Two boys, drawn in stark, exaggerated contrast to each other. One of them small and slight, with a dusting of pale freckles, the other long-boned, with dark skin and a mess of black curls that fanned out around his face. They lie awake late into the night, talking over each other in quiet voices across the divide between their two regulation beds.
“Are you insane? There’s no way one of the old Imperials could take on a Resurgent-class Destroyer. The turbolasers alone-“
“It’s not all about firepower. You’d have to catch it first, and with the Resurgents you may as well try steering a planet. Forget-”
“Who cares about maneuverability? That’s what the fighters are for-”
Neither of them is aware of the tall, dark-haired man watching them with vague curiosity from the corner of the room.
~
The orange-haired boy is getting taller quickly. Pale wrists peek out of the sleeves of his crisply-starched uniform. He drums his fingers idly against the polished metal table, his face a mask of concentration as he struggles to at least appear intently focused on the holo showing their morning morale session and not on the dark-skinned boy across the table, who is attempting to distract him by miming falling asleep. It’s working. General Levan is a bore. He couldn’t motivate someone to piss on him if he were on fire.
The boy’s datapad chimes quietly with an incoming message. Unseen, the man leans in to read it over his shoulder. The text says, Why haven’t they shipped him off to the Republic? LH
He’d bore them all to death. BH the boy messages back, barely glancing down.
A chime. Exactly. Then we invade while they’re asleep. LH
Where’s the fun in that? BH He smirks.
The holovid drones on, forgotten.
~
The dark-haired boy is now an awkward, coltish young man, all long limbs and large hands. He drops his bag on the floor just inside the doorway and then proceeds to nearly trip over it as he stumbles his way to the nearest bed without taking his eyes off the datapad in his hands. It is a moment before he notices the other young man sitting on the floor, doubled over a wastebasket that he’s got clutched between his knees. His pale face is splotchy and red, his hair falling around his face. He arcs over the wastebasket and there is a hollow wretching sound, but nothing comes up. It’s clear he has been doing this for a while.
“Oh, is it progress reports already?” the first says.
“Not funny, Holt.” The other replies, weakly.
Holt reaches out a hand and smooths back limp orange hair. “I know, I’m sorry. You okay?”
A little nod as he hugs the wastebasket. “I keep telling myself that at least it can’t be as bad as last quarter.” He dry-heaves again.
Holt rolls off the bed and comes to sit behind his roommate. As he crosses the narrow space between their beds, he passes within scant centimeters of the dark-haired man who watches them, invisible.
The two boys are of a height now; both of them lean and tall. Holt folds his legs around Hux as he sits, and runs his hands over his shoulders, smoothing out the tense muscle there. “How long have you got?”
“He’s expecting me at two.” A few deep, shaky breaths, as he leans back into the warm body behind him.
“You do this every time. He’s your father- how bad could it be?”
That comment doesn’t merit a response, though it does earn a long, arch stare.
“Okay, okay, put it this way- what could he possibly say? You’ve got the best marks of anyone in our year."
“You're forgetting the year he had them lower my grade in stellar cartography because he decided I hadn't really earned it."
“It’ll be okay.” Holt presses a kiss into the other’s hair. Slips long arms around his waist. “Ten minutes. In and out. We’ll go get a drink afterwards.”
A groan. “Yes, please.”
“Anything I can do in the meantime?” Another kiss, this time on the tendon just below his ear.
He catches on quickly, arching his neck into the kiss. “Mm, distract me?”
~
The dark-haired man leans against the wall in the hallway of a ship, already bored with waiting alongside a fresh-faced lieutenant who cannot see him. The lieutenant radiates nervous energy like a small ginger sun; fussing with his sleeves and smoothing his hair down for what the man counts as the eighth time before replacing his hat.
There is a sound of a blast door opening from around the nearest corner and the hallway fills with heavy footsteps. The lieutenant darts forward in the sudden influx of people and falls into step alongside a man in a science officer's uniform. His black curls are pulled back tightly in a regulation tie, and he is engrossed in a datapad. He doesn’t notice the man walking beside him until he clears his throat.
“Technician Holt,” he says, stiffly.
Holt does a double-take, missing a step and nearly tripping over his own feet. A slow smile breaks out across his face, “Lieutenant Hux,” he says, warmly. “I thought you were on the Valiant.”
“I was. I requested a transfer. Didn’t I tell you?” Hux struggles not to smile, but it is a losing battle.
“It must have slipped your mind. How uncharacteristically forgetful.” They fall into step again, walking closer together than the wide hallway necessarily required, jostling each other and bumping elbows playfully.
“What’s the matter? Didn’t think I could manage without you?” Holt says.
“I am amazed the ship is still intact, to be honest.”
They round a corner and the observer lets them go.
~
Other memories pass by in a rush. These are sharper, more tender; watching them is like pressing your hands against a wound.
“Brendol.”
“Sir.” He stands at sharp attention in Commander Hux’s spartan office. It is the first time he can remember ever requesting to speak to the man.
His father doesn’t look up from the report he’s reading. “Get on with it. I haven’t got all day.”
Lieutenant Hux wonders if he can hear how loudly his heart is pounding even from across the room. “Sir, I’m told you arranged the marriage offer between Elissa and Lexander Holt.”
“You had to ask me that in person?”
“No, sir. I… I don’t understand why, sir.”
Commander Hux looks up for the first time. He is a great bear of a man; as tall as his son, but twice as wide, with scar-pocked skin and eyes the same cold grey of a ship’s hull. It’s a measuring stare, and Hux cannot help but feel that he comes up wanting.
“Because you spend too much time picking up after him,” his father says. His voice is as weathered as his face. “I worked hard for my name. I made it mean something. I didn’t give it to you so you could use it to call-in favors to get your friends out of trouble.”
“Sir, that… it wasn’t his fault. Holt is a brilliant researcher. His work on the new power system for the ion-“
Commander Hux growls. “Which is why he’s still alive. I’m not wasteful. Your cousin could do worse for herself.”
The younger man screws up his courage. “Sir, Holt is- he’s more than a friend to me…” his voice trails off into nothing.
His father stands, pushing back his chair, and stalking around the desk. It is all the lieutenant can do not to back away. “You think I don’t know that? Just like you think I don’t know that you transferred to the Mercenary so you could fuck him? Now you listen, boy. I don’t care who you let stick their cock in you, but the next time I put you on a ship you’re going to stay there. He’s a distraction you don’t need. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
~
A holovid conversation. The more irate Holt grows, the colder Hux’s voice becomes.
“Are you saying I can’t even see you-“
“As what? Your piece on the side? Be reasonable.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“It’s a good match, Lexander. You’re not going to get a better offer. It’d be stupid not to take it.”
“Since when, in all the years you’ve known me, have I cared about that?”
“Maybe it’s time to start. I’m up for a promotion soon. I can’t keep picking up your messes forever.”
~
A wedding.
The newly-minted Captain Hux is on his third glass of wine, lurking in the corner alongside a man that nobody can see or hear.
He raises a half-empty glass to his father as the man approaches him.
“Sir.”
"Stop sulking,” his father growls a warning in his ear, leaning in close.
There is a flash of something that might have been defiance in the son’s cold blue eyes. “Yes, sir.”
He finishes his drink in one long swallow and hunts down another glass. Minutes later he is standing in front of a crowd, his smile easy and his spine as rigid as durasteel, as he offers a toast to the bride and groom. Despite the wine, he doesn’t slur as he speaks passionately and at length on their union and the shining example they would provide to the First Order. He offers them hope for long lives and happiness and children. It’s a beautiful speech. His cousin beams, touched by the gesture. Lexander just looks like he wants to murder him.
Hux finds his father's eyes from across the room, and to his surprise he is smirking with something that almost resembles pride.
FILL pt 8 (warnings for Ren being a creep and Maybe Feelings? Past Hux/OC)
~
Two boys, drawn in stark, exaggerated contrast to each other. One of them small and slight, with a dusting of pale freckles, the other long-boned, with dark skin and a mess of black curls that fanned out around his face. They lie awake late into the night, talking over each other in quiet voices across the divide between their two regulation beds.
“Are you insane? There’s no way one of the old Imperials could take on a Resurgent-class Destroyer. The turbolasers alone-“
“It’s not all about firepower. You’d have to catch it first, and with the Resurgents you may as well try steering a planet. Forget-”
“Who cares about maneuverability? That’s what the fighters are for-”
Neither of them is aware of the tall, dark-haired man watching them with vague curiosity from the corner of the room.
~
The orange-haired boy is getting taller quickly. Pale wrists peek out of the sleeves of his crisply-starched uniform. He drums his fingers idly against the polished metal table, his face a mask of concentration as he struggles to at least appear intently focused on the holo showing their morning morale session and not on the dark-skinned boy across the table, who is attempting to distract him by miming falling asleep. It’s working. General Levan is a bore. He couldn’t motivate someone to piss on him if he were on fire.
The boy’s datapad chimes quietly with an incoming message. Unseen, the man leans in to read it over his shoulder. The text says, Why haven’t they shipped him off to the Republic? LH
He’d bore them all to death. BH the boy messages back, barely glancing down.
A chime. Exactly. Then we invade while they’re asleep. LH
Where’s the fun in that? BH He smirks.
The holovid drones on, forgotten.
~
The dark-haired boy is now an awkward, coltish young man, all long limbs and large hands. He drops his bag on the floor just inside the doorway and then proceeds to nearly trip over it as he stumbles his way to the nearest bed without taking his eyes off the datapad in his hands. It is a moment before he notices the other young man sitting on the floor, doubled over a wastebasket that he’s got clutched between his knees. His pale face is splotchy and red, his hair falling around his face. He arcs over the wastebasket and there is a hollow wretching sound, but nothing comes up. It’s clear he has been doing this for a while.
“Oh, is it progress reports already?” the first says.
“Not funny, Holt.” The other replies, weakly.
Holt reaches out a hand and smooths back limp orange hair. “I know, I’m sorry. You okay?”
A little nod as he hugs the wastebasket. “I keep telling myself that at least it can’t be as bad as last quarter.” He dry-heaves again.
Holt rolls off the bed and comes to sit behind his roommate. As he crosses the narrow space between their beds, he passes within scant centimeters of the dark-haired man who watches them, invisible.
The two boys are of a height now; both of them lean and tall. Holt folds his legs around Hux as he sits, and runs his hands over his shoulders, smoothing out the tense muscle there. “How long have you got?”
“He’s expecting me at two.” A few deep, shaky breaths, as he leans back into the warm body behind him.
“You do this every time. He’s your father- how bad could it be?”
That comment doesn’t merit a response, though it does earn a long, arch stare.
“Okay, okay, put it this way- what could he possibly say? You’ve got the best marks of anyone in our year."
“You're forgetting the year he had them lower my grade in stellar cartography because he decided I hadn't really earned it."
“It’ll be okay.” Holt presses a kiss into the other’s hair. Slips long arms around his waist. “Ten minutes. In and out. We’ll go get a drink afterwards.”
A groan. “Yes, please.”
“Anything I can do in the meantime?” Another kiss, this time on the tendon just below his ear.
He catches on quickly, arching his neck into the kiss. “Mm, distract me?”
~
The dark-haired man leans against the wall in the hallway of a ship, already bored with waiting alongside a fresh-faced lieutenant who cannot see him. The lieutenant radiates nervous energy like a small ginger sun; fussing with his sleeves and smoothing his hair down for what the man counts as the eighth time before replacing his hat.
There is a sound of a blast door opening from around the nearest corner and the hallway fills with heavy footsteps. The lieutenant darts forward in the sudden influx of people and falls into step alongside a man in a science officer's uniform. His black curls are pulled back tightly in a regulation tie, and he is engrossed in a datapad. He doesn’t notice the man walking beside him until he clears his throat.
“Technician Holt,” he says, stiffly.
Holt does a double-take, missing a step and nearly tripping over his own feet. A slow smile breaks out across his face, “Lieutenant Hux,” he says, warmly. “I thought you were on the Valiant.”
“I was. I requested a transfer. Didn’t I tell you?” Hux struggles not to smile, but it is a losing battle.
“It must have slipped your mind. How uncharacteristically forgetful.” They fall into step again, walking closer together than the wide hallway necessarily required, jostling each other and bumping elbows playfully.
“What’s the matter? Didn’t think I could manage without you?” Holt says.
“I am amazed the ship is still intact, to be honest.”
They round a corner and the observer lets them go.
~
Other memories pass by in a rush. These are sharper, more tender; watching them is like pressing your hands against a wound.
“Brendol.”
“Sir.” He stands at sharp attention in Commander Hux’s spartan office. It is the first time he can remember ever requesting to speak to the man.
His father doesn’t look up from the report he’s reading. “Get on with it. I haven’t got all day.”
Lieutenant Hux wonders if he can hear how loudly his heart is pounding even from across the room. “Sir, I’m told you arranged the marriage offer between Elissa and Lexander Holt.”
“You had to ask me that in person?”
“No, sir. I… I don’t understand why, sir.”
Commander Hux looks up for the first time. He is a great bear of a man; as tall as his son, but twice as wide, with scar-pocked skin and eyes the same cold grey of a ship’s hull. It’s a measuring stare, and Hux cannot help but feel that he comes up wanting.
“Because you spend too much time picking up after him,” his father says. His voice is as weathered as his face. “I worked hard for my name. I made it mean something. I didn’t give it to you so you could use it to call-in favors to get your friends out of trouble.”
“Sir, that… it wasn’t his fault. Holt is a brilliant researcher. His work on the new power system for the ion-“
Commander Hux growls. “Which is why he’s still alive. I’m not wasteful. Your cousin could do worse for herself.”
The younger man screws up his courage. “Sir, Holt is- he’s more than a friend to me…” his voice trails off into nothing.
His father stands, pushing back his chair, and stalking around the desk. It is all the lieutenant can do not to back away. “You think I don’t know that? Just like you think I don’t know that you transferred to the Mercenary so you could fuck him? Now you listen, boy. I don’t care who you let stick their cock in you, but the next time I put you on a ship you’re going to stay there. He’s a distraction you don’t need. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
~
A holovid conversation. The more irate Holt grows, the colder Hux’s voice becomes.
“Are you saying I can’t even see you-“
“As what? Your piece on the side? Be reasonable.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“It’s a good match, Lexander. You’re not going to get a better offer. It’d be stupid not to take it.”
“Since when, in all the years you’ve known me, have I cared about that?”
“Maybe it’s time to start. I’m up for a promotion soon. I can’t keep picking up your messes forever.”
~
A wedding.
The newly-minted Captain Hux is on his third glass of wine, lurking in the corner alongside a man that nobody can see or hear.
He raises a half-empty glass to his father as the man approaches him.
“Sir.”
"Stop sulking,” his father growls a warning in his ear, leaning in close.
There is a flash of something that might have been defiance in the son’s cold blue eyes. “Yes, sir.”
He finishes his drink in one long swallow and hunts down another glass. Minutes later he is standing in front of a crowd, his smile easy and his spine as rigid as durasteel, as he offers a toast to the bride and groom. Despite the wine, he doesn’t slur as he speaks passionately and at length on their union and the shining example they would provide to the First Order. He offers them hope for long lives and happiness and children. It’s a beautiful speech. His cousin beams, touched by the gesture. Lexander just looks like he wants to murder him.
Hux finds his father's eyes from across the room, and to his surprise he is smirking with something that almost resembles pride.