Work Text:
He found it waiting for him on his bedside table the morning of Kylo’s departure: a letter. A real, paper-from-trees, handwritten-in-ink letter. It surprised him, not that Kylo had left such an old, archaic thing lying around — that would never surprise him —, but that he had managed to slip out so early, entirely unnoticed.
At first, Armitage ignored it. All his business was done on holos, the letter couldn't possibly be intended for him. But in the shower, the thought kept nagging him that while Kylo does often leave artifacts strewn about, he’s never before left one on Armitage’s side of the bed. Was the letter for him? Likely not. That's something to worry about after the morning shift, if he has time.
The morning shift passed in a breeze, the meetings block dragged, and lunchtime simply never happened. It was late, at the end of midshift, that Armitage finally returned to his quarters for a meal. Before he could sit to eat, the crisp white paper once again caught his eye. He took nigh a second to weigh whether he should give in to his curiosity before the meal or after — before, so his food could cool — and strode over to the bed, snatching the letter up and reading it.
Then he read it again.
It was for him.
Armitage sat down on the bed and reread the entire letter under his breath.
It was for him.
A confession of love, handwritten in ink on paper from real trees, from Kylo to him.
Kylo had never been quiet about his feelings for Armitage, had made them very well known, but… this was new.
Armitage may have had a rather sheltered upbringing, growing up in the rim, but he understood the sentiment. He had to reply. But —
Where would he find paper? They didn't keep any in stock on the ship, except for the sanitary rolls and emergency notecards. Those weren't fit for a love letter. And a writing utensil? An ink pen? Nevermind that, he couldn't… He couldn't even write. Not like this, not by hand.
Although, Kylo would not be back for a full week. That's enough time to learn, right?
—
The next day found Armitage and Phasma skipping lunch alone in a briefing room, huddled over a stack of her notecards.
“Not quite like that. Like this.” Phasma wrote the exact same letter Armitage just did.
“That's exactly what’s on my card!”
“It’s not. You added a serif and left off a tail.”
“That’s not even a real word.”
“What?”
“‘Serif?’ I've never even heard that before. And I still don't see the difference.”
Phasma rolled her eyes. “You said you wanted me to teach you handwriting.”
“I do, but you're making me feel like an idiot. What makes these letters any different?”
“Details. They aren't written the same way they look on your datapad because that's just how it is. I can't explain it any better than that. Now finish your lines, and do them right.”
—
He met her again the next day, and the next day, and the next day.
—
He was feeling pretty good about his handwriting when he first sat down to start on the letter. Phasma had gotten ahold of some real paper, with some spare notecards to draft on. But now, halfway through and looking back, it looked terrible. The letters were all slanted, the lines were uneven. He crumpled it up and tossed it into the bin.
He pulled another paper and started again, focusing this time on writing in a straight line. He thought he kept it up pretty well, but a few lines in, he noticed that the size of letters was not uniform. Everything on the left started out normal, but ended up tiny on the right.
Again. Nope, still dreadful.
Again.
Again.
Ag—
The paper was gone. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. Kylo was supposed to arrive the next day, and the paper was all used up. He had failed. Typical.
There was nothing to be done, so he retired for the night and resolved to deal with the paper trash in the morning.
—
The next morning was terrible. He hadn't gotten any real sleep the night before, two of the chief petty officers rang in sick, and the ship had apparently been low on caf for a month and no one had thought to order some more. There was no way the day could get any worse.
At lunchtime, what was supposed to be his first real lunchtime in a week, he dragged himself from the bridge to quarters so he could have a lie down. His head ached, his feet ached, his back ached. He was done.
Except that when the door to his quarters opened, he found that he was not alone.
“When did you get here?”
Kylo’s head snapped up from whatever he had been turning over in his hands. Some paper or something. He was sitting on Armitage’s side of the bed.
“Not too long ago, I was just—“
“What is that in your hands?” he all but choked. It had better not be what he thought it was.
“This?” Kylo held up the paper. There were four more papers strewn around him on the bed. “I think it's mine. Did you write this?”
A huff. “No.”
“Huh. That's kind of weird that someone would write about the exact color of my eyes when they probably haven't even seen my eyes, and then break into your quarters and throw it—”
“Stop talking, Kylo.”
His lover looked up with a sly smile. “I didn't know you knew how to write.”
His face turned red.
“You didn't, did you?”
He looked down, refused to meet Kylo’s eyes.
“Did you learn how to write just to write me back?”
He couldn't look up. He heard boots walk over.
“Do you want me to teach you?”
His cheeks burned hot from being shamed. He knew his handwriting was bad, and he didn't want Kylo to see it for this exact reason.
“Spare me your fun, Ren.”
“I could teach you, but I already love your handwriting.”
What?
“It’s really you. Your krill is so precise, I can tell that letter’s important to you, and it makes me feel important.”
Finally looking up, he gave him an incredulous look. “What are you talking about? Is that even my letter you're looking at?” He snagged the paper that was still in Kylo’s hand, and, sure enough, it was that first draft he wrote on paper.
“Huh, I guess since you didn't learn to write as a kid, you never learned how to read handwriting, either.”
“I can read just fine, thank you very much.”
Kylo laughed. “No, I mean like read into handwriting. Everyone writes differently. And people’s feelings really come out when they write by hand. Their handwriting when they're happy doesn't look the same as when they're angry, or tired.”
“You're making that up.”
“I'm not. I really do love your handwriting. It’s unique to you, whether you like it or not.”
He doesn't know what to say. There's so much more to handwriting than he ever thought there could be, and frankly, it doesn't do anything to alleviate his headache.
“I'm going to sleep. Comm the bridge and tell them I won't be back until tomorrow.”