Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Phas, I told you—I’m not going!” 

The books in Armitage Hux’s arms threaten to go sideways, and he does a strange little shuffle before managing to tip them onto the ‘be gay, do crime’ display in a semi-respectable pile. It’s at least the sixth time he’s repeated himself, and he winces when he realizes exactly how whiny he’s beginning to sound. He busies himself with the display, switching the places of one title with another until the covers don’t clash—definitely not at all because he’s avoiding making eye contact with Phasma. 

She’s at the cash register in the corner, and her platinum hair reflects the light from the overhead lamp when she turns to fix a glare on Hux, who pretends not to notice. Phasma bumps the cash register drawer closed with her hip and crouches to fiddle with something under the counter, but her voice carries anyway. 

“Don’t be such a pussy, Hux. Besides, you told me you’d come and I refuse to let you lie to me.” 

Hux sifts through a box of rainbow-colored pins and glowers at her. Phasma isn’t wrong—he had promised her that he’d go with her, but that was Monday Hux—a Hux who was coming off a relaxing weekend of not-a-damn-thing and who still had hopes and dreams for the week. But today, he’s Friday Hux. And all Friday Hux wants is a sheet mask, a glass (bottle) of crisp white wine, and to not speak to anyone besides his cat for at least twenty-four hours. 

The pins make a pleasing clink-clink-clink sound as he lets them fall from his fingers back into the box before he forces his spine into military straightness and turns on his heel to face Phasma. She’s closer than he expects, and Hux quickly schools his face into something that he hopes doesn’t look as startled as he feels. 

“I don’t want to watch grown men prance around in dresses while they lip sync to songs from old racist musicals,” he sneers, trying to sound confident. Phasma reaches around him and stacks the books he dropped in some semblance of order, making sure the spines and edges line up perfectly as she does. She’s letting him stew, and he knows it. Phasma is a master at the silent treatment in any and all situations, and since she’s the sort of person who’s comfortable in uncomfortable moments, she’ll just wait for you to wilt under the pressure and give in to whatever she wants. 

But he won’t fall for it—because, truly, Hux cannot think of a worse fate than watching a man with a name like Pussy Deluxxxe perform a routine to Hello, Dolly with a bright red feather boa around their shoulders. He’s resolved to stay silent, to keep his chin tilted up so it reads just this side of imperious, and he won’t even make eye contact—

“Is that—Oh, sweetie, no. You sweet, innocent baby! ” Phasma’s voice cuts through Hux’s hard-fought confidence and she fucking laughs at him. Her palm slaps against the hardback cover of 365 Gays of the Year, and she hoots and wheezes until tears gather in the corners of her eyes. 

Hux barely restrains himself from tapping his foot and pointedly looking at his watch, but settles for crossing his arms over his chest and glaring down his nose at Phasma. “Are you quite finished, or shall I pull up a chair?” 

“You really are obtuse, Armitage—”

“Don’t call me that,” Hux snaps, more riled up over the use of his first name than Phasma laughing at his assumption of what drag is. 

Phasma’s voice softens, and she cuts off her laughter when she sees him bristle in front of her. “It’s just that—you need to get out more. Meet people who aren’t paid to hang around you all day, you know?”

Annoyingly, he does know. His social life is a circle that’s drawn so tightly it doesn’t have room for anyone outside of his co-workers, and for the most part, Hux likes it that way. He’s never been one for crowds or large social groups, and prefers to keep his own secrets rather than to let more than one or two people into his confidence. Just another lovely little personality quirk he can lay at the feet of his father, may hell consume the bastard in its fiery depths. 

“Phasma, I really don’t think—”

“I refuse to let you wallow alone for another weekend. I’m letting you out an hour early—go home, change your clothes, adjust your fucking attitude, and I’ll swing by to pick you up.” 

“But—”

Phasma is—once again—closer than he thought, and Hux’s words die on his tongue as her nails dig into his bicep like neon orange knives. She propels him towards the door before he can argue, and he can’t even dig in his heels before he’s outside the shop, staring through the glass door and listening to the welcome bell tinkle merrily from the inside. 

“You utter cow—this is workplace abuse!” With his hands cupped around his mouth, Hux’s voice carries more than he expects, and a couple holding hands crosses the street to avoid him, casting worried looks over their shoulders as they quickly walk away. 

Phasma gives him two middle fingers and laughs when Hux jiggles the handle to the shop. 

“You’re technically still open, you know!” He shouts again, but Phasma grins manically at him through the window and mimes an explicit-looking striptease, much to the delight of the group of teenage ne’er-do-wells that scatter as Hux growls and stomps around the corner towards his apartment. 

$$$$

The comforting silence of his home is broken when Phasma knocks and leans on the doorbell in a strange sort of duet. Hux is pretty sure she’s trying to do “shave and a haircut”, but she rushed the two bits portion so much that it's just a cacophony of noise that has him practically running to the door to make it stop. 

When he opens the door, Hux has to take a second to fully take in the scene on his doormat. Phasma spent her time between work and his apartment wisely, and she looks…incredible, despite all of Hux’s misgivings. She’d teased her hair into some sort of faux mohawk, and between the tower of hair and her silver platform boots, she’s got at least a foot of height on Hux, and he has to look up-up-up if he wants to speak to her. 

But before he could get a word out, Phasma uses her height to her advantage and barrels past him and into his apartment, dropping a bag that appears to be made solely from soda tabs and sequins the size of quarters onto the floor. She spins with a flourish, and with her hip cocked out to best display the skintight leather leggings she wears, Phasma looks Hux up and down with an inscrutable look on her face. 

She doesn’t speak, just catalogues every single inch of him, and Hux takes the opportunity to do the same. He’s suddenly acquainted with far more of her body than he’s frankly comfortable with: her thong is visible, pulled high to rest on her hips above the waistband of her leggings, and when she turned, he caught sight of a rhinestone cherry that connected the strings, before the bright red elastic disappeared into her pants. 

Phasma’s breasts are…mostly covered, thanks to a top that’s been cut and slashed so intricately that it could be swapped with one of Hux’s net produce bags that he bought at the farmers market. He’s pretty sure that it's being held in place with tape and a prayer to a benevolent god, because when she spun in a circle, not a single nip had been slipped. 

Before Hux can drum up an adequate comment (her outfit? No, her hair. No, the shoes?), Phasma looks him up and down and says quite possibly the rudest thing Hux has ever heard. 

“Is that what you’re wearing? To the club? With me?” 

All of Hux’s kind thoughts towards Phasma dry up in an instant, and he can feel his face fold in on itself in a sneer. It’s not enough to shut Phas up, because she ignores him and purses her lips to croon down at him in a baby voice, “You poor little baby gay!” 

If he were being honest with himself (and Hux does generally think of himself as an honest sort of man), he’d admit that he’s barely scraped the surface of his sexuality personally, and Phasma is the only one who knows—or at least, the only one that knows and matters, really. His father knows, and confirmation of that aspect of Hux’s life was the straw that broke the camel’s back, severing any hope of a relationship the two of them could have had with a jagged-edged knife. Hux hadn’t been careful with his PornHub use one time, and it was enough for his father to disown him and leave Hux stranded the summer after high school.

It was a small miracle that he’d already gotten into university, so it was just a matter of finding a place to live for the few summer months until he could move into the dormitories on campus. A scholarship and a small trust fund from his mother’s people had lasted him through university and beyond, thanks in large part to his frugal nature and his stubborn refusal to ask his dear old dad for anything whatsoever.

Sometime during those endless-seeming years of studying and ignoring his roommate and a vague sense of perpetual dread (that may have actually just been hunger, in hindsight), Hux met Phasma at the very bookshop in which he is still employed. 

Tall, elegant, vicious, hard Phasma, who’d taken one look at him in his sweater vest and pressed khakis and stepped around the cash register to steer him to a quiet spot in the back of the store for their scheduled interview. She’d spotted him right away, she told him later: a pink-faced man barely clinging on to any sense of propriety as he’d strode into the bookshop she owned, without noticing at first that it was a Very Queer Bookshop. Each carefully curated display had books and corresponding thematic elements ranging from sex toys to travel coffee mugs, and it only took Hux 15 seconds before he came face-to-face with an anatomically correct clitoris plushie for him to lose all of his talking points and completely bomb the interview. 

Still, she’d yanked him close and brought him a cup of tea, laughing the whole time—and that was that. Seven years on and Phasma was still torturing him, if the look on her face and her raucous laughter were any indication. 

“Hux,” she manages to get out between wheezing gasps of air, “You’ve got to change. Please. Think of my reputation if nothing else!” Collapsing against the wall and jostling a framed black and white photograph of a mountain lake, Phasma wipes tears from her eyes.

“Overdramatic, much?” Hux glares, imagining daggers or swords or battleaxes shooting out of his eyes to adjust Phasma’s attitude while he straightens his polo shirt with all the aplomb he can muster. 

“You can’t—CAN NOT, Hux, are you listening to me?—wear a polo shirt tucked into your jeans to a club.”

The fact that Phasma wants him to change so badly makes Hux definitely not want to, and despite her trying to herd him back to his bedroom, he ducks under her spiraling arms and makes it into the hallway, snagging his wallet and keys on the way. 

“If you want me to come so badly, this is what you’re going to get,” he announces haughtily over his shoulder as Phasma gathers up her bag and slams the door behind her. She overtakes him in a few strides and, grumbling the whole way, leads him down the hall and out onto the dark city streets. 

They don’t even make it halfway down the block before Phasma’s fingers are in his hair, ruffling the strands and loosening the gel that Hux had meticulously combed through that morning.

“Oi!” He shouts, but it’s too late: she’s off like a shot, cackling as her curb-stomping boots slam against the pavement while Hux stops in front of a shop window to inspect his reflection for damage. No matter what he does, his hair still swoops over his forehead, and Hux is halfway tempted to bang his head against the cool glass of the window. 

He looks slightly ethereal in the streetlight—or at least softer than normal and less severe—but it's like looking at someone he doesn’t recognize, and Hux hates it. 

“Don’t be a cunt!” He shouts after Phasma, but she’s turned the corner and her laughter fades. Sighing, he swipes a copper strand of hair off his forehead and watches as it falls back into place. Nothing he does will keep his hair firmly in place, and he sighs again as he starts down the street, following the sound of Phasma’s gleeful giggling. 

She’s waiting for him when Hux rounds the corner, and despite the fact that he stiffens his spine so abruptly that he may as well be lying flat on his back on the hardest floor known to man, all Phasma does is throw her arm around his shoulders and tug him against her body.

“I didn’t take you for a coward,” she whisper-shouts into his ear, steering him around a sign that advertises BOGO tattoos.

Hux rolls his shoulders, but Phasma sticks to him like glue (or a leech, he thinks), and he glares sideways at her.

“I’m not. Like I said earlier, I just don’t see the appeal of watching grown men mouth along to Broadway songs.” 

Phasma’s steps falter, and her tone softens a little when she asks, “Hux…is that really what you think this is going to be?”

It’s the gentleness of her voice that annoys him most, like he should be handled with kid gloves or like he’s a child at sleepaway camp who misses their mommy, and he falls stubbornly silent, wracking his brain for any other examples of what a drag show could be. He’d meant to use his extra time at home to scour the internet so he’d have at least the bare minimum of an understanding, but Millicent had needed feeding and he’d gotten caught up with petting her (and then lint-rolling cat fur off of his pants), and before he was ready, Phasma was at his door. 

“Is it…not that?” He tries to suppress the curl of his lip when he asks, but clearly he’s unsuccessful, because Phasma pinches his side and he yelps in surprise. 

“Haven’t you seen Drag Race? RuPaul? You have to have seen Ru at some point. Or Trixie Mattel?”

“Phasma, you know as well as I do that I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“You’re in for a treat, sweet, sweet Armitage! Even if you are dressed like you’re going to do someone’s math homework for them after getting shoved into your locker.” With that final barb, Phasma drops her arm and saunters ahead, leaving Hux in the dust while she sings something about ‘working’ and being on a runway, her hips swaying exaggeratedly as she executes a turn and stomps back to his side. 

It truly would be so much easier to hate her if she weren’t the only person in the world who seemed willing to put up with his moods and soul-crushing self-doubt. 

“Fine,” Hux grumbles, slapping Phasma’s hand away from where it had inched to his collar. He’s a split second too late, and she’s managed to flip the top button open, exposing a tiny strip of his pale throat. He hates it. He’s also too worn down to argue with her anymore, so he leaves the button undone and reminds himself to plot his revenge.

“Let's just get this over with.” 

“Oh honey,” Phasma laughs and plants an overly affectionate kiss on his cheek as she steers him towards a neon-lit club entrance surrounded by loud people and louder music. “This is going to change your fucking life.”

Chapter Text

The table Hux finds himself sitting at is worn and far too stained for his liking. It’s also barely big enough for him and Phasma, and when Hux carefully sets his coaster and drink on the surface, the tabletop suddenly tips, and he has to snatch his glass before it lives up to its name and tumbles to the floor. Hux’s shoes stick to the grimy floor and he winces, rather wishing the earth would swallow him up. Thus far, the earth isn’t cooperating, so he takes a gulp of his drink instead, hoping the liquor will dull the pain. Unlike him, Phasma blends right in as she ably folds her paper coaster in half and jams it under the wobbly base of the table.

Hux watches her over the rim of his glass. It’s easier to look at Phasma, who he knows and likes (and who he’s pretty sure likes him, despite all evidence to the contrary) than to be caught staring at one of the drag queens who mingle with the pre-show crowd. Phasma is that unique mix of feminine and masculine that so many models aim for but fall short of: her broad shoulders and strong jaw play off of doe eyes and tits that could have been painted by Botticelli himself, and her features combine into a beautiful sort of Bowie-esque androgyny. 

Tonight, her makeup rivals the drag queens that are hyping people up, and while so many of them drink in Phasma’s appearance just like Hux does, none of them spare him a second glance. And why would they? He looks like an afterthought. An outsider. A paper doll next to Phasma’s rocker-Barbie perfection, shoved into the back of a junk drawer, destined to be creased and forgotten. 

It’s easy to blame the headache that blooms behind Hux’s eyes on the loud music, and he chews absently on his straw to give himself something to do as his tablemate waves merrily at anyone and everyone who passes by. 

Phasma had pulled him directly towards the mirror-bedecked mess of a bar as soon as they had walked in. Color-changing LEDs were attached to nearly every surface, and Hux squinted, trying to read the labels on the bottles while Phasma gave air kisses to the bartender. 

“Two tequila shots—they’re both for me, Hux, don’t worry—and…um…an old fashioned for this old-fashioned gentleman standing awkwardly next to me, please!” 

Phasma jerked her thumb at Hux as the bartender gave him a knowing up-and-down look, and Hux shoved his elbow into Phasma’s side, glaring at her. She didn’t even sway on her boots, and to add insult to injury, the bartender laughed knowingly.

“Oh, honey, we’ll get you loosened up in no time!” He turned to grab a bottle on the lowest shelf of the bar and winked at Hux over his shoulder. “I’ve always said the buttoned-up ones are the most fun in the sack!” 

Thankfully, Phasma must have sensed his mortification, because she took one look at his tomato-red face and shooed him in the direction of the table he now sits at, finishing an almost passably-made old fashioned. Using his straw, Hux fishes a neon-red maraschino cherry from the bottom of his glass instead of the hoped-for amarena and stares at it for a beat before he eats it, the too-sweet syrup coating his tongue in a slick film. At least the drink is strong, and before he knows it, he’s down to just ice, and he rises to get another one. 

As he waits for his drink at the bar, Hux plays a game: guessing the name of the drag queens as they wind their way across the floor. The one with the long blonde hair that reaches the hem of her tight miniskirt is Jeannie (as in, I Dream Of—), and the redhead with the pixie cut is Ariel, after she realized that her prince charming was an idiot and got herself a breakup haircut in the process. As he sits back at their table, he gets a good view of two queens in identical purple-sequined rompers, and while Hux folds a napkin into smaller and smaller triangles, he names them the Wonder Twins. They spin around at the same time and flounce past them towards the stage, and Hux snorts, earning a knowing smile from Phasma. 

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” she says, craning her neck to peer at the DJ booth.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Hux snipes. He’s not quite willing to admit to anything right now—and wants to reserve the right to still be annoyed at Phasma. 

“You’re two drinks in, and I swear I just saw you smile. In Hux-world, you’ve never been happier.” 

Hux glances down, and sure enough: there’s only a centimeter of watery amber liquid in his glass. How had he finished his second drink without even noticing? Luckily, he’s saved from having to pull a clever retort from his rapidly-fuzzing brain by the house lights obligingly shutting off before the stage lights erupted in a wave of rainbow colors.

The stage has even more LEDs than the bar, attached along the edge of the flooring so that when the queens strut their way down it, their legs are cast in red-orange-yellow and so on, like they’re trying to teach groups of drunken bachelorettes ROYGBIV. 

One queen after another appears onstage as the emcee introduces them, but they all seem to run together for Hux—each of them is enormously tall from their position on the raised stage, aided by boots or pumps that have the thinnest, sharpest heels that he’s ever seen. They wear more latex than he even knew existed, and each queen is tucked, snatched, and beat (according to Phasma, who screeches each of those terms in his ear until he’s halfway deaf) until they look more like fantasy characters than human beings. 

The lights dim again, and for the next four songs, Hux tries to keep his eyes on the stage. He does. He tries to pay attention to the dancing and lip-syncing. He tries to summon Phasma’s enthusiasm, minus the whooping and the ease with which she slides a folded-up wad of cash into the underwear of a particularly limber queen dressed only in large, multicolored polka dots. As the routine goes on, the queen pulls each dot off of her body and frisbee-tosses them into the crowd, leaving her clad in a money-laden g-string and nude tights covered in rhinestones as Hux dodges a low-flying pink fabric pancake. 

After all the polka dots have been retrieved and the queen teeters offstage, the lights dim again. This time, the club is cast in darkness for so long that Hux rises, intent on finding the exit and taking himself home, but Phasma yanks him back down into his seat as the emcee shouts into a hand-held microphone whose reverb is turned all the way up..

“And nowwww—Kyloooooo Rennnnnn!” 

The stage bursts with bright pink lights as an electronic drum beat starts up, and a figure emerges from backstage. Like all the other queens, Kylo towers nearly to the ceiling, but unlike the rest, she hasn’t contoured her collarbones or tugged a girdle over her middle, or worn a fake chest (maybe because even mostly covered, her tits promised to be damn glorious), and all Hux can think is, “WIDE”.

Nice legs, Daisy Dukes makes a man go—

Fuck. 

Kylo’s legs really are—Hux doesn’t have words for what they make him feel, and it's evident that the audience shares his opinion, because wolf whistles erupt as she walks down the stairs and onto the club floor, making her way through the crowd. She earns cash at a rapid pace: reaching, grabbing hands are shoving bills in her shirt, her skirt, and even the top of her boots. She wears the shortest black skirt Hux has ever seen, showcasing thick thighs under pleats and artfully torn neon green fishnets. The skirt kicks up in the back when Kylo bends or twists, and Hux cranes his neck to get a view of pale skin and the slight curve of an ass that’s unexpectedly flat, given the generous nature of the rest of her. 

It’s like she’s magnetic or magic or some mysterious third thing that Hux doesn’t have words for, because he can’t stop staring. Even in her revealing black-and-green outfit, she commands the room as if she wears the plate mail of a fierce general at the front of a bloodthirsty army. 

Low-cut, see-through shirts that make ya—

Kylo reaches her hands above her head to grab onto some exposed pipe in the ceiling and the tiny studded vest she wears slides open, exposing a fishnet tank top and underneath…her nipples are covered with black tape, two x’s that draw more attention than bare skin would have. The tank rides up as she moves, and for the amount of skin that it actually covers, it may as well be nonexistent. Kylo’s stomach is hard (not that Hux is looking that closely!) as she body-rolls her way back up to the stage, and it's not Hux’s fault that when he does look (to watch the show!), he sees a thin trail of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of the skirt before his view gets replaced with even more cash. 

Her skin glows under the light. A sheen of sweat layered over what must have been an entire bottle of highlighter makes Kylo look like more of a disco queen than anything else, and when she spins onstage, Hux thinks he can see glitter sparkling in the air around her. The music is shouty, electronic-heavy, and repetitive in the way that usually makes Hux grind his teeth and switch the station, but he can’t take his eyes off the queen strutting her stuff across the stage, flashing skin to the delight of the audience. 

Tight jeans, double Ds makin’ me go—

Kylo drops her vest on the ground and grazes her fingers teasingly up her stomach to the hem of her top before she peels it up and over her head. That pale chest with the taped nipples is revealed, and yep, the suggestive lyrics of the song have it right, because those? Those are Tits with a capital T. She spins to shake her ass in the crowd’s direction and an enraptured Hux gets his first view of Kylo’s expansive back. Her muscles are so vast and pale and toned that he tips the rest of his drink back, suddenly thirstier than he’s ever remembered being. Instead of the sweet final sips of his drink, Hux is met with a faceful of ice and cherry stems, and as he splutters and searches blindly for a napkin, he completely misses the way Kylo falls to her knees and crawls across the stage while arching her back, her black-painted lips still mouthing the lyrics. 

Hux pauses in his mopping up and doesn’t even notice his shirt sticking to his body as Kylo winks suggestively at the audience, the overhead strobes shining off long black hair streaked with neon green, and for the first time, Hux gets a good look at her face. 

Her eyes shine under heavy black liner and when she poses, even heavier eyelashes flutter lazily at the crowd. Reddish eyeshadow is painted from her lids to her thick black brows, extending to perfect angles in what Hux assumes is an advanced makeup application technique. Light glints off of a nose ring and when Kylo tilts her head, Hux thinks that maybe it’s spiked with little knives, sharp enough to draw blood, and he shivers at the thought. 

Kylo’s nose is long and crooked, even under the layers of matte foundation she’s wearing, but Hux’s eyes are drawn to her lips: overlined and painted black, a layer of glossy paint on top so that they look kiss-bitten and freshly licked by a particularly voracious lover. 

Push it baby, push it baby, out of control

I got my gun cocked tight and I’m ready to blow

She’s on her feet again, and the music swells so loudly that even her platform boots don’t make any sound as she struts from one end of the stage to the other, hips thrusting in time to each “push it”. The skirt is gone in the blink of an eye, leaving Kylo clad only in her fishnet tights, nipple tape, and a tight pair of bikini briefs. Curiously, Hux squints at the space between Kylo’s flexing thighs, but the bottoms are smooth, with no bulging or awkward lumps, and he can’t even imagine how any of that works. 

Now, L-O-V-E's just another word I never learned to pronounce

The song ends with Kylo bent over, facing away from the crowd as she twerks back and forth. Hux can read “L.O.V.E.” spelled out in rhinestones across her ass, and thunderous applause fills the aural space left empty when the music goes silent. Kylo gathers up the cash on the stage floor, winking and flirting with the crowd before she disappears backstage in a flurry of neon fishnets and ebony hair. 

It’s not until Phasma elbows him that Hux realizes that he’s the only one still clapping, long after Kylo Ren left the stage, and he forces his hands down to his lap, flushing in embarrassment. 

“I knew you’d like her.”

He shoots a sideways look at Phasma, glaring at her over the rim of his still damnably empty glass. 

“Shut up, you did not.” 

“I did!” Phasma exclaims. “She’s striking in drag, and out of drag? Well—he’s huge. And I know how you like your men with big—”

He claps a hand over her mouth and leans close to hiss in her ear before she can say anything else.

“Phasma, I swear to god if you do not shut up this instant, I will murder you and no one will ever find your body because I will mummify your corpse and keep you in my closet for the rest of my waking days.”  

His Irish accent is heavy even to his own ears as he levels his threat at Phasma, but she doesn’t balk under certain death and potential dismemberment. Instead, she licks his palm and Hux jerks his hand away, muttering something about getting another drink. As he threads his way between the tables, another performer takes the stage. 

But it’s not Kylo Ren, and Hux isn’t interested. 

$$$$

Most of the way through his third (or maybe his fourth, but who’s counting, anyway?) old fashioned, Kylo comes back on stage, and Hux is more or less drunk. The lights are swirling colors even when he shuts his eyes, and he’s fairly certain that he missed the table when he tried to lift his elbow to rest on the sticky wooden top, but as soon as Kylo is announced, his vision clears and he can’t look away. 

She’s in a different costume this time: a dark red bodysuit with a neckline so deep her navel is exposed, and a filmy sarong-style skirt knotted at one hip that exposes the entirety of one bare leg. Her makeup is even more outrageous: the red shadow that had lightly dusted her eyelids is now painted in an arc around her temples, curling along her cheekbones until she looks more like an alien from Star Trek than someone who inhabits the same city Hux does. 

The song is heavy on drums and an electric guitar, and the audience seems to already know the lyrics, because by the time the chorus comes around, they start a sort of call-and-response, yelling back at Kylo as she shimmies and teases them in return. 

You make me so slutty

Slutty

Slutty

The song’s outrageous refrain echoes in Hux’s ears as Kylo steps offstage, surprisingly dainty in towering spike heels. She interacts with the crowd more this time, leaning across tables to shove her chest out, encouraging the audience to tuck money into her top. She shakes her ass in people’s faces before turning and wrapping her arms around their necks to lip sync in their ears, her nose pressed against their hairline. 

Hux does not want to know what it would feel like to have Kylo’s breath ghost across his skin, and he lifts his glass to his lips again and drinks. The tumbler lands on the cardboard coaster with a dull thunk and Hux licks away the too-sweet dregs of his drink off of his lips when Kylo approaches, hips swinging. She runs her hand through Hux’s hair and cups his chin with broad fingers before she plops herself directly into his lap. 

He’s so startled that he just sits there with his mouth open and his hands hovering in the air, unsure what to do with them. Does he—touch her? Respectfully? Should he shove his hands under his thighs and sit on them instead, giving her free rein of his body, which he’s pretty sure is going into shock right now? Kylo is even bigger up close, and Hux’s lap is overflowing with writhing, sweaty drag queen, and Phasma is absolutely zero help whatsoever because she’s too busy snapping pictures with her phone. 

Kylo might look like a woman, but she smells like the musky, cedar-rich scent of men’s cologne when Hux takes a shallow, shaky breath in. She’s close enough to count the moles and beauty spots that Hux had briefly wondered had been painstakingly painted on, but now he can see that they aren’t—and he bites back the sudden and unexplainable urge to trace lines between each of them with his tongue, like some sort of confusing sexual dot-to-dot. 

Her ass is firm against his crotch, and Hux is overwhelmed to the point of near panic. He can hear Phasma laughing and cheering through the rushing in his ears, can feel Kylo’s long hair tickle his neck, and for a single, mad moment, he thinks about what it would look like if their hair tangled together across Hux’s pillow. 

She’s not beautiful. Not really. Her features are too wide, too incongruous, too masculine to be feminine, and too covered in makeup to be overtly masculine, but Kylo Ren is so striking that Hux finds it impossible to tear his gaze away. It’s that factual cataloging of Kylo’s disparate parts that makes Hux not realize that Kylo has worked her long fingers into his pants pocket. She hasn’t missed a word of her lip sync routine, not even when she pulls out Hux’s cell phone and gives him a wink. Holding it up to her ear, Kylo pantomimes a conversation, mouthing the words along to a spoken word portion of the song. 

Hey bitch, apparently, the doorman does not know I'm with the band

Uhm, I'm in the front with the security guard

Will somebody come and explain to him that I'm gorgeous?

And it's not my fault that everybody wants to fuck me

Come get me before I start kicking

And screaming and causing a scene

Kylo finishes the call with a kiss pressed to the back of Hux’s phone, and a second later, she kisses his cheek before spinning away to finish the song onstage. Hux’s fingers fly to his cheek before he can form a coherent thought, and he absently touches his fingertips to the smeared lipstick that remains on his skin. 

Phasma shakes his arm and offers him a handful of cash, but Hux can’t do anything, can’t take the money or rip his eyes from Kylo’s final moments onstage: spinning faster-faster-faster to match the beat of the song before falling to the stage on her back, one leg outstretched and one bent behind her with her arms spread wide. Her chest rises and falls rapidly as cash rains onstage, and when the stage lights come back up, she sits up and gets to her feet. 

She’s probably gathering her money, giving her fans attention and appreciative looks, but Hux drags his fingers across his phone, the outline of Kylo’s lips nothing more than an abstract smudge of black against the plain grey plastic of his phone case. It won’t come off, even when he rubs harder, and Hux hates it. Hates that every time he looks at his phone, he’ll be reminded of Kylo—reminded of the sort of life that he’s always admired from afar but has never and will never achieve. A free and expressive life that he envies and fears in equal measures. 

The lights dim again and Hux rubs harder. 

$$$$

His fingertips are still stained black when Phasma drags him from the table and around the stage to the door off to one side, and Hux stumbles as he tries to avoid stubbing his toe against too many pushed-out chairs. The door swings open, revealing a dimly hit hallway that looks no cleaner than the rest of the club, but Phasma has hold of Hux’s wrist and she refuses to stop or even slow down. They pass drag queens in various stages of undress as they meander down the corridor, and Hux has no idea where to look or how to school his face, and so he dips his chin downward and focuses on Phasma’s boots as she walks with a natural confidence that Hux has to constantly pretend he has. 

The club music fades, the bass disappearing almost entirely as voices get louder and louder, until they turn into an open dressing room. Phasma drops Hux’s wrist and gives more air kisses to someone she calls Beebee—a drag queen that’s dressed like the heroine of that sci-fi movie starring Bruce Willis that Hux was forced to sit through on multiple occasions, complete with a stringy orange wig and an outfit that's more white tape than anything else. 

Hux hovers by the door as Phasma chats, but movement against one wall makes him turn slightly, and suddenly his vision goes pinpoint-small, because Kylo Ren is sitting in front of a mirror, a wig discarded limply on the counter.

Kylo is wearing a wig cap and Hux can see his ears, curved out from his scalp and exposed, almost comically large without hair to hide them. He’s pressing cotton rounds to his eyes—to remove his makeup, Hux assumes—and Hux takes the chance to drink him in without notice. 

The man is halfway undressed: a baggy cropped white tank top hangs off of one shoulder, the armholes so large that as he raises his elbows to scrub at his face, Hux catches a glimpse of the tape still covering his nipples. The skirt is still tied around his waist, but bunches up into more of a belt, and there’s a nude pair of briefs beneath the filmy burgundy fabric. Kylo’s still wearing his heels, and the added height makes his knees nearly reach his chest as he bends closer to the mirror. 

Hux is so caught up with looking at the way Kylo’s biceps flex as he rubs away his smeared eyeliner and how widely his thighs are spread under the counter, that he doesn’t realize that Kylo is staring back at him through the reflection of the mirror. He raises a notched eyebrow and smirks at Hux. 

“See something you like, Red?” Kylo licks his bottom lip suggestively, dragging the sharp points of his teeth across the plush flesh. 

Hux can actually feel his spine go cement-stiff and his own lip curl in a horrid combination of embarrassment and panic before he stammers, “What? No. Absolutely not. What?” 

Phasma is immediately in Hux’s good graces again, because she’s next to him in half a second, drawing him further into the room so she can introduce him to Beebee. And this is how, more than a little tipsy and halfway to wishing this was a drug-induced nightmare, Hux meets Kylo Ren for the first time.

Except he’s not Kylo Ren—he’s Ben Solo, and he’s rising to his feet and meeting Hux’s eyes. Ben saunters the short distance to Hux, dragging the toe of each heel across the carpet and swinging his hips seductively as he moves. His face is so much more innocent when it’s clear of makeup and those heavy lashes, but the way he looks Hux up and down has no such naivete, and Hux doesn’t know where to look. 

At the way his shirt sags and exposes his bare collarbone, still shimmery even without the stage lights? 

At the fact that his nose ring isn’t actually knives or spikes but a snake’s fangs, curved and deadly? 

At the slope of his ankle, where his delicate heel strap digs in and has left a red mark?

Definitely not at the tight briefs that do nothing but accentuate his hips and his fucking cum gutters (and goddamn Phasma, because without her he'd not even know what those were, thank you very much). 

Hux feels like a fish out of water, all unsure and unsteady, and with the way he’s pretty sure that his mouth is opening and closing without any words actually emerging, he probably looks like one too. It just adds insult to injury, when Ben is so close that Hux can see the warm brown of his eyes and the way the faint remains of eyeliner make his lashes look sooty and thick, and he can’t even think, this is so infuriatingly unlike him—

“Did you like the show?” Ben’s low voice breaks through the fog of Hux’s cocktail-drenched thoughts, but he can’t form a coherent thought because he’s being stared at with eyes the color of the whiskey, and oh god, Ben expects him to say something—

“It was…” Hux flounders for words before giving up and gesturing in a way that he hopes reads ‘casual’ and not ‘helpless’. He widens his eyes and looks at Phasma, who stares right back with the sort of smile on her face that tells Hux that he’s missing a vital piece of a puzzle he wasn’t aware he was putting together. 

And sure enough, instead of Phasma playing the heroine and helping him out, she threads her arm through his and supplies helpfully, “Hux thought you’d be dancing to Disney music.” 

That earns Hux a derisive snort from Ben, but then he pauses and says thoughtfully, “Actually, I’ve seen some drag kings perform to Mulan—but that’s not my vibe. It’s more—”

“Sexual? Punk rock?” Phasma asks, and with a sideways glance at Hux that’s too wicked for her own good, she suggests, “Horny?” 

Ben grins lazily and runs his tongue across his upper teeth. There’s an unfamiliar sort of metallic clinking sound when he does, and Hux flicks his eyes to his mouth. Ben must notice him staring, because he sticks his tongue out. When he wiggles it back and forth, the barbell that’s threaded through his tongue clicks against his teeth, and Hux feels something deep in his belly start to coil.

“Yeah,” says Ben, extending the vowels until his voice turns breathy, never dragging his gaze from Hux. “All of that.” 

Phasma pinches Hux’s inner arm, jolting him out of his dazed stupor, and elbows him for good measure when he doesn’t move or say a word. By the time she’s turned her back on him and focused her attention on Beebee, it’s clear that she wants Hux to pick up the strange conversation where she left it off, but Hux has never been good at small talk. He simply doesn’t know what to say, and what’s more—he rarely cares to hear what anyone else has to say, either. 

“Does your mother know you do this?” The question is out before Hux could even think, the words spilling free unbidden, and judging by the way Ben takes a half-step backwards with his shoulders drawn back, Hux’s words have startled him just as much. The eyes that Hux had admired so much turn sharp, and Ben’s forehead creases as he glares.

“I’m a grown man. What would my mother have to do with any of this?” 

Ben’s sudden transformation from flirtatious to angrily defensive makes Hux bristle too, and before he can stop himself, he presses on. “I was just wondering. No mother probably wants her son to strip for a living.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” snarls Ben, and somehow he looks even bigger now, like his anger has given him an extra four inches in height and fifty pounds of pure muscle, despite the fact that he’s just wearing a cropped tank and underwear. 

“It’s not stripping. And even if it was, I can do whatever the fuck I want, unlike you—you look like your mommy dressed you.”

“I—” Hux tries to say, but Ben barrels on.

“And my mom? She fucking loves my show. So you can get off of your judgemental high horse and take the stick out of your ass at the same time, because I think you enjoyed my act a little more than you’d like to admit when my ass was rubbing against your dick.”

A red haze consumes Hux’s vision, and he takes a step forward. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I bet you get off to shit like this but can’t even fucking admit it to yourself,” Ben snaps. He’s crossed his arms across his chest, but Hux can’t even enjoy the way the movement makes his biceps bunch, because he’s just as angry. He heaves in lungfuls of air as he tries to remember the breathing exercises the campus therapist tried to teach him years ago, but the tension and fury doesn’t abate like it's supposed to. 

How dare he? Ben doesn’t know Hux at all! He has no idea the hell that Hux has been through with his father and stepmother, and he has no fucking clue what it’s like to try and live an authentic life (like all of the pamphlets and books and podcasts say to do) when you barely know who’s looking back at you front the mirror.

This conversation isn’t going anything like Hux could have anticipated, and a headache spreads anew across his temples. Phasma is just staring wide-eyed between Hux and Ben, Beebee’s hand clutched tightly in hers, so she’s no help at all. He refocuses his attention back on Ben, hating the way he has to crane his neck uncomfortably to look at him, even when Hux has drawn himself up as tall as he can. 

“I could sue you,” Hux hisses. “For unwanted advances and sexual harassment!” 

Hux is briefly triumphant when Ben’s face freezes in some sort of stunned shock, but the feeling of glee is quickly squashed when Ben’s shoulders relax and he barks out a loud laugh.

“I’d like to see you try, Red.” 

Phasma flaps her free hand at him, but Hux has no idea if it’s meant to get him to stop or to encourage him, and well—in for a penny, in for a pound.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Hux sneers at Ben, mentally lining up his next barb, but Ben is quicker.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Ben pantomimes an elaborate curtsey, tugging his off-center skirt to each side in simulated voluminous petticoats. He affects what Hux guesses is meant to be a posh British accent and flutters his lashes as he goes on, “I simply did not realize that I was in the esteemed company of a Lord of the Realm. Prithee, whatever shall I call you, sir?” 

Hux opens his mouth to reply, but Phasma hip-checks him, sending him stumbling to one side as she slides an arm between him and Ben.

“That’s enough, Armitage,” she whisper-yells, raising her eyebrows up and down at him in a way that is probably meant to mean something. 

Ben must have overheard her not-actually-a-whisper, because he actually cackles—like a proper witch’s cackle—and wheezes, “Armitage?” 

Hux rises to his toes and peers over Phasma’s shoulder (damn her enormously tall boots), leveling what he hopes is a threatening glare at Ben. “It’s Hux, thank you very mu—oof.” 

Phasma shoulders herself fully in front of him like she’s afraid that he’s suddenly going to decide that tackling Ben Solo of the enormous biceps and thick thighs to the ground is a good idea. Even if it was a good idea (for purely non-sexual reasons!), Ben must not agree, because he’s retreating back to his spot in front of the mirror. 

“Right. Because that’s so much better.” He shrugs casually, like all the tension between the two of them has entirely disappeared, and he maneuvers his leg over the back of his chair, sitting backwards with his legs spread wide to accommodate the backrest. Hux can’t stop from staring at him, even though anger is still bubbling beneath his skin. Ben is just…well, he’s got his skirt hiked up practically around his waist, and the compression briefs he’s wearing have gone all shiny where the elastic has stretched taut over his groin and—

No. He’s angry at Ben, Hux reminds himself. Even though Ben’s got his arms crossed over the back of the chair so that his forearms and biceps are on display. Even though, when he finally rips his gaze from said impressive arms to Ben’s face, he finds the man leering at him. When their eyes meet, Ben flicks his stare to the door and then back to Hux’s face. And again: door, then Hux’s face. 

“Are you gonna stay here and watch me get undressed and untucked, sweetheart?” Ben asks, stretching his arms over his head until the hem of his shirt nearly reveals his nipple tape again.

His mind feels like a scribbled-on Etch-a-Sketch, and Hux shakes his head in an attempt to clear it. Any goodwill that had begun to grow because of Ben’s lovely arms and his pretty eyes is erased, and he takes a step around Phasma. 

“Sweetheart? Excuse me?” 

He intends to give Ben Solo a piece of his mind (something about how people in the service industry rely on the generosity of customers to make a living and how he’s remarkably close to losing both that kindness and his job, if Hux has anything to say about it—) but Phasma loops an arm around his waist and hoists him an inch off the ground in a move so effortless it makes Hux even angrier. 

“Alllllright, it’s time for us to go,” singsongs Phasma, and everything is happening so fast, and Hux is suddenly so tired that he lets Phasma yank him backwards, towards the door and certain freedom. 

“Bye-bye, Hux,” Kylo trills as Hux digs his fingers into Phasma’s arm, trying to no avail to get out of her firm grip. “Come see me again sometime, will ya? I’ll do a special show just for you!” 

Phasma sets him back on his feet when they reach the hallway, but she’s got her arm wrapped so tightly around him that Hux is forced to match her pace as she steers him through the club and out onto the sidewalk before he can even start to get his thoughts well enough in order to form a clever retort. 

Hux is glad when Ben's laughter is replaced with the heavy bass of the club’s music, and when they emerge onto the sidewalk, he sucks in deep breaths of the familiar city air, car exhaust and all. He's glad that he doesn't ever have to see Ben again as he opens the door to his apartment, and he tells himself that he can't even remember what Kylo Ren looked like in her wig and heels and heavy eyeshadow. 

When he falls into bed in an exhausted heap, he tries to think about nice boys with button-down shirts and steady nine-to-five jobs who know how to read a wine list—in French—and who've never had a needle pushed through any part of their body. 

But when Hux dreams that night, he dreams about fishnet tights, amber eyes and snake-shaped nose rings.

Chapter Text

Barely half a block into his walk to work, Hux sneezes. The trees that line the sidewalks have bloomed into frothy pink and white blossoms, and when there’s a breeze, they drift to the ground in clouds of snowy whirlwinds. It’s objectively pretty, and Hux does appreciate the change in the seasons (the winter seemed interminably long this year), but he could do without the abrupt rise in pollen. Bright yellow dust accumulates along the curbs, at the base of tree trunks, on any horizontal surface—and it's offensive. 

The allergy pills that he dutifully popped out of their little foil-and-plastic prisons that morning have yet to kick in, and Hux wants nothing more than to go back into his apartment and rot on the couch where pollen can’t find him. Too bad for him, though: Phasma has him scheduled for a closing shift, and he’s not desperate enough to call out from work and deal with the aftermath of Phasma having to open and close. 

But walking to work counts as exercise and getting fresh air, plus it has the added bonuses of being free, not being crammed on the bus next to someone who smelled like cabbage, and not having to squeeze into a too-small parking spot on a street four blocks away from his intended destination. So Hux walks on, trying not to sneeze as he blinks away the tears that his itchy eyes conjured up out of a sense of self-defense against the tyranny of pollen. 

His reusable bags are folded and tucked under his arm for his after-work trip to the grocery store, and he’s feeling relatively upbeat. It’s Friday, and Hux has absolutely no plans for the weekend. Maybe he’ll pick up one of the novels he’d stacked next to his nightstand a few months ago with excellent intentions but very little follow-through. There were a few documentaries he’d saved to his streaming queues, and maybe he could get through a few of those, too. 

It’s going to be an easy day at the bookshop—Hux is sure of it—and then he’ll have a lovely, relaxing weekend at home. He can feel his shoulders loosen at the prospect of it as he crosses the street, turning in the direction of Phasma’s bookshop. Ahead of him, there’s the usual scene of people on their way to work: harried-looking moms and dads who’ve just dropped their kids off at school and are already running late are waiting for the bus while their toes tap the sidewalk impatiently. A man in a suit has a cell phone glued to his ear as he juggles a briefcase, a box under one arm, and a thermos of coffee. And then there are Hux’s least-favorite mainstays: a group of high schoolers with backpacks the size of New Hampshire who block the entirety of the sidewalk with absolutely zero acknowledgement of the fact that they force Hux to step into the street to get around them. 

He’s just gotten back on the sidewalk when his vision snags on a person ahead of him exiting a brick building on the left. They’re wearing a beanie that’s such a vibrant, rich shade of cobalt that part of him wants to reach out and touch the fabric to see if it’s even real. Hux follows as the figure starts down the street, his eyes caught in the web of the brilliant blue hat, while everyone around them is still in their winter navy, grey, and black. 

The hat-wearer commits a faux pas and stops in the middle of the sidewalk, and just as Hux intends to pass them with a backwards death glare, there’s a sudden flurry of activity. A dog whose owner has stopped to read a poster on a telephone pole reached the end of its extendable leash and had effectively blocked the entire sidewalk, and when hat-wearer does a duck-and-weave motion to try and step over the cats-cradle of a leash, they get their foot caught. Spinning and flailing their arms, they slam right into Hux, who somehow manages to brace himself enough to stay on his feet. 

“Oi!” He shouts, partly because he was startled by the frankly enormous man who’d just fallen into him, and partly because if pet owners can’t keep their tiny rat-dogs in check, then they shouldn’t have tiny rat-dogs in the first place. 

The man in his arms clutches at Hux’s shoulders to leverage himself up, and as he straightens to his full height, Hux realizes that he knows him. 

A slow smile spreads across Ben Solo’s face as a pit of horror opens in Hux’s belly.

“Red.” 

Hux shimmies his shoulders, encouraging Ben to let go of him, and it’s not until he scrunches his face to prevent a sneeze that Ben actually lets go and steps back. Hux allows him to steer him to one side of the sidewalk, now that the rat-dog has been contained in its owner’s arms, and sneezes twice in quick succession. 

“It’s—” Hux pauses and accepts a kleenex that Ben magicked out of somewhere. “—you,” he finishes lamely, dabbing at his nose and feeling like the biggest sort of idiot as he tries to find a pocket to shove his used tissue into. 

“You don’t sound happy to see me.” Ben pouts, his eyes looking even more plaintive and soulful than they had in his fluorescent-lit dressing room. 

Hux starts walking towards a trash can on the sidewalk, and to his dismay, Ben keeps pace. He throws the tissue away and turns to face his newfound walking companion.

“Hello, Ben.” 

In quick succession, Ben clutches at his heart, looks wide-eyed over his shoulder, and gasps so loudly that multiple people turn to look their way. 

“Whoa, Red, are you like, stalking me or something?” 

“Why would I do something like that?” Hux squeezes between the trash can and the street, and when he resumes his normal walking pace, Ben is right alongside him, matching his long stride perfectly. 

“I think if I say it’s because you liked my show, you might try and hit me.” Ben adjusts his beanie and grins lopsidedly at Hux.

“I don’t usually resort to violence,” Hux grumbles.

“It’s just something I bring out in you, huh?” 

“You could say that.” 

Hux picks up his pace, and he doesn’t even have to look to know that Ben is there, striding along next to him. He even follows Hux when he jaywalks, and Hux briefly wonders what else he could get Ben to do so obediently before quickly banishing the thought to the dark recesses of his brain. 

“Where are you going, anyway?” He asks Ben, telling himself that the question is more to fill the silence and to avoid thinking about how itchy his eyes are than because he’s actually curious.

Ben shrugs. “Nowhere, really. Just walking.” 

A curl of hair has escaped the confines of Ben’s beanie, and it lies against his cheek in a ribbon of black so sleek and shiny that Hux wants to wrap it around his finger and tug—

“Are you just waiting for me to tell you to leave me alone?” Hux demands, adjusting the folded bags under his arm as they threaten to slide to the ground. 

Ben laughs, and the sound shouldn’t feel like a perfectly-made cuppa with a splash of milk to Hux, but it does. He hates how warm and gooey it makes his insides feel, but far more than he hates it, he wants to make Ben laugh again. 

“Nah. I’m just waiting for you to ask me on a date.” 

Hux chokes on nothing and stumbles, trying to hide his shock with a fake coughing fit that turns into a real one. He refuses to even look at Ben and fiddles with his grocery bags again. Silence stretches, and he switches the bags to his other arm. Finally, when it’s clear that Ben is just going to let him stew in the silence of his profound declaration, he clears his throat.

“I’m not going to do that.” 

“Then I’m waiting for you to buy me a coffee. You know, to apologize for being a heinous bitch the other night.” 

Hux snorts, and it sounds somehow both dismissive and sarcastic. Maybe he was a bit rude, and he might have jumped to a conclusion or two, but calling him a heinous bitch was a bit much. Funny, but definitely a bit much. 

“That sounds like a date to me,” Hux snipes, earning him another one of those laughs. 

It’s somehow even better than the first time he made Ben laugh: all warm and deep, like a blanket that Hux could easily spend the day curled up under, and he feels his shoulders ease away from his ears as he lets himself relax a little. 

“I don’t think it’s a date if we don’t sit at a table,” Ben offers, gesturing at a coffee stand that spent the first part of its life as a VW van. It’s also Hux’s favorite coffee in the city, despite the bright orange paint job and kitschy-named drinks. 

“A coffee does sound good,” Hux admitted. “Fine. But only for a few minutes, I have to go to work.” 

He starts towards the van, and Ben follows at his heels like an overeager puppy. Thankfully, there’s no line, and Hux doesn’t have to figure out exactly how to make small talk with a man whom he’s desperately trying to pretend he’s not extremely interested in. 

After the barista hands them their coffees (a plain latte for Hux and something called a wildflower latte for Ben, topped with an obscene tower of whipped cream), Ben gestures towards the park across the street. Without even looking to see if Hux would follow, he lopes towards a park bench. Hux walks after him at a more sedate pace, hardly able to believe that this Ben is the same one who seemed ready to fight him in the dressing room. It’s even harder to match him with his stage persona of Kylo Ren. The differences between the two parts that make up the man keep Hux feeling a little off balance, even as he settles onto the bench beside Ben. 

Hux sips his drink, sneaking sideways glances at Ben as he battles with the mountainous whipped cream to try and get to the drink hidden underneath. The same lips that Hux remembers under layers of black lipstick are now soft pink, and the fullness wasn’t a trick of makeup or lighting, because they’re damn kissable. Ben’s nose still takes up too much real estate on his face, but in an interesting way. In a way that makes you want to know how many fights he’s been in, and how many of those fights he’s won. He drags his gaze further, and oh god, Ben is staring right at him with those soft brown eyes framed by thick black lashes. Hux swivels his head quickly, but not fast enough to miss the way Ben’s dimples deepen when he smiles.

He looks studiously at his drink and takes a long drink, wincing as he swallows the hot liquid, but he can feel Ben staring at him as he does. Hux dressed as carefully as always that morning: tugging a comfortable blue knitted cardigan over his dark red t-shirt in deference to the still-cool weather. He looks like he’s going to teach a high school math class, and sitting next to Ben, he figures he looks even stuffier than normal. 

Ben’s still got his nose ring in, and Hux realizes with surprise that he’s even got an earring: a thin silver chain is threaded through his earlobe, and tiny claws dangle from each end. The thermal he’s got on under a worn-looking flannel is ragged at the bottom in the kind of way that adds another zero to the price tag, and his thumbs poke through holes in the cuffs. The coffee cup looks absurdly small in his hand, as if Hux had been given a normal-sized cup while the barista played a joke on Ben and handed him a cup sized for a single shot of espresso. 

The way Ben sits on the bench—long legs spread wide and taking up far too much space—reminds Hux of the way he sat in the dressing room chair, with his briefs exposing every inch of thick, hair-sprinkled thigh, and he clears his throat. 

He’s adjusting the grocery bags on his lap when Ben interrupts the stale silence by asking, “So. You like the environment?” 

It definitely wasn’t what Hux expected, and the words floated around his head for a moment before they collectively formed a sentence that he understood. Almost.

“What?” 

“The environment. You know—” Ben gestures at Hux’s lap. “The reusable bags? You saving the turtles or something?” 

Scoffing, Hux takes a long drink of his coffee. He feels a layer of foam clinging to his upper lip, and he licks it off, enjoying the feel of Ben’s heated stare on him. So what if he traces his lip with his tongue longer than strictly necessary? It's a comeuppance for what Ben did after his show, practically wearing a neon sign declaring his sexual intentions while he preened and pranced like a bird during mating season. 

“No,” Hux says. “The bags they give out are too thin. They changed the manufacturer, and the handles break too easily now. Plus, they charge you per bag. It might seem cheap, but it adds up.” 

Ben stares at him for a long moment before laughing. “And this is why I have my groceries delivered. I don’t wanna think about any of that shit.” 

“That’s the reason? You know they charge you for the bags anyway.” 

He takes another drink, and to his surprise finds that he’s having fun with this weird back-and-forth argument with Ben that's not really an argument. Ben sips his coffee, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows before he slumps backwards until his head rests on the back of the bench. 

“I’ll gladly pay for a paper bag so I don’t have to go to the store. Grocery shopping is so boooooring,” Ben whines. “Just walking up and down the aisles like you’re a cow or a lemming or an ant or—or—”

“A sheep?” Hux supplies, hiding an upward quirk of his lips behind his cup.

“Yes!” Ben sits up straight and hits his knee. “A sheep!” 

“Well, if you care about the quality of your produce, you’d do your own shopping, “Hux sniffs and drinks the last of his latte. 

Ben laughs again, and Hux can’t help but wonder why he’s laughing so much. Hux knows he’s not funny—or at least, no one’s ever thought he was, besides Phasma, and she mostly laughs at him—but it strikes him as somehow meaningful, somehow, that he makes Ben laugh. Shoving the thought away before he thinks too hard about it, he clears his throat and stands up. 

“I have to go to work.” 

Ben leaps to his feet, somehow managing to drain the last of his coffee at the same time. 

“Where do you work?”

“Why do you want to know?” Hux counters, but he doesn’t move from the spot where he’s standing next to the bench.

“Call me curious.” 

Hux huffs a laugh. “I’d call you many things before that, I think.” 

“Fair,” Ben admits, chuckling. “Fair.” 

“I work at Bi the Book” 

“Oh! I’ve been there!” 

He has? Hux hasn’t ever seen him—and he’d have noticed if Ben had walked in when he was working at the cash register. 

“My friend Phasma—I guess you know her, she took me to your show—owns it. She gave me a job in college and I just—I haven’t ever left.” 

Ben hums in understanding. “I know how that is. It’s easy to get comfortable and forget that you had dreams, or whatever.” 

Hux turned his head and leveled a flat stare at him. “You don’t know that about me.” 

“No,” Ben admits quietly. “But I know that about me.” 

His admission strikes Hux as entirely genuine, like it’s a confession or a secret window opening onto a courtyard that is Ben’s actual self, not the one he puts on like a character on stage. 

“Hmm.” 

Hux can’t think of anything to say that would mean anything or create a connection between the two of them, so he doesn’t say anything at all and tucks his bags back in place under his arm as he turns back in the direction of the bookshop. 

“Can I walk with you?” Ben’s at his elbow again, all wide eyes and eagerness—like the brief wave of melancholy was brushed off and thrown away as easily as Ben’s coffee cup sailed through the air to land in the garbage can with a soft crinkle of plastic. 

“To work?” Hux is confused. It seems strange that Ben would be willing to follow him around the city when surely he had any number of important things to do.

“Well, I’d just be going to the bookstore, not work,” Ben says, and he begins walking in the right direction, leaving Hux with no choice but to rush after him. 

“I don’t suppose me telling you no will stop you?” 

“Probably not!” When Ben grins at Hux, the silver flash of his tongue piercing catches Hux’s eye, and he sighs.

“Come on, then.” 

Ben chatters about this and that as they walk the rest of the way, but Hux can’t keep up with the conversation or concentrate on anything—not when Ben inches closer to him on the too-tight sidewalk. Their elbows brush once, then twice, and then Ben doesn’t pull back, so they spend the rest of the walk jostling each other and probably looking more like playful friends than the barely-there acquaintances that they are. 

Hux isn’t as careful as he usually is, and the glances of Ben that he steals get longer and more drawn out as he adds minute features to his mental image of the other man. There’s a scar on his face, small enough to almost be invisible—maybe a childhood injury or one Ben got from playing sports? Ben’s dimples deepen seemingly without warning: when he talks or when he smiles at a baby being pushed in a stroller, or when he sucks on his tongue ring, and Hux fleetingly wonders what he could do to see them more often. 

Ben must have missed a spot when he shaved, because there are just a few hairs on the underside of his jaw that highlight the difference between soft, pale skin and dark stubble that Hux is shockingly desperate to run his fingertip across—

He trips over an uneven curb, and as his hands come up to brace himself for a fall, Hux is hauled back onto his feet by a firm grip on his elbow. Ben stares down at him, brow furrowed in concern, and he doesn’t let go until Hux shakes him off with an annoyed, “I’m fine.”

Hux can still feel the warmth of Ben’s touch and the imprint of his fingers as they turn the last corner, the bookshop finally in sight. He has to take a deep breath to calm his racing thoughts—he truly has no idea why Ben is pretending to be interested in him, much less why he’s willing to follow Hux to work. At the show, it made sense: he was trying to get the crowd to interact with him in the hopes that he’d get more cash, but here? Why would Ben want to be with him? No one’s ever been this interested in him. No one’s ever tailored their long strides to his so they could walk in unison, and no one’s looked at him with so much interest that Hux could almost pretend it’s genuine. 

It’s best to get through this with as much dignity as Hux can manage, so he can finish his day at work and put every single mystifying moment behind him. Meeting Ben was an accident, and after today, Hux is certain that their paths wouldn’t ever meet again. Especially if Hux changed his route to work so it wouldn’t pass by what he assumed was Ben’s apartment. 

The shop bell jingles over their heads when Ben reaches out in front of him to open the door, sweeping his arm out like he’s ushering Hux into a grand ballroom instead of his own workplace. Phasma stands at a table of books, putting the final touches on a display involving fake flowers and paper flags with romance tropes written on them in glittery cursive, but she looks over her shoulder when the door opens, poised to greet a new customer. Instead, she blinks slowly, and Hux can physically see the gears in her head grind to a stop and restart when she sees Ben. 

Phasma moves faster than Hux has ever seen her, practically leaping in front of them and getting in Hux’s way when all he wants to do is leave his things in the back room before he can get started on pricing the new arrivals. 

“Ben Solo! Fancy meeting you here! And with Hux!” Phasma’s voice echoes off the high ceilings, and Hux winces. 

“Hi, Phas,” Ben says as he dips forward to give Phasma a little half-hug while Hux is still glued to his spot just within the entrance, dreading whatever he knows is coming. 

“Whatcha doing?” Phasma’s voice takes on a casual lilt as she flicks her gaze between him and Ben. Hux tries to skirt around her, but she cocks her hip out and effectively blocks him from escaping anywhere but back outside, so he mentally resigns himself to standing through what will surely be an awkward conversation straight from hell. 

Once again, Ben steps in and says, “Hux and I just got coffee—” 

“Oooooh!” A smile spreads across Phasma’s face. “Coffee? Like—a date?” 

“Yeah.” 

“No!” 

“Yeah,” Ben repeats, looking at Hux with a knowing half-smile that makes Hux want to throttle him and then maybe pet his hair afterward.

“No!” Hux practically shouts, retreating a step backwards. He can’t do this here, can’t sort through his conflicting feelings while Phasma and Ben stare at him like they can see into his soul. He might not even be able to decode his own thoughts while he’s alone in his apartment with the doors and windows locked. 

He retreats a step backwards, scurrying around a table holding tabletop games and what he’s always thought of as an overgenerous dice display. However, he’s feeling much more generous towards the dice pyramid, because the possibility of an avalanche of plastic cubes is all that’s preventing Phasma from lunging after him.

“It wasn’t a date!” Hux shouts over his shoulder, turning left at the second-to-last bookshelf and only slightly clipping his shoulder as he does, the sanctuary of the back room finally within reach. 

“Careful, Hux,” calls Ben. Hux can hear the smile in his voice even as his words go quieter as he retreats further into the stacks. “Don’t hurt yourself running away.” The unsaid ‘from me’ is heavily implied, and Hux relishes the way the door slams behind him, cutting off any further one-sided conversation. 

He stays in the back room until he hears the front door creak open and shut heavily behind someone that Hux assumes is Ben, and then he waits another five minutes, folding and refolding his grocery bags. So what if he’ll be late to the floor and will only be paid for working seven hours and forty-five minutes instead of his normal eight-hour shift? It’ll be worth it if Hux doesn’t have to parse exactly what Ben is playing at with all of his attention and intense looks. 

Creeping out to the floor, and when Ben is nowhere to be seen, Hux breathes out a sigh of relief—a sigh that quickly turns into a shriek of terror when Phasma comes out of nowhere and claps her hand down on his shoulder. 

“So,” she says. “Ben, huh?” 

“Shut up.” Hux is proud of how firm his voice is, but he can’t hide the flush that spreads its way up his neck and across his face. 

“You expect me to believe that you just ran into him on the way to work? Which you’re late for, by the way.” Phasma pokes him in the side, and Hux heads behind the counter, shooting her a dirty look. 

“I do, I did, and I’m not.” He picks up a box of books and sets them on the counter, arranging the pricing gun and packing list nearby. 

Phasma shrugs. “You’re usually 10 minutes early. This is late for you.”

“Ben ran into me, thank you very much. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” Hux pulls out the first book from the box, checks it off the manifest, and slaps a price sticker on the back, avoiding making eye contact with Phasma.”

“Hux,” she whines, settling her elbows on the counter and cupping her chin in her hands. “You never gossip with me.” 

“And I’m not going to start,” he snaps, crossing Bury Your Gays off the list so firmly that his pencil tip breaks. 

“Fine. Even though I know you like him.” 

Hux snorts and yanks a pen out of a ceramic cup that's the shape of Michelangelo’s David. 

“You do! Even if you just like the way he looks!” 

“No comment.” Another title crossed off (this time in blue ink), another sticker carefully stuck to the bottom corner of a paperback. 

Phasma sighs the sigh of the long-suffering. “Fine. But someday I’m going to see you happy. And someday you’ll say ‘thank you, Phasma, for making me do fun things and get out of my comfort zone’.” 

Hux’s tone is as dry as a desert when he parrots flatly, “Thank you, Phasma.” 

“You joke—but one of these days, Hux.” She retreats back to her display and waves the flag that says ‘enemies to lovers’ at him. “One of these days.” 

$$$$

That night, after he’s closed up the bookshop, made dinner for one, and gotten ready for bed, Hux perches on his couch, waving a laser pointer around his living room for Millie to chase. His phone rests on the cushion next to him more out of habit than because he expects a call, and he’s surprised when it beeps to announce an incoming text. 

It’s from an unknown number, but that isn’t strictly surprising, because Hux only has a few numbers saved on his phone: Phasma, his doctor’s office, the bookshop, and a number labeled simply ‘The General’. 

He debates blocking the number without even looking at the message, but his phone pings again, and another message replaces the first one. 

Unknown Number

hey. 

10:42pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

kinda miss not having u at the show 2nite 

10:42pm, 4/25/25 

Armitage Hux

Who is this?

10:43pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

<<image>>

10:43pm, 4/25/25

The image comes in, and Hux blinks down at his phone. He gently sets the phone face down on the table and sits back against the couch cushions before sitting forward and picking it up again to stare at the picture. He can’t see the face of the person who sent it, but Hux doesn’t need the face to know who’s attached to the sweat-shiny broad shoulders. There’s the tip of a crooked nose, and smeared lipstick that’s so deeply red that it’s nearly black. A tongue is out, and there’s a black barbell hooked in front of crooked top teeth. 

Kylo Ren is in what’s left of her drag costume: the black underwear and nipple tape that Hux still sees when he closes his eyes. 

Armitage Hux

How did you get this number?

10:46pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

i don’t kiss n tell 

10:46pm, 4/25/25

Armitage Hux

It was Phasma, wasn’t it?

10:47pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

yah 

10:47pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

didn’t even have to beg

10:48pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

or promise not 2 send nudes

10:48pm, 4/25/25

Millie bats impatiently at his pajama pants, and Hux absently waggles the laser pointer at the rug. He assumes that Millie chases it, but he doesn’t watch and instead types one-handed.

Armitage Hux

But sweaty shirtless pics are acceptable, I see

10:50pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

want more, red? just ask

10:50pm, 4/25/25

Armitage Hux

That’s not my name. 

10:51pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

I kno but i like calling u that

10:51pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

its like a pet name 

10:52pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

just 4 me

10:52pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

cuz i bet u won’t let me call u baby

10:52pm, 4/25/25

The absolute nerve of him! Hux retreats into his bedroom and sits propped up against his headboard. Millie chases after him, hoping for more fun with the laser, but when Hux just stares at his phone and doesn’t oblige her, she saunters back towards the living room and her food dish, tail high in the air. 

Armitage Hux

Absolutely not.

10:55pm, 4/25/25

Armitage Hux

And I will not be asking you for more pictures. 

10:55pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

come onnnnn 🙁 consent is sexy

10:56pm, 4/25/25

Armitage Hux

No.

10:56pm, 4/25/25

Armitage Hux

Yes regarding consent, but no. 

10:57pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

U know u wanna

10:57pm, 4/25/25

Armitage Hux

I do not. 

10:58pm, 4/25/25

Unknown number

don’t lie 2 me

10:58pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

Gotta get ready 2 go onstage

10:58pm, 4/25/25

Armitage Hux

Ok. 

11:01pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

send me a pic 2 remember u by

11:02pm, 4/25/25

Armitage Hux

No. 

11:02pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

pls

11:02pm, 4/25/25

Armitage Hux

No. 

11:03pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

fine 

11:03pm, 4/25/25

Unknown Number

<<image>>

11:05pm, 4/25/25

Hux’s face burns as he looks at the picture: a shot of Ben reflected in his dressing room mirror, with his thumb in the waistband of his underwear. He’s mid-tug, and the motion exposes the sharp line of one bare hip. Ben’s face isn’t in the shot, and he must not have his wig on yet—there’s no ebony waterfall of hair covering anything, just miles of bare skin. Hux can’t stop himself from zooming in, his fingers teasing across his phone screen as if he were touching Ben’s chest in real life. 

Ben’s got his phone in his hand, and the way his fingers curl around his phone makes it look as absurdly small as his coffee cup had that morning, and Hux tracks the veins along the back of Ben’s hand like he’s a cartographer mapping an unknown continent. Sometime between their meeting that morning and these texts, Ben painted his fingernails a luminous silver, making his fingers look like they were dipped in chrome. He’s got his Kylo Ren heels on, and the pointed position they contort his feet into make his legs flex, turning his thighs into a mountain range of hard muscle under lightly furred skin. 

The phone falls from Hux’s hand to the mattress, and as if letting go broke a spell, he realizes with a shock that he’s aroused. His pajama pants are tight and uncomfortable, and with a shaking hand, he adjusts himself. It’s embarrassing and shameful—not that he’s aroused by Ben (an arguably attractive man) or Kylo Ren (an arguably attractive drag queen), but because this one photograph is all it takes to get him hard. It’s not even pornographic: there’s nothing in the picture that would be censored, and Hux has seen men at beaches wear more revealing bathing suits. 

It’s all too much and not enough for Hux, and he puts the phone down before he does something stupid like actually ask Ben for nudes when he can just go onto reddit for wank material like a normal person. His dick throbs as he thinks the words “nudes” and “Ben” and “wank” in the same sentence, and he’s about to begrudgingly reach into his pants and take care of the situation when Millie leaps onto his bed. 

She gets up in his face, meowing pointedly and making sharp little biscuits on his chest, clearly wanting more playtime with the laser pointer, but Hux is suddenly bone-tired, and instead of reaching for the cat toy, he gives Millie a few apology strokes until she settles against his hip, any potential masturbatory opportunity lost. 

Picking up his phone again, his thumb hovers over the unlock screen for a moment before he puts it back down again. There’s nothing that Hux can think of to send back to Ben. He’s clearly gone onstage by now, otherwise surely he’d have pestered Hux for longer—but it seems rude to just say nothing after he sent the picture. Hux grabs his phone for the third time and unlocks it before he can think to stop himself. 

It’s too late for his text to have any meaning anymore, but Hux’s thumb hovers over the little green arrow for only a moment before he hits send. He types some more, and then practically throws his phone back to the nightstand where it lands (blessedly) facedown. Millie glares at him as he yanks the covers over them both, but Hux just slams his eyes shut and prays for sleep to take him before he does something dumb like look at Ben’s picture again. 

Armitage Hux

Good luck.

11:25pm, 4/25/25

$$$$

Hux doesn’t look at his phone until he’s made coffee the next morning, but when he swipes to unlock the screen, a text message is waiting for him. 

Ben “Kylo Ren” Solo

thank u 😘 😊♥️

1:03 am, 4/25/25

Chapter Text

Ben “Kylo Ren” Solo

Look @ this 

9:46 am, 5/27/25

Ben “Kylo Ren” Solo

<<image>>

9:46 am, 5/27/25

Armitage Hux

That’s not a drink. It’s an abomination.. 

9:53 am, 5/27/25

Ben “Kylo Ren” Solo

Hux its so good you should try it

9:53 am, 5/27/25

Armitage Hux

Ben, I can’t try something I don’t have.

9:55 am, 5/27/25

Ben “Kylo Ren” Solo

<<image>>

9:55 am, 5/27/25

“Hey!” Phasma’s voice fills the bookshop and Hux startles, jamming his elbow against the edge of the counter. He barely manages to save his phone from an ill-timed collision with the floor and fumbles it back into his pocket before Phasma can yank it out of his hand (again) and tease him about what she finds on the screen (again). 

“If you could possibly tear yourself away from your phone, I’d appreciate your help in running the shop that pays your bills!” She’s behind him, and Hux whips around, slapping his hand to his thigh as Phasma’s fingers edge too close to his pocket for comfort. 

“Or are you too busy thirsting after Ben? Again?” She eyes him with far more understanding than Hux is comfortable with, and he sidles away to straighten a display. At least no one is in the shop to hear her tease him about Ben this time—Hux had been subject to a relentless retelling of the drag show and its aftermath by Phasma, who had two customers hanging on her every word. She made Hux sound like a slobbering idiot who couldn’t get out of his own way, while Ben was the classic movie hero whose hair blew in a phantom breeze as stringed instruments swelled in the background.

He was not impressed, and told her so, once the customers left, but it hasn’t stopped her from bringing up Ben multiple times a day just to watch him blush. 

“Did you want to go to his show this week? Beebee could get us tickets and I can forbid you from drinking if you don’t want to embarrass yourself again.” 

Hux had grabbed a pile of books to reshelve and strode towards the back of the shop, hoping that his silence would be taken as a refusal of Phasma’s Grand Plan to Get Hux to Fall in Love with Ben Solo. 

Because the thing is—Hux can’t go to the show, because if he goes, Ben will think that Hux likes him, and what then? He can’t just show up at Ben’s job and act like it’s a completely normal thing for him to do, like he goes to drag shows all the time and enjoys himself. Hux barely goes to bars—much less to clubs—and if last time was any indication, he clearly has no idea how to behave when he does get dragged out. 

He’d need to drink at the club to stay even remotely sane, and clearly if he drinks, he loses control of his tongue and his inside thoughts become outside ones, and it's just easier for everyone involved if he stays home with his cat and minds his own business. 

Except—

Hux dreams about him. He dreams about Kylo dancing around his living room, wearing those spiked high heels, and about Ben holding his hand. He dreams about the two of them—Ben and Kylo—surrounding him and drawing him down into bed. Hux dreams and he wakes up hard and aching, unable to stop himself from indulging in a necessary emergency wank more than he’d care to admit. 

And then there’s Ben himself. Because he’s still texting Hux, and those texts are becoming more…personal, somehow. They’re not inherently sexual (despite threatening to, Ben hasn’t sent any nudes), but now Hux can paint a picture of what Ben’s life looks like when he’s not in the club. 

By now, Hux has seen more photos of Ben in his kitchen than he’s ever taken of himself, but he can’t quite bring himself to ask him to stop. There’s selfies of Ben leaning over the stove while pans of stir-fry or pots of pasta sauce cook behind him. None of them are artistically shot: Ben’s hair is everywhere (this is how Hux knows he’s got a wavy sort of fashionable mullet), and his kitchen isn’t pristine. It’s the sort of lived-in, worked-in, less-than-spotless place that makes Hux’s own kitchen look like some sterile movie set. 

Sometimes the photos are blurry, and sometimes Ben isn’t even looking at the camera. Almost like he wasn’t ready for the selfie he had planned on taking, that he moved his thumb too quickly, deciding to send it to Hux anyway. Sometimes he’s gotten someone else to take the picture for him, because he’s stirring or tasting or cutting something. 

Hux’s favorite is a candid shot of Ben smiling in profile, where the curve of his ear and its dangling earring plays off the slope of his nose and the septum ring that’s a simple silver vee below his nostrils. Hux stared at it for a long moment when Ben first sent it to him, memorizing each part: the silver jewelry and Ben’s dimple, his sooty eyelashes and the dark hair that brushed his temple, before saving it to a secret, locked folder in the depths of his phone’s memory. 

There’s photos and reviews of places Ben’s been around the city. Some places Hux even recognizes (the cherry blossoms in the park along the river, a particular view of the mountain, a well-known local cafe that always has a line for breakfast), and he wonders if Ben is alone or if he went with someone else. The idea that there might be a partner that Ben hadn’t told him about makes Hux feel sick, but the thought that maybe Ben’s just as lonely as Hux makes him feel somehow worse. 

Somehow without even realizing it, Hux knows that Ben lives with his cousin and her two boyfriends. Who are also boyfriends, apparently. It’s just the sort of wild debauched lifestyle that Brendol thought Hux would be living after he kicked him out of the house, and Hux is vaguely curious but mostly just confused about the situation. Ben’s parents live in the suburbs, and Ben visits them often. He likes card games but not board games, is allergic to dogs but likes cats even though he’s never owned one, and always  drinks his coffee sweet. Ben went to college but dropped out his senior year, and got his first piercing on his 15th birthday: a gift from his mom. 

What’s more damning than having Ben’s face looking at him from his phone, is the way that Hux starts mentally including him in his day-to-day life, like he’s got a claim on the man’s attention. Maybe Ben would like this book, he thinks, as he helps a customer with a purchase. Ben doesn’t like poppy seed bagels, when Phasma offers him one. Maybe Ben will be here, when he walks by a shop that Ben sent him a photo of a few days earlier. 

It turns out that Ben doesn’t just dance at the club—he’s got a whole “online presence,” which is a term that Phasma says often enough that Hux should know what it means, but he truly didn’t understand. Not until she showed him a video of Ben in front of his bathroom mirror doing something she called ‘transitions’ to songs that Hux vaguely recognized and he saw the tiny little numbers that told him that Ben was popular. 

He’s got thousands of views—multiple thousands, actually, and so many of them follow him, too, seemingly for his random photos and his drag-themed videos. Meanwhile, Hux is pretty sure that he doesn’t even know ten people, let alone the ten thousand who liked Ben’s last video. Why would Ben pick him when there are clearly people out in the world who’d comment on his videos and be fully free with their adoration of Ben’s hair, his makeup, his body, his talent? 

Still, Hux texts back. Mostly just short replies, the occasional “wow” or “that’s nice” or “have fun” when Ben tells him he’s going on an adventure. But Hux never sends pics, and he rarely asks Ben anything, even though he’s pretty sure that Ben would gladly offer up his answers. Ben is the one willingly giving him information, a peek into his life that Hux would never have had if they hadn’t met. 

$$$$

Maybe Hux is spending some of his work day looking at his phone, but he’s not spending any more time staring at the screen than Mitaka or Thanisson do on theirs. It’s just because he’s never really had a reason to, before—before Ben. 

“I’m not thirsting after anyone, Phas.” 

A lie. When Phasma startled him, Hux indeed was staring at a photo that Ben had sent—one Ben took after drinking whatever awful coffee concoction he’d gotten. Whipped cream had covered his lips, and the photo was snapped when Ben was mid-lick, presumably trying to wipe himself clean. Maybe Hux’s vision zeroed in on Ben’s pink tongue lapping up the cream, and maybe he’d had to slide his thumb across his phone’s screen multiple times so that the screen wouldn’t go dark, and maybe he hadn’t heard Phasma the first (three) times she’d called his name, but it didn’t mean that he was doing anything wrong. 

“Suuuure.” Phasma has trailed him into the stacks, and is now leaning against a row of books, blocking the precise spot that Hux needs for the book he wants to put away. Because of course she is. Her agreeable tone makes Hux narrow his eyes, because if there’s one thing that Phasma is not, is being agreeable when she wants to push his buttons. 

“But let's say you do thirst after Ben. Let’s just pretend. For funsies, okay?” She takes the book out of his hand, reshelves it in the wrong spot, and steers Hux back towards the front of the shop. 

“Maybe—just hear me out, Hux—maybe, you should tell him if you’re interested.” 

A sound like air being let out of a balloon erupts from Hux and he tries to cover it up with a cough. 

“It’s not like that.” 

“Come on, Hux,” Phasma wheedles, and she has the audacity to look concerned. “It wouldn’t kill you to let Ben in, just a little bit.”

“Wouldn’t it?” Hux mutters under his breath, but whatever annoyance has been building since Phasma interrupted him disappears when she reaches out and brushes his shoulder. She never touches him like that: with softness. It's always a poke or a jab or a firm elbow in the gut, like she’s pulling him kicking and screaming towards whatever end she decides is the correct one. But this? This is kind and gentle and tender. 

Hux hates it. Or, at least, he hates the way his throat threatens to close up and his chin goes a weird sort of wobbly when he meets her worried gaze. Clearing his throat, he shakes his head to clear his thoughts and repeats, “It’s not like that, Phasma.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” she says softly. “But you deserve a friend, even if it doesn’t turn out romantically.” 

He’s just about to remind her that she’s his friend and he’s perfectly happy with his life the way it is, thank you very much, when she adds something that freezes him in place.

“Do you want it to be romantic, Hux?” 

The word ‘want’ echoes in his mind as he tries to wrap his thoughts around the question. Because yes, obviously he wants whatever is building between him and Ben to turn romantic. But on the other hand, even the idea of letting someone into the fragile life he’s built for himself is borderline petrifying. Relationships end all the time, and what’s preventing one between him and Ben to be any different? Hux isn’t sure he’s strong enough to brave the potential fallout of a break-up, so it’s obviously safer if he doesn’t chance it. 

“I don’t know,” Hux lies. “He wants it to be romantic, though. I think.” 

Phasma scoffs. “You think?” 

“He’s asked me on a date.” 

Phasma’s face brightens for a moment, her red lips curving up into an excited smile before they flatten out and she glares at him. 

“You should go.” 

“Maybe. But—”

“But you’re scared,” Phasma guesses. 

“Not scared,” Hux snaps, but he can’t think of what else to say to Phasma to prove it, so he picks up a keychain from a display and passes it from one hand to the other. 

“Hux, it’s alright to be afraid.”

He looks down at the keychain he’s clutching in his left hand. It’s a little stuffed bunny wearing a tiny shirt with a rainbow printed on it. Its eyes are black and beady and it feels like the damn thing can see right into his soul, and when he smooths the fur from around its mouth, the bunny smiles lopsidedly up at him like it's about to impart deep wisdom from the forest. 

Fuck the bunny. Hux tosses it back onto the pile of other happy woodland creatures and scrubs his hand down his face. 

“I know. I just—this is all new to me.” 

“Talking to men?” Phasma asks, bumping his shoulder with hers as she rearranges the keychains so they’re all staring directly at Hux. 

“No. You’re an idiot.” 

“Being friends? With—” Phasma cuts herself off and looks around before whispering mockingly, “with men?”

“Stop it.” Hux tries to imbue his words with venom but he can feel his lips tilting up as he fights a smile. 

“So its the fucking of the men that has you worried,” she says with a cackle. “Hux, does everything…you know…perform?” She stares pointedly somewhere below his belt buckle, and Hux hurries around a table, trying to avoid both her stare and her flailing hands. 

“Phasma! Everything is fine! We are at work!” 

Despite his attempt to evade her, Phasma doesn’t give up and chases him around the tables before he slips around her to stand behind the cash register, holding his hands in front of him like he’s trying to calm down a rogue velociraptor in a theme park gone wrong. 

“No one’s here to overhear your sob story about your penis that may or may not work, it’s fine!” She dissolves into giggles after her proclamation, and it's the singular snort that escapes her lips that makes Hux finally laugh, too. 

“I hate you.” 

“Oh wait!” Phasma gasps, like she’s discovered some hidden secret that will change the universe as she knows it. “Hux…are you…are you straight? You’ve been lying to me this whole time?” She’s contorted her face into a mask of shock that's ruined when she bursts into laughter again. 

“Phasma! I am not straight!” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I don’t know,” Hux snaps, “Would you like to ask the General about my preferred pornographic materials?” 

The mention of his father kills the mood, and they both fall silent. Phasma delicately wipes tears away before they can smudge her eyeliner. 

“I think I’d rather gouge my eyes out, thanks.” 

“Honestly, talking to him might be a similar level of torture,” Hux deadpans, but he finally allows Phasma to join him behind the counter, and they fall into a companiable silence as he arranges and rearranges the felt-tip pen display. He’s deciding where to put a particularly swamp-green pen when Phasma’s voice once again breaks the quiet.

“Anyway,” she says, and her voice is once again so sincere that Hux can’t bear to even look at her. “I just think that if you like him, you should…tell him, maybe.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Hux whispers.

“But you do. Like him, I mean,” Phasma guesses. 

The pens rattle as Hux blindly jams the swampy one into place. “Of course I do! Ben’s beautiful and interesting and funny and talented, and for some reason he seems to like me, and what if I fuck it up, Phasma? What then? What if I say something or do something and he despises me for it, after I let him in?”

“Hux,” she says, and then she repeats his name again, nudging him until he looks at her. When he does, he’s surprised not to see her looking at him with the pity he expects—the same pity he feels for himself—but with a kind of gentle encouragement. 

“Hux, that’s part of living. Going out on a limb for someone because they might be your someone. Taking a risk because the reward could change your life.” 

“I know,” Hux sighs. He looks for something to gather and put away; he’s exhausted from the conversation and far too close to tears than he’d ever care to admit. 

“You deserve to be happy, Hux,” Phasma tells him as he brushes past her. “Do you hear me? YOU DESERVE HAPPINESS!” She’s yelling, her voice loud and insistent, as if her words can burrow into his psyche and remap his brain’s neural pathways and turn him into a normally functioning human being through sheer force of will. 

Hux waves her off before turning down a book-lined aisle, but she’s succeeded in part of her plan, at least: that night when he’s washing his plate and his glass after dinner, he’s still thinking about what she said. 

What's the worst that could happen? If he tells Ben that he thinks that maybe he likes him, too? It’s not like they’d be getting married or having kids and a pet and a picket fence around a two-story bungalow and—and—and—

Hux can tell someone he likes them. It's not forever. It’s easy. He tells Millie he loves her all the time, before running his fingers through her fur and kissing her fuzzy little head. Phasma knows he likes her, too, and well—that’s pretty much it in terms of people who like Hux, but even if this whole thing goes south, as Hux already expects it will, maybe this experiment will be somehow good for him. It will get him out of his head and out of his own way, to experience the life his father assumed he was living in the big city with his queer job and his queer friends and his all-around queer lifestyle that somehow hasn’t actually ever materialized. 

Because Hux does like Ben. He didn’t lie to Phasma—all of the things he told her about the other man were true, and all of the lovely things that Ben is, makes Hux feel inconsequential and drab by comparison. And yet—Hux’s phone holds weeks of text messages, examples of Ben reaching out first and trying to get to know him, despite his icy personality. So maybe Hux isn’t too boring or dull or plain or any of the things he felt sitting in the club watching Ben perform as Kylo Ren. Maybe he is just what Ben needs, and maybe—just maybe—Ben is exactly what Hux is looking for. 

Instead of texting Ben and telling him that yes, he would absolutely love to go on a date, and perhaps they could try the new Vietnamese place over on Pine that was supposed to be good, Hux does the normal thing and cleans out his cupboards. Then he turns to his fridge and scrubs the shelves and rinses the drawers out before rearranging all of his sauces and condiments by cuisine. Then, when he was tired from all the cleaning, Hux sits on the couch and turns on the television. 

He’s too tired, and it's far too late to suggest a date. He can’t make plans while exhausted, he’s liable to get details mixed up, or he could mistakenly tell Ben that he likes hamburgers more than Italian food, or that he’s an avid base-jumper and could they go to the top floor of the highest building in town and leap off, holding hands? Resting his head against the back of the couch, Hux starts mentally creating an order of operations of the ideal conditions under which he would finally tell Ben that he’d agree to a date. It doesn’t take long before his thoughts get muddied together and he falls asleep. 

$$$$

Sunlight streaks across Hux’s face and he blinks awake, wincing as he levels himself off of the couch. He’d slept through the night, and his neck and back hurt—if he was ever curious before, he now knows that he’s far too old to sleep on the couch, no matter how comfortable the cushions are. Stumbling into his bathroom, he splashes cold water on his face and stares at himself in the mirror as the tips of his hair nearly touch his cheekbones. He needs a haircut, and badly. He’s had so many other things on his mind lately that he’s completely forgotten his routine: it's now been nearly eight weeks instead of his normal five between cuts. 

Hux’s dreams had been jumbled and confusing: he climbed an enormous stone pyramid, but as he scaled each rock, another layer was built above him, and still he climbed as his fingers ached and his muscles screamed. The cycle repeated and repeated; a neverending trek to the top of an increasingly enormous tower, until the stones began to tumble. He lost his footing and suddenly Hux was in freefall, spinning wildly through the air as the ground failed to come up to meet him. It went on for hours, and despite what should have been a full night's sleep, Hux is groggy and blurry-eyed. 

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or the fact that Hux is out of oatmeal and has to make do with toast for breakfast, but before he can think better of it, his phone is in his hand and he’s opening up his text thread with Ben. 

Armitage Hux

Were you serious about a date?

8:19am, 5/28/25

$$$$

Ben meets him at the door of the restaurant, hands shoved in his pockets and the golden glow of the street lamps making his hair look blue-black in the light. For some reason, Hux had expected Ben to be late—or worse, to not show up at all—and the fact that Ben was waiting for him threw him off. Hux freezes, and for a moment it feels as if time is standing still while Ben moves in slow motion, like in one of those movie meet-cutes where the protagonist does something inherently sexy and everyone is immediately under their spell.

Ben rakes his fingers through his hair, and when he lifts his head, Hux can practically feel the moment Ben sees him. Everything changes in that instant—a smile stretches across Ben’s face and he throws his shoulders back confidently, like he’s relieved that Hux actually showed up. He takes a step forward, but the restaurant door opens in front of him and a group of laughing people flow out onto the sidewalk, forcing Ben to stop mid-step, and Hux breaks himself free from his stupor and walks to meet his date. 

It gives Hux a few extra seconds to talk his racing heart into beating normally again and to fix a smile on his face—not because he isn’t happy to be on a date with Ben (he is) or that he’s not excited to try the restaurant (he is), but because he’s unsure how to greet him. A simple ‘hello’ doesn’t seem like enough, and a handshake seems more professional than romantic, and just when Hux starts to panic, Ben solves the problem for him. 

Ben’s hand lands on his shoulder, heavy and wide and warm through the sweater Hux wears, and when Ben leans close, Hux can only inhale the spicy-sweet smell of his cologne. Ben brushes a kiss across Hux’s cheek and retreats a step, smiling a lopsided smile that makes Hux’s nerves churn even more fiercely in his stomach. 

“Hey.”

“H-hello.” 

Ben’s easy grin breaks the awkwardness, and Hux finds himself being escorted over the threshold with Ben’s palm against the small of his back. 

The waitress is polite, offering them both a menu and filling their water glasses as they get settled at a small table towards the back of the restaurant. Hux’s legs feel like they’d be more at ease on a newborn giraffe when he tries to avoid Ben’s knees under the table. Ben doesn’t seem to have the same trouble, and presses his leg warmly against Hux’s, who lets out a long, shaky breath. 

His shoulders relax away from his ears, and he lets himself be coaxed into conversation by a surprisingly gentlemanly Ben, who orders for them with a flourish and a wide grin.

When the waitress leaves, Hux asks Ben about his parents—because that’s what one does on a first date—and without warning, Ben throws his head back and laughs loudly enough that the whole restaurant turns and stares.

“My mom’s a lawyer,” Ben says, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Of course she is.” Hux groans and drops his head into his hands. “That’s why you laughed when I threatened to sue you—oh my god, you must think I’m the biggest—”

“It was adorable,” Ben interrupts. “You were so affronted and annoyed with me. I loved it. She doesn’t practice anymore, but she could probably wipe the floor with you. Not that I’d want her to,” he adds quickly, reaching his hand across the table to tap the fingers that cover Hux’s face. 

Hux peeks through his fingers, cheeks still on fire. But Ben truly doesn’t look mad—he’s still smiling, but when Hux drops his hands to his lap, Ben asks, “What about your family?” 

His fingers find his napkin and he starts shredding it into tiny pieces, his nerves getting the best of him before he’s even said anything. But it’s best to pull off the band-aid quickly and be done with it, so without meeting Ben’s warm eyes, Hux huffs out a breath and speaks. 

“My mother died when I was young—my parents weren’t married—and I ended up living with my dad who barely wanted a child, let alone a son like me who wouldn’t walk in his footsteps. He’s a military man that comes from a long line of military men, but clearly I’m…not that.” 

The waitress reappears and sets their food on the table, giving Hux a reprieve as he scoops pad thai onto his plate. Ben sips his beer but doesn’t say a word, giving Hux time to arrange his thoughts. 

“I toed the line and obeyed him,” Hux says around a mouthful of noodles. “I didn’t say a word when he married my stepmother—typical evil type from the movies—and kept my marks high enough to apply to university in the States. I just wanted to get as far away from him as possible.” 

Ben nudges a plate of spring rolls closer to Hux and he takes one, shooting Ben an appreciative smile. The rice paper is so crunchy that it shatters as Hux bites it, and he hums appreciatively before he continues, his words tripping off of his tongue in a rush. 

“He always had an inkling I was gay, even before I did—in his mind, I was too thin, too frail, too uninterested in shooting things and hitting things and making a general nuisance of myself outdoors to be anything but queer—and he hated me even more for that.” 

Hux looks up from his plate, only to find Ben looking right back at him, his chopsticks abandoned by his plate. Ben’s eyes are warm, but his smile is sad when he reaches out and gently touches the back of the hand that Hux had curled into a loose fist. An offering to hold hands—a suggestion rather than a demand. Just silent support as Hux tells his story, and Hux opens his palm, letting Ben’s fingers slide between his. 

“Then—it's a tale as old as time—he found my browser history and kicked me out. I came to the States for university, met Phasma, started working at the bookshop, blah blah blah, and—” he shrugs, trying to plaster a rueful smile on his face, “—here I am.” 

Ben leans forward, his thumb stroking across the back of Hux’s hand. “And you haven’t seen your dad since then?” 

Hux chews thoughtfully, washing his bite down with a swallow of water. “Nope. He calls me every once and a while just so I'm reminded of how much of a disappointment I am, but it’s been years since we’ve been on the same continent.” 

“Wow.” Ben sucks in a breath through his teeth and looks like he wants to ask a million more questions. Now that his story was out and he was laid bare, Hux can’t bring himself to go into any more details, so he spears a cucumber with his chopsticks and asks, “What about you? Tell me more about your family,” before shoving it into his mouth and chewing violently. 

“Nothing quite as dramatic,” Ben says. “My dad’s a pilot and my mom’s a lawyer. They’re both pretty much retired, and my mom’s embraced her “menopausal witch era—” Here, Ben drops his chopsticks and makes air quotes while wrinkling his nose. “—whatever that means. She mostly does pottery in the backyard and bothers dad while he works on his old car in the garage. I see them a few times a month now, for dinners or whatever.” 

“And they’re…” Hux waves his hand, unsure how to ask. 

“Okay with me doing drag? Or just okay with me being gay?” Ben asks, but there’s none of the anger that he’d shown when Hux asked him a similar question in his dressing room. 

“Yes? Both, I suppose.” 

“Oh, yeah. Dad used to show me old movies to, like, bond with me over when I was a kid? And Mom figured it out pretty quickly when I kept rewatching Josh Brolin’s scenes in The Goonies. Dad just thought I was really into pirates for a long time.”

Ben laughs, and Hux joins him. It’s easy to laugh with Ben, and something warm unfurls in his chest. 

“Then it was Labyrinth,” Ben says with a waggle of his eyebrows, “Because: Bowie. Then Rocky Horror. Tim Curry in those—”

They both say “fishnets” at the same time, and Ben laughs. 

“Yeah, and that corset. It’s no wonder I ended up—what did you call it? ‘Stripping for a living’?”

Hux blushes. “I should apologize for that.” 

“Yeah, you probably should.” Ben leans back in his chair and clicks his tongue ring against his teeth as he grins, waiting for Hux to grovel. 

“I just—that was my first time at a drag show.”

“Hux, I think everyone knew that as soon as you walked in the door.” 

“Anyway. I was overwhelmed and had a few drinks and there you were—”

Ben pretends to flip his hair over his shoulder with a smile before he finishes, “And here we are.” 

“Yes.” Hux recaptures Ben’s fingers in his and squeezes, giving the other man a tentative smile. “Here we are.”