[To Ren, a creature comprised entirely of bone and blood and necessity, compassion is a poison; like a mantra the warning against it burns in his veins. Even galaxies away, without an immediate foothold to find, the damage done by Snoke's training lingers on. He's stiff where Hux's fingertips find him, inflexible against the press of his lips— and when Ren's pulsebeat finally leaps into his throat it's more suited to either rage or action than any amount of kindness.
He wasn't meant for this. For weakness. For the brittleness of affection after years of starvation.
His hold on Hux turns sharp, forceful enough to hurt - it drops off only a short second later, thumb slipping away alongside the set of his fingers, as though he's choking on his own long-standing conflict. An accurate assessment: much of his failing even while in service to the First Order fell on a lack of momentum, an inability to function alongside the balance he was meant to draw strength from. Shameful, that it still haunts him even now.
That he feels so cold, where someone else would be warmed by the heat of Hux's breath. By the earnest longing that lies behind it, parallel to his own. Instead— stare glassy, both hands laid out at his side, back straight as the barrel of a rifle and braced against an imagined threat— he does nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
momijizukamori
no subject
Date: 2016-09-07 06:30 am (UTC)He wasn't meant for this. For weakness. For the brittleness of affection after years of starvation.
His hold on Hux turns sharp, forceful enough to hurt - it drops off only a short second later, thumb slipping away alongside the set of his fingers, as though he's choking on his own long-standing conflict. An accurate assessment: much of his failing even while in service to the First Order fell on a lack of momentum, an inability to function alongside the balance he was meant to draw strength from. Shameful, that it still haunts him even now.
That he feels so cold, where someone else would be warmed by the heat of Hux's breath. By the earnest longing that lies behind it, parallel to his own. Instead— stare glassy, both hands laid out at his side, back straight as the barrel of a rifle and braced against an imagined threat— he does nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Again.]