Kylo "Hunky" Ren (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
narcissithstic) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
station722016-08-03 02:32 pm
narcissithstic) wrote in station722016-08-03 02:32 pm
I know what you'd say to me, exactly what you'd say to me— I still hang on every word:
CHARACTERS: Ren and you
WHERE: Bearings, Concordia proper
WHEN: 025 onward
SUMMARY: Ren wakes up and instantly regrets it
WARNINGS: discussions of violence, will update as necessary
CLOSED: to hux
[He wakes to nausea. To stiffness in his bones and a dryness on his tongue that refuses to be scraped away or swallowed down. It feels like a different life somehow— like shaking off a long dream, still half-cocooned in someone else's hopes, their fears and overwhelming loss. For a moment (staring blearily at the pale ceiling overhead, soft blankets clinging to his aching shoulders) none of it seems real. That Anakin Skywalker isn't dead from something so human as a flipped switch, that he hadn't gone mad with grief in the aftermath of it. None of them had.
But the bruised, bandaged contours of his own swollen fingers tell a different story. His left shoulder pinches, strained by nothing more than the struggle of a single exhale where exhausted nerves would rather see him back under again. Ren winces, breath hitching in his lungs. He has no idea where he's been left or who's been taking care of him in the interim (it looks like his designated apartment and yet there's something off about it— the scent, the arrangement—) or how long of an interim it's been. Part of him, already steeped in deep regret, isn't eager to find out.]
I: OPEN - concordia
[Continuing the tradition of shut doors and open windows, what follows in the wake of Castor's— and Concordia's— tragedy isn't entirely crushing. News sites and businesses alike have taken to catering to the public's insatiable thirst for drama (a public so generally removed from the loss they often times view the differences between real and fictional struggles are slim at most) and a cadre of reporters now seem to be working around the clock to overturn every figurative stone and pebble within reach. 'Love on the Battlefield' one particularly tasteless headline reads, slapped down over a collage of images of Ilde and Ren from Bout it Out, the article flickering alongside a number of others in storefront glass not far from Bearings. Some of the faces he recognizes: a few heroic shots of the Darkling with his chin held high in the seconds before the bombing took hold, the shadowed outlines of Lexa and Sam as they withdrew from the chaos, a heavily damaged mobile photo of Steve Rogers and the woman that'd seen to him initially— some of the articles even feature artful backstage images of various fighters, hoping to pry something more inspiring from overwhelming fear.
Nearly three minutes pass before Ren realizes he's stopped walking to skim those holographic tabloids, frozen in place, searching without meaning to. Each word, each list of names, even the dimly lit photographs too heavily obscured to properly take in.
Anakin isn't there.
And he knows, reasonably, it's an overly (senselessly) sentimental urge that has him grasping for even the slightest glimpse of what was once his broodmate, but no matter how Ren internally chastises himself, he's still there. Still staring. Feet planted, chin raised and obscured beneath the high collar of his heavy coat where it's draped over his shoulders to avoid agitating the sling that holds his left arm in place. Crowds mill past, some stare, others pause briefly to take part in scanning the news before returning to their own routine. The sky dims, city lights rise.
Ren stays.]
II: OPEN - bearings
[Avoid strain. That's what he's been told by the doctor assigned to him by the agency (admittedly unorthodox, but since Ren is both their newest client and a survivor of the attack on Bout it Out, it's considered a 'charitable investment' on their part) which, coincidentally, is exactly what Ren has opted not to do.
The rooftop is high enough to be freezing cold where wind cuts across in occasional gusts, chilling glass and metal and any living soul unfortunate enough to be standing there at the Bearing's peak. In spite of that fact, it's clearly a space that's been cared for with as much attention as the rest of the Benna Building itself: a little older, some of the core structure shows through in corners where circuitry sits clustered in its own nested wiring, but there's no trash to be found, no wayward paint or signs of life. At the farthest end of the balcony is a secure maintenance shed, thick exterior paneling chosen for its ability to keep heavier equipment secure— and at the moment for its ability to withstand thrown jabs from Ren's right arm. Metal to bone, to skin, to the wrappings that barely keep his knuckles from splitting as the reverberations dully echo. It keeps the worst at bay. The aggression, the anger, the urge to act without any amount of direction to guide his hand. Bang bang bang— nerves singing, mind empty and filled to the brim with nothing but absent, abstract sensation.
Better than the alternative.]
III: WILDCARD
[ooc: something else you want to happen? another setting you'd like to use? hit me up and we'll make it so. Ren's staying close to Bearings while he shakes off his injuries and misery, but he still wanders off out of necessity every now and then.]
WHERE: Bearings, Concordia proper
WHEN: 025 onward
SUMMARY: Ren wakes up and instantly regrets it
WARNINGS: discussions of violence, will update as necessary
CLOSED: to hux
[He wakes to nausea. To stiffness in his bones and a dryness on his tongue that refuses to be scraped away or swallowed down. It feels like a different life somehow— like shaking off a long dream, still half-cocooned in someone else's hopes, their fears and overwhelming loss. For a moment (staring blearily at the pale ceiling overhead, soft blankets clinging to his aching shoulders) none of it seems real. That Anakin Skywalker isn't dead from something so human as a flipped switch, that he hadn't gone mad with grief in the aftermath of it. None of them had.
But the bruised, bandaged contours of his own swollen fingers tell a different story. His left shoulder pinches, strained by nothing more than the struggle of a single exhale where exhausted nerves would rather see him back under again. Ren winces, breath hitching in his lungs. He has no idea where he's been left or who's been taking care of him in the interim (it looks like his designated apartment and yet there's something off about it— the scent, the arrangement—) or how long of an interim it's been. Part of him, already steeped in deep regret, isn't eager to find out.]
I: OPEN - concordia
[Continuing the tradition of shut doors and open windows, what follows in the wake of Castor's— and Concordia's— tragedy isn't entirely crushing. News sites and businesses alike have taken to catering to the public's insatiable thirst for drama (a public so generally removed from the loss they often times view the differences between real and fictional struggles are slim at most) and a cadre of reporters now seem to be working around the clock to overturn every figurative stone and pebble within reach. 'Love on the Battlefield' one particularly tasteless headline reads, slapped down over a collage of images of Ilde and Ren from Bout it Out, the article flickering alongside a number of others in storefront glass not far from Bearings. Some of the faces he recognizes: a few heroic shots of the Darkling with his chin held high in the seconds before the bombing took hold, the shadowed outlines of Lexa and Sam as they withdrew from the chaos, a heavily damaged mobile photo of Steve Rogers and the woman that'd seen to him initially— some of the articles even feature artful backstage images of various fighters, hoping to pry something more inspiring from overwhelming fear.
Nearly three minutes pass before Ren realizes he's stopped walking to skim those holographic tabloids, frozen in place, searching without meaning to. Each word, each list of names, even the dimly lit photographs too heavily obscured to properly take in.
Anakin isn't there.
And he knows, reasonably, it's an overly (senselessly) sentimental urge that has him grasping for even the slightest glimpse of what was once his broodmate, but no matter how Ren internally chastises himself, he's still there. Still staring. Feet planted, chin raised and obscured beneath the high collar of his heavy coat where it's draped over his shoulders to avoid agitating the sling that holds his left arm in place. Crowds mill past, some stare, others pause briefly to take part in scanning the news before returning to their own routine. The sky dims, city lights rise.
Ren stays.]
II: OPEN - bearings
[Avoid strain. That's what he's been told by the doctor assigned to him by the agency (admittedly unorthodox, but since Ren is both their newest client and a survivor of the attack on Bout it Out, it's considered a 'charitable investment' on their part) which, coincidentally, is exactly what Ren has opted not to do.
The rooftop is high enough to be freezing cold where wind cuts across in occasional gusts, chilling glass and metal and any living soul unfortunate enough to be standing there at the Bearing's peak. In spite of that fact, it's clearly a space that's been cared for with as much attention as the rest of the Benna Building itself: a little older, some of the core structure shows through in corners where circuitry sits clustered in its own nested wiring, but there's no trash to be found, no wayward paint or signs of life. At the farthest end of the balcony is a secure maintenance shed, thick exterior paneling chosen for its ability to keep heavier equipment secure— and at the moment for its ability to withstand thrown jabs from Ren's right arm. Metal to bone, to skin, to the wrappings that barely keep his knuckles from splitting as the reverberations dully echo. It keeps the worst at bay. The aggression, the anger, the urge to act without any amount of direction to guide his hand. Bang bang bang— nerves singing, mind empty and filled to the brim with nothing but absent, abstract sensation.
Better than the alternative.]
III: WILDCARD
[ooc: something else you want to happen? another setting you'd like to use? hit me up and we'll make it so. Ren's staying close to Bearings while he shakes off his injuries and misery, but he still wanders off out of necessity every now and then.]
no subject
After all, he can feel some of the reason radiating off of him in waves. A desperation that feels as full as it does hollow. ]
Only an idiot or someone who wanted us both dead was going to try and stop me. [ So no. Even if someone did cross his path, he was just going to remove the obstacle. ] There's water in the glass there. You should probably drink something before you rest again.
no subject
[The water he eyes for a brief moment, attention slid over from beneath the set of the towel across his head (the gentle press of Hux's Palm keeping it steady). His mouth is dry, his throat feels brittle— and yet the idea of expending effort to comply seems repulsive in the moment.
Twice now he's outlived his own bloodline. Once out of necessity (of choice), once as a cold, rending shock. Perhaps the Nest will see fit to drag in his mother next.
Perhaps he'll kill her with his own hands, spare her a worser fate.
His fingertips lie still; he shuts his eyes.] You should have been there.
no subject
In any case, that hadn't happened. A relief, since in the moment his mind had been spinning with a thousand things at once, all centering around whether Kylo was going to be in one piece when they made it back.
Thankfully, the symbiote had already started in on the roughest wounds. The skin around the areas had been a sickly color hours ago by the time they'd gotten back to bearings. Kylo still looked incredibly unwell, but it would fade over time. Scooting closer, he moves his hand off the damp cloth to pull the glass of water off the side table. If Ren wasn't going to drink of his own volition, he'd spoon feed him. Dehydration was only going to make the mental bounce-back that much harder. ]
Perhaps. I don't know how much help I would've been in the chaos, frankly. Here, prop up some. [ You're getting mother henned whether you like it or not, Ren. ]
no subject
The most constant craving he's ever held.
And then it slips away. Fades alongside his vision where exhaustion's settled in to claim him instead.]
day 025
Suffice to say, he was starting to feel the exhaustion pulling at him from every angle. Normally this made him waspish, but he barely had the energy to argue. Still, it didn't stop him from thinking very irritable thoughts at how immovable Ren was while he was sleeping. Since at some point he'd pulled the sheet completely to his side, holding it hostage. Blearily, he tugged at the sheet, attempting to pull some of it back over so he could get more rest. ]
Ren, honestly.
no subject
—what are you doing. [Groaned out tiredly through a fistful of sheets.]
no subject
Finally, there's some kind of actual response. ]
I'm cold and you've seen fit to take all the covers.
[ He's not whining, no, of course not. Nor does he sound an ounce petulant (he does). ]
no subject
I don't care.
[Said ever so sullenly
and immaturely]no subject
As much as it would be fair, I won't be greedy.
[ Look he can share things. When he wants to. Also there's something more satisfying in proving he can share without taking everything for himself. With the blanket in hand, he snaps his wrists just enough to layer it over the bed (and the still prone Ren). There's barely time for it to settle before he climbs back onto his side of the bed, laying facing away from Ren. Minutes pass—while he's much warmer now, something bags at the back of his mind, keeping him from sleeping comfortably. Turning onto his back and staring at the ceiling, he tries to think of anything but the current circumstance and fails. ]
Ren?
no subject
End it. End the misery of his entirely sleep-addled existence, you ginger wafer-crisp of a human being.In having the sheet wafted down on him from overhead, Ren's covered from his mouth down, turning an already terse response into a muffled groan. He stares up at the ceiling— at the stripes of city light reflected through the glass where they cut clean through darkness. There's a thought there, somewhere, beneath all the fog. Something like a metaphor he's too apathetic to fully grasp.]
no subject
He didn't drag your ass out of the snow and then out of the stadium to just end it, you overdramatic lost member of My Chemical Romance.Ren's response is muffled, to be expected if he hadn't yet drawn the sheet down from where it covered his face. Considering he'd barely moved, he hadn't. Mentally, there's a fog between them both. From Ren's grief to his exhaustion, nothing is sharp and agile as he's used to. Too much time without enough rest. It was taxing everything and seemingly, mostly everyone.
Staring at the reflected lighting overhead, he thinks about the beams of Starkiller, how they'd arced across the sky. How it'd drawn in light from the sun, soaking everything in crimson red. They've gone over this, that they aren't there anymore, but sometimes it still feels like they're dreaming. ]
Why did you choose the dark side?
no subject
In reality, all that changes between the two is perspective. A mix of unmet needs and wants, desperation and selfish pride.]
I didn't.
[Not truly. Not as his grandfather had.]
no subject
Overall, it just feels like confusion. Unsurety. He'd think Ren was asleep if his mind didn't feel so active. ]
You didn't? Isn't it something you choose?
[ There's a possibility that it's inherent but that doesn't seem right. There is no true good or bad in the universe. Maybe some lean or have tendencies. That still denotes a choice to give in or to fight what was inside. ]
no subject
And yet there was no masking the impact left in the Empire's wake: had fear ever gripped the Senate so quickly as when Leia Organa was declared Darth Vader's daughter? What impact had the Jedi ever left in return? What greatness did they offer with their silence, their absence?]
If that's true, then I was destined to fail. [A beat:] It was always with me.
no subject
He thinks about it in shades of military. The First Order isn't evil, they're doing what needs to be done. Same to the Resistance, as much as he loathes their ideals. Two sides fighting for what they believe in. Is it the same for the Force? ]
Do you think of it as corruption? [ A genuine question. Though, Ren bringing destiny has him suddenly sitting up in the bed, hitting close to a personal mark. ]
We control our own destiny.
no subject
Which mattered more, is the question. Which side was the man praised for his bond with both meant to stand on?]
Why are you asking this.
no subject
More likely it's brought on by what happened at the arena. The dark side had consumed Ren, driven him to rage out of grief for Anakin Skywalker. If he understood this part of the Force, then maybe he could prevent something like that. Ren had mentioned that he should've been there. Hux doesn't know if his presence would've helped other than catching onto Darkling sooner, but he's feeling oddly more determined to be an asset.
They both have something to prove. ]
I don't know enough. So– do you think it's corruption?
no subject
He knits his fingers against the sheet, winding them across cool fabric like a brace. This isn't the conversation he wanted to wake up to.] I think they're wrong.
I think they've always been wrong.
no subject
[ Ren may sound strained, but Hux has never been one to immediately back down. He wants to know how far he can push this for the sake of knowledge first. For understanding, however shallow it may be. And if it's going in the direction he thinks it might, it could be more common ground between them.
Not that he's sure that's good or bad. ]