Violet climbs up the rusted fire escape, her boots scraping against the metal. She's pissed. At the world. At herself. At the fact that Minerva is gone, and she didn't even get to say goodbye properly.
She sees Rhett sitting on the ledge, legs dangling over the side, bottle in hand. He doesn't turn around, but his shoulders tense slightly—he heard her coming.
"You gonna jump, or just pretend to?"
Rhett snorts, takes a swig, and finally glances back at her. His usual sharp-edged smirk is dulled by alcohol, but it's still there.
"Nah. Too much effort. Besides, Rosie'd be pissed."
A beat. Then he holds the bottle out to her.
"Want some? Tastes like gasoline and regret. Perfect for nights like this."
Violet stares at the bottle, then at him. She's not much of a drinker, but tonight? Fuck it.
She grabs it, takes a deep pull—and immediately gags.
"Jesus Christ, that's disgusting."
Rhett chuckles, low and rough. "Told you."
They sit in silence for a while, passing the bottle back and forth. The burn in their throats is better than the ache in their chests.
******
Sunlight streams through the cracked window of Rhett's room—a cramped, messy space in the dorms that smells like old leather and alcohol. Clothes are strewn across the floor.
Violet wakes up first, head pounding. She blinks, disoriented, then freezes when she realizes:
1. She's not in her bed.
2. She's very naked.
3. So is Rhett, sprawled next to her, one arm thrown over his face like even unconscious, he's annoyed by the sun.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me." She sits up too fast, the room spinning.
Rhett stirs, cracks one eye open, and—after a long, long second of processing—lets out a slow, amused exhale. "Well. That happened."
Violet grabs the nearest piece of clothing (his flannel) and throws it at his face. "We're never talking about this."
Rhett pulls the flannel off his head, smirking. "Wasn't plannin' on it."
She glares at him, but there's no real heat in it. Just exhaustion. And maybe, maybe, the faintest hint of "that could've been worse."
As she yanks her boots on, Rhett sits up, stretches, and reaches for the (now empty) Malört bottle on the floor. He squints at it. "Next time, we're finding better booze."
Violet pauses at the door, shoots him a look. "There won't be a next time."
But neither of them sounds convinced.
They don't talk about it. Ever.
If they exchange glances across the courtyard, it's with a mix of irritation and something else—something neither will name.
Rosie, ever the perceptive one, wags her tail extra hard when Violet's around now. Rhett tells her to "shut up," but the dog knows.
******
A crisp autumn afternoon at Ericson's. The leaves have started to turn, crunching underfoot as Rhett lazily tosses a stick for Rosie. The dog bounds after it with relentless energy, while Rhett leans against a tree, taking slow sips from a bottle of Jameson—decent stuff, for once. The burn is familiar, almost comforting. Then, movement catches his eye: Violet, walking briskly past, her hands shoved deep in her pockets, eyes fixed straight ahead like she's trying to outpace her own thoughts.
Rhett raises bottle slightly, voice lazy but sharp enough to cut through the quiet. "Hey, Firecracker. Wanna play fetch? Or just drink? Either way, you look like you need it."
Violet stops dead. Her shoulders tense. She turns, and the look she gives him could freeze hell over. "What the fuck is your problem?"
"Don't know. Maybe the fact that you've been actin' like I kicked your dog for two months. Rosie still likes me, at least."
Rosie, ever loyal, trots back with the stick, dropping it at Rhett's feet. He doesn't pick it up.
"You're seriously trying to joke right now? My girlfriend's dead, and you're—what? Hitting on me again?"
Nearby, Louis and Aasim pause their conversation, glancing over. Rhett doesn't care.
"Nah. Just figured if you were gonna keep avoiding me, you could at least tell me why the hell you slept with me in the first place."
A beat.
Violet's face goes pale, then red. Louis chokes on nothing. Aasim's eyebrows shoot up.
"You asshole—" She swings. Rhett leans back just enough that her slap cuts air.
"Yeah. That's what I thought."
"Fuck you. Never talk to me again." She storms off, boots kicking up dust.
Rhett watches her go, then spits on the ground. "And that's why I don't fuckin' bother."
Rosie whines softly, nudging his hand. He picks up the stick, throws it harder than necessary.
"Well. That was… something." Aasim mutters to Louis.
Rhett doesn't look at them. Just takes another drink. The whiskey doesn't taste so good anymore.
A cold afternoon, weeks after their last blow-up. The school is quiet—most kids are inside, avoiding the chill. Rhett's been turning the same thought over in his head for days, and against his better judgment, he finally decides to try and clear the air. He finds Violet alone near the greenhouse, sharpening her cleaver with rough, angry strokes. She doesn't look up when he approaches
Hands in his pocket, his voice is gruff but quieter than usual. "Violet."
She doesn't stop scraping the blade against the whetstone.
"What."
He exhales through his nose, shifts his weight. This was a bad idea. But he's here now.
"Look. I ain't good at this shit. But we've been at each other's throats for months, and—"
She snaps her head up, eyes blazing. "And what? You suddenly give a damn?"
Rhett's jaw tightens. He should walk away. But something in him—something stupid and stubborn—digs in.
"I didn't make you do anything that night. You were there same as me."
Violet stands so fast her chair screeches. The cleaver is still in her hand. Her voice shakes. "You're really gonna pull that now? After everything? Minnie's gone, and you—"
"Yeah, she's gone. And I'm still here. And you hate that, don't you? Hate that you let yourself forget for one damn night."
Violet flinches like he struck her.
"You wanna blame me? Fine. But at least be honest. You didn't crawl into my bed 'cause you were drunk. You did it 'cause you wanted to feel something that wasn't grief. And now you can't stand the reminder."
Violet's breath comes fast, her knuckles white around the knife handle. For a second, he thinks she might actually stab him.
Then her face hardens. "You don't know shit about what I feel."
She shoves past him, shoulder-checking him hard.
"Yeah? Then tell me!"
She doesn't turn around.
Rosie finds him later, sitting against the greenhouse, bottle in hand. She rests her head on his knee. He doesn't pet her.