too busy being yours

by ivanattempts

Summary:

Hux joins a pen pal site at the behest of his father. Things don't quite go as planned.

The letter arrives in a pile of other mail; two bills, one credit offer, a magazine detailing the latest deals from the local supermarket, and an envelope inquiring after his interest in a new cable company. Salvaging the bills and the letter, the rest go in the wastebin on his way through his apartment. The letter itself is a rather simple, nondescript thing -- most of them are. Once he'd gotten one sealed with a colorful, smiling sticker, which had gone into the garbage almost as quickly as he'd flipped it over.

It was not, after all, through any desire of his own that Hux had joined the penpal site to begin with. Only through Brendol Hux's insistence had Hux been swayed to sign up for it. Making connections, Brendol had intoned at his son in a way that had assured Hux he would not be getting out of this, is of the utmost importance to maintain any measure of status in the world.

Understanding what his father meant was not the same as caring about such things himself. But if it got the elder off his back for a while, then a letter every so often in the mail was of no consequence. It was, after all, at his discretion of whether or not to respond, and if he did not, the correspondence ceased before it had even properly begun. So far, he had responded to only two letters; one to a Norwegian fellow who had never written back, likely put off by Hux's rather dry response, and one to Phasma, who lived in the same apartment complex as himself, and whom, upon hearing of his involvement in a penpal site, had thought it might be hilarious to anonymously write him.

He'd recognized the ridiculous loops of her handwriting, and sent a rather rude, two-word response back to her, sealed in an envelope, posted through the mail and everything. His lips quirk just slightly at the memory of how she'd marched to his apartment and shoved the letter in his face with an indignant, How did you know it was me? despite her laughter.

But this letter is not from her; in fact, he has no clue who it might be from. K. Ren, the envelope reads in long, thin letters, slightly slanted. P.O. Box 7091, New York, NY, United States. The words are slightly smeared at the edge, but whether this is damage from rain in transit or the cause of too much haste during addressing the envelope, Hux cannot say. With his shoes having been toed carefully off at the front door, the junk mail thrown away on his pass through the apartment, he now slides to the desk in the closet-turned-office he has adopted, grabbing up the letter opener from its place. Slitting the paper expertly, the envelope falls open, and inside, as expected, is a letter. No fancy stationary, no odd perfumed paper, no tokens of peace from overseas -- just plain, college-ruled notebook paper, perforated edges making it clear the letter had been written in a spiral notebook, and then pulled free.

Having opened several typed letters at this point, seeing the carefully rendered script, and the odd scribbled out word seems downright personal. But then, he supposes that ever was something of the point of writing letters. Something more solid than an email, something he could hold in his hands, turn over, and appreciate the time that went into the physical creation of it. As he unfolds it, there is the brief interruption of a cold nose brushing against his fingers, the solid weight of paws pressing into his leg.

"Not even a moment of peace before you come begging for attention, Millie? Shameless creature." The chastisement bears no heat, and the cat nudging at his hand looks absolutely unabashed about her behavior. He sighs, sets the letter down, and gathers her up, pulling her into his lap. After a few moments of kneading at his leg, she seems to settle down, content with the compromise of laying on his lap while he does whatever silly thing it is that is currently distracting him from the obviously more important task of paying attention to her.

The crisply -- but unevenly, Hux notes with a hint of disapproval -- folded paper is smoothed open, one hand keeping it pressed flat while his other fingers drop to work their way along Millicent's spine, which earns him the pleasant sound of her purring as he begins to read.

Hello, the letter begins, and Hux mentally deducts points for the lack of originality.

Hello,

Who names their child Alcordeus? Did your parents loathe the thought of having a child and feel the need to punish you for existing? Do people call you Al? I'm going to call you Al. I found your address --

"Absolutely not," Hux states firmly, as if the writer of that letter could somehow hear his displeasure at the thought of such a nickname. The letter is closed, and pushed away, where he assures himself it will sit until such a time that Millicent deems it is time to release him from his seat. Then it will go in the garbage, where it belongs. Too forward, Ren, Hux muses, annoyance creeping through him. You presume too much.

And yet, nearly a half hour later, when Millicent finally slips from his lap and pads towards the kitchen, no doubt to sit in front of her food dish and mew plaintively until he feeds her, he follows without so much as considering the letter now pushed to the far side of his desk. Certainly, he does not pick it up to take it to the trash.

Rather, it is a full week later that the letter is acknowledged again. Phasma has made herself quite at home in his kitchen, mixing herself a drink; some celebration, after all, is in order. Or at least, she seems to consider such; his acceptance into a rather prestigious law firm seems, to her, to warrant drinks, as if it were anything but expected. Really, not obtaining the position would have been the greater surprise. However, he had found it difficult to turn her away when she'd shown up with a few bottles and a wide grin -- namely because she had shoved her foot in the door and refused to allow him to close it. He'd certainly tried. Twice, in fact, before the towering woman had managed to insert herself bodily into his apartment despite his protests.

Their friendship had been much like this from the start. He can't find it in himself to be surprised about her behavior any more. Nor can he lie to himself and say he is anything but fond -- if mildly exasperated -- by as much. She's always been good to him, and she's always been the one person he could go to when something was troubling him.

He hadn't thought anything to be troubling him until, four glasses in, he finds himself complaining.

" -- Al. Can you believe the nerve?"

Phasma is covering a broad smile with the rim of her glass, as if he can't see the slant of her lipstick through the clear edge of it.

"It is the logical shortening of Alcordeus."

There's a dismissive wave of one hand, impatient. He was not arguing on the point of logic, for once.

"It's improper to make assumptions -- "

"Do you still have the letter?"

The question briefly unbalances him, and he frowns, thinking. He -- threw it away, didn't he? He'd read it, he'd --

Phasma, taking his hesitation as a yes, is already on her feet, moving around the couch and heading for his desk; Hux stares after her for a moment, and then scrambles to his feet, narrowly avoiding upending the rest of his fourth glass of wine, a smattering of red drops in the bottom of the glass that he nonetheless does not want staining his carpet.

"Phasma -- you can't just -- "

"Too late."

She's plucking something from the corner just as he comes around the corner, and he scowls, trying to reach for it; she promptly holds it over her head like a grade school bully, her heeled boots giving her the distinct advantage of height here. Hux scowls, crossing his arms. He is not going to go grabbing for it, he will not give her the satisfaction --

"Hello, oh, how charming. Hello. Who names their child -- "

-- oh, to hell with it. A quick bounce up to his toes, and he's snatching for the letter, grasping only at thin air. A light, airy laugh from the blonde beside him and the sound of paper fluttering above her head, dancing just out of his reach once more, has his face going nearly as red as his hair, thankfully somewhat dulled by the concealer he wears to hide his freckles.

"What's the matter, Hux? It's nothing private, is it? Is there something naughty in here I shouldn't know about?"

The snort that escapes him is entirely undignified. "Hardly."

"No? Then I'll just keep reading, shall I?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because it's none of your business!"

"You were only too happy to tell me all about it a moment ago."

"Only the bit about my name, that's all I read -- "

Something about Phasma's smile turns absolutely feral, and there's a light in her eyes that has Hux's heart sinking in the closest thing he has felt to fear since he moved out from under his father's roof.

"Phasma -- " It's a warning and a plea all at once, and both go absolutely unheeded. She dances around him with seemingly all the grace of a ballerina, compared to his own fumbling attempts to grab at her and keep her in place. She evades him, and promptly clicks her way down the hardwood floor of the hallway, practically cackling as she continues to read aloud, steamrolling through the parts he'd already skimmed.

" -- found your address on some pretentious penpal site. Top schools across the world get invites or something? Do any of you actually sit down and write letters? Wouldn't it be more convenient just to send emails? Or are you all conspiracy theorists, thinking some big bad in the government is watching you?"

Surprisingly, the longer Phasma reads the letter aloud, the less intent Hux is on grabbing it from her. He trails after her as she continues to remain a few steps ahead of him, looking back now and then to make commentary.

"So, did this person actually get an invitation, or did they just happen to nab the wallet off a kid from Harvard?"

Hux laughs, a somewhat startled sound. "I hadn't considered, but now you mention it..."

Millicent, upset by their childish scramble through the apartment, makes a decidedly annoyed sound as they pass her hiding spot, but seeming to sense that the majority of the shenanigans have passed, extricates herself from the small space she'd crawled into and rubs herself against Hux's ankles. Not wishing to trip and earn himself a bloodied nose, he reaches down and scoops her into his arms, which has a low thrum starting up where she is pressed against his chest.

Phasma drops herself back onto the couch, and Hux follows suit, leaning over to study the scrawled words she's still reading aloud for him; which is just as well, because the thin lines are blurring together, and he's eyeing the wine with a frown. He used to be able to hold his alcohol better. Not much better, but better.

"What is it like in the land of tea and crumpets, anyway? My mother was stationed there for a while, but -- 'stationed'? Oooh, an army brat." A nudge to the ribs earns only an undignified grunt from Hux, his lips pressing into a line.

"They don't speak like they come from a military family."

"Not every family is like yours," She reminds, and there's a faint hint of disapproval in her tone that disappears with a careless smile. "Besides, they're American. Blame that."

"Mm. That would do it."

"If we're criticizing anything -- tea and crumpets, honestly? I bet they've never even seen a crumpet."

"Phasma, have you even seen a crumpet?"

"Once, and I never wish to again. It was disgusting."

Hux doesn't let himself laugh again; too much of that in one night, and Phasma would be able to accuse him of going soft. He does, however, permit himself a smile and a shake of his head, gesturing for her to continue reading. She's gotten this far, they may as well finish it.

A clearing of her throat, a slight, dramatic shake of the letter, and she begins again, in her best, and quite frankly still terrible, Texan accent.

" -- stationed there for a while, but that was before I was born. I've -- "

"Stop, stop, stop."

"What? What's wrong?"

"Your accent. It's atrocious."

"Not the voice you imagined for your overseas admirer? I could try something more generic -- "

"They're from New York."

"Well, what do people from New York sound like?"

There's a pause in which Hux -- frowns. He's certain he's met someone from New York, one of those dull parties that were more political than a presidential rally, people vying for support and lobbying for favor with more powerful people -- but it simply isn't coming to him.

"I...don't know."

"My, now. That's a first."

Hux sniffs lightly. "There's no shame in admitting one's own ignorance."

"Ugh, don't quote academy rot at me."

"You loved the academy."

"Only parts of it, Sparks."

A disgruntled sound. "You know I hate that name."

"No you don't. You're just grumpy about that stick up your ass."

"Are you going to finish the letter, or will you let me shred it already?"

It's enough, at least, to distract her; she sets back into the letter, dropping all ridiculous attempts at foreign accents. "I've considered seeing it for myself. I don't know anyone there, though. I thought this might be a good place to start."

She pauses, and Hux leans over, trying to peer at the letter once more.

"Why did you stop?"

"Nothing, it's just...It's sweet, isn't it? They hand-wrote you a letter, all but asking to be your friend."

"More pathetic than sweet."

"Don't be such a hardass. They seem quite earnest."

"I didn't join the site to make friends, Phas."

"You didn't join the site to do anything, Sparks. Why don't you just write them back? It seems like you'd make their day."

"You can't be serious."

"I can, and I am. Come on. Up, up. To your desk. You're writing them back this instant."

"I'm -- what? No, I absolutely am not."

"You are. Do something nice for once in your life. Besides, you could use more friends than just me."

"I -- "

"And Millicent."

Hux's lips press into a line as said feline friend is rather rudely startled from her perch in his lap by Phasma's insistent tugging at his arm, until he's on his feet, a fifth glass of wine in his hand, and when did half of it disappear?

A moment later, he finds himself sitting stiffly in his desk chair, frowning at a blank sheet of neat, subtly designed stationary with his family name on it.

"Where do I start?"

"Most people start at the beginning, but I'm no one to judge."

The cross look he gives her is enough to earn him a laugh from the lady now looming over his shoulder, tapping at the paper and plucking a pen from the cup holding them on his desk, laying it atop the paper.

"You start with a greeting, Hux."

 

 

Hux does not, in fact, start with a greeting.

 

Ren.

 

You may not call me 'Al.' My surname will suffice for the duration of our correspondence. The origin of my name is a long story I won't bore us both with by writing it down. It is also quite reasonable when compared with the given name of my sister, who might very well bodily harm the both of us should she discover I said as much in regards to her.

The site on which you found my address is for alumni of certain schools, yes. The letter you received with your invitation should have alerted you to as much. Very few people send handwritten letters as you have; most type them, sign them, and send them, in my experience. The tradition of sending handwritten letters is just that; a tradition, not a product of paranoia. Namely, they're a physical proof that can be presented in court as evidence, should anything untoward be written in them. Emails are harder to cite, being that accounts may be hacked and fraudulent emails sent.

If you are actually curious about England, there are any number of documentaries and resources online that could provide you with more details than a single letter permits me. Suffice to say that it rains quite frequently, the sun is scarce even when it doesn't rain, and it, like any other place, can get tiresome.

Who is your mother, and what rank? Most of my family is or has been involved in the military in some fashion. Perhaps my father might know of her.

Going to a country you know very little about, where you know no one and have no connections, as well as no experience with the people, the culture. and the day to day occurrences, is ill-advised.

 

ABH

 

"A bit stiff, don't you think?"

"Then I simply won't send it."

"No! No. Give me that." Phasma yanks the letter from the desk after Hux crisply folds it, clean, even lines. She snags an envelope from where a box of them sits, mostly unused, in one of the alcoves of his desk, and folds the letter inside.

"Do not lick that, Phasma."

Her tongue is halfway to the adhesive already, but she relents and hands the letter back over. He pulls a tube from the drawer, an adhesive specifically meant for the closing of letters.

"Why do you have all of these things if you never intended to write anyone back?"

"I prefer to be prepared."

"Obviously."

A quick swipe, and the letter is firmly closed, carefully addressed in his own small, neat handwriting, a label with his name and address pushed into one corner, and two stamps affixed to the other side.

"Here."

He holds the letter up, and Phasma immediately takes it, tucking it into the inner pocket of her fashionable half-jacket. He might have tried to keep it, and simply shred it come morning, but no doubt Phasma would have called him on the attempt and taken the letter anyway. He's had a bit too much to drink to fight her further on the matter, and so it's best to simply let her have her way.

"I'll send it come morning. Speaking of..."

Her eyes drift to the clock, and Hux's follow -- and he swears.

"Language!"

"The time."

"Yes, I should be going..."

"I have to be at a meeting in six hours, Phasma. I haven't showered, I haven't decided what to wear -- "

"Calm down. You'll do fine."

"Of course I will. That isn't the point."

"I'll set your coffee pot for you on the way out."

"Do."

He's up, moving off to his bedroom, and Phasma is left to show herself out. Moving through the flat, she takes the time to do as promised, toying with the settings of Hux's coffee machine until she found the timer. It's the least she can do, given the slight hangover he's likely to be sporting come morning.

In the back of the flat, Hux has shed his clothes, and is contemplating his face in the shower, debating on whether to shower now, or in the morning; in the end, he settles for washing the concealer from his face, and avoiding the peppering of freckles that appear in the mirror, instead combing out his slightly mussed hair. He changes into a thin white t-shirt and a loose pair of sleep pants. The shower will need to wait. He has no desire to shower and blowdry his hair while tipsy, and going to bed with his hair wet is absolutely out of the question. A slide of fingers across a button, and soft classical music begins playing as he moves to the bed, all slow string pieces. There had been a time when he could sleep in silence; that had changed during the long years at the academy. Bunking with so many boys meant that complete silence was unheard of; in fact, if anything, it meant something was wrong. He doesn't dwell on it now. The bed is soft and familiar, the sheets cool and clean, and he falls asleep nearly immediately.

 

Morning comes with the blare of an alarm cutting through one of his favorite pieces, and he's upright nearly before he's conscious, hand moving to stop the horrible sound. He drags a hand through his hair, over his face; three hours of sleep, and a pounding headache. One day, he'd learn to simply stop answering the door when he saw Phasma on the other end of it. Yesterday had not been that day, unfortunately.

A hot shower later, a cup of black coffee, concealer re-applied, crisp clothes neatly in place, and he feels a bit more human. With a second cup in hand, he makes his way out the door, and to his meeting.

A simple introductory affair, he had no reason to be worried; he speaks with the people he will be working with in the firm. Not under, he reminds himself. Not for for long, anyway. Ambition, at least, is the one thing he has in abundance; ambition, and the steely determination to back it up, and the people that shake his hand and give him hollow smiles know it. They've all seen a man like Hux pass through in their lifetime, have all encountered an upstart who thinks he's going to rise to the top.

Only, Hux does not merely think it. He knows it.

Once the meeting has concluded, Hux takes his leave; his work with the firm will start proper another day. Two messages from Phasma are waiting on his phone when he unlocks it with a swipe of his thumb, opening the earliest first: Lunch? Or are you too busy courting the bigwigs? :P

Before responding, he thumbs open the second message: Get it? Courting? Because you're a --

He doesn't bother reading the rest of the message before hitting delete.

To the first text, he replies simply with, Where?

Her reply comes so quickly he imagines she must have been waiting for him to respond. Mos Eisley?

I'm not having lunch at that bar again.

It's not so bad! :O

My wallet was stolen last time. And the beer tastes like piss.

It's an acquired taste. :))

Try again.

Ok it's disgusting. Where do you suggest then?

The Coruscant Complex has excellent dining.

On a soldier's salary? Not happening. :(

I'll pay.

You're on! :D

Fifteen?

Meet you there. :)

His screen goes dark, and the phone is tucked away again. One short bus ride later, and he's standing outside the Complex; a skyscraper that extended not only upwards, but also downward, the place was reknowned for its beautiful view -- so long as one remained ground level or above. With a building so large, the staff had a difficult time maintaining and patrolling every level of it, and in the poorly kept lower levels, any number of unpleasant groups had set up shop.

Hux has ventured down there, a time or two. With enough money, nearly anything could be bought. Though, buying wasn't the correct term. He'd more of...rented.

He doesn't think on it further than that. Instead, he greets Phasma with a nod as she arrives, scantly making the fifteen minute mark in time. He checks the time, approval touching his tone -- though a grudging approval, as he watches the minute tick over. "Right on time. Narrowly."

"I had to linger on the bus."

"Forget something?"

"Yes; I nearly forgot to give the pretty thing sitting across from me my number."

Her grin is shameless, and Hux fights the urge to roll his eyes, grabbing for the door and holding it open for her. His gloves, a high-priced leather pair he'd indulged in upon his graduation with honors, leave no mark on the chrome handle of the door as he slips in after her. They are greeted by a pleasantly smiling secretary who looks directly through them, dark hair cut in a slanted fashion, eyeliner uneven. To Hux, she looks -- hollow. A doll, set in place to serve a function, and her movement to grab a pair of maps of the building and offer them to the guests is near-mechanical.

"Welcome to Coruscant. Please enjoy your stay."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the smile drop the moment they turn away from her.

"Isn't Dex's Diner here? I've heard it's delicious."

"You want to go to a diner?"

"It's a really good diner." Her tone is flippant, a hand waving dismissively.

Hux merely shakes his head; they take the elevator, and before long they have reached one of the top floors. They are not, in fact, eating at Dex's Diner. Phasma doesn't seem too disappointed, luckily, when she sees where they are eating; the restaurant is quiet, but neatly packed with tables and guests, each table covered with a fine white cloth, utterly pristine.

" -- I take it this place is reservation only?"

"I called one in after we made the plans."

Phasma looks at him skeptically; he may have needed to pull a string or two to get them in only fifteen minutes out, but he refuses to admit that. Instead, he moves up to the entrance and speaks with the host. A moment later, they're being escorted to a table for two near one of the floor-length windows. Hux takes a moment to admire the view while Phasma studies the menu; she's seen the city semi-routinely from the seat of a fighter jet. A tall building's point of view doesn't much impress her after that.

"I don't think I can pronounce half of the things on the menu."

"I'd suggest simply pointing if you want any of them, then."

His smile is sharp, and Phasma snorts, shaking her head.

When the waiter comes around, Hux orders a bottle of wine, and they both manage to settle on a dish; water is left behind in glasses so clear Hux wonders if they're brand new. Phasma doesn't bother wondering about such things; her lipstick leaves behind the faintest shape of her mouth along the rim.

"I sent that letter today."

The statement draws a curious hum from Hux, his mind turning the sentence over as he studies the skyline once more. "What letter?"

"The letter you wrote last night, to the American."

Something in Hux's stomach drops, as if the floor had suddenly given way and sent him crashing through the various levels of the complex.

"I -- what?"

"You weren't that drunk. Were you?"

Phasma's brows lift, and Hux stares; vaguely, he recalls the events, reading the letter, writing one in return...had he actually allowed Phasma to make off with the cursed thing? What had he even written? He doesn't remember now. A hand goes to the bridge of his nose, and then quickly pulls away before he can pinch at it. Black leather and pale concealer do not mix. He strips the gloves from his hands with brutal efficiency, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Now, don't get cross -- "

"I am not cross."

"Yes you are."

"How do you know?"

"There's a muscle under your eye, twitches a bit when you're steamed up."

"It does not."

He finds himself reaching up to touch the area under his eye all the same, and true to her word, a muscle jumps under his prodding fingertips.

Traitor, he thinks, annoyed, which only makes the muscle jump again.

When the food comes, Hux finds himself supremely uninterested in it. His fork combs through the perfectly-prepared pasta on his plate, tines separating individuals noodles, and picking up none of them. Phasma digs in with a vengeance; he’d once assumed it was army rations that made her so ravenous, but then he’d watched her eat those, and her enthusiasm hadn’t lessened for the quality of the food in front of her.

“It’s not the end of the world, you know.” One cheek is filled with food, and Hux makes a face, gesturing with the fork, sauce marring the shine of the silver, despite how little use the utensil has seen.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full. You know I hate it.”

“You can’t see anything,” she mutters, but chews and swallows before speaking again. “It won’t kill you to make a friend, Sparks. Just give it a chance.”

“And what if I don’t wish to?”

Phasma’s patience with his attitude is at an end, it seems, and her fork clatters as she puts it down with unnecessary force against her nearly-cleaned plate. “Then sulk in your flat for the rest of a very quiet, very appropriate, very boring life, Hux. I don’t know what you want from me.”

The outburst does not go unnoticed by the restaurant’s other patrons; Hux feels heat creeping up his throat, but his expression remains steely. “I want…” He pauses, considering. He wants for her to stop prying into his private affairs. He wants for her to stop speaking as if his life is somehow wrong for the lack of sordid liaisons. He wants to stop being informed of her seemingly endless string of one-night stands. He wants for her to stop being so bloody right about everything, but particularly about this. “...for you to keep your voice down and show some manners in public.”

Phasma purses her lips, and her eyes flash in a way reminiscent of gunfire, and her tongue is cocked against the roof of her mouth, pressed hard against her teeth, a trigger waiting to be pulled. Instead, she returns to her food, and does not look at him.

“Your food’s going cold.”

Hux hesitates, looks to the dish in front of him, and takes a single bite. It’s delicious, as expected, but he just doesn’t want it now. Shame for his petulance has settled into his guts, heavy and unpleasant, and when one of the waitstaff next passes by, he calmly hails them and asks for a box. Good food shouldn’t go to waste.

After finishing their meal in silence, they stand once more in the elevator, and Hux, finally, breaks the quiet, because he knows Phasma won’t. She’s not in the habit of apologizing. Neither is he, but he will accept defeat graciously when it comes.

“...if he writes back…”

Phasma turns an attentive eye to him, head only turning slightly, one eyebrow curving upwards.

Hux bites the inside of his cheek, hard, before continuing.

“If they write back, I will do the same.”

“You’ll write them back?”

“Yes.”

“You promise?”

“Phasma --”

“Hux.”

Her tone is serious, and there is a glint of something in her eyes that makes him look away, something soft, something bordering on concern.

“Yes, I promise.”

Phasma turns her face forward again, and smiles.

 

The term snail mail is unfortunately appropriate. Hux finds himself thumbing through the usual mail every day; in truth, he has no real idea of how long postage between American and England might take. He’s never had much cause to mail anything overseas, and every instance in which he has ordered something, he had been given a tracking number. The convenience of such had been lost on him until now.

When the letter finally arrives, a week after Hux has stopped looking for it, it takes him a few moments to realize what he’s seeing; the long, thin lines, shaping the name in the corner, with the same telltale smears that Hux decides are more likely to be from hasty addressing than rain.

All other articles of mail are discarded nearly instantaneously, left unsorted in favor of the retrieval of his letter opener. It’s not an eager motion. He is certainly not eager. Still, the letter is opened in nearly record time, and folded smooth, uneven creases drawing not even a second glance before his fingers press them out. A moment later, his eyes are scanning the contents, chin lightly resting on the back of one hand, elbow propped on the desk.

 

Hello,

 

Just Hux then? Short, to the point. I like it. Better than Al, anyway. And are you telling me your sister has an even worse name? That’s impressive. Did she take yours as a challenge? I’d change my name if I had something like Alcordeus or...whatever your sister’s name is.

Oh, right, the letter. I skimmed it, signed up, and threw it away. I didn’t really intend on mailing anyone. Do you really keep letters to use in court? Maybe we should switch to emails then. I don’t want to get dragged to court over something I might not even remember writing, and you seem like the sort of hardass that would do something like that.

If I wanted a boring documentary, I’d look one up. I asked you what life is like there. If you don’t want to tell me, just say so. I’ve read travel blogs, but it’s not the same as hearing it from someone who actually lives there, and isn’t just visiting.

Leia Solo-Organa. I know they made her a General, but I lost track after that, so who knows what she is now. I don’t keep up with her career.

Thanks for the advice, mom. I’ll remember it.

 

Yours,

K. Ren

 

-- Yours? Wasn’t that a bit forward? Had the first letter been signed in such a way? Hux realizes he doesn’t recall -- and realizes a moment later that this is because he never had finished reading the first letter for himself. Phasma had read it aloud, and then he’d simply written his reply.

He could go looking for the first letter to see. Instead, he begins to pen his reply. He had promised Phasma, after all.

 

Ren.

 

I don’t recall asking your opinion either on my name, or my sister’s. Neither of us have any desire to change our names. We call her Fio. For brevity’s sake, at any rate.

You skimmed the letter for a prestigious site meant to help you build connections overseas to help you succeed in your future career? That wasn’t a terribly intelligent move. Telling me that you wish to avoid a lawsuit that may be caused by your letters is hardly the way to coax personal information out of me. Yes, I do keep the letters. I’m a lawyer. Potential evidence shouldn’t be displaced carelessly. Why should I give you my email? And what makes you think I’m a hardass, as you put it?

What do you want me to say? There’s a pub down the street I never go to because it’s full of people that have ‘failure’ stamped across their foreheads. I work in a nice office with a window overlooking the city. It rains more often than not. The sidewalks are cracked. The road on the way to work has a pothole in it. If you spot teenagers in hoods moving in packs, you should cross the street and avoid them unless you want a mugging. It’s just life.

General Organa? General Organa is your mother? The General Organa, of the Endor mission? The Death Star conflicts?

Don’t be facetious. It’s appalling and childish.

 

ABH

 

The letter goes to the post that very day; and thus, a routine begins, letters arriving, a lull in between while the letters are en route.

Hux finds himself -- looking forward to the odd correspondences, though he’d never admit as much aloud. Ordinarily, he has no one to speak to in a candid fashion except for Phasma; it’s a refreshing change.

 

Hello,

 

Touchy subject, I take it? Fine. Hux and Fio; simple enough. I think I can remember that. You seem to know a lot about brevity. What’s the point of writing a letter if you’re hardly going to say anything at all in it?

You’re criticizing my desire to keep a letter for a site I didn’t care about because of a career you don’t know that I need connections for? And refusing to give me your email because I joked about not wanting to be taken to court? And you ask why I think you’re a hardass. Email is faster. And wastes less trees.

Failure? You’re the judging type, I see. Maybe they’re just there to take the edge off? Everyone needs a stiff drink now and then. A nice office overlooking the city...Tell me about it? What are the windows like? What’s the skyline look like there? Send me a picture? I’ll send something back, if you like. Also, are all teenagers in hoodies dangerous, or are you just generalizing?

Yeah, that’s her. I guess you have heard of her. I don’t really want to talk about it.

Facetious? Me? I’d never dream of such a thing.

 

Yours,

K. Ren

 

Work is going quite well. Well enough that Hux hardly has to focus on it, though he remains swamped in the paperwork involved. It’s mindless, beginner’s work, and while necessary, he loathes every moment of it. The satisfaction of finishing it comes only with what he allows himself after his work is done; writing a reply to his mysterious penpal.

 

Ren.

 

I didn’t join the site to make friends. I wasn’t aware letters were supposed to be of a specific length. Do enlighten me; how long should my letters be? Should I make things up to fill the space, or am I supposed to simply be interesting enough to do so naturally? I’m afraid my life is rather mundane, by most standards.

Don’t be ridiculous. Every career could be improved by making connections with other people, whether they’re in your field as well, or not. That’s simply a fact of life. Joking, were you? Tone is difficult to convey appropriately via letters. Ah, yes, the poor trees. What a monster I am. You’ve caught me.

I judge people who make no effort to have people think well of them. That place is filled with degenerates, I assure you. You wouldn’t be defending them if you’d spent any time around them. Consuming as many stiff drinks as they do will only lead to trouble. I should know. It’s how I got roped into this exchange in the first place. If you’re looking for an artistic depiction of my office, you’ll be mistaken. I’m no storyteller. I have included a picture, as asked, instead. I don’t need anything in return.

I’m generalizing.

It seems like you and your mother are on poor terms. It’s odd; I never heard the

General had a child.

You are utterly impossible. Why do I keep writing you, again?

 

ABH

 

---

Hello,

 

Did you seriously join this site just to ‘make connections’? That’s...boring. A list full of strangers who could be anyone, do anything, and you want to talk business with them? You weren’t kidding about being ‘mundane.’ And there’s no strict length, just...you’re supposed to actually talk in letters. Hold a conversation, steady back and forth, I think. I haven’t really ever done this myself, either.

Yes, I was joking. I don’t know if connections would help me in my career or not. I don’t have a career yet. I’m still in college. Maybe when I finish, I’ll be more concerned about it. Conservation of natural resources is a serious concern, Hux. Don’t be an ass.

Maybe something is happening in their lives that you wouldn’t understand. Not everything is clean cut and easy.

That picture is...frankly lovely. The grey of the clouds is accented by the chrome window casings. It’s very modern. Very sleek. It suits you, I think. At least, it suits the you that I’m getting to know. I know you said you didn’t need anything in return, but I included a picture of the New York skyline from my apartment. Won’t see that on a postcard.

I was an accident. Probably. They never said as much, but considering how I was raised, I gathered I certainly wasn’t exactly expected. Just leave it.

You probably keep writing because you enjoy my wit and charm.

 

Yours,

K. Ren

 

With this letter is the promised picture, a simple 5x7 that Hux pulls free and studies quietly; at the time the picture was taken, the sun had been sinking behind the buildings, making the sky red and dark, a smattering of lights twinkling like stars in the looming shapes of the skyline. It was breathtaking; sometimes, it was almost easy to forget that there were places in the world that bloomed with colors other than grey. Moving, he stands to pin the picture up on the corkboard hanging from the wall. When he returns to his desk, he notices another slip of paper, previously missed. Ripped, as if hastily pulled free from a sheet of paper, and on it, a number is scrawled.

Hux feels his pulse quicken, his stomach lurching in an uncomfortable way.

It couldn’t really be Ren’s number. More likely a joke, something Ren sent simply to tease him for thinking they had actually sent their number via letter.

Hux does not call.

 

---

 

It’s three in the morning; the red letters of the digital clock sitting on his desk inform him of as much when he finally lifts tired eyes to read the numbers. Papers sit in neat stacks. Semi-neat stacks, he notes, nudging some of the corners back into place. His tie hangs loose around his neck, shirt uncharacteristically rumpled. A few copper strands of hair have fallen against his forehead, and his hands shake as he reaches for his sixth cup of coffee, and a second cigarette. He doesn’t normally smoke indoors. Tonight is an exception.

The firm can’t suffer because of its members. If people experience emergencies that require their absence, their work gets foisted off on someone else. Namely, it gets foisted off on Hux. They think he gets off on paperwork, he supposes. More than anything, he wants to get away from it. There’s a throbbing somewhere behind his eyes, and there’s still so much work to be done --

Closing his eyes tightly, he rubs at them, feeling the muscle that Phasma had alerted him to as a tell twitching under his fingers. He drags his lashes back up despite the fervent desire to keep his eyes closed, just a little longer. His gaze lands on the picture pinned to the corkboard, and the number pinned directly under it.

It’s an obscenely late hour, but -- but no so obscene an hour in New York, his tired brain informs him. It struggles with the exact difference. Four hours...no, five. Five hours. A very reasonable ten at night for Ren.

Hux’s phone is in his hand, pressed to his ear, and he doesn’t fully recall fumbling across the numbers to punch them in. Had he put the nine before the zero? Had he gotten the area code right? The country code? This would be hellish on his phone bill, if he didn’t have international calling. He thinks he requested it, but he hasn’t had occasion to test it, since Phasma had been on leave.

Gone now, he reminds himself, and a pang goes through him. Something about that empty flat down the way troubles him, knowing that she very well might not come back from one of these wars one of these days.

The call connects, and Hux is silent, breath held, the quiet stretching on uncomfortably long. He’s considering hanging up; but then a voice comes, quiet, a little wary of this unknown number.

“Hello?”

Low, smooth. It takes Hux a moment to connect the voice with the handwritten words he’s been reading; it’s a far cry from the horrid accent Phasma had affected in her reading of that first letter.

“Ren.”

There’s quiet, and when the voice comes again, there’s a note of something Hux hesitates to label hope.

“Hux?”

Tension eases from Hux’s shoulders, and he leans back in his desk chair.

“Yes. Were you sleeping?”

“I haven’t gone to sleep at ten since elementary. Isn’t it late for you, though?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you calling me then?”

“To be honest, I thought the number was a gag.”

“Were you looking for a laugh, then?”

“No. Maybe.”

There’s a pause, and Hux frowns softly.

“You sound tired.”

“That does tend to be the effect of not sleeping.”

“Why don’t you go to bed?”

“I have work.”

“At three in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re talking to me instead of doing it.”

It’s not a question; Hux hears Ren shifting on the other end of the line, and he listens intently for context clues; where is he? What is he doing while he talks to Hux? He finds himself more curious than he, perhaps, has a right to be. Curious enough, at least, to ask.

“What are you doing?”

“Laying in bed. Would you like to know what I’m wearing next?”

Hux -- laughs. He can’t help it; the quip is so quick, so unexpected, and he is so tired.

“I thought you didn’t go to bed at ten.”

“I said I don’t go to sleep at ten. I go to bed as often and enthusiastically as possible.”

Hux can’t keep the amusement out of his voice.

“And how often is that?”

“Not nearly so often as I’d like.”

The admission is flippant, careless in a way that reminds him of Phasma, pleasantly so.

“Do you talk about your sex life with everyone you get on the phone with for the first time?”

“Who said anything about sex?”

Ren’s voice drops to a purr, and Hux blinks at the sudden change, and at the sudden rush of heat that blooms in his cheeks.

“Clever.”

“If you want to talk about sex --”

“Don’t be absurd.”

The denial is too quick, and the silence on the other end feels triumphant. Internally, Hux curses.

“...very well. But if you change your mind…”

“I won’t.”

“Hardass.”

“Insufferable.”

Ren laughs, and there’s another sound; Hux imagines a vague shape in the dark, turning onto its stomach.

“What do you want, then?”

Infuriatingly enough, Hux finds he doesn’t have an answer, and Ren’s voice is smug when he speaks again, before Hux’s lagging thoughts have a chance to scramble for an answer.

“Ah. You don’t know.”

“Does it matter?”

“You’re wasting my minutes.”

“Then hang up.”

Ren doesn’t hang up. There’s a huff of breath, and the silence stretches.

“I like your voice.”

“What?” Hux’s brows crease, uncertain.

“You have an accent. Very subtle. Besides the British one, I mean. What is it?”

“Irish.”

“Gorgeous.”

“Pardon?”

“I like the way it sounds.”

“Wonderful. A fetishist.”

“Back to sex, then.”

“I didn’t --”

“Calm down. I’m teasing.”

“I am calm.”

“You don’t sound calm.”

“I am quite tired of people telling me what I am.”

The snapped response has Ren quiet for a long moment, and Hux wonders, briefly, if he’s decided to actually hang up.

“...I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Alright.”

Ren doesn’t believe him; it’s clear in his tone. Somehow, that makes Hux angrier than if he’d outright contradicted him again. His jaw clenches, and the throbbing behind his eyes is back with a vengeance; he hadn’t realized it had dulled until a particularly painful wave of it brings his attention to it once more.

“...I should go. I still have work to do.”

“Alright.”

Is he upset? It’s hard to tell; the purr is gone from his voice, though, the singular word dropping into a careful line of neutrality.

“Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Hux. Try to get some sleep.”

The line goes dead, and Hux keeps it to his ear, listening as if, in just a moment, Ren’s voice might come back.

It doesn’t, and after a short while, he withdraws the phone from his ear, and sets it aside, turning back to the half-finished forms on his desk.

 

---

 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The phone had gone off in the middle of a meeting, and an absolutely livid Hux had felt it vibrating incessantly, until he’d finally had to turn the damn thing off. Now he’s pacing in his office, the demand for an answer from the damnable man on the other end of the line coming in lieu of a greeting.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“I’m at work.”

“I didn’t know.”

There’s something petulant in Ren’s tone that makes Hux want to slam his fist down on the hard oak of his desk. He refrains, but only just.

“Did you not think that perhaps, when I didn’t pick up the first three times, that I might be busy?”

Ren doesn’t answer, and when he does, his voice is...smaller, somehow, than before.

“I’m sorry, okay? I’ll text first next time.”

“And you’ll wait for an answer before you call.”

It’s an order of the sort his father used to give to him, and his lips press into a thin line, a bitter taste blooming on the back of his tongue at the thought.

“Yes sir.”

Hux opens his mouth to accuse him, once more, of being facetious; but the tone is all wrong. Sullen, yes, but...Something about the words send a small thrill sparking just under his skin, and his chin lifts, as if Ren could see him, as if he might look down on the other man.

“Good.”

Ren is silent, but not for long.

“Can I stay on the line? You don’t have to talk to me.”

“Why?”

“Please?”

It’s not an answer, and Hux should deny him. This...whatever this is, should never interfere with his work. Having it do so presents an unexpected dilemma, once Hux is not pleased to have to deal with at the moment.

“I’m sitting the phone on my desk. It will be on speaker. I expect you to be silent.”

“Okay.”

The answer is immediate, almost eager, and Hux can hear Ren’s soft breathing on the other end of the line. Why he’s allowing this is beyond him; he ought to end the call now, and block Ren’s number.

Instead, he does as he said he would; the phone is placed carefully down, and Hux settles into his seat, pulling a stack of papers near him.

“Are you in your office?”

“Silent means not speaking, Ren.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Somehow, Hux doubts that apology.

Halfway through the first form, Hux is distracted by the sound of Ren shifting, presumably on his bed once more. It seems he’s always in bed when they speak. Hux has to wonder if he ever leaves it.

Realizing he’s staring at the phone instead of at his work, he frowns, turning back to the forms, quickly finishing up the page and moving on to the next, skimming the case information provided to him.

“Yes.”

Ren’s voice is hesitant, as if concerned he’ll be chastised again. “What?”

“Yes, I am in my office.”

“Oh.”

Hux finished three more forms before Ren dares to speak again.

“...what’s the weather like?”

“Really, Ren?”

The silence provides the answer that Ren himself doesn’t. Hux lets out a huff of breath.

“It’s overcast. It’s always overcast.”

“Sounds cheery.”

“Yes, well. That's England for you.”

“Mm.”

Five forms of silence, and Hux moves the papers away, glances at the time.

“Good.”

“What?”

“You've done well.”

“I...oh.”

It comes out more breath than sound, and Hux cocks his head.

“Ren?”

“Yes?” The answer is more immediate, less breath, more speech.

Interesting.

“Ten forms. I'm going to finish ten forms. If you can be quiet through all ten of them – not a word, Ren – then I'll reward you.”

Silence, and then, quietly – “Alright. Yes.”

Hux considers, and then, his tone bored despite his suddenly quickened pulse; “Yes, what?”

On the other end of the line, Ren's breath hitches, a stutter of sound, and Hux's grin is sharp.

“Yes...sir.”

“Good boy. Quiet, now.”

Ren, somewhat surprisingly, falls immediately silent.

The stack of papers are drawn forward once more, and with that knowledge that Ren is listening, not allowed to speak, he takes his time. As much time as he will allow himself on simple tasks such as this, at any rate. After all, as intriguing as this development between he and Ren is proving to be, he is still at work, and he won't neglect it for the sake of some prettyboy from America.

This train of thought leads him to wonder what Ren actually looks like; he considers it as he fills out information on the case at hand. Petite, perhaps; brunette? With eyes the color of the London sky. Or maybe blond; maybe he even died his hair outrageous colors. He imagines a dark-skinned boy, all long limbs, with lavender hair, shaved on the sides. A tanned figure, round at the hips, thin at the lips –

Four forms in, and he glances at the phone; the numbers still tick away, denoting the length of the call. His eyes return to his work.

Freckled? The look would be more bearable on Ren, he thinks, than himself. No need for concealer to make him look less young. Still in college, the boyish speckling might even suit him.

Eight forms finished, and Hux has taken to brushing his thumb along his lower lip in between completing the boxes, the smooth skin of the pad of his thumb dragging along the semi-chapped surface of his lip.

The tenth form seems to drag on, and when it's finished, Hux sets it aside perhaps more loudly than necessary, shuffling his papers once more into a neat stack. It seems to have the intended effect; Ren's breath is audible on the other end of the phone once more, and Hux lets the moment draw out before speaking.

“Ren.”

“Yes sir?”

He remembered. Good.

“You did very, very well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hux can practically hear Ren preening, and he leans back in his chair, considering.

“Now, your reward.”

“Yes sir?” Eagerness drips from the words, and Hux has to wonder what Ren imagines Hux might have in store for him.

“What do you want?” Hux's own voice drops, closer to the phone, lower in pitch, and for a moment, Ren doesn't answer.

“I – don't know. I didn't realize it would be my choice.”

“Well it is. What do you want?”

There's something on the other end of the line that sounds suspiciously like Ren saying fuck.

Hux chuckles.

“No, I don't think so.”

“I didn't mean...”

“Didn't you?”

Ren is quiet, and Hux wonders, for a moment, if he's pushed things too far, too quickly. He shouldn't be doing this. Knowing he shouldn't be doing this, however, only makes him wish to continue. Idly, he twirls the pen he had been using to fill out the paperwork in front of him between his fingers, watching the phone.

“...I want to see you.”

The request is sudden, and uncertain. It catches Hux off-guard, and he tips his head to one side, studying the screen of his phone as if it might hold answers for him.

“I'm at work.”

“Later, then. Do you have Skype?”

“For business, yes.” And to speak to Phasma while she's deployed, but he feels no need to mention that.

“I'll send you my username. I want to see you. That can be my reward.”

Hux contemplates this odd turn of events, and then, finally, agrees.

“Alright. Tonight, then. After work.”

“Tonight.” Ren breathes the word like he's tasting it.

“In the meantime, speaking of work – I need to get back to it.”

“Alright.”

“Goodbye, Ren.”

“Goodbye, Hux.”

 

---

 

Hux shouldn't be surprised by how quickly Ren accepts the request once it's sent. He wonders how long Ren has been sitting by the computer, waiting for Hux to come home; there's something oddly pleasing in the thought, something Hux doesn't dwell on. Ren doesn't mince words; the prompt for a video call appears immediately, and Hux suddenly wishes he had taken the time to double check his appearance before settling at his computer. Nothing for it now; a deep breath, and then he's allowing the call to come through.

Hux is greeted by darkness, and his own face in the corner; he can see his own brief look of confusion at the lack of a face greeting him in return.

“Ren?”

“Yes?”

“Your webcam is off.”

“I know.”

“Turn it on.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don't want to. This is my reward, right? I wanted to see you.”

“But I'm not allowed to see you?”

“Not tonight.”

“Fine.”

Hux isn't pleased, and it shows on his face; speaking to a blank screen is not his idea of a good evening. He'd been under the impression that this would be a mutual exchange, a first meeting of sorts.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

Impatience colors Hux's tone. “This is the first time you've seen me. You have no comments?”

“Are you fishing for praise? I wouldn't have thought you the type.”

A derisive snort. “Hardly. I have no delusions about my appearances.”

“You're beautiful.”

The compliment takes him by surprise; he sees it on himself, the slight widening of his eyes, the creased brows, the tip of his lips into a frown, uncertain.

“False flattery will get you nowhere.”

“I mean it. Your features are...sharp. Angular. It's attractive.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Why can't I see you?”

“Does it matter?”

“I'm curious. What are you hiding?”

“I was horribly burned as a child and now my face is too hideous to behold.”

Though Ren says it in a flat voice, Hux can't help but to laugh. Ren manages to draw laughter from him entirely too often for Hux's tastes.

Ren laughs too, a rolling sound, almost musical. Hux decides at once that it is both ridiculous and quite charming, and that he'd like to hear more of it.

“I can't stay long. I do have work in the morning.”

“Do you ever not have work?”

“Don't ask that. You won't like the answer.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

There's a groan from the speakers, and Hux fights the urge to smile, tipping his head down to hide the beginnings of it twitching at the corners of his lips.

“I should go. Off the clock doesn't mean I don't have things to get done.”

“You just got here!”

“And I've done what I said I would. You've seen me. Don't whine.”

“I'm not whining.”

“Goodnight, Ren.”

“Wait!”

“What?”

“Can I...call you tomorrow?”

“Not while I'm at work.”

“But I never know when you're home...”

“I'll call you.”

“Promise?”

The question gives him pause; he bites the inside of his cheek, and drums his fingers idly against the top of his desk, before finally nodding.

“Yes, I promise. So long as nothing more important comes up. I'll text you if I can't call for whatever reason.”

“Alright.”

“Now, goodnight, Ren.”

“Goodnight, Hux.”

For a moment, the call stretches on; in the end, Hux is the one who has to cancel it, closing his laptop and moving away from the desk.

No rest for the wicked.

 

---

 

“I thought you had work today.” Ren greets him, voice curious.

“I do.”

“Are you there now?”

“I am.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Lunch break.”

“Shouldn't you be eating?”

“I already have.”

“Oh.”

A beat.

“What are you wearing?”

Ren's laughter is a wonderful thing; Hux smiles to have earned it again, even if doing so required such a foolish question.

“Lingerie.”

“Liar.”

“A band t-shirt and some boxer briefs.”

Hux mulls over it; at least that sounded more likely, if less sexy.

“What band?”

“The Darksiders.”

“Sounds atrocious.”

“You shouldn't insult things without experiencing them first.”

“As I recall, you insulted me and my family no less than three times in the span of your first letter to me.”

“That's different.”

“I'd love to hear in what way you think that's so.”

“What are you wearing?”

“No, don't change the subject, I'm quite curious – ”

“Come on. What are you wearing?”

“Black slacks, a grey button-up, a red tie, and a black jacket with red accents.”

“Is that all?”

“Gold cufflinks.”

“Genuine or fake?”

“Genuine. They were a gift.”

“Some gift.”

“Indeed.”

Hux taps his pen against the top of his desk, and conversation ceases; he wonders if Ren is paying attention to the tapping, taking it as a sign that Hux wants his attention. If he isn't, he should be.

“You are a terrible influence, I'll have you know.”

“Me? I haven't done anything.” Ren sounds on the verge of pouting. Hux can't have that.

“Before we began speaking, I spent my lunch breaks working to get ahead. Now I'm sitting here idly chattering to you.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“I wonder.”

“Mm. What are you thinking about?”

“What you look like.”

“I told you. Horribly deformed. Mauled by a bear.”

“I thought you were ravaged by flames.”

“Both. The bear was on fire when it attacked me.”

“I see. How unfortunate.”

Hux smiles, and ceases the tapping of his pen.

 

---

 

Saturday mornings are slow. It's the one day he has off this week, and he's up early; there is laundry to be done, dry cleaning to be picked up, the shopping to consider – he can't simply keep visiting that Thai shop every night, or he'll fall over dead from vitamin deficiency one of these days. – and, of course, more paperwork to be done for the firm. It's about halfway through this list that he decides to check his email, and, since he'll be on the computer already, to check on Ren.

The green bubble next to his name claims he's online; that's not so unreasonable. With it being just past two for him, that made it around nine in the morning for Ren. He's only surprised in that, somehow, he didn't peg Ren for much of a morning person.

A video call is placed, and Hux waits mildly for Ren to pick up.

Before long, the call does, indeed, connect – but not to darkness, and not to Ren's face. Not to any face, in fact. Instead, he seems to be staring at a...kitchen sink? And a window, with sunlight pouring in through white curtains.

“Ben!”

The voice is one he doesn't recognize, somewhat low-pitched, but feminine nonetheless. A muffled sound comes from somewhere off to one side. Hux watches the screen intently, sees a woman's hand come into view, a well-worn wedding band glinting in the morning light.

“Come here, please. I think someone called you?”

Had the woman accidentally connected the call? He frowns. Who is Ben? Who is this woman? Why do either of them have access to Ren's account?

“Someone what?”

Now there is a voice he recognizes.

A body comes into view; from the side, he presents a slim figure, a tshirt clinging loosely, jogging pants sitting low on his hips. A sliver of pale skin just shows where the shirt and pants meet, the curve of one jutting hipbone catching Hux's eye.

“I think someone called you. I was going to look up a recipe, but the message came up so fast – ”

“Who...?”

Now, the body turns, and curves towards the screen; a strong jaw comes into view, all pale, pale skin, and a mottled flush, as if the man had been pulled from a workout routine to inspect this incident. Full lips curve into a frown, and there's a flash of white teeth as the lower lip is tugged further into the mouth, captured by a canine.

Hux is enraptured.

Dark curls have fallen loose as the nape of 'Ben's' neck, and one has spilled far enough down to show in the camera.

And then – then Ren is swearing, and the laptop is slammed closed, effectively ending the call as the laptop goes to sleep.

Hux arches a brow, and after retrieving a fresh cup of coffee, settles back into his chair to wait.

 

---

 

“What did you see?”

There is no greeting; Hux hadn't truly been expecting one.

“I'll tell you what I didn't see; any scars or burns.”

“Very funny.”

“Turn the camera on, Ren.”

“No.” The reply is heated, angry.

“Fine.”

With a single click, the small screen that contains Hux's own face goes suddenly dark as well. The effect is immediate.

“What are you doing?”

“I see no reason why I should be forced to show my face at all times to a man who refuses to allow me to see his even once.”

“Hux – ”

“Were this the other way around, you would be infuriated at the unfairness of it, would you not?”

“But – ”

“Answer me.”

“ – yes.”

“Turn the camera on.”

Silence, and continued darkness. He is contemplating ending the call, when something on the screen changes.

It's not immediate; the room Ren is settled in is dark, but the illumination from the screen casts him in a nearly sickly pallor. In the gloom, his eyes look impossibly dark, his mouth curved into an unhappy arc. His nose is just a bit wrong for his face, his ears too big, like a child yet to grow into himself. It might have been unfortunate on someone else, but together, it looks...aristocratic, almost. Elegant, with the dark curls Hux had glimpsed in the kitchen swept back into a bun. He studies Ren, looks his fill, because finally, finally he has a face to put with the name.

“Why did the woman call you Ben?”

“'The woman' was my mother. Ben is my legal name. Benjamin, actually, but that's even worse.”

“Why 'K. Ren', then?”

“Every artist needs a pseudonym.”

“You're an artist?”

“I dabble. But I'm going to school for theatre.”

“An actor who can't bear to show his face. I weep for your career.”

“It's different when I'm on stage. It's not me anymore.”

“Mmm.” Hux isn't sure how much he buys that; but then, he is no actor, himself. An orator, a powerful speaker, but no thespian by any stretch of the imagination.

“Can I turn it off now?”

“What?”

“The camera. I want to turn it off.”

“No. Leave it on a little longer.”

“Then turn yours back on.”

Hux's face flickers back into view on the screen, next to Ren's.

“Better?”

Ren looks almost unbearably relieved; his face, unlike his voice, seems to have no filter, and Hux finds himself wondering if that mightn't be why he tries to hide it.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

 

---

 

Knowing what Ren looks like has not helped his work ethic in the slightest. Part of him laments the loss of productivity that could be accomplished the time he spends entertaining Ren on the phone during his breaks. More than he mourns the loss of time he could spend on work, he revels in seeing how far he can push Ren each day. It's become something of a game, seeing just how much Ren can stand to be teased in the span of one short lunch hour.

He never quite intended to take it this far.

“Ahh – fuck, Hux – ”

“Sorry, what was that?”

“S-sir. Sir, I'm sorry, please – ”

“Mm, no, I don't think so. That's twice now you've slipped. Hands off, Ren.”

“Wait, no, I can – I can be good, I promise – ”

“Hands off, Ren.”

There's a groan of frustration that assures Hux his orders are being followed, and that, more than the knowledge of what Ren is doing, makes his cock throb. He ignores it, crossing one leg over the other and listens to Ren pant and whine.

“Deep breaths, pet. Take your time.”

“But your break – ”

“The more you question me, the more time you eat up. If you don't get to come before my break is over, you'll have to wait until I get home, and there'll be no one to blame but yourself.”

“Yes sir. I'm sorry, sir.”

“Good boy. Now relax. Breathe. I'm going to take care of you, but you have to trust me, and do as you're told. Understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Now, are you just agreeing because you're a wanton mess at the moment, and you want to get back to touching yourself for me, or do you really understand?”

“I...” A shaking breath, steadying, Ren's voice coming out firmer when he speaks again. “I understand, sir.”

“Good. Very good. You may start again.”

The relief in Ren's moan is almost as delicious as the hunger in it.

Hux adjusts the earpiece that allows him to keep this conversation private, and turns up the volume on his phone, penciling a new client into his schedule.

 

---

 

“If I visited England...”

It is Ren's tone, more than his words, that has Hux raising his eyes briefly to the sight of the young man on the other end fidgeting with something; it looks like a puzzle, his long fingers manipulating it easily as he seeks the answer.

“...could I come see you?”

The question gives Hux pause.

This thing that they have, whatever it is, is – pleasant. Ren likes Hux taking control of situations. He likes to be ordered around, he likes the way Hux speaks to him, and the way his accent becomes more prominent when Hux is turned on. Hux likes to do the ordering, likes to have control of something he's never held in his own hands. He likes the way Ren falls apart at a word, the way he flushes at the slightest suggestion, at the way his dark eyes can go so wide, like an animal caught in the headlights of a car.

The phone sex is fun; the way Ren moans and begs, and says his name like a prayer. Once, now, he's watched Ren on Skype, albeit briefly, and with the majority of his clothes still on. The way the younger man can arch and the way his expression twists in pleasure is some sort of cardinal sin in its own right, Hux is quite certain.

But there is business, there is pleasure, and then there is reality. Hux's life is a carefully planned thing, and it has been for longer, Hux is fairly sure, than Ren has been alive. He has worked his ass off to get to where he is, and while the world is more accepting than it once was, there is one person in Hux's life that would never, will never turn a blind eye to such a thing.

But – a visit. A short visit from a boy who is attending a prestigious school in America. A boy who, as an actor in training, could probably pretend, for a short while, to be something more along Brendol's lines of acceptable.

A short visit in which Hux could shove Ren against a wall, and lick his way into that gorgeous mouth, and taste every moan that has been haunting him from the moment he first heard them.

That, he thinks, he might be able to do.

“I wouldn't turn you away, if you came to visit.”

 

---

 

The hypothetical visit is not spoken of again.

Things resume as normal, and Hux, in time, forgets it was ever mentioned. Travel, after all, is expensive, and as an aspiring actor, Hux shouldn't wonder that Ren wouldn't have the money to actually make the trip. He might have offered to help some in the way of travel expenses, had Ren brought the matter up again, but when he does not, Hux assumes it an idle fancy, now left to collect dust.

Hux goes to work. Hux calls Ren. Hux goes home. Hux calls Ren.

Rinse, wash, repeat.

This cycle is not broken until one day, Ren does not pick up his phone.

It is...unusual, but Hux can't bring himself to fret. There are any number of reasons why he might not have answered. Perhaps he finally ran out of the minutes he only complained of Hux wasting when he was feeling particularly petulant about something. Perhaps he had a trashy rock concert to attend. Perhaps he was simply asleep. Hux doesn't know, and he doesn't dwell on the matter.

Ten o'clock comes and goes; both Skype and his phone are uncharacteristically silent. At midnight, Hux admits to himself that perhaps he feels a thread of concern.

Three ticks over with a bleary-eyed Hux nearly dozing on the keys of his laptap, a pen poised and ready to drop from lax fingers. Instead, the pen nearly goes flying when a knock at the door startles him from his pseudo-slumber. Hux is out of his chair almost immediately, moving to his bedroom, the bathroom, combing fingers through his hair, straightening the strands that have fallen out of place, a quick, meticulous once-over guaranteeing that he is otherwise the very epitome of collected, and a small dab of concealer covers the redness on his cheek from where it had fallen to rest on the back of one hand for too long.

The knocking comes again, more insistent than the first time, and Hux peers outside, and sees nothing but darkness; and then a pale, familiar, impossible face comes into view.

He opens the door, and Ren gives him a lopsided smile.

“Hello.”

 

---

 

Ren is against the wall nearly the moment the door closes. A million questions a sparking through his head, each warring for dominance over the other. How did he get here? Why is he here? For how long?

All of these questions pale in the face of Hux's overwhelming need to know what Ren tastes like, this very instant.

Teeth clack as their mouths meet; Hux's tongue finds Ren's rough palette and samples it, tracing the uneven ground like a minesweeper. Ren makes a delicious sound, and there are hands in Hux's hair; he can't abide that, and those hands are caught by the wrists, Hux's fingers curling tight and pushing them against the wall. Ren is taller than Hux, but not by much, and despite the difference in height, and Ren's broad shoulders, and the brimming strength that simmers under the skin – Ren melts, mouth soft and pliant under Hux's assault.

Ren tastes like cheap toothpaste and a faint spice that Hux can't put his finger on right now, with so many other things to focus on. Hux's hands sweep along Ren's sides even as he tries to struggle out of the jacket he'd been wearing, no easy feat with captured wrists. Hux releases him, because now that the idea has been planted in his head, he finds he quite likes the thought of having Ren undressed; it's a task that is both hastened and further complicated by the addition of an extra pair of hands, but they get the job done, articles of Ren's clothing leaving a breadcrumb trail from the front door to Hux's bed.

“Hux – ”

It's the only word Ren has managed to get out since his greeting, and Hux shakes his head, shushing him gently and pushing Ren to lay flat on the mattress, pale skin painting a beautiful contrast against the dark of the sheets. He is a study in milk and ink, skin smooth, nearly flawless, beauty-marks breaking the illusion of perfection and painting upon him some sort of reverse constellation, empty darkness in a sea of light. His bun has come loose thanks to Hux's impatient hands, dark curls spilling free across the bed, and from his supine position, Ren is doe-eyed, chest heaving, lips red and wet from the ravaging of his mouth. Hux thinks he has never seen something so beautiful in his entire life.

Bruises will bloom like morning glories come the rise of the sun, but for now, the marks sucked into that pale expanse of throat are red, and some of them still bear the indent of Hux's teeth.

“Spread your legs.”

Ren does so without complaint, without protest, and Hux, on his knees, admires the sight; he's heady, dizzy with want, giddy from lack of sleep, and there's a power rush that comes with being so in control, something undeniably delicious that Hux can't get enough of. His fingertips skim the inside of Ren's pale thighs, and Ren lurches, fingers twisting in the sheets below him. To his credit, he doesn't shy away, and Hux rewards him with a smile. Hux crawls over him, a slinking, almost predatory motion, and the brush of Hux's still-clothed figure against bare skin makes Ren shudder beneath him. Hux's grin is razor-sharp, and all teeth, teeth that quickly find the delicate shell of Ren's ear.

“Clear and enthusiastic consent, Ren. Do you want me to fuck you?”

The question draws a moan that, while arguably enthusiastic, is not clear enough for Hux's tastes.

“Use your words.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?” Hux's teeth dig into the sensitive skin of Ren's ear, and the boy arches up, against him, hips bucking with the want of friction.

“Yes sir!”

“So good for me...” Hux purrs, easing back; Ren looks ready to grab him and pull him back, but Hux places a soothing, halting hand on Ren's hip, and rubs a slow, steady circle there as he leans to the bedside drawers, pulling a bottle of lube free, and flicking the cap of the bottle open with his thumb. Ren is watching, entranced, chest heaving with too-fast breaths.

“Relax. Breathe. I have you.”

Small circles continue to be rubbed into his hip, and slowly, slowly Ren begins to relax, watching Hux through half-lidded eyes. A generous amount of lube makes it onto his fingers, and he rubs them together slowly to warm it; a condom is fetched from the drawer as well, which he sets aside for now.

Preparation is a slow and steady affair; pain has its place, and it is not here or now. He is careful, considerate, each finger being worked into Ren one at a time, incremental, until Ren is gasping and begging, pushing back onto three fingers and muttering a frankly heartwrenching plea for more.

And who is he to deny such a pretty request?

He doesn't bother to undress; he pushes his pants impatiently open, and finally drags himself free from the confines of his work trousers. One pump, two, a squeeze of his fingers around the base of his cock, and he can't wait any longer – the condom is rolled on in a swift motion, and more lube liberally applied.

Ren looks ready to fall apart the moment Hux presses the head of his cock against him; and then, with a slow roll of his hips, he pushes partially inside and stills. Ren is gasping, muscles tense, and Hux maintains his position, shushing his shaking lover and sliding his hands along his sides, leaving gleaming trails from the lube left behind.

It isn't long before Ren is nodding, spreading his legs a little wider, and Hux finishes the roll of his hips he'd started before, pressing until he's fully seated inside of Ren, watching the way the flush in his face deepens, the way his eyes screw shut, not in pain, but in pleasure. And then, then he's asking Hux to move.

Hux couldn't be happier to oblige.

The pace begins slow and steady, but quickly escalates; Ren is gorgeous and tight and presses up against Hux in a way that bypasses any logical part of Hux's mind that might have reservations or worries about this entire affair, and goes straight to the part of his brain concerned with lust, want, need, Ren, Ren, Ren.

Ren comes first, with a cry that Hux would be worried about his neighbors hearing, if it weren't for the fact that he's on the cusp of an orgasm himself, and he chases it relentlessly, pressing into Ren hard and fast, a brutal pace that Ren accepts with an open-mouthed, glassy-eyed look of dazed pleasure, and a whimper of Hux's name – it's the whimper that finally sends him over the edge, his hips pressing tightly to Ren's, as if he could somehow press himself deeper –

Their bodies tangle together in the aftermath, Hux's thoughts too scattered to worried about the coming morning, and the implications thereof.

 

---

 

Hux has a routine. This routine is never broken; his internal clock has gotten quite used to it. He wakes early, before the sun has risen. He gets out of bed. He showers, if it was not done the night before, and sometimes even if it was, if time permits. He dresses himself, he combs his hair. He grabs a cup of coffee. This routine is not broken, not ever. This routine has kept solid through benders with Phasma, through lectures from his father that have sent him on benders alone. This routine has kept solid through everything.

Thus, waking up to sunlight spilling through the curtain comes as something of a shock. It has him starting out of bed; or would have, were he not being somewhat restrained by...something.

An arm, long and pale, is extended over his chest, keeping him somewhat pinned; his head turns, and he is met with a shock of dark curls spilling over the pillow next to him, half-covering the ridiculous nose and slack, slightly opened mouth of K. Ren.

This sight does nothing to ease the alarm currently flooding him; if anything, it only intensifies. This – this is not right. This is not what should be happening. What time is it? How long has he overslept? He has people to call, he has things to do, no day is simply for laying about in bed, with – with –

“Ren.”

It's the sharpness of his words that seem to rouse Ren, who comes to looking exhausted but wary, dark eyes squinting against the morning sun. Hux's thoughts are racing, his heart hammering. What time did he come in last night? What neighbors of his might have seen? Who might already be talking? Has his father heard?

No. No, if Brendol had heard – if he knew, he would be here already, beating the door down, demanding answers. His phone would have blown up, and that – that would have woken him. He could not have slept for that. Ren is shifting, lifting that heavy arm of his, and Hux escapes from under it. Where are his damn clothes? And Ren's, for that matter, he can't just lay there, no matter how utterly delicious the inward curve of his spine looks where he lays, stomach-down on Hux's bed –

No.

He can't let himself think about this, because Ren can't be here.

Panic squirms like a living thing through him, makes him shake, making his nails dig hard into his palms while he looks for his clothes, his breathing too fast.

“Hux...?”

Curse him for sounding so sleepy, so sweet. Curse him for being so attractive. Curse him for being here.

“Why are you here?”

Kylo shifts, sits up, and the covers he'd been hoarding fall to his waist, showing the jut of his hipbones beneath his skin, the dark beauty marks that decorate him like inverse constellations. Hux adores him. Hux loathes him. Hux has to get rid of him.

“What...?”

“Why. Are. You. Here?”

Each word is punctuated with a piece of clothing being thrown onto the bed, some of it belonging to Hux, some of it belonging to the boy who is staring at him as if he's lost his mind. Maybe he has. He's running on autopilot, fear pumping through his systems, red flags going up, alarm bells ringing at top volume. Brendol cannot know Kylo was here. He cannot know he spent the night. He cannot know – anything, about any of this. How is Hux going to get him out of the house? There's a door that leads to the back alley, but should anyone see that, it would look even more suspicious, harder to explain away as an acquaintance come calling.

“Because – you said...” Kylo looks perfectly perplexed, and isn't reaching for the clothes that Hux has thrown at him, even as Hux roughly jerks his own clothes on, dressing hastily, missing a button and having to go back for it.

“Get dressed.”

“You said I could come see you.”

“And you have. Now get dressed.”

“Hux, I – ”

“You have to go. You cannot be here.”

“Why? You said you wouldn't turn me away.”

“And I didn't, though I bloody well should have. Get dressed and get out.”

Kylo's face twists, and oh, God, now he's upset him, but Hux isn't thinking quite as clearly as he would like to be. Kylo reaches for his clothes, though reluctantly; more, he seems frightened that in this mood, Hux very well might try to throw him out nude if he doesn't put his clothes on.

If it weren't for the neighbors, Hux might.

Instead, he taps a foot impatiently, arms straight at his sides, nails digging into his palms in a frankly painful manner. He can get through this. He can. He'll send Kylo home, and if he never speaks to him again, he'll deal with that then. For right now, Kylo is on the brink of ruining everything. Everything he's spent his entire life working towards, and he cannot allow that. He simply can't.

“I can't – ”

“Can't what? Put your bloody trousers on, Ren – ”

“I am, give me just a minute!”

The snappish tone is – new. He's not used to Ren snapping back at him. But then, he supposes this is a rather stressful morning for them both. He'll forgive it, this time. He waits in silence while Ren's fingers, so nimble as he'd watched him with his puzzles, now fumbled over the clasp of his jeans, the buttons on his shirt, the tie he used to keep the long mess of curls back. Once he's dressed, Hux doesn't hesitate to point towards the door; he'll show Ren out, himself, but he needs the younger man to start moving, and start moving now.

“Go home, Ren – ”

“I can't, that's what I was trying to tell you!”

“What do you mean you can't?”

Fear, again; it spikes, heady and stomach-churning.

“I'm here for school! I took a semester abroad, I thought – ”

“A semester – you thought. Did you really? You thought, what? You'd pop over on a plane, stay with me for a semester, and we'd be lovey-dovey domestic? Is that what you thought, Ren? Because you clearly didn't think to ask me what I thought of this ridiculous plan of yours.”

“You didn't seem to mind last night.”

The words – sting. More than they have any right to, and Hux responds venomously.

“Get out of my flat.”

“I'm not a callboy, you can't just use me and toss me out – ”

“Out!”

Kylo looks livid, looks dangerous, and Hux feels his shoulders tensing for a fight that never comes; instead, Kylo turns, and makes his way down the hall. Hux hears something break, and he hopes it wasn't anything expensive. The door slams.

Not exactly the exit he wanted the neighbors to see, but an exit nonetheless. It will do.

 

---

 

“What happened at your place this morning?”

Lunch is a simple affair today, and a good thing for it; everything tastes slightly bitter, but Hux is beginning to suspect that has more to do with him than with the actual food itself. He pokes at a salad, frowning slightly at the question.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. Heard the door slam.”

“I was running late.”

“No you weren't. You're never late.”

“It had to happen eventually.”

“Hux.”

He hates that tone. The one Phasma uses when she knows he's lying to her, and disapproves. It grates on his nerves, makes him feel disappointed in himself for trying to lie to her. It's manipulative, and she knows it.

“Mind your own business, Phas.”

“When a door slams at your place and wakes me up at mine, it becomes my business.”

“It's not important.”

This time, Phasma says nothing, but he can feel her eyes boring into him, and he finally sets his fork down with a gentle clatter and a sigh.

“Kylo Ren showed up on my doorstep last night.”

“Who?”

“The...boy. From America. The one you had me write to.”

Phasma's eyes go wide, and a smile starts to spread across her lips, light and teasing. His deadly serious expression seems to make her reconsider this reaction, and instead, her painted mouth pulls into a quizzical pout.

“What happened?”

“We had a row this morning.”

“This morning, you say? Why, Hux – ”

“I am not in the mood.”

Phasma is silent, studying him for a quiet moment, before she dares to speak again.

“...why'd you have it out?”

Hux looks at her as if she has lost her mind, and Phasma looks at him similarly.

“Because he bloody well turned up on my doorstep out of nowhere, and I woke up to him naked in my bed this morning. Why do you think we had it out? I told him to leave, and – ”

“Oh, Hux, you didn't.”

“I most certainly did. I couldn't let him stay.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

Phasma toys with her food, not looking terribly inclined to eat more of it, her curious pout turning into a frown.

“So you...took him to bed, then tossed him out fresh this morning? That's a bit cold, though, even for you.”

“I had no choice. What if someone saw him? What if – ”

“What if, for once, you made a choice just for you? 'Cause it makes you happy?”

Hux snorts, an ugly sound.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Your father isn't watching you every moment of your life, you know. You could have let him stay.”

“If you're simply going to lecture me, I'll be going.”

“...I just think you ought to have given him a chance. That's all.”

“Thank you for your unrequested opinion on my love life. I'll thank you to never give it again.”

Phasma sighs, and he feels his stomach twist, knowing she's disappointed again.

All he needs now is for his father to call and tell him what a failure he is, and he'll have collected the whole set of negative encounters with people he cares about. Someone ought to make a punch card for him.

 

---

 

Kylo sends texts now and then. Prodding questions.

Are you married?

Hux responds, short and sharp.

No.

Then why couldn't I stay?

And that's the question Hux doesn't answer. Not the first time. Not the fiftieth.

Are you coming to my show?

That question doesn't get answered immediately; he...hadn't know Kylo was going to be in a show, honestly. He isn't sure he wants to see him. He's slightly surprised Kylo wants him to come.

But Hux...does miss him. He's loathe to admit it, but that's the only explanation he can come up with for the way he sleeps so restlessly, the way he checks his phone and Skype all through work, and twice as often once he gets home. He does a quick search online to find what Kylo is talking about; some play by a writer at the school. Hux doesn't recognize the name. It's a production put on by the university's theatre club.

Yes.

He doesn't know why he says that. He doesn't know why Kylo doesn't respond when he does. He doesn't know how to feel about any of it, really, but he's agreed now, and he won't turn himself into a liar as well as a complete ass. Kylo came all this way to see him. As panicked as the reality of as much has made him, it is – sweet, in its way. Romantic, even.

He dismisses the thought instantly.

The night of the show, he buys flowers; or, rather, a flower, just one. A red rose, with a fine black ribbon, silken to the touch. ( Like Ren's hair, he struggles not to remember. )

They are not professionals, but Kylo is...bewitching. On the stage, Hux can almost forget he knows this man at all, can almost forget he knows the sound and taste of him. Can almost forget that he knows the feeling of him under his fingers. He is passionate, and his low voice projects much better than Hux had suspected it might. ( He worries, briefly, about what the neighbors may have heard, but he has heard nothing, no rumors, not a peep about what occurred. )

After the show, Hux lingers behind. He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't. He should stay far away from this man, who threatens so much of what his life is built on, who makes his willpower and carefully controlled nature crumble away at a whim. This man who can trick Hux's internal clock into letting him sleep, actually sleep, and for a decent amount of time, at that.

Hux lingers, and Kylo does as well.

The rose is presented, and Kylo's steely expression – melts.

Silly, easily placated child.

“How did we do?”

His dark eyes are bright, the question brimming with legitimate fear and hope. He actually cares what Hux thought about the performance. He actually cares about his opinion, period.

The building has emptied. In the very back, behind the curtains, Hux can hear someone cleaning, but they are too far removed to see the pair of them standing just in front of the stage, in front of an empty audience.

“You were...enchanting.”

Kylo laughs, a little breathless; he's flushed from the heat of the stage lights, and shaking from excess energy leftover from the show. He's no longer in costume, but his lips are still painted – a trick to help the audience better make out his expressions. It takes the man a moment to realize Hux is serious, but when he does, his expression is that wide-eyed, darling look that Hux is growing entirely too fond of.

“...you really mean that.”

“I do.”

“I...thank you.”

There is a pause, a moment of silence, and Kylo is looking at him, beautiful, expectant, and – and, oh, to hell with it.

Hux takes a step forward, and brings his hand up, cupping the back of Kylo's neck, and draws him in. The kiss lingers, and he tastes lipstick, and this is a horrendous idea, but there is no one to see, no one to judge, no one to tell on him to his father.

“...why did you make me leave?”

The words are whispered into the fraction of the space between their mouths when they part for a moment.

Hux sighs.

“I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of...us.”

It feels odd to say the word; to refer to the pair of them as a plural. But it fits; it makes sense. The truth of the matter is that he is...afraid of what this will mean, if he continues it. Afraid of Brendol finding out. Afraid of the carefully constructed life he has built up around himself crumbling under the weight of a feeling he is unwilling to name.

He doesn't have to.

“Oh.”

The single word is so soft, so sweet; and then Kylo is kissing him again.

Forgiveness, as it happens, tastes like salt.

“Are you...crying?”

“I – I'm leaving.”

Hux's stomach drops, twists unpleasantly. Leaving? But he'd just gotten here, he'd only just...

“I thought you were staying a semester.”

“I have.”

...it's true. Thinking over it...it has been. He's been throwing himself into work, picking up extra shifts, anything to not have to think about what had happened.

And now, now Kylo is leaving.

“When?”

“In the morning. That's – why I invited you. I wanted to see you again. Before I had to go. I didn't want us to part on such bad terms...”

He feels like an idiot. All this time, wasted –

“Come home with me.”

“I can't...”

“I'll drive you to airport.”

“I haven't packed.”

“I'll – ”

“Hux.”

It's soft, but firm, and Hux stops, a flush settling high in his cheeks.

“...just...maybe come see me sometime? I'm getting my own apartment in New York. I was promised a steady gig when I get back, so...I'll send you my address? When I get there.”

“Yeah.”

The word comes out...hollow. A little empty, a little deflated. He's a damn fool, and he's recognized it entirely too late.

Kylo kisses him again, long and sweet, and then he's – gone. A single backward, regretful glance, and he's slipped out of his arms, and past the curtains, disappearing like a wraith into the gloom.

 

---

 

It takes time. Several months, in fact. It would have taken longer – arranging a move to a different country, particularly one across the sea is no easy feat, but his patience has long since worn thin. He settles, then, for several months, an update to his passport, a plane ticket, a bit of online shopping for apartments, and a good bit of money, thankfully forked out by the firm he's now working at.

When he arrives at the address, his heart is racing. This is...foolish. This is childish. This is utterly out of the norm for him. This is worse, even, than what Ren himself did –

And speaking of Ren, the door opens, and Hux is face to face with the man himself. His hair is swept back, a few dark curls falling loose, framing his face, and Hux's breath stops for a moment, his heart skipping two beats at least.

Still, his voice is even, and calm.

“Hello.”

Ren smiles, and draws him inside.

 

---

 

( Art by the lovely aw16st on Tumblr! )