Work Text:
No good could come of formal dinners.
The young Admiral Hux adjusted his jacket before the mirror and sighed. It had been quite impossible that he should miss the dinner - Sir William Snoke had invited him, and had been most particular about his insistence that Hux attend. And so he had left Starkaller Abbey, and come down to London, which held nothing he loved and everything he despised.
Sir William had neglected to mention several things, when he had made his invitation. Firstly, though he had been quite clear about the fact that the evening would be entirely spoiled without Hux’s presence, he had not mentioned that that was because there would be only one other guest.
Secondly, he had decided not to tell Hux that the second guest was the semi-legendary bête noire of the moment, the disgraced scion of a terribly powerful family, bent on dragging what little good still clung to his name through the gutter by carousing, and picking fights both verbal and physical, and duelling (which was how he had acquired the awful scar on his otherwise rather interesting face), and writing poetry. Not nice, well-behaved poetry either - passionate and unbridled, filled with the sort of thing no well-bred gentleman should ever admit to reading, let alone writing. It was positively French.
And third, and most annoying of all - Sir William had not mentioned that Lord Kylo Ren had a deep interest in reading. This wasn’t entirely a surprise, but unfortunately all of London was well aware that Starkaller Abbey had one of the finest libraries in Yorkshire. Hux was quite proud of it. What he had inherited from his father had been considerable, but he had augmented it with purchases both clever and wise, and it was the crowning jewel of his beloved estate.
Others found Starkaller Abbey to be cold and remote, surrounded as it was by nothing but nature, miles upon miles of moors and dales. Hux loved that about it; it was not a house in which hundreds of guests would gather. In fact it was more likely to drive guests away, seeking somewhere that appeared less… forbidding. It suited Hux completely.
To be alone in his castle, with his books, and his ginger cat Millicent, and not to see another soul for weeks together besides his housekeeper, Phasma: that was the highest form of happiness.
Phasma understood, at least. She had spent her childhood in a convent, and had truly considered the cloistered life before deciding that there was more of the world to see, and taking passage on a ship. The rumours were that she had used her exceptional height, dressed in men’s clothing, and worked her way around the world; Hux gave the rumours little credence, as Phasma was an entirely respectable woman as far as he had ever divined. But still, she knew her mind, and when he had met her, serving as the chief cook on board a frigate, he had offered that should she ever tire of the sea, she might come to him. No land-locked cook could ever make salt fish as palatable as she did.
She had, as he had, eventually needed time away from the sea. He still nominally held command of the HMS Finalizer, but since making Admiral, his role was more strategic, and he could take more time away. When she had written to him, he had had Starkaller Abbey opened, had installed her there, and had come home to find that, somehow, it was a home.
And now that peace was threatened. Lord Kylo Ren had been by turns challenging, and charming; had grumbled through the soup course with thunderclouds about his head, then been radiant throughout the main course. Hux could not comprehend him at all.
But the fact remained that he had asked, during one of his more charming moments, if he might visit Starkaller Abbey when Hux was next at home. Hux, who had been perfectly brought up, had had nothing to say but yes, of course, although the words felt leaden in his mouth.
Sir William Snoke had looked at him then, and smiled; and the trap had closed on Hux’s ankles.
He meant to make something of Lord Ren. Hux knew that, it was obvious. The man had prodigious talents, even if he did turn them to base pursuits; perhaps it was Sir William’s hope that he might be swayed by the contents of the young Admiral’s library.
But the young Admiral had his own ideas; and so it was, on the morning of Lord Kylo Ren’s expected arrival, that Hux was buttoning his jacket and preparing to head off into the wilds of his estate.
He just didn’t like the idea of seeing Lord Ren. Their conversation had been stilted at best, simply awful at worst; Hux was sure they had nothing whatsoever in common that could build a friendship. And the scandal he was almost certain to bring with him did not make him the sort of person an Admiral of the King’s Navy ought really to be associated with. There had been entirely too many rumours lately about his appetites, and the companions of both sexes with whom he reportedly satisfied those appetites. And frankly, having now seen Lord Ren being charming at close quarters, Hux felt more inclined to believe the rumours than he had previously. It wouldn't do for Hux to allow him to stay at Starkaller, not for Phasma's sake nor his own, not if he wished to keep his quiet life at which no-one looked too closely.
There would probably be no actual harm in lending Lord Ren books, provided that he returned them unscathed, but more than that, Hux did not want.
Phasma, who did not mind, would receive Lord Ren and pen him in the library for the afternoon. She would explain that Hux was out on the moors, as was his custom. This much at least was perfectly true; when at home, it was his habit to go on long rambling walks that covered every part of his estate. Some days he would set off at dawn and not return until nearly dusk. It was absolute freedom, and he loved it, and Lord Ren could not intrude upon it - just so long as he gave himself an adequate head start.
----
When he returned, close to dinnertime, to find the house smelling pleasantly of roast duck with herbs, Lord Ren had been and gone again.
“He was disappointed to have missed you, sir,” Phasma said, as she brought the duck out on a platter. “I believe he said he would be staying in the inn down at Thirsk for some time - should you wish to renew your acquaintance with him.”
Hux imagined Lord Ren, swathed in ostentatious black silks, amongst the country folk of Thirsk, and was rather uncharitably amused. The locals would have something to talk about for the next few years, at any rate.
“I shall have to ensure I am called away to London on short notice,” he said, as he sliced into the duck. “I do hope he wasn't difficult with you.”
“I can more than manage his sort, sir,” Phasma said confidently.
Hux smiled. “I am certain that is true.”
----
The letter came sooner than he had expected, and there wasn't time to arrange the trip to London; Lord Ren thanked the Admiral for his kindness in opening his home to him, and the wealth of knowledge that was his library, and begged the honour of a return visit, at which he hoped they might discuss some of the reading Lord Ren had done; he felt certain that if the Admiral was truly possessed of the taste and refinement that his library suggested, they should be great friends.
Hux could think of nothing worse.
But the image of Sir William Snoke was always with him; he dashed off a quick and perfectly correct reply, in which he regretted very much that he was unlikely to be at home, but clarified that Lord Ren was quite welcome to avail himself of the library once more.
And once again, with Lord Ren’s arrival impending, he fled to the wilderness.
----
He returned to find a neat stack of books waiting to be reshelved. At least, among his many faults, Lord Ren apparently did not count carelessness with other people's belongings; the books were pristine, just as they had been when he had lent them. His own marginalia were the only markings in them. He had never broken himself of the habit of annotation.
Hux noticed, however, that there seemed to be a loose sheet of paper protruding from the leaves of the top book. He tugged it free, wondering what it was.
In spiky black hand that was not his own, that had to belong to Lord Ren, the page bore eight lines of poetry:
You walk the dales, untroubled and alone,
Seek nothing but a calm and quiet day.
The ground beneath your feet is all your own;
The master over all that you survey.
But whosoever seeketh, ye shall find,
And find you shall, though you know not you look.
The calm and quiet of an ordered mind
Is better sought indoors, within a book.
Hux stared at the paper for a long time, swinging wildly between the certainty that he was being insulted - in his own home, in perfect iambic pentameter, and this could not be permitted - and a strange pride. Lord Ren was an acclaimed poet, though a reprobate and a scoundrel, and here he was, writing about Hux.
It was unmistakably an invitation, a declaration of intent, and a statement of opinion.
You might dare, the poem said smugly, to stay in next time.
He flung it down on his desk, in disgust, and left the room.
----
The weather was turning from late summer into autumn, and with Ren still occupying Thirsk and leaving no question of Hux’s going there, there was not much to do save endless tramping through the wooded corners of his property.
He was caught in a rainshower late one afternoon, and came down with a chill, as he often did at this time of year. It was nothing particularly worrisome, except that he was still altogether disinclined to leave his bed when Lord Ren’s next letter came up from Thirsk. Escape was impossible. But Ren’s presence, also, seemed quite impossible.
He instructed Phasma, with the sepulchral croak that currently served him for a voice, to tell Lord Ren that under no circumstances could he stay longer than it took to exchange his current books for others. “Tell him I am terribly sensitive to noise and cannot be disturbed,” he said. “For I shall be, if the noise is him.”
Phasma smiled knowingly, and not for the first time, he considered what a good wife she would have been, had he been at all inclined to ever take one, or had she been at all inclined to accept him. “I shall keep him entirely away, sir,” she said. “I cannot think his company would do you any good at present.”
She was as good as her word, and Ren must have behaved himself, because Hux slept through the whole afternoon, unbothered by anything taking place in the house, and woke late in the evening to her knock at his door.
She bore a covered basket, and a strange look somewhere between amusement and dismay. “Sir, Lord Ren has just had this sent up from the inn at Thirsk,” she said. “He seems to imagine I am incapable of properly providing for you, and has apparently prevailed upon the innkeeper's wife to assemble a basket of ‘stren’thenin’ foods’, or so I am given to understand.”
The innkeeper's errand boy spoke particularly broad Thirsk, and he could hear it in Phasma's cadence.
“Never mind,” he said. “I suppose I could do with some stren’thenin’, unless the contents are in some way horrifying?”
“Well,” she said slowly, “the provisions are not, sir. But there's also this.” She drew a slim envelope from the side of the basket, and handed it to him.
He groaned at the sight of the handwriting, the ostentatious wax seal only confirming its provenance, and waved a hand at Phasma. “Quickly, miss, the brandy - I feel faint.”
“I’m sure you needn't read it now, sir,” she said. But she extracted a small bottle from the basket that appeared to be the innkeeper’s wife’s plum wine. That was a good enough reason to sit up.
He popped the wax seal off the envelope and drew out the single sheet of paper.
My dear friend - What madness was this?
I was terribly sorry to hear that you are unwell. Please accept the basket as a token of my regard for you, and in thanks for the hospitality you have been gracious enough to extend to me despite your own commitments. If Hux had written that, he knew what it would have meant, but did Ren’s skill with a pen extend to the sort of courtly half-concealed inferences that he himself would have used? Then he thought of the poem.
It is still my fondest desire to speak with you. I feel that I must have misjudged you at Sir William’s party - I had thought you to be the stodgiest of individuals, too soaked in tradition and wrapped in Navy serge to ever acknowledge the existence of a world outside of rules and the adherence to same. But oh, I cannot believe it of you now, not having seen your books. One cannot know a man until one has seen his books, do you not agree? And I feel I know you now, better than anyone I have ever met. It is as though I can read your mind, as I follow your pencil markings in the books. I am fascinated by you in all your contradictions, and I must resolve them.
You must see me, Hux - I cannot call you Admiral, not now - I must see you, and so you must see me, and that is simply how it shall be.
“He’s taken leave of his senses,” Hux said, and wondered if he really did feel faint now. The plum wine seemed to help.
I know you are still recovering, but your housekeeper was good enough to assure me that you will shortly be well, and so I will come to you in two days’ time.
Yours,
Below there was a sprawl of ink, that did not seem to read Lord Ren, but might possibly have read Kylo.
He stared up at Phasma, who had sat on the edge of his window seat. “Did he seem feverish to you, Phasma? Delirious, perhaps? In the grip of madness?”
“Not the first two, and begging your pardon, sir, I am not sure how one might distinguish the third from his normal state of affairs,” Phasma said.
Hux fell back against his pillows, feeling suddenly devoid of the energy necessary to deal with any part of this situation.
“Sleep, sir,” said Phasma. “That knits up the ravelled sleeve of care, as they say.”
“Balm of hurt minds,” Hux mumbled into his pillow. “I believe I sorely need some.”
“It will all wait until the morning, sir.” She tugged the blankets up to his shoulders, and left, with the basket over her arm.
She had left the wine. He drank off the glass in one draught.
----
Two days later, he was only just out of bed for the first day since he had fallen ill. It was a greyish day, the clouds thick and fat with raindrops they had not yet shed. But for all that, he was glad enough to be awake for it, and feeling very much more like himself. Enough, in fact, that he was willing to set foot inside the library.
He had thought of reading something, perhaps - a pleasant morning, near the fireside - and for a moment, the quiet order of the stacks of books and the rich warmth of velvet and rugs soothed him.
Someone had put away most of the books that Ren had brought back - perhaps Phasma, who knew his system. There were only a few remaining, stacked on the corner of his desk. He wandered towards them.
And then he saw the sheet of paper he had thrown down, there, the last time he had been in this room.
There were six more lines, beneath the original eight: a full sonnet, now. The new stanzas were in Hux’s own blue ink, but Lord Ren’s unmistakeable handwriting.
You walk the dales, untroubled and alone,
Seek nothing but a calm and quiet day.
The ground beneath your feet is all your own;
A master over all that you survey.
But whosoever seeketh, ye shall find,
And find you shall, though you know not you look.
The calm and quiet of an ordered mind
Is better sought indoors, within a book.
Come master me, come read my pages, then
Curl up with me, and find the calm you need.
I’ll tell you all you wish: and read again,
And you will find a deeper truth indeed.
Look well: it is on solid ground you stand,
With me beside you, peaceful in your hand.
He couldn’t quite catch his breath.
What did it mean, what could it mean? Was it… an offer, was it something… did Ren know, had he guessed at Hux’s own secrets?
What had he read, out of the thousands of books here, that would lead a man, even a poet, to write as Ren had written?
The books were mute to the wild accusations of his stare. He let the paper drop from nerveless fingers, and ran from the room.
He struggled into layers of warm clothes - he would have to go out, he would have to, he could not be in the house when Lord Kylo Ren arrived, absolutely not. Not until he’d had a chance to think, and there was no way to do that here, not with everything reminding him that Ren had been here, and would be here again.
It might rain. So be it. It would not stop him. He considered his sailor’s oilskin for a moment before pulling on his heavy woolen coat instead, and laced his boots up, and headed for the hills.
----
He had not thought to wear his watch, and so he was judging only by the angle of the diffused sunlight through the thick cloud layer that he had been walking for two or three hours when it finally began to rain, hard and driving droplets that battered down on him and stung where they landed on his skin.
He had headed for the higher ground, as far away from Starkaller as he could get, into the forest where he could lose sight of the house and pretend that no-one could ever find him, that he would be safe from all persecution here amongst the oaks and alders. These trees had sheltered generations of Huxes before him, and they would hide him now.
They didn’t do much to shield him from the rain, and he was regretting the decision not to wear the oilskin. But a slow, damp wind had picked up as well, with a nasty edge to it that reminded him that autumn was merely the beginning of winter. He shivered, and tried not to think about the water seeping down the back of his neck.
Finally, too soaked to pretend any longer that he wasn’t, he looked up, and let the rain go directly into his eyes for a few moments while he looked for the thickest spot of cover. He chose an oak tree that looked to be wider around than a barrel; its bark was rough but drier than he was, and he hid himself against it gratefully, and then slid down to sit at its base, leaning on its gnarled shape.
He was so tired. Not just from the walk, but from everything - from trying to think, or trying not to think, about Lord Ren, and what he might or might not intend towards Hux, and whether or not he could bear to find out or if he just wanted so very much for everyone to leave him alone.
His lips curved around the words I am fascinated by you - as though that were a reasonable thing for anyone to say about him, surely one of the least fascinating individuals to have ever had that phrase applied to them. Much better was the bit about rules, and the adherence to same. That was clearly more accurate, though Ren had denied it. What could he possibly have thought he had understood about Hux to cause him such transports of delight? Hux was quite certain that whatever it was, it didn’t truly exist. Whoever Ren fancied that he knew, it was not the man huddling into the comforting largeness of an oak tree, trying to stop feeling the cold that was sinking into his bones.
Hux leaned his cheek against the bark and closed his eyes for a moment - just a moment.
And then, as if no time had passed, he opened them - but the sky was growing dark, and thick fog drifted between the trees to mingle with the clouds brushing against their tops.
He had woken himself shivering, the icy weight of his wet clothes burning against his skin. It was still raining, and the oak could only save him from some of it. There was no part of him that was not cold. Not even the deepest crevices of his chest - he was radiating the cold from the inside out, he was sure of it, and would soon leave a rime of frost on anything he touched.
He couldn’t go back to Starkaller. Not if Lord Ren could still be there. But he wasn’t sure he could stay here, even though this tree loved him, this tree would take care of him.
He wasn’t, he realised, entirely sure which way home was.
It didn’t matter. He had been through worse, Arctic gales and howling winds and sea spray frozen into his hair. This was nothing. He would simply find some dryish wood, and build a small fire, and stay with his tree until it was safe to leave it.
He scrounged, on hands and knees - walking was too hard on feet that felt like blocks of wood - and came up with enough bits of dead branches and leaves to make a small pile, not too close to the kind oak, not too close. No.
He fumbled with the flint and steel in his pocket, too clumsy to get sparks out of it at first; and then he worked out the trick, and the sparks rained down, and hissed against the damp wood and went out.
“No,” he told them sternly. “I order you to burn.” And he sent more sparks after the first lot, again, and again, and again…
He dropped them, and they were lost amongst the litter of the forest floor, and he lay down there, with his cheek against the tree root.
Perhaps, he thought, after a while, he had merely imagined that he couldn’t get the fire to light. He had begun to feel warm, again, though everything his skin touched was still soaked and icy. There was heat, somewhere, and he didn’t feel at all well and it was getting very dark indeed but if there was heat he would be all right.
And then the fire in him seemed to go out, and it left a deeper, painful cold behind it; his teeth chattered hard enough to bite his tongue without meaning to. He dragged himself back to the tree, the only comfort he had now.
Home was very far away. And unless the fog cleared, and the clouds parted so that he could see the stars, there was no way he could find it tonight, and very little chance that anyone could find him at all.
He wanted, very suddenly and very badly, for someone to find him. But there would be no-one. There was only Phasma who knew he was out, and she didn’t know which way he’d gone; she would have more sense than to go charging out after him, in the dark and the rain.
No, he reminded himself. He would be fine. He had -
- he had nobody, nobody at all, and nothing, and he huddled in a ball against the tree, and couldn’t stop shivering. It hurt, this convulsive shudder of his muscles, and it did no good at all. He might be better off taking off the soaked-through coat, he thought, but his fingers couldn’t grip the fasteners, and he couldn’t do anything but lie here and wait for whatever might come. Which would be nothing. Nothing until morning, and such a long night ahead of him.
Why had he not even one friend, in all of the world, who would come looking for him when he was lost in the dark, cold night?
A breath something like a sob, then, but that hurt, bringing that much air into his chest, that much cold. He pressed his face into his frozen hands.
It was hard to think. He was too cold, and too ill with it; too tired and too weak. He didn’t merit help, even had there been any.
He would just. Try to sleep, try to sink into the grey haze that might have been fog and might have been the edges of unconsciousness. He would...
Someone was shouting.
That couldn’t be right. There was no-one in these woods but him.
He thought for a moment of shouting back, but he hadn’t the energy, and his voice made no sound.
He would go back to sleep. Or perhaps he was already asleep, and dreaming this, and that was why he could not speak.
And then he was dreaming of a dog, a large and very excited hound that he vaguely remembered belonged to one of the nearby farms, and it was a nice dog, a good dog, he would pat it later when he wasn’t so sleepy. It was barking and licking his face, as though it liked him. As though anything could.
It went away for a bit, and there was a great deal of crashing, as though something large was fighting its way through the underbrush. He couldn’t be bothered to care what it was. He was dreaming.
It had to be a dream, because it had finally stopped raining, and that looked very much like Lord Ren’s rather beaky profile, silhouetted against the moon.
Someone put brandy in his mouth, and he choked and sputtered and swallowed some of it, and then there were strong arms lifting him up, holding him, guiding him, stumbling through the moon-silvered forest until they met a horse as large as an elephant, and the arms of the dream were pushing him up and onto the back of the horse, and wrapping around him as the wind blew back his hair.
And then there was a blaze of light, and Phasma, warm and worried, and she caught him as he fell off the horse.
----
He woke to sunlight, and his own bed, and a drift of crumpled paper in the corner of the window seat; he felt terribly weak and confused, and the bottles of medicine on the table and the prickle of several days’ stubble on his face painted a frightening picture.
There was a bell on the table, too, and he tried to reach for it, and succeeded only in knocking it to the floor with a clatter. But that was enough. The door opened, and it was Phasma, who could always explain everything.
“Thank God you are awake,” she said, “I was beginning to despair.”
She looked as though she meant it, which was odd. Phasma was not at all prone to despair.
“What happened?” he whispered, finding his voice rusty from disuse. “I had… such strange dreams.”
“You went out -” She was visibly upset, now, and leaving off his honorifics - what had he done? - “and I didn’t know where you had gone, and when you didn’t return at dusk… when you didn’t return at all… I’m sorry, sir, but I asked Lord Ren’s help. He was waiting for you all afternoon. And he rode to Thurgood’s farm, and borrowed their best hound, and I found some of your clothes to give the pup the scent. You were most of ten miles out in the woods and nearly dead of fever and cold when he found you, he said, and you didn’t know him. But he brought you back.”
I did know him, he thought. I did.
“I let him stay.” She looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry. It seemed the right thing to do, after all he’d done. I made up the best of the spare rooms. It’s been three days so far. He’s spent most of his time in the library, or up here, with you, though.” That explained the crumpled paper. “Once the worst was past and your fever had broken, the doctor said you weren’t to be bothered, so I’ve tried to keep him out, but he’ll do as he’ll do. And… I don’t like to contradict your express wishes, sir, but… he brought you home, and he went for the doctor in the dead of night so that I didn't have to leave you, and I’m glad he was here, sir, I’m damn glad, and that’s the end of it.”
“You did quite right. You always do.” He reached for her hand, and managed to clasp it. “Thank you. And…”
“Yes, sir?” Her cheeks were pink with embarrassment, but she squeezed his hand back, very gently.
“Would you tell Lord Ren…” He thought for a moment. “Tell him... I did know him. And I, too, was glad of him.”
“I will.” She patted his hand, and then set it back down on the bedcovers. “You must rest. But I will tell him.”
“Thank you.” He let his eyes close.
----
When he woke again, it was to the gentle scratching of a pen over paper, and someone weighing syllables under their breath.
Lord Ren was curled up in the corner of his window seat, his long legs folded decorously under him. He was staring at his page with intense concentration.
Hux took a moment to look him over while he did not yet know he was being watched.
His rescuer was much less starched and buttoned than he had been at Sir William’s dinner. It wasn't that Hux was shocked at this, exactly, but his mental image of Lord Ren had hinged so on the artistic application of yards and yards of black silk that to see him in a grey woolen suit, tucked up on Hux's window seat as though he belonged there, was something he found difficult to accept.
And yet, there he was, and any minute he might look up and see Hux looking at him, at which point Hux rather hoped he would have decided how he felt about all of it.
And then Ren did look up, and his eyes went wide, and then warm.
“Good afternoon,” he said quietly. “You gave us all quite a fright, you know.”
“I didn't mean to,” Hux said, though it felt silly to have to justify anything.
“Though I am certain that is true,” Ren said, unfolding himself to face Hux more fully, “the fact remains that when Charger finally found you, you were as white as a corpse, and about as lively. I really thought I had been too late - and I have thought it again in the last several days, when you seemed to be trying to slip away from us.” The recollection made him pale and serious, even at a distance of several days. “But you could not leave this earth without having had at least one honest conversation with me. I could not have allowed it.” He set his pen and paper down on the seat. “I have written twenty poems or more, watching you dream through the fever; I almost feel I saw the vividness of your dreams with my own eyes, though you did not seem to enjoy them as much as I did. You make a peerless Muse, even out of the world as you were - but I am very glad you are back amongst the living.”
Hux gazed at Ren, his whole body filled with questions he could not articulate.
Ren took pity on him. “You wish to know why I bothered, of course. And no doubt, were you well, I should have been greeted by being asked to explain that outrageous letter, Lord Ren, at once.” The officious tone he affected was uncomfortably close to the truth of the matter, and Hux saw that he knew it from his smile. “I know quite well that my letters are outrageous. I myself am generally quite outrageous, you know. I simply write what I would have said, were people willing to allow me to do it to their face.” He held out a palm in an elegant shrug. “You interest me, my dear Admiral Hux. Deeply. And I devote a good deal of energy to the pursuit of my interests. But - you cannot think that I would have left you out in the cold, regardless of my interest in you. I could not bear to think of leaving someone to perish when I might be of help. And regardless of your interest in me, whatever it might be, you would have done the same.”
“I suppose I would have.” Hux still didn't know what to make of anything that was happening.
“Permit me to behave outrageously for just a moment longer?” Ren did not wait for his assent, but stood, and came to Hux's bedside. “Hux - and I shan’t call you Admiral, and you shall call me Kylo, and that is all the favour I ask in return for your rescue - I know it is not fair of me to ask you difficult questions, when you’ve only just woken. But there is so much I must discuss with you. Promise me, when you are well -” He seized Hux's hand in both of his. “Promise me that we shall.” And then he pressed his lips to the ridge of Hux's knuckles, leaving the spot burning with half-imagined heat. “When I am near you, it seems I am nothing but poetry. I cannot give you up, not yet.”
“Kylo,” Hux whispered, just to try the strange sounds. Perhaps it was the fever, or the wild light in Kylo's eyes, but he found himself needing to know more, to understand this strange, incoherent mystic of a man. No-one - no-one - had ever said such things about him.
“Hush,” Kylo said, his breath warm on the place he had kissed. “You must rest.”
“You’ll stay,” he managed.
Kylo’s smile was answer enough. “Could I leave?”
----
Hux’s jacket, heavy with braid and medals, was uncomfortable in the heat of the room. There were too many people in too small a space. But one of them at least would notice if he left - and here he came, extricating himself deftly from a dozen fluttering young things and arrowing straight towards Hux.
“You came, my very dear,” Kylo said, and kissed his cheek. Hux could hear the giggles. Let them laugh, he thought; they had not just listened to an entire volume of poetry about them.
“Of course I did,” he said. “I came up yesterday, but I didn't like to bother you while you were preparing.”
“You could never be a bother, only a source of joy and gladness,” Kylo said.
“Distracting joy and gladness, then,” Hux said, the edge of a smile on his lips.
Kylo returned the smile, doubled. “Never mind, Puritan of my heart. Come outside with me and tell me how you liked it.”
And in the clear air, the Lord and the Admiral stayed by themselves until someone came to look for them.