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A shaking frustrated sigh echoes off pristinely shining fresher walls, using a washcloth damp with water that feels like stabbing ice to press into wounds it could never heal. Every passing noise that lingers outside makes his grip on the metallic sink tighten until the muscles scream with protest, nerves prickling everywhere and refusing to settle. Throwing down the useless cloth in irritance, he reaches for the glass filled with amber liquid balanced carefully by the faucet. The alcohol burns in more ways than one as it slides down his throat, doing nothing to calm the storm of memories vividly rattling around his head. The mirror in front of him mockingly reflects back a pitiful sight. Hair of burning amber, usually so neatly and carefully arranged, sticks every which way in disarray. A once porcelain complexion now sickly pale, splotches of yellow providing its only color. And eyes of shifting blues and greens are now shot red with intruding veins, surrounded by shadows of needed sleep. Worse of all is the once milk white skin of his neck, was now marred with discolored patches of unmistakable shape. Even now he can trace the mark of fingers in the purple and blue blotches as they wrap around, constricting in a way that ached to even think about. There are patches of red from where he had rubbed it raw in a poor attempt to hide what had already been done, his eyes shifting to the empty glass still sitting in his hand. He wanted to throw it into that awful reflection with every ounce of strength he could muster, but the mere notion of such rage induced destruction makes him nauseous with the thought of him. Instead, he exits the fresher with it, placing it back upon his desk beside a half-empty bottle. His body is heavy and begs for a sleep he hasn't gotten in weeks, but the bed he sits upon is foreign, hard, and cold. He aches with need for his own bed, back on the Finalizer, with the nagging knowledge in the back of his head that tells him it will be just as void of any familiarity. There is not enough alcohol coursing through his veins to stop the voices from flooding in to fill the agonizing silence in the room, ones that sound annoyingly like the screaming tone of his father. Distantly he is aware of a ringing alarm, a reminder to eat food that he can't stomach and that'll scratch its way down as equally as it'll scratch its way back up. Instead he lets his back hit the mattress behind him and reminds himself of when his father told him love was a farce created by dim-witted people with a need to settle into mediocrity, it had been sometime after his 10th anniversary of an arranged marriage to a woman he never saw. As a child he had been content to believe that, far more focused on making it to that ever elusive position of power than finding a love when he had only ever witnessed it falling apart. But, love had found him, or so he had convinced himself. Because being with Kylo felt like his first act of rebellion against a life full of neat edges and burned luxuries, a freedom he hadn't allowed himself in all 30 years of his life. Because being with Kylo felt like the single burning flame amongst ice-cold steel and the freezing emptiness of space, threatening to burn him if he got too close but luring him in with a tongue of melted caramel. Because being with Kylo felt like a safety he hadn't felt since his mother was alive, his arms a place where the rest of the galaxy disappeared even if only for a moment. In those times between them he wasn't, the proud unbreakable General Hux, he was Armitage, a boy to craved a love he wasn't sure he was ever allowed, his defenses down and his weakness bare. Touching his fingers to the protesting skin of his throat he allows the pain to remind him of the cost he had paid for it. The fault was his, he was aware. Every warning sign that blinked at him in those moments he watched Kylo destroy yet another part of his ship's equipment over a minor irritation he had ignored, convincing himself such a thing could never turn on him. Every wall and reminder he had plastered around him to remind himself to never again feel the sting like he had suffered at his father's hand he had torn down, telling himself that Kylo wasn't him. All because those nights with Kylo had felt so right, because they had slotted together so perfectly, because Kylo was warm and safe. For him he had pushed aside years guarding and now he was left to count the scars. He rolls to his side to ease the ache of his shoulder from where he had hit the wall, his shirt irritating the colored ribcage hidden beneath with every movement. What a fool he had been, falling in love with Kylo Ren had been the most idiotic thing he had ever done. What did he think was going to happen? How was this all supposed to end? Did he think Kylo Ren was going to sweep him away to some fairytale happiness? The thought makes his scoff. He had craved the warming of that grand flame and set himself ablaze, now here he was, surprised he had been burned. How foolish. He should've known loving Kylo had consequences.