He'd been fine. He hadn't really had that much to drink. And he knew better than to go down by the sea. Especially as his own dad had drowned.
When her hair was as tangle-free as she could possibly make it, she went to the table and pulled out her latest repair, a commlink with half its connections rusted out and needing replaced. It was barely worth doing, she thought as she trained her work-light on it. She wouldn't get much for it. Might be best to keep it for them, once she got a mate.
She tried not to worry. Or to think about the way his lips had felt on hers.
When the sky began to lighten, she put her tools away and went to sit on her bed again to watch it out the window. In the winter like this, the sun rose late. By her calculations, the new sun was well up on Ferrix. She sat listening to the silence where the anvil should be singing out notes of joy and luck and hope for the new year.
Finally, she saw his familiar form turn the corner, silhouetted against the delicate pre-dawn light, and let out a sigh of relief. Then apprehension. What were they going to do? Pretend it had never happened? Have an awkward conversation?
Kiss again?
No. She'd been right to stop them.
The door rattled, and his voice said indistinctly, "It's stuck again."
"Kriff," she said, jumping off her bed. Like everything else about this rented house, the door was old and half-functional, and the cold had made the lock especially stubborn lately. "Give me a moment - hah." The door slid open.
His cheeks were red with cold, but his eyes were clear. She looked up at him, and he looked away.
Oh. It was going to be like that.
But he said, "Hear that?"
"What?" She stepped out the door to join him in the street.
"There. Shh." He held up a hand, listening. After a moment, he turned his head to smile at her, and then she heard it too.
It was a bird.
A bird, alone, unseen, singing a high sweet song into the bitter air as the first edge of the new sun breached the horizon.
FINIS
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