Ren made him undress and stand upon a raised dais, studying him with narrowing eyes and a critical look on his face. Hux had never had any qualms about being in a state of undress in front of strangers – the Academy had taken care of that early on – and he was confident in his body and his bearing, well aware that he could look as imposing in his underwear as he did in his state regalia.
He hadn’t been prepared for the way Ren circled around him slowly, observing him from all sides and frowning like he’d found him lacking. He took in every inch of Hux with a look that wasn’t sexual in the least, but wasn’t detatched either; and Hux was suddenly aware of his own slim waist and thin shoulders.
“I can see why you wear all that padding,” Ren said. “But it’s dreadfully unfashionable. There will be none of that from now on.”
Hux closed his eyes, prayed to all the gods he’d never believed in.
“And what, pray tell,” he asked. “Would you have me wear?”
Ren smiled. It was rather predatory. “That depends on you, sire.” The man pronounced his title like he was indulging him. “As I suppose you have had a look at my creations before going through all the troubles of hiring me…” Hux hadn’t. He’d just heard the name of Kylo Ren spoken in reverent whispers; knew that the man had influence and popularity and was the best there was. “You may tell me what you prefer,” Ren concluded.
Hux had no idea what the man’s repertoire actually looked like, and he was sure Ren knew that. He’d only truly took notice of a handful of truly flamboyant creations he couldn’t have missed at some party or the other, but that was the extent of his knowledge of the matter, and he was sure Ren was just trying to humiliate him.
He spun around on the dais to give the man a very flat look. “Something not too different from my usual style,” he said with all the dignity he could muster. Ren’s upper lip went up in a haughty snarl.
“I truly doubt you’ll find any of my work similar to that of whatever country bumpkin is dressing you right now,” he drawled. “Sire. And, in the future, you will want to refrain for moving around while you’re up there. A good part of the working process involves pins.”
Hux almost asked Ren why he’d made him undress now, when the working process seemed to consist only of the stylist pontificating at him, but he was pretty sure the answer would make him want to strangle him. Savika had a point, he decided. It was impossible he was the first man to consider killing Kylo Ren, so why had nobody else followed suit?
“I suppose,” Ren said, eventually. “This mean you’d prefer to wear trousers.”
“What are you – yes, of course I’d prefer to wear trousers, Ren,” he spluttered. Ren shrugged.
“I do personally prefer them myself – more practical – but there is a growing number preferring skirts, as springwear. We do have a new collection coming out in five weeks –”
“No,” Hux said, firmly. “No skirts.”
Ren nodded. “No skirts,” he agreed. “You haven’t got the legs for it, anyway. Too bony.”
“Tell me, Ren,” he started. “Do you realize every third word coming out of your mouth could have you indicted for Offence to the Crown?”
That got him a smile. A full smile, nothing as dry and sardonic as what he’d seen so far. In that split second, Kylo Ren looked beautiful.
Then, of course, he ruined. “I don’t recognize your authority,” Hux was informed candidly. “I’m from the Republic.”
Of course someone like Ren would be from the Republic. “We are at war with the Republic,” he told Ren.
“Believe me sire, I am well aware of that.”
That should have been the end of it; but, for some reason, Hux found himself talking again. “Are you sure you aren’t a Republican agent?” he asked Ren. Of course the man wasn’t; he was too high-profile, too notoriously apolitical, too damn self-centered. He had no idea why he was even entertaining semi-playful conversation with Kylo Ren of all people. But still, he spoke. “Sent to kill me slowly by means of frustration.”
At that, Ren smiled again, and for longer this time. His smile was slightly crocked and sort of odd, but it lighted up his whole face – and why were Ren’s eyes suddenly glistening with amusement?
“Trust me,” Ren said. “If I’d been sent to kill you, you’d never see it coming.” And then. “What about the upper body wear? Do you even own any shirts that aren’t button-ups? And I absolutely refuse to add in any padding, it is hell on the shoulder lines. Rather, sire, I suggest you hit the gym.”
It took Hux a surprising amount of willpower to refrain from snappily tell Ren that it had nothing to do with exercising, that was simply the way his body was shaped. He bit his mouth before he could make a utter ass of himself, wondering just what it was about Ren that made him so easily riled up.
“I’ll defer to your expert opinion on that,” he conceded, with the same tone of voice one might use to say, Fuck you. Ren didn’t seem to notice.
“Low neck,” he was muttering under his breath. “Tightly tailored, of course. Or vests. Open coat, nothing as stiff as that horror you usually wear, but a raised collar might help make you look a bit less scrawny.”
“Truly amazing,” Hux cut in, because he’d been waiting nearly naked on that bloody dais for close to half an hour now, and he was starting to get bored – and stiff and cold, though he wouldn’t ever admit that to Ren. “But are you ever going with whatever it is that requires me to stand in my pants on a raised platform, because I may be unfamiliar with the tailoring process, but I don’t see the point of any of this.”
“You are unfamiliar with the tailoring process. Stay still. I need to look at you.”
It was a good five minutes before Ren spoke again. “How often do you cut your hair?”
“Huh?”
“Your hair,” Ren repeated, as if he were talking to a child. “Stop cutting it so often, the severity doesn’t flatter your features.” Ren’s own hair, loose and wavy, was long enough to reach almost halfway through his neck, and it was first thing Hux had noticed about him. “And stop…” he made a sort of gesture all around his head. “Putting whatever is that you put it in. It’s unfashionable, and in Coruscant it looks about as suitable as a Hutt in a dancing hall. I’ll get you a hair stylist to come by tomorrow –”
“I am busy tomorrow,” Hux cut in. Ren ignored him.
“And have you considered growing a beard? You are naturally very pale, and the way you snarl makes your lips look –”
“Ren!”
“And for Sith’s sake, lose the boots, this is not Endor.”
Mercifully, there was a knock at the door.
“Sire?” Savika’s voice called. “I’d like to remind you, you are expected for a late breakfast with the Berani ambassador in thirty minutes?”
“Yes,” Hux said, perhaps with too much relief. “Thank you.”
And then, to Ren. “Are we quite done?”
“I’ll take your measurements,” Ren said, once again prompting the thought of why the hell hadn’t he done that from the start. “Then you can go. And I will see you in three days.”
Fill: The Emperor's New Clothes, 2/4
The day didn’t get any better after that.
Ren made him undress and stand upon a raised dais, studying him with narrowing eyes and a critical look on his face. Hux had never had any qualms about being in a state of undress in front of strangers – the Academy had taken care of that early on – and he was confident in his body and his bearing, well aware that he could look as imposing in his underwear as he did in his state regalia.
He hadn’t been prepared for the way Ren circled around him slowly, observing him from all sides and frowning like he’d found him lacking. He took in every inch of Hux with a look that wasn’t sexual in the least, but wasn’t detatched either; and Hux was suddenly aware of his own slim waist and thin shoulders.
“I can see why you wear all that padding,” Ren said. “But it’s dreadfully unfashionable. There will be none of that from now on.”
Hux closed his eyes, prayed to all the gods he’d never believed in.
“And what, pray tell,” he asked. “Would you have me wear?”
Ren smiled. It was rather predatory. “That depends on you, sire.” The man pronounced his title like he was indulging him. “As I suppose you have had a look at my creations before going through all the troubles of hiring me…” Hux hadn’t. He’d just heard the name of Kylo Ren spoken in reverent whispers; knew that the man had influence and popularity and was the best there was. “You may tell me what you prefer,” Ren concluded.
Hux had no idea what the man’s repertoire actually looked like, and he was sure Ren knew that. He’d only truly took notice of a handful of truly flamboyant creations he couldn’t have missed at some party or the other, but that was the extent of his knowledge of the matter, and he was sure Ren was just trying to humiliate him.
He spun around on the dais to give the man a very flat look. “Something not too different from my usual style,” he said with all the dignity he could muster. Ren’s upper lip went up in a haughty snarl.
“I truly doubt you’ll find any of my work similar to that of whatever country bumpkin is dressing you right now,” he drawled. “Sire. And, in the future, you will want to refrain for moving around while you’re up there. A good part of the working process involves pins.”
Hux almost asked Ren why he’d made him undress now, when the working process seemed to consist only of the stylist pontificating at him, but he was pretty sure the answer would make him want to strangle him. Savika had a point, he decided. It was impossible he was the first man to consider killing Kylo Ren, so why had nobody else followed suit?
“I suppose,” Ren said, eventually. “This mean you’d prefer to wear trousers.”
“What are you – yes, of course I’d prefer to wear trousers, Ren,” he spluttered. Ren shrugged.
“I do personally prefer them myself – more practical – but there is a growing number preferring skirts, as springwear. We do have a new collection coming out in five weeks –”
“No,” Hux said, firmly. “No skirts.”
Ren nodded. “No skirts,” he agreed. “You haven’t got the legs for it, anyway. Too bony.”
“Tell me, Ren,” he started. “Do you realize every third word coming out of your mouth could have you indicted for Offence to the Crown?”
That got him a smile. A full smile, nothing as dry and sardonic as what he’d seen so far. In that split second, Kylo Ren looked beautiful.
Then, of course, he ruined. “I don’t recognize your authority,” Hux was informed candidly. “I’m from the Republic.”
Of course someone like Ren would be from the Republic. “We are at war with the Republic,” he told Ren.
“Believe me sire, I am well aware of that.”
That should have been the end of it; but, for some reason, Hux found himself talking again. “Are you sure you aren’t a Republican agent?” he asked Ren. Of course the man wasn’t; he was too high-profile, too notoriously apolitical, too damn self-centered. He had no idea why he was even entertaining semi-playful conversation with Kylo Ren of all people. But still, he spoke. “Sent to kill me slowly by means of frustration.”
At that, Ren smiled again, and for longer this time. His smile was slightly crocked and sort of odd, but it lighted up his whole face – and why were Ren’s eyes suddenly glistening with amusement?
“Trust me,” Ren said. “If I’d been sent to kill you, you’d never see it coming.” And then. “What about the upper body wear? Do you even own any shirts that aren’t button-ups? And I absolutely refuse to add in any padding, it is hell on the shoulder lines. Rather, sire, I suggest you hit the gym.”
It took Hux a surprising amount of willpower to refrain from snappily tell Ren that it had nothing to do with exercising, that was simply the way his body was shaped. He bit his mouth before he could make a utter ass of himself, wondering just what it was about Ren that made him so easily riled up.
“I’ll defer to your expert opinion on that,” he conceded, with the same tone of voice one might use to say, Fuck you. Ren didn’t seem to notice.
“Low neck,” he was muttering under his breath. “Tightly tailored, of course. Or vests. Open coat, nothing as stiff as that horror you usually wear, but a raised collar might help make you look a bit less scrawny.”
“Truly amazing,” Hux cut in, because he’d been waiting nearly naked on that bloody dais for close to half an hour now, and he was starting to get bored – and stiff and cold, though he wouldn’t ever admit that to Ren. “But are you ever going with whatever it is that requires me to stand in my pants on a raised platform, because I may be unfamiliar with the tailoring process, but I don’t see the point of any of this.”
“You are unfamiliar with the tailoring process. Stay still. I need to look at you.”
It was a good five minutes before Ren spoke again. “How often do you cut your hair?”
“Huh?”
“Your hair,” Ren repeated, as if he were talking to a child. “Stop cutting it so often, the severity doesn’t flatter your features.” Ren’s own hair, loose and wavy, was long enough to reach almost halfway through his neck, and it was first thing Hux had noticed about him. “And stop…” he made a sort of gesture all around his head. “Putting whatever is that you put it in. It’s unfashionable, and in Coruscant it looks about as suitable as a Hutt in a dancing hall. I’ll get you a hair stylist to come by tomorrow –”
“I am busy tomorrow,” Hux cut in. Ren ignored him.
“And have you considered growing a beard? You are naturally very pale, and the way you snarl makes your lips look –”
“Ren!”
“And for Sith’s sake, lose the boots, this is not Endor.”
Mercifully, there was a knock at the door.
“Sire?” Savika’s voice called. “I’d like to remind you, you are expected for a late breakfast with the Berani ambassador in thirty minutes?”
“Yes,” Hux said, perhaps with too much relief. “Thank you.”
And then, to Ren. “Are we quite done?”
“I’ll take your measurements,” Ren said, once again prompting the thought of why the hell hadn’t he done that from the start. “Then you can go. And I will see you in three days.”
“Yes,” Hux agreed. “I can’t wait.”