Archive of Our Own

The sun is an egg yolk sitting on the horizon line when Hux steps outside.

Despite being half set it is still bright, and Hux squints at the sky, his eyes not yet adjusted to the outside light. They say you aren't supposed to look directly at the sun, so he doesn’t, looks above it, studying the shades of pink and orange that surround it, the warm light that melts into the cool dark evening sky further up. His shadow is long and distorted against the pavement and he takes a moment to regard it with a detached sort of interest; it shows a figure stretching tall and broad from the bases of his feet, dark and hulking, near monstrous in its shape and size.

For a moment, it makes him feel powerful. The next, it makes him feel more powerless than he’s ever felt.

He steps off the porch and over his shadow (an act of futility, as it reforms the second he places his foot back down), and shakes his head once, as if to clear it. A lock of fire-red hair drops to his forehead, appearing in the corner of his vision, and he pushes it back impatiently as he continues down the sidewalk.

He turns right at the mailbox and keeps walking, his neatly-laced work shoes fairly gleaming in comparison to the dull asphalt beneath them. He feels a prickle on the back of his neck and has to fight the urge to look back towards the house. He knows what he’ll see if he does: his father, standing at the front window, disapproval radiating off of him, pulling his features in tight to the center of his face.

No, he won’t look back. He won’t give his father the satisfaction.

Instead, he makes sure there’s absolutely no slump to his shoulders, no curve to his spine as he strides down the street. Draws himself up as tall and proud as he is able and marches, marches and marches until he reaches the end of the street and rounds the corner. Out of sight of the house, he slows his walk, but retains his posture. It’s a matter of pride. He’d rather not look like some hooligan teenager slumping through the streets at night.

The sun continues to sink below the horizon line as he walks, further and further, until the asphalt becomes less smooth and pristine beneath his feet, the concrete curb cracked and dotted through with weeds. Gravel crunches underneath his shoes. The street lamps flicker on.

Even with the sun down it is warm. Not oppressively so, as it is during the day, but warm nonetheless, and humid. The air is thick and moist with the promise of rain. In the tops of the trees that line the road, cicadas are screaming.

A car whips past him, and Hux feels the tremble of it all the way up his legs. Pebbles and bits of broken glass bottles vibrate against the road.

He walks, and he walks, thinking of everything and nothing all at once. His thoughts drift back to home - to his father’s house - and he diverts them, redirects them to the unmarked envelope tucked between his mattress and bed frame, to the money inside the envelope. He counts it mentally as he walks, each step accounting for one dollar, and when he’s counted it all he starts again, and again, until he finds that his feet have carried him all the way to his destination.

He winds his way through the weary-looking (but surprisingly functional) forest of gas pumps and pulls open the glass doors of the convenience store. A little bell near the ceiling signals his arrival to the only person inside, a dark-haired girl behind the cash register who has the shift before Hux most nights. Her name is April, something he only knows from her name tag, as she has never bothered to formally introduce herself to Hux.

April glances up from her phone long enough to catch sight of him, and one-handed she tosses him the metal ring that holds the keys to all the doors, the cash register, and the storage rooms. He catches them, barely, the ring landing on the tip of his index finger and nearly slipping off before he gains a proper grip.

“Have fun, champ,” she says, smacking her gum and hoisting herself up and over the counter. “Management says they want you to restock the candy aisle tonight, so. Good luck with that.”

‘Management’ consists only of the very old, very wrinkly gentleman who owns the gas station, and one assistant manager who takes his job far too seriously, considering that this particular gas station is too far out of town to have a steady stream of customers. Hux swallows a halfhearted retort and nods; he’s given up asking her why she never bothers to restock anything. The most unsavory jobs always fall to him to complete during the graveyard shift, and he’s grown used to it by now. The rigid, unpleasant monotony of the tasks is almost soothing to him and becomes strangely ethereal in the early hours of morning.

He closes his fist around the ring of keys and takes his place behind the counter ( properly, through the opening, not sliding over the counter like a barbarian). April is gone without another word, leaving stillness and silence in her wake, until he hears her car pull out of the parking lot a minute later.

He inhales, holds his breath until he can’t hold it a second longer, and then exhales in a rush, spots flashing in front of his eyes. His lungs are burning. It’s the best he’s felt all day.

For an hour or so he stares glassy-eyed across the store at the drink cases, going over the order of the bottled drinks with his eyes, then running through them backwards, the way he does when he restocks them. The light in the right-most case is on the fritz, and every few seconds it flickers out. Every night Hux thinks this will be the night that the light flickers out and never comes back on. So far, he’s been wrong every time.

Eventually he sighs, dips his head forward to stretch the tension from his neck, and reemerges from behind the counter. Dutifully, he goes to the front doors to check the parking lot for customers - there are none - before he heads to the back room to locate the boxes he needs to restock the candy.

He stacks the boxes three high on the hand truck and wheels them out into the store, grunting a little with the effort it takes to move them. He unloads them, and then draws the boxcutter from the pocket of his khakis and slices cleanly through the tape holding the first box together.

He loses track of time as he gives himself over to the rhythm of pulling out boxes, breaking them down, taking out new ones, opening them at the tear strips, shifting plastic-wrapped chocolate bars from shelf to shelf. Every so often some part of his consciousness drifts back to reality, and some dull clench of fear seizes him, causes him to twist his head towards the door, his hand hovering over the box cutter on the floor next to him. In the next instant he always feels foolish, both for his fear and for his reaction to it; he feels like a small child, frightened of imaginary monsters. While there are very real, very tangible threats that could exist here, ones that would hardly be phased by a teenage boy with a box cutter, Hux doesn’t typically consider himself a paranoid person, and chides himself for these rushes of anxiety. He’s not foolish enough, nor imaginative enough, to be affected by such things.

Too soon, the fresh stock of candy is neatly arranged on the shelves, plastic packages fairly shimmering beneath the fluorescent lighting.

As he begins to break down the boxes, folding them carefully to avoid hearing the piercing sound created by the edges of the cardboard scraping against each other, he finds himself checking his watch more and more often, the time elapsed between his glances towards his wrist shrinking every time. It’s not anticipation for the end of his shift, which is hours away and will come up with the sun, but he tells himself that it is, that there’s certainly nothing else that he might be looking forward to, that the checking of his watch is just a way to pass the time.

Still, though, still; when he reenters the back room to set the broken-down boxes by the back door, he does so quietly, quietly, straining his ears for the slightest sound coming from the store front, and ends up feeling silly when he hears nothing. He settles himself back behind the counter, drums his fingers restlessly against the counter, then folds his hands together so he won’t keep doing it. He stands stock-still until his knees start to ache, then sighs and stretches, mentally preparing himself to go and clean the coffee machine.

Another wonderful perk of the graveyard shift is the fact that it falls on him to clean the coffee machine - completely clean it, a job that involves entirely taking it apart and can sometimes take upwards of twenty minutes. The coffee powder, already combined with milk and heavily sweetened, goes everywhere when it’s refilled, clings to every possible surface, and gets incredibly sticky when it dries.

He grabs the bags of powdered coffee mix from the cabinet underneath the coffee station (if one can call a beaten-up cappuccino maker and a stack of styrofoam cups and lids a ‘coffee station’)  and pops open the front of the machine, nose wrinkling at what he sees inside. Clumps of pale brown powder have built up around the hoppers, and quite a bit of coffee has dried in sticky slivers in the drip tray and all across the countertop. He sighs, setting aside the bag of powder before he heads to the back to grab a wet rag.

He’s scrubbing ferociously at the dried-on clumps of cappuccino powder like they’ve personally offended him when the bell above the front door jingles.

His right hand pauses mid-circle, just for a fraction of a fraction of a second, and then he catches himself, keeps scrubbing. He doesn’t look up (casually, not because he’s forcing himself not to, of course), but he listens, listens to the rubber soles of sneakers squeaking against the tile floor, no doubt leaving scuff marks he’s going to have mop up later. There’s a sniff, the rustling of plastic, then more squeak-squeak-squeaks . A moment of silence. Hux scrubs, lowering his face so far it’s practically inside the machine. Then comes the sound of the drink case opening, and the slight pop as the door falls shut once again.

His shoulders tense a bit, involuntarily, as the sneakers squeak-squeak-squeak closer and closer, until they come to an abrupt halt behind him. He waits.

“Hey,” a voice says. Soft, a little rough and gummy, the voice of someone very recently asleep. “Can you ring me up?”

Hux straightens before he turns, the coffee-stained rag still clenched in his right fist.

He knew it was Kylo the moment the bell rang, but seeing Kylo is always different than hearing him, the sight of him always a little bit of a shock to the system, a little bit of a pinch in the gut. For one thing, the size of him always takes Hux aback; Kylo only has a few inches on him, but it seems like more due to the breadth of his shoulders. It doesn’t matter than everything about his posture, his demeanor, is seemingly designed to reduce the effect of his size - he slouches so horribly that Hux has to bite his lips to keep from telling him to stand up straight - even this is not enough to prevent Hux, and likely others, to skip that moment of surprise, and the subsequent period of adjustment, at the knowledge that such a soft, unassuming voice can come from someone of Ren’s stature.

Besides his body, there are the things attached to it: black, black clothes, even though they are in the hottest month of summer. The thick, dark locks of his hair, positioned to cover quite a bit of the surface area of his face. The two silver studs positioned under his bottom lip, gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

Hux thinks he looks absurd, and has thought so since the very first time Kylo stepped inside the store. He looks like a mix between an 80s punk rocker and a Hot Topic model, and Hux doesn’t have the patience for people who dress so ridiculously, people who are so obviously prone to melodramatics and pleas for attention. It doesn’t help that the clothes so obviously look like a costume on the quiet, reserved Ren; they’re a front, clearly, an attempt at being something that he is not but wants desperately to be.

But Hux is a gas station worker, not a psychoanalyst, and he’s here to scrub coffee machines and ring up purchases, not critique the fashion choices of 2 a.m. customers. If Ren wants to dress like a complete idiot, that’s his own business. So he sets his rag down on the counter gestures for Ren to follow him. He slips behind the counter, the tension leaving his shoulders now that there is a two-foot barrier between himself and Ren; it’s a relief he can’t explain. He isn’t afraid of Ren, and has no reason to be, but the quickening of his heartbeat and the dampness at the center of his palms indicates otherwise. He’s given up trying to make sense of it at this point.

Ren places his items on the counter - a bottled Pepsi, the beginnings of condensation beading on the sides, and a prepackaged cherry pie, the kind that’s sickeningly sweet and artificial and has about a thousand calories to boot. He branches out from time to time, but this is his standby, and Hux is so familiar with ringing it up that he barely glances at the cash register before he reads out Ren’s total.

Ren hands over a fist-full of change which Hux counts half-heartedly, already knowing that the amount is exactly correct. He doesn’t ask if Ren needs a bag, because he never does, and Ren takes his items off the counter as Hux sorts out the change and slots it inside the cash register drawer. As always, for a moment, Hux thinks that Ren might leave, might exit the store with a second ringing of the little bell and disappear into the night with his Pepsi and his cherry pie and leave Hux in solitude and silence once more, but as always, he doesn’t. What he does do is shift his snack to one hand and pull a roll of quarters out of his jacket pocket, crossing the store to ancient arcade cabinet in the corner.

Hux isn’t sure how long the cabinet has been here, and he isn’t sure why it’s still here at all. It’s old and outdated, breaks down routinely, and requires more maintenance than it’s worth, considering Ren is the only person he’s ever seen play it at all. Most of the time it sits in the corner like a bizarre piece of modern art, silent and ignored. Except for when Ren comes in.

As Hux returns to the task of scrubbing out the coffee machine, he hears the little chime of music that signals the start of the game, and then the much louder sounds of Kylo jerking the joystick back and forth, of his fingers rapidly mashing the single white button on its surface. It’s to this soundtrack that he sets the pace of his cleaning, circles of the cloth punctuated by the sound of tiny alien ships being blown up on Ren’s screen.

As he moves on to the sticky residue on the sides of the machine, his mind wanders back to Ren’s first foray into the convenience store and, as a result, Hux’s life. It was about a week and a half into his night shift employment, when he was still fresh and green and struggling to move boxes of stock from one end of the store to the other. In the whole eleven days of his employment, not one person had come into the store during his shift, not even to buy gas, so who could blame him, really, for jumping and scattering an entire box of plastic-wrapped muffins across the floor when the front doors opened unexpectedly and set the little entrance bell to ringing.

It hadn’t helped that the person - the boy - who had entered looked absolutely wild, half-crazed in the eyes, with that thundercloud of dark hair floating in disheveled chunks around his face, the legs of his skinny jeans shoved hastily into the tops of his combat boots, which sat unlaced, the flaps of them open and gaping.

The boy had stared at him, and Hux had stared back, surrounded on all sides by muffins, his hand by instinct stretching towards his pants pocket, to the box cutter sitting suddenly heavy against his thigh. But the boy had simply crammed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders, turning his face towards the floor as he slumped towards the pastry aisle.

This behavior hadn’t been enough to reassure Hux that this boy wasn’t about to whip out a knife and tell him to open the cash register, so he had slipped the box cutter into his hand before kneeling down to pick up the muffins, tossing them two or three at a time into the box they had spilled from. When he had finished and stood up, the boy was nowhere within his immediate sight, which sent a jolt of panic running through him until he’d turned on heel and spotted him standing in front of the drink coolers, apparently carefully considering his selection. Hux had scolded himself for the irrational fear and, with one eye affixed to the boy, picked up the muffin box and moved it into the pastry aisle. He’d only managed to shelve a grand total of two muffins before a large, dark mass of human appeared in his peripheral vision.

He’d peered at the shoes first - the unlaced black boots, scuffed at the toe - then slid his gaze up to the boy’s face. Much to Hux’s relief, the boy’s initial wildness seemed to have abated: though his hair remained disheveled and his eyes roamed from place to place somewhat nervously, the intense and frightening energy that had radiated off of him upon his entrance had died down. He had sensed, or suspected, or perhaps mused was the word, though, that this wild energy was not entirely vanquished, just contained, reigned in, so that it could bubble just underneath the skin. His own perceptiveness in that moment had unnerved him.

“Uhm,” the boy had said, gaze fixed to the floor, where the toe of his left boot had begun to grind against the tile. “Sorry. Could you ring me up?”

His voice, while deep, hadn’t been near as deep as Hux had expected, and was soft, tentative, sat low and sweet in his mouth and in Hux’s ears, which had felt quite suddenly and inexplicably warm.

He’d given a curt nod in place of a spoken response, and had taken the time to place one more muffin on the shelf before heading towards the register to ring him up. That first night he’d had the same items as tonight: a bottled Pepsi and a cherry pie, and he’d done that night what he’d done tonight: headed straight for the arcade cabinet in the corner, the one that Hux in all his newness hadn’t even realized the store possessed until that exact moment.

The boy had gently inserted two quarters into the machine, cracked his knuckles, opened his Pepsi, taken a sip, resealed the bottle, and placed both it and his pastry on top of the machine. Then he’d planted his feet firmly against the floor and proceeded to yank the game’s joystick back and forth with such ferocity that Hux had been convinced he was about to rip the damn thing off.

He’d considered saying something, then, telling the boy to knock it off before he broke something (the game or his fingers - either was just as liable to happen), but had ultimately decided that he didn’t much care for the machine or a stranger’s fingers, and didn’t want to risk a punch in the face besides. So he’d returned to stocking, the boy had played his game until he ran out of quarters, then left the store looking much calmer than he had upon entering. Hux had subtly watched him exit, and then walked to the arcade cabinet and placed his hand on the joystick. It was warm, and slightly sticky with the residue of the boy’s cherry pie.

Hux had scoffed and wiped off the joystick with a rag.

He had not known, then, that this encounter was the first of many, many encounters that played out nearly the exact same way, like clockwork. Hux had discovered his name one night when Ren had taken his wallet out to pay and Hux had gotten a good long look at the driver’s license inside while Ren dug for coins. He was disgruntled to find that Ren had neatly covered whatever name was originally on his license, replacing it with a sticker that read “HELLO, MY NAME IS: Kylo Ren,” which he had not-so-neatly written in. It was most certainly not his real name, but it was the only one Hux knew, so he begrudgingly began to use it, if only mentally, to refer to Ren.

Ren didn’t come in every night, but it was a near enough thing to it, so much so that on the nights he didn’t come in Hux often found himself staring towards the door expectantly, right up until the end of his shift.

Not because he looked forward to seeing Ren, no, not at all, but there was no denying that there was some sense of security that came from sharing the same space as someone else, and despite his own preference for solitude Hux was, in a sense, grateful to not be left entirely alone through the dark summer nights and early mornings.

He did find himself wondering, though, why he was not left entirely alone through the dark summer nights and early mornings - by all means he should have been, for everyone else should have been in bed asleep except for the occasional truck driver stopping for gas. It had something to do, certainly, with the fact that Ren always came in looking like he’d been chased right to the front door by some looming, terrible thing in the darkness, and always left calm and placated, the negative energy that had been surrounding him at his entrance completely dissipated. As time went on, Hux had considered just asking Ren why - why he came in, why in the middle of the night, why here, why always here - but always ultimately decided against it, bit down on the tip of his tongue to keep the burning question inside, because it was really none of his business anyway.

Tonight, though, as Hux watches the dried-on coffee adhered to the drip tray turn into brown blotches on his cleaning rag, the desire to ask, to know, creeps up on him again, settles heavy in the bottom of his mouth, under his tongue. He turns his head, and takes in the sight of Ren’s broad back and shoulders hunched over the machine, not a perfunctory glance as he usually performs, but a long, lingering one, watching the way Ren moves.

The tension in the lines of his body builds up and lets go, flowing in and out of him like water, and his hands and fingers move with a swift and sure ferocity, his eyes (his whole attention, his being) fixated on the screen. He sways from foot to foot intermittently, in a way that he himself is probably completely unaware of, occasionally rocking forward onto the balls of his feet as his bites down on his tongue, the very tip of it appearing from between his full lips. Something shifts without warning and his fingers slip against the joystick, losing the steady rhythm he’s built, and he curses as the machine beeps loudly at him, his hands flying up to his hair and then smacking against the game’s console.

The sound brings Hux back to himself. The rag in his hands is twisted between each of his fingers, pulled tight enough to hurt.

Inexplicably, the aching pinches of pain in his knuckles untie the knots in his tongue, replacing his long-held apprehension with a flood of calm determination, and before he can overthink what he is doing he is walking, swift and sure, across the floor to the arcade cabinet (to Ren), balling the cleaning rag in one hand as he goes.

He is halfway through the movement when he realizes he has no idea what he will say when he gets there, but fortunately, fortunately, Ren chooses that exact moment to curse under his breath and slam his fist against the side of the cabinet.

“Hey,” Hux says sharply, and Ren’s head jerks around so fast Hux swears he can hear his neck pop as he does it.

“I would very, very much appreciate it,” Hux says, and he can hear the exhaustion and irate exasperation in his own voice, “if you would, perhaps, consider not slamming your fists against store property, because when you end up putting a hole in that thing, or, I don’t know, breaking the joystick off of it, I’m the one who’s going to get blamed for it, and besides then what other poor hapless machine would you abuse in the middle of the night? The coffee machine? The slushy dispenser? I suppose you could test your hand against the cash register but then I really would have to call the police, and I’m sure you don’t want that, do you?”

Ren’s eyes are the size of dinner plates and his mouth is slightly slack - he is looking at Hux like a deer looking into the lights of an eighteen wheeler - but as Hux comes to the end of his rant his face darkens, clouding over like the sky before an unexpected thunderstorm, and, oh, Hux really is going to get punched, isn’t he?

“I’m not gonna break it,” Ren bites out, but his eyes flick back to the cabinet as if checking to make sure his most recent attack hasn’t put a hole in the thing.

Hux snorts. “Maybe not on purpose, but that thing looks ancient, it wouldn’t take much, would it?”

“Guess not,” Ren says sulkily, fixing his glower at Hux’s shoelaces. In the next moment, though, all the heat seems to leave his expression and his shoulders slump forward once again. “Sorry. I’m not gonna break it, okay? Sorry.”

Hux can’t stop himself from blinking surprisedly, several times very rapidly, before he regains control of himself. “Thank you,” he says simply, and Ren shrugs one black-clad shoulder before he turns back to the machine.

And he should let it go, there. He has all the assurance he needs, as an employee, has conveyed all he needs to convey, professionally, but it is so dark and quiet and still and late, and there are coffee stains on the pads of his fingers, and something about this place, about Ren, strips him of all the care and caution he usually keeps himself wrapped in.

So he approaches further, until he is standing right behind Ren, who has slipped another quarter into the machine and is playing another round of whatever game he finds so fascinating, though this time his motions are much more subdued, the sounds of him moving the joystick and punching the button less sharp and grating in the radiating quiet of the store. Hux can see the screen from here, over Ren’s shoulder, closer than he’s ever seen it; he can follow the path of Ren’s tiny spaceship as it passes back and forth along the bottom of screen, blasting apart flying enemies as they enter from the left and right.

“Why do you do it?”

The question he’s held in for so long, kept private even from himself, slips free as easily as he would have drawn another breath.

Ren’s fingers slip on the joystick, and one of the tiny flying enemies crashes into his pixelated ship.

“What?” he says, turning back to Hux with his brow furrowed. Already embarrassed by his slip in control, Hux crosses his arms across his chest, drawing himself up as tall and stern as he can.

“Why do you come loiter in random gas stations in the middle of the night instead of doing, I don’t know, anything else? Sleeping, maybe, like everyone else is?”

Ren’s lips pinch together in a frown. “I’m not loitering,” he says, jabbing his thumb at the half-empty Pepsi perched on top of the arcade cabinet. “I bought something.”

“Well, still,” Hux presses. “It’s unnerving to have you hovering around all the time while I’m trying to work, and I’d rather like to know why I’m having to endure your repeated presence, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” Ren growls out, his eyes flashing. “It’s none of your fucking business, is why.”

“Well then instead of coming in here to bother me every night with your absurd anger issues, perhaps you should go and pester a therapist during daylight hours,” Hux drawls sarcastically, turning his back on Ren and making to stalk back towards the coffee machine, already regretting his decision to open his mouth.

He doesn’t make it far before there’s a pressure at his neck that halts him in his tracks and whips him around: Ren has grabbed him by the collar of his polo with one massive hand, and his face is so very, very close to Hux’s, blanched with fury.

“That’s not funny,” he says, eerily blank. “That’s not - you shouldn’t joke about that, that’s not funny.”

The anger drains out of his words by the end of his sentence, leaving him looking drawn and pinched and tired, and Hux feels the itch of hot shame creep up the back of his throat the, because he’s right, Ren’s right, he’s stepped so far over the line of what’s acceptable to say to a stranger that he’s surprised Ren hasn’t picked him up and thrown him into one of the candy displays already. All the mystery that is Kylo Ren has pushed buttons that Hux didn’t even know he had, because he likes the concrete, the easily explainable, and Ren and his continued presence here are neither of those things, but curiosity is not a good enough reason to pry, to press, and to insult someone just because Hux was unable to get what he wanted out of him.

“I’m sorry,” he says slowly, trying to imbue his tone with as much genuine regret as he can. “I really - that was out of line, I apologize, it’s really none of my business, and I shouldn't have - I’m very sorry.”

Ren deflates the rest of the way, releasing Hux’s collar - Hux stumbles back a few steps. He stands there, looking a bit lost, eyes roaming to look at everything but Hux, and Hux waits, sensing that he wants to say something more.

“It’s not…that’s just not funny,” Ren mumbles at the ceiling. “If people need therapy that’s not….that isn’t a joke, it’s not funny.”

“No, I know,” Hux says. Embarrassment crawls at his neck and the lobes of his ears. “I shouldn't have said…I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, I swear.”

Ren nods in acknowledgement, his hands twisting in the hem of his shirt. “It’s just…there’s no therapist offices open at two o’clock in the morning,” he says abruptly. “So if I - so if somebody needs something, a distraction, right now then they can’t go there, right?”

Hux’s throat constricts, and he swallows the knot before he speaks. “Right. You’re right.” He wants to apologize again but he’s already apologized to Ren more than he ever apologizes to anyone, so he figures he won’t overdo it - he’s already embarrassed the other boy enough for one lifetime.

He opens his mouth, not to apologize, but to say something, anything, to change the subject, but Ren gets there first, his hand creeping to the back of his neck to tangle in the thick, dark strands of his hair.

“Do you ever, uhm…have you ever played? The game, I mean?”

Hux shakes his head.

Ren grinds the toe of his shoe against the tile. “I could - I could show you how, if you wanted.”

Hux, smart enough to take the white flag he’s being offered, simply nods mutely, and trails after Ren when he returns to his customary spot in front of the cabinet. Instead of hovering behind, he steps up to stand next to Ren, on the left of him, next to the arm that controls the cabinet’s joystick.

Kylo shrugs off his jacket, tossing it aside atop the stack of bottled water next to the arcade cabinet. His arms are paler than his face, but dotted with the same dark moles. Hux has always suspected that the apparent thickness of his upper arms was an illusion created by the dark, heavy jacket, but faced with the sight of Ren’s biceps straining the sleeves of his t-shirt, he’s forced to admit that his suspicions were far from correct. He swallows a bit thickly.

Kylo has lined up a few quarters against the cabinet’s screen, and he grabs one of them now, sliding it into the machine with a familiar gesture and a quiet click.

“So it’s called Galaga ,” Ren says. “I mean. It says so on the outside so you already knew that - “ (Hux doesn’t bother to tell him he’s never paid enough attention to the machine to know what its name is) - “but. Anyway. You’re this little ship down here at the bottom - it’s a top down shooter, so it’s in 2D, and you can only move the ship left and right - I mean, in some top down shooters you can move up and down too, but not in this one - and your objective is to just destroy all these alien bugs before they can take out your ship, and it gets harder as you go along. Pretty simple,” he says, shrugging. He’s been playing as he speaks, and he has cleared the first level with apparent ease and is now pounding away at the second. “It’s pretty old school but it’s a classic. When I was a kid I would come in here with - with my dad, and he taught me how to play.” He goes quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on the screen; the light from the cabinet casts a multicolored glow on his face, making his eyes shine neon. “I guess it’s like riding a bike, where you never really forget how.”

“And you…you enjoy playing it, even though it frustrates you?” Hux inquires, puzzled.

“It doesn’t frustrate me,” Kylo says, surprised, almost taking his eyes from the screen but catching himself before he can. “I mean, it’s pretty fucking annoying when I screw up on an easy level and lose a life, but the game doesn’t make me mad, it’s actually really…you know, calming, or whatever. Cathartic, I guess?” Hux doesn’t have time to be taken aback at his casual use of the word before the left side of Kylo’s mouth is drawing up in a slightly self-deprecating smile. “You know, so I don’t punch the coffee machine or attack the cash register or anything like that.”

They stand in silence for a moment, watching Ren blow up alien after alien on the screen, before Ren says, “Just sometimes…sometimes I can’t sleep, and when I can’t sleep I just. Think too much, about stuff, and then I feel too much about stuff, and then,” He pauses, seeming to grapple with his words. “Then there’s no place for the feelings to go except out, so. Yeah. Virtual aliens are a pretty safe thing to take them out on.”

Hux remains silent. He hadn’t expected Ren to lay himself quite so bare, but there is something about this place, this time, this atmosphere. He’s felt it himself, and it makes people do strange things. It feels like a dream, and in dreams there are no consequences; in dreams everything ends when the sun comes up.

He’s never seen Kylo Ren in the daylight. He wonders what he looks like in the sun.

“Well, then,” he hears himself say, all too aware of how his words are poised over Ren’s exposed insides like a scalpel, requiring a care and precision he doesn’t quite trust himself to express. “Just try to keep the damage to the aliens, and not to the machine, alright?”

Ren glances at Hux. Through the dark strands of hair Hux can see his eyes, big and smooth and dark, and right now more warm and serene than Hux has ever seen them.

“Alright,” Ren echoes with a wisp of a smile.

He half-turns his attention back the screen (not once have his fingers paused, hesitated, even when he wasn’t looking at the game at all). He’s still looking at Hux with his peripherals.

“Hey, uh,” he says slowly, his tongue flicking out to fidget with one of the studs below his bottom lip. “When I die, do you wanna have a go?”

Hux stands, watching Ren effortlessly blast through the patterns of brightly-colored bees and wasps (some “aliens” those are), ones he must have been memorizing for years. When he shoots them, they explode into white bits that scatter outwards into black, black space.

“No, thank you,” Hux says. “I’m on the clock, remember?”

Ren shrugs one shoulder, as though it doesn’t really matter to him - it doesn’t, why would it? - and Hux lets the cleaning rag unfurl in his hand. He turns rigidly on heel and walks (walks, not stalks) back across the store.

The coffee machine still needs cleaning.

Ren leaves at around four, directing a one-handed wave at Hux before he leans his back against the front door to push it open and vanishes into the night. His time of departure is typical for him; the waving is most decidedly not.

His major tasks already completed, Hux wanders about the store, feeling somewhere between lost and trapped, straightening every last bit of product on the shelves as he goes. When everything is arranged so neatly that he can no longer find any spare millimeters to adjust by, he stands in the center of the store, looking out, and then turns in a circle to search for anything he may have missed. As he does so, he catches sight of the Galaga machine, and realized he hasn’t wiped it off since Ren left; it’s bound to be sticky with the remnants of his cherry pie.

Hux grabs another rag and sets to work scrubbing at the joystick and buttons with more force than is strictly necessary, then glances over the top of the cabinet to make sure that Ren hasn’t left his trash there - he hasn’t. Hux kneels to check the floor for any dropped bits of change, and catches a glimpse of something dark in the crack between the cabinet and the stack of water bottles next to it.

Hux grasps the thing by the corner and pulls it out. It’s large, dark, and a bit stiff, and as he stands with it clutches in both hands he realizes that it’s a jacket.

Specifically, it’s Ren’s jacket, which must have somehow slipped to the floor without his notice and been forgotten when he left.

With a hesitancy he doesn’t quite understand, Hux holds the jacket by the shoulders and allows it to unfold from its current tangled wad into something that actually resembles a jacket. He brushes it off once, twice, to loosen any dust and dirt that might have accumulated on it during its stint on the floor. It’s heavier than it looks, the fabric thick and starchy, and Hux scoffs lightly at the thought that Ren wears this in the summer. To be fair, he’s only ever observed Ren wearing it at night, but while cooler than daytime the nights lately have been sticky, humid; any sort of jacket in this weather is unwarranted, much less this one.

Hux rubs his thumb along the collar, eyes passing over the multitude of brightly colored buttons and patches attached to the garment. He’s noticed them before, of course - they're rather hard to miss - but he has never looked at Ren long enough, closely enough, at one time to be able to decipher the meaning of any of them. Now, though, now that he is alone with the jacket, Ren’s jacket, and no Ren, he feels a prickle of curiosity at what Ren has deemed so important that he needs to walk around with it emblazoned on his chest.

He drapes the jacket over his forearm, eyes drinking in all the little circles and squares and rectangles stitched or pinned on: most of them appear to be band names, only a few of which Hux recognizes, like The Smiths and Misfits; the rest are all things like The Psychedelic Furs, Nervous Gender, The Mothmen, and - Hux wrinkles his nose - Butthole Surfers?

Here’s a pin shaped like an avocado, here’s a bat, a pencil, a skull; all over the fabric there are smatterings of safety pins of varying sizes; on the breast there is a button that reads ‘PUNK’S NOT DEAD’; a slightly-faded patch declaring ‘I BELIEVE IN THE DOVER DEMON’; Hux is dusting his fingers over them, transfixed, chuckling a little at a few, twisting and turning the jacket so he can read them all, and -

His fingers freeze on one pinned neatly right beneath the collar. It’s glossy, newer than some of the rest, and boldly colored, with a rainbow striped background - and atop that background, in thick, black lettering, the phrase ‘NOT GAY AS IN HAPPY, QUEER AS IN FUCK YOU’.  

His mouth is dry and he covers the button with his thumb when his head darts up to look around the store, to the front doors, out into the parking lot. He is alone, he’s still perfectly and completely alone. His heart is hammering in his chest.

Hux uncovers the button and reads it again, and again, and again, until he is sure, he is sure he grasps its meaning, until there is no way to misinterpret or misunderstand. It’s an admission - no, a declaration, a declaration Ren wears on his chest like a badge of honor, out where anyone can see and know and understand, where anyone can know and judge and hurt, and Hux doesn’t understand why, why Ren would walk around with this damning proclamation on display.

He doesn’t know how Ren finds the bravery. How anyone does.

His fingers tighten on the jacket’s collar, and he realizes they are trembling, just slightly. From fear, he thinks, but the bitter flavor at the tip of his tongue is envy. Green the color of spring grass, thick, new, fresh.

He inhales slowly. His fingers still.

He folds the jacket in half, tucking the sleeves in, and carries it back behind the counter, stowing it away beneath the cash register. Out of sight (nearly) and out of mind (hardly). He’ll just have to give it back to Ren the next time he comes in. He runs a hand over it to smooth out the wrinkles, then neatly folds his hands atop the counter, settling in to await the end of his shift.

It takes him two minutes before he allows himself to slip one hand down to settle against the jacket’s collar, his thumb tracing the edge of the button in slow, repetitive circles. He doesn’t stop until he notices a scuff mark on the tile he missed while mopping, and has to retreat to the back room for his cleaning supplies once again.

His replacement stumbles in bleary-eyed and yawning at 5:50 a.m. While Finn pours himself a cup of coffee from the freshly cleaned machine, Hux removes his name tag and tucks it in his pocket, locks the register and removes the key ring to hand to Finn. He’s about to step out from behind the counter when he remembers the jacket.

He’ll leave it here, he decides. There’s no point in taking it home with him when the next place he’ll see Ren is the store anyway. It’ll be perfectly safe under the counter.

He reaches out to run his thumb over the button again. Pauses.

When he steps out into the already warm morning, the darkened sky tinged with orange and pink from sunrise nearly indistinguishable from the sky darkened and tinged with orange and pink from sunset, the jacket is tucked underneath his arm.

He walks home with his hands in his pockets, occasionally closing his eyes to block out the ever-growing light, which stings his tired eyes and only serves to remind him that he hasn’t slept all night. Hux pinches his lips together to stifle a yawn.

His sore feet carry him home on their own; it feels as if they know the way better than his own eyes. When he steps up next to the mailbox, the driveway starts to rumble quietly, and he watches as the garage door lifts and his father’s car backs out into the street. It pauses right next to him as his father switches the car from reverse to drive, and then peels off down the street, kicking up a light spray of dust that settles on Hux’s shiny black work shoes and the ankles of his pants.

He enters through the front door, letting it slam shut behind him with a sharp crack that rings through the empty house. He climbs the stairs two at a time and when he pulls his bedroom door shut behind him he releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He’s sticky with sweat and cleaning products, he really should shower, but his bed looks horribly inviting at the moment, so soft and comfortable and horizontal, so he kicks his shoes off and flicks the ceiling fan on before he collapses on it facedown, over the bedspread, and lets out a long, muffled groan against the mattress. He’s extremely comfortable for all of one minute, until he starts to struggle to breathe and has to roll over, which makes him aware that his curtains are wide open and are letting in the sunlight, burning red and orange even through his closed eyelids. He sits up slowly and reluctantly, dragging the curtains closed and shucking off his work pants and belt.

Ren’s jacket is lying at the foot of his bed, and before he gets back in it, he picks it up the garment and shakes it out again, spreading it carefully out on the desk chair that sits opposite of his bed, so it won’t wrinkle. Satisfied, he climbs back in bed, sliding underneath the covers, and closes his eyes, eager to finally, finally rest.

Only, now that he’s here, sleep evades him.

He’s ever so slightly cold, but he knows that if he turns the fan off he’s going to be too warm, so he pulls the sheets tighter around his shoulders and rolls over onto his right side with a huff. From this angle, in the dim light still peeking in through the closed curtains, he can see the outline of his desk chair, Ren’s jacket draped neatly over the back.

He could…but he shouldn’t. it’s a ridiculous thing to even consider. He rolls onto his left side, shutting his eyes firmly. He won’t, and that’s final.

He pulls the sheets up to his ears. He stuffs one hand under his pillow. Stretches his legs, pointing his toes, then brings his knees up to his chest.

Hux sighs, then slides out of bed, snatching Ren’s jacket off the chair.

Once he’s holding it again, he begins to have second thoughts; the jacket is thick but not very soft or pliant. He reaches a hand inside the sleeve and is presently surprised to feel that the inside of the jacket is silky smooth, apparently lined with a different material than the exterior.

Hux looks at the door to his room. To the closed window. To the button on the collar.

He puts the jacket on.

It’s the right length but too big in the shoulders, which causes the cuffs to slump down over his palms, not quite consuming his fingertips. He was right - it is warm, but not unbearably so, and having it on is oddly bolstering. If his posture wasn’t already perfect, it would make him want to stand up straighter.

Hux reaches his fingers up the collar, to the rainbow button, and rubs the pad of his index finger over it again. The act of doing so makes his heart leap into his throat, and his eyes dart to his bedroom door once again before he regains control of himself, shaking his head. The door isn’t going to open. No one is here. He is safe. Alone and safe.

He locks his bedroom door before he climbs back in bed.

Under his sheets, with the jacket on and the fan spinning overhead, he is just the right temperature and in his comfort he feels all his tiredness crash back down on him at once, and he begins to drift off almost immediately.

He rolls over once more, burying his face in the collar of Ren’s jacket. It smells like cherry pie.

When Hux walks into work, April is on her phone again, leaning with her back up against the cash register. He resists the urge to tell her that anyone could walk in and steal a whole rack of snack mix without her noticing.

She barely looks up long enough to toss him the keys and tell him that the drinks need to be restocked, and then she is out the door. Hux takes Ren’s jacket out from under his arm and stows it carefully beneath the counter before heading back to the walk-in. Stocking the drinks is a cold and unpleasant job, and he prefers to get it over with as soon as possible. Putting it off only makes it worse.

He uses his trusty box cutter to slice through the plastic covering the pallets of sodas and waters. Goosebumps are already rising on his arms as he slides the drinks into their rows from behind, and he stops several times to rub the feeling back into his hands, fingers numbed from grasping the cold plastic bottles. He only manages to fill one case before the cold becomes too much, and he has to step out into the store so he can feel his face again. He procrastinates returning to the task by straightening products on shelves, until he feels perfectly warm and can’t make excuses to put it off any longer. He sighs heavily, steeling himself to head back into the walk-in, already anticipating the feel of goosebumps popping up on his bare arms -

But.

Well. There’s an idea.

Hux’s eyes wander back to the counter as he think of the jacket, Ren’s jacket, thick and warm and durable…but no, he shouldn’t. It was one thing (albeit, a very strange and creepy thing) to put it on in the privacy of his own home, but to do it again, to do it here, where other people might see - where Ren might see - is another thing entirely. And there’s that button, too, just beneath the collar, and imagining it plastered onto his own chest, where anyone could see, where anyone might think it was his jacket, sends a shiver down his spine that has nothing to do with the anticipated cold of the walk-in. No, he can’t. He won’t.

But.

No one ever comes in during his shift. No one but Ren. If Ren comes in tonight, Hux will hear the bell and be able to take it off before Ren sees him. It’s just for the walk-in. It’s logical to want to protect himself from the cold so he can get the job done faster. That’s all it is.

His mind made up, he strides determinedly over to the counter, pulling out Ren’s jacket and zipping it up to his collar bone. Sturdy, safe, and warm, just like he remembered. Too warm, standing out here, but inside the fridge it won’t be.

He pulls the sleeves down over his thumbs and returns to the walk-in. His hands and face are still unprotected from the cold, but the jacket makes staying inside the fridge more bearable, and allows him to work faster and without breaks. Really, he thinks to himself, somewhat sheepishly, he should have thought to start bringing a jacket of his own with him to work specifically for this purpose. For some reason, the idea had never occurred to him before now.

Hux slides the last three Dr Peppers onto the shelf and stands back to admire his work, double-checking that he’s stocked all the bottles in their correct slots. His first week, he’d mixed up the Crush and the Sunkist and had to completely redo the orange sodas, and when he’d finally gotten out of the fridge it took him five minutes to be able to feel his fingers again. He doesn’t have that problem now: he hasn't made any mistakes, and his fingers are quickly warmed in the front pockets of Ren’s jacket, once he extracts the bits of lint and several receipts from them.

He restocks the styrofoam cups for the coffee, and then goes about straightening things on shelves, taking out empty boxes and putting things back in their proper places. Someone has torn open a bag of candy in one of the back aisles, and tiny spheres in red and purple and green have rolled everywhere. He squats to see if they’ve gone under the shelves (they have), then sighs and rises to grab a broom from the back.

When he returns Kylo Ren is standing by the Galaga machine.

He almost drops the broom and catches it at the last second, before it can make a sound and alert Ren to his presence. It hardly matters though; Ren seems to sense him (can he smell him?) and turns around, a slightly panicked look on his face.

“Yesterday I think I left - have you seen my - “ he starts, and then trails off as he looks Hux up and down, the line of his mouth slackening. “That’s my jacket.”

Hux can already feel his cheekbones blazing, heat creeping into the back of his neck and his ears. He tries to will it away - blushing makes him look like some sort of freckly tomato - but he is unsuccessful, and now he really does drop the broom as he hastens to take the jacket off.

“I’m - I’m sorry,” he stutters out, shoving the jacket at Ren. “It’s just - I found it last night and - the walk-in is really cold, otherwise I would never have - “

“Hey, hey, hey,” Ren says, all soft and low, as if he’s trying to soothe a wild animal. “It’s alright, it’s fine, I don’t care. I’m just glad you had it, I fucking flipped when I realized I didn’t have it.” He hugs the jacket to his chest as he speaks. Hux just hopes he doesn’t smell it - would he be able to tell that Hux slept in it?

“Thanks,” Ren says earnestly. The back of Hux’s neck heats again.

“No problem,” he says, with forced steadiness.

He squats to pick up the broom and begins to sweep while Ren grabs a Strawberry Fanta from the drink case, but when Ren heads for the front Hux leans the broom handle against a shelf; he’ll come back to it later.

He’s firmly situated behind the counter by the time Ren approaches with his drink and a Snickers bar. He rings Ren up, tells him his total, accepts the change, puts it in the register. Just like always. Everything is completely normal.

At least, everything is completely normal right up until the second that, instead of turning his back on Hux and heading to the Galaga cabinet, Ren plants his palms on the counter and jumps just slightly, working himself into a sitting position on the counter. It’s…unsanitary.

“What are you - “ Hux starts, but Ren holds up a hand to stop him.

“I figure since I had my little pity party in here last night that you sort of owed me. Or I owed you, however you wanna look at it.” He pats the space next to him on the counter. “Get up here.”

Hux crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not sitting on the counter,” he says. Purses his lips. “Why do you want me to sit on the counter?”

“Two a.m. therapy,” Ren says, as if it’s totally self-explanatory.

Hux sets his jaw, lifts his chin. “I don’t need two a.m. therapy,” he says. Harsh. Biting.

Unfazed, Ren shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe not. But everybody’s got some shit they need to talk about.”

“Well, not me,” Hux says acerbically, stepping out from behind the counter. “And even if I did - which I don’t - why would ever want to talk about it with you?”

The casual easiness fades out of Ren’s posture, his expression, and he looks down at his lap, his fingers twisting and untwisting, picking at his fingernails.

“I - I don’t know, I just thought…” he trails off. “Fine. Never mind. Whatever.”

He makes as if to clamber down from the counter, but Hux holds up a hand to stop him. Sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t want to do this, he has nothing to say, nothing that he wants - that he needs - to share, but saying no to Ren feels a bit like kicking a puppy, as though he’s cruelly rejected something that Ren had to gather a lot of courage to be able to offer in the first place.

“Fine,” he says shortly. He sits down on the counter next to Ren, carefully to leave a few inches between Ren’s thigh and his own. “But I’m not here to talk about my feelings, okay?”

“Okay,” Ren says. The tiniest bit of amusement is present in his tone. “Then what do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t want to talk about anything - ” he begins hotly, then sighs as the flash of irritation fades. “I don’t know. What do you want to hear?”

Ren leans back on the counter, studying the ceiling titles as he thinks. “Wellllll,” he says, muffled, drawing the word out as he rolls one of his lips piercings between his teeth. “There is one thing I’ve been wondering.”

Hux’s fingers tense in his lap. “Oh yeah?” he says bleakly.

“Why are you working here?”

Relief sweeps him. “That’s all?”

Ren turns his head to look at Hux, squinting a bit. “Well, yeah, I mean…no offense, but this place is kind of shit. And you have the graveyard shift, which is the shit shift. The point is, this is a big wad of suck but you do it anyway and I don’t really understand why you do it when you don’t need to.”

“Who says I don’t need to?” Hux asks, brow furrowing.

Ren shrugs again, this time with both shoulders. “I mean, I guess I just kind of assumed, ‘cuz of your dad.”

His mind blanks. His mouth is dry when he opens it.

“My…dad?” His voice is dull, emotionless.

“Brendol Hux Sr., right? My mom knows him. I mean, she knows of him. She’s really active in city government so she's gotta be, right? But I mean, I guess everyone’s kinda heard of him anyway. And basically all anyone knows about him besides the fact that he’s the governor is that he has a shit ton of money.”

“How do you…know my name…” Hux says, slow as molasses, mentally searching for the box cutter, stiffening when he realizes that, right now, it’s in Ren’s jacket pocket.

Ren taps the left side of his chest, just under the button. “Name tag.”

Hux glances down at it, bewildered, and once he sees it he immediately wants to slap himself in the forehead. This job has made him far, far too paranoid.

“So he is your dad, right? I can’t imagine Hux is a real common surname,” Ren continues, opening his Fanta with a slight hiss.

“He…is,” Hux says.

“So why the minimum wage job?” Ren takes a swig of his drink, his eyes never leaving Hux.

Hux stares out at the store. His eyes trace the shapes of plastic-wrapped muffins on the pastry aisle, over and over. “It’s…complicated,” he says weakly. His body feels heavy. He is suddenly so, so tired.

“Stuff usually is,” Ren says sagely, resealing the Strawberry Fanta. “You don’t have to tell me, you know. If you don’t want to.”

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t. Ren is a virtual stranger, a wild card, unpredictable. Telling him, telling the truth, is a liability he can’t afford. He doesn’t want to risk that. He can’t risk that. He’s been so careful.

He is always so, so careful. So cautious.

So afraid.

So silent.

He doesn’t want to tell Ren. But he needs to. He needs to talk, to tell someone, to tell them anything at all, because he is so afraid and so alone . The realization startles him, shakes him to the core, and even with Ren right next to him and the summer night warm and balmy outside, he suddenly feels isolated. Cold. Small.

He has never been able to tell, because there has never been anyone that would understand. This time, this place, this town, his family …all he can see them as are threats, looming and dark, threats he is only safe from because he has lied and concealed and hidden at every turn.

He is. Tired. Tired of hiding.

And now, within his grasp, there is someone who he might not have to hide from. Someone who might understand.

Hux feels the moment he gives in down to his bones. He feels simultaneously lighter and heavier. He only realizes he’s trembling when Ren rests a large, warm hand against his thigh, holding him steady, keeping the tremors at bay.

“Hey, uh,” Ren says, biting his lip. He looks alarmed at Hux’s sudden change in demeanor. “Really. You don’t have to tell me anything, it’s okay, just…”

“I - I need to,” Hux says hoarsely, his voice hardly more than a whisper. His hands are balled into fists against the countertop. “I have to, I need to, I just. I don’t know how, I’ve never…I’ve never told, I never ever told, and I’m just so - “ His voice breaks.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Ren says, his voice soothing and warm, cutting right through all of Hux’s swirling, fearful thoughts. “It’s okay, alright? I’m…I know you don’t know me, but I’m not gonna tell anyone, okay? You’re safe.”

Safe. Ren is wrong, Hux hasn't been safe for a very long time, but the word makes him think of how he felt wearing Ren’s jacket. Strong. Untouchable. Safe.

“Can I…can I ask you something?” Hux asks, trying to get his voice, his hands, his whole body back under control.

“Sure,” Ren says. “Anything.”

Hux lifts his trembling fingers to the left side of his collar. Traces the shape of the phantom button.

“When did you…know?”

Confusion passes over Ren’s face. Then realization. Then… understanding.

“Oh,” he says. “You - oh.”

“Yeah,” Hux says quietly. He sticks his hands under his legs to keep his fingers still.

Ren opens his mouth. Closes it. Bites his lip. “I…” he starts. “I guess I kinda always knew. It’s just. How I’ve always felt.”

“And your parents…they were okay with it?”

Ren looks down. His hair falls into his face. “My mom didn’t really care, no. She said it didn’t make any difference. And my dad…I don’t really know. He said it was fine and he still loved me, but…he bailed on me and my mom not long after that. So I don’t really know for sure.”

Hux closes his eyes. Tries to imagine what that would feel like, having a parent who just didn’t care. A house with doors that would always be open to him, no matter what. The image doesn’t come. He gives up trying. There’s no point in wanting what he can’t have anyway.

“And…everyone else?”

Ren’s shoulders tense, drawing up. “Everyone else doesn’t matter.”

“Of course they do,” Hux says blearily. He draws his knees up to his chest. “How can you just…how can you just wear that? Right where everyone can see it? Someone could…if they saw that, and you were alone, and they saw that…they could just…”

Ren slowly pushes his hair back from his face, fingers twisting up in it tightly. “I guess I’m just. More angry than I am afraid. I figure…too many people have come before me, and - gotten hurt before me, and died before me, that it felt. Wrong. To hide it. Like everything they did was for nothing.”

“So, what, then?” Hux asks, anger sparking in him. “Everyone should just come out, no matter how unsafe it is, and just fuck the consequences?”

“Of course not, that’s not what I…” Ren sighs now, with enough force that it shows in his entire body. “I know everything is still super fucked up, but…if you’re not honest with yourself, or anyone else…people can’t live like that. Not forever.”

“I know,” Hux says.

“So…what are you gonna do?”

Hux, surprising himself, lets out a weak chuckle. He points at the ceiling. “Work here, that’s what. Isn’t that what you asked? Why I’m working here? It’s so I have something of my own to…fall back on. So I can get out of here, and then maybe I could be more angry than afraid, too, but not here. Not now.”

Ren pulls his knees up to his chest, resting his crossed arms on top of them. “Is it…your dad?”

Hux mirrors Ren’s gesture. It makes him feel less exposed, even knowing that this is the most exposed he’s ever been in his life. “Am I allowed to be jealous of you because your father just left one day?”

Ren pauses. “On a normal day, no. But right now I’m gonna let it slide.”

Hux nods in acknowledgement. “I’m…sorry. That was. Out of line. But. I can’t…he…living in a house with him is….he doesn’t even know, but it always feels like he does, because…nothing I ever do is good enough. And if he already barely tolerates me, then if he knew about… that …I don’t know, I mean, I can’t - “ He stops to swallow through his dry mouth and stinging eyes.

Ren is quiet for a minute. “I’d say that I understand but you’d already know I was bullshitting you, because…it’s never been like that for me. I’m one of the lucky ones, I guess. And you aren’t, and that totally blows, but…” He looks at Hux again, now, right in his eyes. “You’re gonna survive this, okay?”

He sounds so certain, so sure. So confident. From his mouth the words sound like prophecy, unshakable fate, and it pours cold water over all the places Hux has ever been burned and soothes them. He feels…safe.

“How do you know?” he asks anyway, ever the skeptic.

Ren shrugs. “You’re strong. I can just tell. If I thought anybody could get through this, it’d be you. You’re gonna get out of here, and someday things are gonna be better for you. Really good.”

“You think so?” Hux asks. He hates how vulnerable he sounds, then he catches himself. Catches the hate. Lets it go. He doesn’t need it right now.

Ren leans back again. “Yeah, I do. You’re gonna go off to some big college in some big city and have the time of your fucking life, and discover yourself, and all that fucking garbage, and you’re gonna be happy. I really believe that. I have to, because, well. That’s what you deserve . After this shitty place…I want that for you. I really do.”

Silence stretches on for a long moment. Solid. Warm. Sturdy.

“You’re a big fan of talking like you know me,” Hux says slowly, “when you don’t really know much about me at all.” He taps Kylo’s shoe with his own, so the other boy will know he’s joking.

“Well, if it bothers you that much,” Kylo says, shooting him a sideways grin, “then I guess we’ll just have to change that, right?”

Hux hums thoughtfully. “I’ll take it into consideration,” he says dryly, and Kylo snorts, bumping his shoulder into Hux’s.

“Shouldn’t you be working right now?”

“Oh, hush, ” Hux says, rolling his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping right now?”

“Nah,” Kylo says, hopping down from the counter. “I should be killing aliens in a 2-D plane to soothe my teenage angst right now.” He sticks a hand out, an offering, and Hux takes it slowly, pushing against it as he slides carefully down off the countertop.

“Well, don’t let me keep you from your vitally important galaxy saving,” Hux says.

“Oh, I won’t,” Kylo says, grabbing his jacket, his candy, and his soda off the counter. He turns, then pauses. Turns around.

“Hey,” he says, fingers fidgeting with one of the frayed edges of a patch on his jacket. “When I die, do you wanna have a go?”

The Hux in his brain says, I’m on the clock, remember?

What his mouth says is, “I don’t know how to play.”

“I’ll teach you,” Kylo says. His eyes are full of light, drawing Hux in. Warm. Sturdy. Safe. “It’s easy. I’ll show you, if you want.”

They’re talking about the game, and only the game, but it feels like more, like the words are laden with something else . Something neither of them meant to put there. Something neither of them quite understand. Something that Hux, at least, isn’t quite ready to face. Not yet.

Not yet. But maybe one day.

He steps forward.

“Show me,” he says. “I want you to. Show me.”