Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I'm sorry it had to come to this, son. We never could have predicted this happening. You're going to Los Angeles.”

Ben Solo’s mind is spinning faster than he could keep up with. His skipper just told him he was being traded. Traded. Away from his first team. He fought through the farm to get where he is. A second year rookie. Apparently a winning record and a division title doesn't mean shit. He's nothing, he realizes as he walks out of skip’s office. But he learned one valuable thing that he'd hold in his heart and use as armor for the most of his career.

He is expendable.

The call to his dad is fucking humiliating. Ben can’t tell if he’s yelling at him for a reason or just yelling to yell half the time. When his mom grabbed the phone, God, that’s the worst. The fucking disappointment and her constant assurances she’s proud of him broke him down to pieces. He has to hang up before he can let them hear him scream in frustration. He locks himself in the bathroom of his host house and just screams until his voice is gone.

At 19, he has no vice he could bury himself in. He has no team, he has no contract, he has no friends or teammates or salary. He's been living in a host house simply because they’re a deaf couple and leave him alone. He could go to the gym and blow off steam...

What he really wants to do is take whoever traded him away from the team he's loved his whole life, and beat them to a pulp.

He ends up doing none of these things, packing his bags angrily, like some caged animal, and confirming his flight reservation from his agent. He has too many things to do. Good. The busier he is, the less he can actually murder people.

When he arrives in Los Angeles, there's no one there to pick him up. He has to swallow his pride and call the front fucking office to find out the Dodgers are actually in the middle of the fifth inning right now. Of course. Ben doesn't know this kind of thing. He’s had the Giants schedule branded into his eyes every single day.

He was going to be an ace for his favorite team. He'd grow his hair out like Tim had, and be twice as great. He was going to make his dad proud, and his mom was going to look at him like he was a complete failure for pursuing professional athletics.

Ben tries to look on the objective side, now. He'd had Dodgers scouts at his house long before the Giants. Ben would be lying if he said he hadn't been holding out for San Francisco to come round. The Dodgers were offering such a steep amount of benefits on the table. He wonders if they're still there for him now that he's in LA.

(A suspicious part of his mind is wondering why this all went so smoothly, but the thought comes out muddled and wrong. He ignores it for the sake of not looking like a paranoid rookie.)

The cab to the stadium is expensive. It's rush hour. Of course it's expensive. It's Los Angeles. Everything is expensive unless you have some kind of six-figure salary. He hates it already.

Adjusting his tie in the late May heat, he walks through the front door. After providing his player’s credentials, an usher takes him through the many winding halls down to the clubhouse.

He'd been in Dodger Stadium before, but always heading to the right side. As he stares at the enormous blue arrow pointing to HOME, he starts feeling a sick panic settle in his gut.

Home again, home again.

The words are jarring in his head, and he has to jog to keep up with the usher. He's dressed in all blue, but then again, everything around him is blue, so it's hard to keep his eye on him especially in his state.

The doors to the Dodgers clubhouse are heavy dark wood. By comparison, they look the same as the ones on the other side. Now just twice as menacing. On the television is the Giants game, and a horrible knife-like feeling stabs into him. Everything feels so surreal. He couldn't make it on a team he loves. How could he make it on a team he's been brought up to hate?

The usher shows him his locker. There's already a name tape up for him. SOLO. It used to be in orange. Now it's in blue. The only locker next to his has a name tape HUX. Ben knows Elan Hux. Shortstop, number 1, team captain. Got the MVP title last year. Ben wants to be intimidated but can't bring himself to feel anything but dread. In the locker is a fuckton of hangers, and one single jersey - the one the Dodgers are wearing tonight. The blue piping on the edges mimics the kind he had on the Giants. How come everything has been the same, but different? The spinny chairs in the clubhouse are even the same.

A man is approaching him as he looks at the jersey in stunned horror. Schooling his face into a mask, he turns. It's one of the trainers’ assistants. He looks very rushed.

“Mr. Solo, so glad you finally made it. Safe flight?” He isn't given time to answer before the assistant keeps talking. “Good. I'm Doph, gonna help you get settled. You have your gear with you?” Ben nods. “Great. Put it on after we grab some things for you.” Doph starts walking off toward another door, expecting Ben to follow. Ben leaves his bag in front of his locker.

Doph continues. “You have your sizes from your old team?” He speaks breathlessly, like he's been running instead of walking.

“Large works,” he mumbles. “I can get shit figured out later.” He's surprised how numb his voice sounds.

Doph nods. “Great. Here's some pants…” A bundle of white (not off-white) fabric drops into his arms, as well as bright blue (not orange) socks and undershirts. “And your hat?” Doph looks up at him. Most people have to.

“Seven and three quarters,” he rasps. Another blue item drops onto the bundle in his arms, emblazoned with the white logo of the team he despises most. It must show on his face, because somehow, Doph speaks even faster.

“Uh yeah just get suited up and don't wear anything...orange, obviously. You know the way up to the lip. You have a place to stay here?”

“I was gonna just get a hotel,” he mumbles. Broke rookie status .

“Right okay. I'll leave a folder of other information up in your locker for you that you need to look over and fill out by tomorrow. Most of your records have been faxed over. Welcome to the Dodgers.” And with that, Ben is alone in the clubhouse.

He takes a shuddering breath and ignores the screaming insanity in his mind. Mechanically, he undresses and hangs up his wrinkled shirt and pants. His agent had told him to wear it on the plane. He'd thought he would be taken care of so well once he was down there. What a joke . Pulling on his compression shorts and socks (blue blueBLUE) and shirt, he pulls on the pants over them. This is easy enough. If he doesn't look at himself. Doing up the buttons on his jersey feels like he's locking himself in a straight jacket. He's sealing his fate. He can't go back now. For a sense of normalcy, he pops two sticks of cinnamon gum in his mouth. That's the taste he knows is baseball.

He makes the mistake of letting his eyes catch on the flash of white he sees when he walks by the mirror. He doesn't have his hat on, but the image is clear.

There is no way to describe what he feels. It's a mix between something suicidal and something homicidal. That's all he could hope to tell you.

He glares at himself as he pulls his cap down over his hair. Something bitter and vile threatens to overtake the taste of cinnamon in his mouth but he fights it down. He walks up the stairs.

The Dodgers are in the lead against Colorado, which means a more jovial dugout. Everyone is up on the lip watching, so no one sees him come up. Surely they all know he's arriving. But he can't fight the feeling he actually doesn't belong here at all. He feels hot and cold and lightheaded all at once.

“Ben Solo.” A woman’s voice says from down the line. He's startled, and looks her way. It's a fan, someone in the stands. Apparently he's not the only one that's heard her. Players and fans alike are looking his way. He wants to tear off this stupid white uniform and run all the way back to San Francisco, to beg them to take him back for that other pitcher they traded him for.

The hush that settles over the crowd is only for a moment but to Ben it feels like forever. When he looks up at the lip again, he catches the GM and Elan Hux looking at him, sizing him up. Ben meets Hux’ eyes, who gives him a cool look before nodding once and turning back.

Ben shudders but manages to hide it as he walks up to the lip and hangs off an empty section. He ignores everything around him but the game. He can't help silently cheering for the Rockies every half-inning. Ben doesn't move around much. He'd hear people speaking about him if he did.

The Dodgers end up winning, and he'd lost all the flavor out of his gum by then. He doesn't know if he should join in the team’s high five line, but another player pushes him toward the infield and he goes.

Again, Hux is there. He'd hit a double in the eighth inning, bringing the Dodgers’ score up by two runs. He'd made an incredible rolling catch for the end of the game, and was covered in dirt. He has a nasty scrape on his chin, Ben notices when he walks by. He can't help thinking, his hands are cold. That's just something Ben notices about people.

In the clubhouse, Ben doesn't shower because he didn't play at all, but he does get back into his wrinkled gray shirt and black pants. He pushes his hair out of his face. Part of him wants to cut it off, all of it, but maybe this could be his rebellion. If he couldn't be Tim on his old team, he could be Ben on this one. Somehow the positivity feels spoiled.

As the players start trickling back in, the reporters start getting antsy. There's another five minutes before they're allowed to bum rush the players for quotes. A few are looking at Ben like they want to eat him alive.

Hux returns from the shower, clean-shaven and the cut on his chin cleaned up. He's still dripping wet, which accents his highly toned muscles very well. He's lanky as hell, and just as tall as Ben is, but overall he's smaller. Ben pretends to look over the information in the folder while Hux dresses again, in designer jeans and a tight shirt, coupled with a red motorcycle jacket that only makes his drying, floppy red hair more prominent. Hux does tend to that next, gelling his hair back in a graceful swoop in less than ten seconds.

They don't speak to each other. Ben feels tired and uncomfortable and doesn't want to do much else than sleep for hours. It's almost 10 pm. He still hasn't gotten a hotel room. That cab ride is going to be expensive. Ben pushes a nervous hand through his hair before it flops back down in his face once more.

“One thing at a time,” Hux says, facing the opposite direction. Ben looks at him in surprise.

“If I had world enough, and time,” he says, shaking his head.

Hux gives him a strange look, and holds it until the reporters start surging onto the clubhouse floor for a quote. Cameras are set up everywhere. Ben knows the drill. He's separated from Hux then, tugged to the side with three journalists and a camera. Hux has his own circus surrounding him. He's already smooth-talking the people there. Ben almost misses his first question.

“Ben, did you know the Giants would trade you mid-season?” She makes it sound like it was common knowledge. This isn't a good thing.

“Uh, well with these sort of things, you can never really predict them. In the end it's the needs of the team that come first, and uh, I guess that changed before I saw what was happening.” Ben doesn't want to be answering these questions.

“Have you had a chance to talk with any of your old teammates about what happened?”

“Uh, no. Got a few texts from them but not much else.” He's telling the truth. “But I know they're playing tonight too. Hopefully they noticed I'm not there.” There's a few laughs from his group, which makes his insides roil.

“What about new teammates? Talk to any of them?” the same reporter asks.

Ben thinks of Hux, and that stare he'd held for much too long.

“No. This team was playing too. Hopefully someone noticed I am here.” The joke falls a little flat, but they shouldn't have laughed at the first one to begin with. Ben likes the uncomfortable shift among them. The lull in questions almost gives him the illusion that they're done here after just three but an older man speaks up.

“Some have been calling you a traitor for going to the Dodgers after being on the Giants for two seasons. Do you have anything to say about that?”

His group, Hux’ group, and the media in the middle of the clubhouse all go quiet at the old man’s question. Ben’s blood had turned to ice in his veins. He thinks of Hux’ cold hands and Hux’ icy blue eyes. He's trying to keep his cool. It's bait. He knows it's bait. He could smell it from a mile away. He just has to maintain his persona, remain unaffected by this old man’s stabbing questions. Ben is staring him down, and feels his expression a second from becoming outright murderous.

“No comment,” he says clearly. The reporters clear out not long after that. Ben has never cared what people call him behind his back. He only cares about a select group of people. And those people have already expressed their disappointment in him enough for one day. There's not much to be done about that.

He's shoving his things back into his bag hurriedly. He needs to get out of here before he snaps a neck.

“Slow down. Hey. Slow down,” Hux’ voice says. He's aware there are still eyes on him. Golden boy fallen from grace. “Take a breath and don't let them see you like this.” His voice is commanding and he can't not obey. Especially when that man is his new team captain.

Ben nods and moves slower, packing his gear up neater. Hux seems satisfied by this.

“Where’re you staying tonight?” Hux asks, conversing in a way that's just on the other side of too polite.

“Hotel. Probably,” Ben mumbles. “Didn't really have time to look at the real estate.” And he's hungry. Damn he's fucking hungry.

“You don't have any family in town?”

“They're all back in San Francisco.” His cool almost shatters again just at the mention of the city. Oh yeah. He was supposed to have family dinner at his mom’s house tonight.

“I've got a guest room you can stay in,” Hux says. “Just til you stand up from where the rug was pulled from under you.” He's nearly as finished packing as Ben is, which Ben supposes is intentional.

Ben wants to say no. He wants to politely decline like his agent always told him to do. But his agent hasn't really been any help. He should fire him. But he doesn't even know how to do that. “Thank you, that'd be great.”

Hux nods and looks around. “Well hurry up. Traffic is about to get awful,” he says. Ben scrambles for the rest of his gear before following Hux out of the clubhouse.

They don't talk until Ben is seated in the passenger side of Hux’ black Mercedes. Just about everything Hux touches screams luxury.

“We're gonna pick up something to eat because I have no food in my house until tomorrow morning.” Hux sighs as he puts his blinker on and heads into traffic. Ben doesn't argue. He could eat a horse. “Preferences?”

“Not seafood.”

“Indian?”

“Sounds great.”

Ben makes a quiet housemate. Hux had initially intended for him to stay a few nights, but when Ben had brought up that he was looking for places on Craigslist with a roommate, Hux had to do something. He knew he’d never have a positive relationship with Ben if he told him to look at Zillow instead, so he’d just rolled his eyes and said, “Just give me five hundred for rent every month.” And that was it.

The pitcher had kind of sat there in shock for a moment. He didn’t need to keep thinking about this; he had his first start the next day to prepare for. Hux is almost afraid that Ben is going to turn down the offer, when he turns around to look at him in his spot on the couch. Millicent trots across the dining room table, and Hux places her on the floor before Ben speaks.

“I’d like that. Just for the season, right?” Ben says, trying to not look as desperate as he obviously was. It pulls at something in Hux’ chest, that kind of vulnerability and trust. How could the Giants have ever let him go?

“Just for the season,” Hux says, voice little more than a whisper.

What with it being a frantic last couple of days, there isn’t much time for Ben to work on his pitching mechanics. He’s starting on his regular third-man rotation, not much out of the ordinary, really. Except everything. He’s glad they don’t play the Giants again for another three weeks. He isn’t quite ready to face that yet. He’s kept up in his workouts pretty consistently, however. The equipment was the same. Except that it wasn’t. Hux’ is nicer.

The morning of his start is pretty much his regular routine. He and Hux both get ready to go to the park in silence, taking showers and eating breakfast (Ben insists on a fully-stocked fridge, and Hux just kind of waved him off and told him to make a list). Hux drives them to the park with the windows down and the radio off. It’s nice. Just a time to take in the city, and it’s loud enough not to be an awkward silence.

This morning, Hux keeps a berth. Some pitchers are particularly anal about their start days. Ben just keeps going like it was a normal day, with the exception of him putting his compression sleeve over his left arm, getting it ready for the rest of the day. He puts in a few miles running around the warning track before showering for the second time that day, trying to keep his mind off of the nervousness in his veins. He’s only worn this new uniform for four games and he’s already representing them on the mound. Ben knows the feeling of being out of place. It’s a familiar one even now.

The head athletic trainer, Phasma, calls him into the stretch room. “S’get you sorted out,” she says. The Dodgers aren’t the only team to have a female head athletic trainer, but they certainly had the most publicized. Phasma was a professional powerlifter and softball player in her days at USC, and had a Masters degree in Sports Medicine and Kinesiology. Ben had been doing his research.

As his body burns through the deep static stretches, he tunes his mind out to something else to deal with the pain. That’s what he’s always done. However, the radio on in the stretch room is not helping him at all.

“... Today is leftie Ben Solo’s first official day as a Dodger, Bill, how do you think this is going to go?”

“Well considering he’s been struggling with his sliders recently, on top of the added stress of being traded, I think today is going to be a downright trainwreck.”

Ben’s mind prickles unpleasantly at that remark, frowning and grunting as Phasma leans all her weight into his calf.

“I could change it,” she says, half-interested.

“No,” he quickly responds.

“...this has been a long time coming for the kid, though. He’d been a bit of a wildcard even when he was in the farm. He’s been known to be a bit of a loner, as well. Just like some weird kid.”

Anger, some forgotten feeling, flares up in his gut like a wound. He grits his teeth and lets his head fall back against the mat as Phasma holds the stretch.

“I mean, he’s the nephew of the great Luke Skywalker, we can’t forget...maybe Luke’s skills just skipped over him.”

The commentators on the radio laugh. Ben wants to scream, cry, throw up, hit something.

Phasma leans back. “You want the radio off?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“No.” Ben sits up, coiled tight. “I’m gonna hear what they have to say. Kinda stupid to be ignorant if this same thing happens next time.”

“Not gonna happen, rook.” She pats his shoulder and reaches over to turn it up for him.

Ben listens to the rest of the broadcast alone before he has to go out and play catch to warm up. The bullpens are thankfully indoor, which grants him a shred of privacy (other than the three dozen people hanging over the top, and the cameras in the ‘pen itself). Those words from before only serve to make him want to pitch harder. As a result, his accuracy is laser-accurate and sharp as a tack. His catcher nods to the pitching coach to let him know he’s ready.

Hux doesn’t quite recognize the fury that emerges from the bullpen ten minutes before first pitch. Ben’s once-open and vulnerable eyes are laced with righteous anger (and quite honestly, murder) and his hair is sticking out every which way from under his cap. The hand curled around his black glove is white-knuckled, and the one with nothing in it is balled into a fist. His shoulders are hunched in the way a predator would before attacking something small and defenseless. Maybe this is just a thing he does .

The national anthem is (for once) to-the-point and concise, no excessive runs through the notes or the like. Hux thinks it’s more tolerable this way. He can’t gauge Ben’s reaction about it. He’d talk shop with him another time. When the man on the loudspeaker calls out the lineups, he slips up. “And your starting pitcher for the Dodgers, number thirteen, Re-- Ben ...SOLO!!!” The crowd mutters a little at the mistake before giving some polite claps.

Then the booing starts.

Hux hears the men at the end of the dugout, calling down the bench at the pitcher. They hurl insults at the 19-year-old, calling him an ugly traitor, San Francisco shit, and it’s really awful to just listen to, let alone be the subject of it. The other players in the dugout look nervously at Ben, who is only glaring at the mound like he’d like nothing better than to light it on fire.

The general manager, Snoke, looks almost pleased from where he stands next to Hux on the lip. “This is going to be interesting.”

Hux is worried by how much he agrees.

Ben stalks up to the mound at the start of the game, his warmup pitches in the same vein as the ones he’d hurled before in the bullpen. His catcher looks relaxed; why shouldn’t he be, his pitcher is on point tonight. It doesn’t matter that there’s nothing but fury in those young eyes. From where Hux is watching twenty feet away, it looks terrifying.

The first three pitches put the leadoff hitter away, easy. A brief glance at the scoreboard tells Hux that the kid was hurling in the triple-digits. His third baseman gives him a look that says ‘kid’s got skill’. He throws like he was born to pitch.

The night is fueled with electric energy, but it’s nowhere near positive. Any moment, Ben could snap, take off running at some uppity batter. And at 6’3”, Hux isn’t sure anyone could stop him if he did. The four times Ben lets someone get on base, he wears his heart on his sleeve, shouting at himself as he paces around the mound, hands going into fists over and over again. His catcher comes up to talk with him over one pitch, and Hux comes jogging up as well. It’s his duty as team captain.

Ben even sounds different, talking behind his black glove. Hux catches the tail end of whatever the catcher was saying to him. “...it’d be smarter to walk this guy and get the next one on a double—”

“The next guy has been reading the signs all night. It’s not gonna work.” Ben’s voice is raspy and jerky, almost robotic, despite the rage in his eyes.

The catcher gives a pleading look to Hux, for him to step in and do something about this. Ben’s attention turns to him as well, almost daring him to say something to the contrary.

“If you can’t put this guy down in less than four pitches, walk him and go with the double play,” Hux says. “We’ll take your lead for this one.”

There’s that look again, the vulnerable, lost, what-am-I-doing-Hux look that Ben had on almost constantly in the condo. It makes Hux’ heart pound, right then and there, in front of 40,000 people under hot stadium lights.

Fuck.

Fuck.

The trio disperses from the mound and play resumes. Hux is nervous. This could go either way. On one hand, he’s seen how Ben has pitched in the past, boringly consistent and borderline predictable. On the other hand, Ben has never pitched with this kind of intensity in all of the film Hux has ever seen on the kid.

He squares up again as the pitch clock ticks down. The music cuts and everything seems to move in slow motion through the next three pitches.

Foul, back against the stop.

Strike, straight through the batter’s swing and into the glove with a hard smack. The crowd ooh’s and ahh’s at the clocked speed: 105 miles per hour. Hux swears under his breath. He’d been pitching maybe 91 on average for the Giants. The energy is picking back up.

Hux almost misses the strike called, a knee-weakening slider that drops just in front of home plate and has the batter swinging for his life, to no avail. Ben is pacing around and around again, calling for the ball from the catcher.

He’s pulled at the end of the eighth, at Hux’ request. Ben’s getting tired. The poor kid normally goes to bed at 8, and it’s already 9:45, thanks to the struggling pitcher on the other team taking his time with outs the first six innings he’d been allowed to play. Hux knows Ben, and knows he was going to feel like absolute crap later. He’s seen it before in rookies that push themselves too hard.

He isn’t going to let Ben do that to himself.

Snoke calls for their closer and he warms up in the bullpen. The skipper jogs out to the mound, and the rest of the middle infield joins. Hux stands closest to Ben, trying to be an authoritative figure, despite his lack of height where he’s standing on the mound. Ben is trying to argue that he can finish this, but Hux tells him it’s time to sit down, now, go ice up with Phasma. There’s no argument when Hux says this, handing off the ball to the relief, and walking off the field.

There are no boos this time round. With a shutout first game, even a Dodgers fan would be stupid to boo that pitcher. It was unanimous: this kid is going to be legendary.

The rest of the game goes quickly. Concern bites at the back of Hux’ neck until he’s down in the clubhouse, and that concern turns into outright worry at the sound of someone shouting angrily in the showers. Hux bars the way down there for now and tells everybody to give him a few minutes before they all come down. He ventures toward the source.

It’s Ben, because of course it’s Ben. He’s squatted down in the corner of the showers, hands balled into his hair. He’s wearing everything still, but his spikes are back at his locker. He shouts again, and it sounds louder this time. It’s not actual words, just pained nonsense.

“Hey,” Hux says loudly. “Now’s not the time for that. You ball that shit up and shove it down somewhere until I tell you to let it out.” He commands this, and Ben rises to his full height. For a fleeting moment, Hux is worried Ben is going to turn that anger and frustration on him, but it only lasts a moment before that tension bleeds out of his shoulders in defeat. He hangs his head, his longish hair hanging in his eyes, shoulders pulled up not in anger but embarrassment. Hux gathers his composure. “Get undressed and shower. Quickly.” With that, he turns on his heel to tell the other players to come down but not go near the showers.

Hux flicks through his phone for a few minutes, when Ben comes back out with a towel around his waist. It’s the first time Hux has seen him in a state of undress, the dark freckles on his face just as prominent across his chest and shoulders. For a literal teenager, Ben is fucking fit. More fit than Hux was at a lanky, wiry 19. Hux cues to everyone else that it’s okay to shower now, taking his towel and striding in without a word.

Ben is dressed when Hux emerges once more. He’s in basketball shorts and a cutoff tank, and normally, Hux would scold a rookie for being in anything less than a shirt and slacks postgame, but Phasma had wrapped his arm up in ice right away. Phasma looks rather pissed off, actually, shooting glares across the room at Ben’s general direction.

The reporters start to trickle in, eyeing Ben with that same hunger as yesterday, only now, there are more of them. Hux wants to tell them to fuck off, but figures Ben needs a moment to say something for his pride.

“What are you going to tell them about tonight?” Hux asks as he gels his hair back the way it always is. It’s casual, and sets the tone for how Ben should speak.

“I don’t know. Felt on my game. Something like that.” He sounds rather defeated. Maybe Hux shouldn’t be looking at rock-climbing gyms and should just get his housemate plastered instead. Wait. No. Teenager. Fucking Americans .

“You should say something about feeling unleashed,” he suggests. “They’ll love that.”

“You’re encouraging me to be more dramatic? I was yelling at myself out there,” he says this in a slightly remorseful tone, of which Hux is equal parts proud of and worried for. He’s going to develop ulcers because of this rookie.

“No use letting them think you’re some subdued threat. You were throwing fire out there.” He shakes his head. “Do what you want.”

Ben is looking at him as he dresses. Not in a staring, stalkery, ‘I want to watch you sleep’ kind of way, but in an ‘I can’t believe you exist’ kind of way. Hux hasn’t really felt that from anyone in the clubhouse before. Fans, sure. But then again, Ben never failed to surprise.

When the reporters swarm around him with cameras and notepads and microphones, Ben has to take a few deep breaths. Hux watches him cross his arms and make a bit of room for himself. The kid’s biceps are huge. It was a way to keep from retreating into the locker.

Hux is more interested in Ben’s interview, so he keeps his remarks short and succinct so he can listen to his lockermate speak.

“...it was a completely different feeling, up there tonight. The energy from the fans definitely helped. From the get-go, I felt...unleashed.” Hux’ breath catches in his throat. He’s floored by this kid. As expected, the reporters fall on themselves for more quotes like this. Ben’s cool only wavers when he’s looking for the right word. Maybe Hux needs to give him a thesaurus. He wraps up over ten minutes later, when Phasma kicks the media out for good. Ben slumps down in his chair once they’re all out, and lets Phasma unwrap his arm. It’s bone-white and splotchy red in places, just from the cold. Hux is sure his own frigid hands are warmer than that.

“C’mon. Up. Going home now,” Hux announces, picking up not only his bag but Ben’s as well. Ben follows sluggishly after him.

Hux makes sure he’s taken care of. Ben just wants to go to sleep. It’s way past his bedtime. Blowing off steam can wait until tomorrow. For the moment, Hux manages to just get the rookie upstairs and out of his jeans (how are those legs so long ) before rolling him into bed. Ben is out like a light, effectively.

Hux stands there in the room with him for a time, longer than fifteen minutes but no longer than an hour, he’s sure, just watching Ben slip into his dreams. It’s the first time he’d seen the rookie sleep. They haven’t traveled together, yet, and won’t for another two days, but he seems to wear his heart on his sleeve even now, face creased with some confused emotion, hand jerking weakly by his face. He’s a heavy sleeper, Hux knows. The air conditioning kicks on and waves the curtains out of place, bathing Ben in moonlight. He’s breathless, watching this man in a bed in his house. Barely a man. Hux doesn’t ponder on his sick (surely, they must be) feelings for long, and leaves after that.

Ben is looking as bad as Hux thought he would the next day, nursing his left arm and moving slowly. “Little sore?” Hux teases lightly from where he’s making shakes for them both. He gets a groan in response, and hears his roommate put his head down on the cool countertop. “We’re going somewhere this morning,” he announces. “Not the gym.”

Hux insists that what they’re doing is a hike, though it feels more like a brisk walk amongst the most unstable ground Ben has ever had the chance to stand on. And he’d lived in San Francisco his whole life.

Ben doesn’t actually like the great outdoors. He likes baseball fields and raked dirt and manicured grass. The wild isn’t some place he ever found himself liking. He’d been camping in Big Sur with his family one year, but that had been a disaster and his father had almost burned down a national park.

Out here with Hux was different, however. Hux was always ahead of him, showing him the best path to take (after Ben thought he could do it his own way) on the trail. Ben found himself getting distracted by the gleaming copper tones in Hux’ hair, which was in a rare un-gelled state, hanging loose and soft around his face. His own hair was up in some bun-thing that Hux had initially scoffed at, but accepted as utilitarian.

When they make it to the top of the mountain, Ben is struck by the beauty looking out over the city. He knows the city is terrible and filled with smog and crime and...well, Los Angelenos, but there is no beautiful thing without flaws. In addition to his awe, he’s filled with a choking sense of homesickness, an ache that rivals the one in his shoulder and elbow even now.

He holds his breath as to not let Hux know he’s on the verge of tears, remembering Mount Tamalpais up north. The smog could be fog, and the yellow light could be the same shade as back home. Home. He hasn’t been home in over a week, and it’s been killing him. He’d been putting this all off for so long.

“How do you do it?” he asks. “Being away from home.” Ben is whispering.

Hux is looking at him, and Ben knows he’s less than a minute from just sobbing and seizing with heartache, but he steels his resolve and stares straight ahead.

“A lot of times, I don’t. Los Angeles has been my home for the last fourteen years, and I never really considered England home. Kind of comes with the territory of being an immigrant baseball player.”

Ben laughs, a sad, wet laugh. He brings a wrist up to his face, to stem off the mistiness in his eyes. He wishes he could be alone, just so he could be weak in peace. But Ben was already alone. He takes a shuddering breath and swears before he squats down again and covers his face with his hands.

Hux is frozen in place, watching this unfold. Ben falls back on his ass and keeps dashing tears from his cheeks, looking up at the skyline and down at the dirt in turn. He swears again and laughs in that same way as before. “I’m sorry,” he says between his gasping, but otherwise silent sobs.

“No. I get it,” Hux says, and he does. He’s been around the block quite a few times. He’s seen rookies break and get that steely look in their eyes, time and time again. Only this time, Hux actually feels bad for Ben. He doesn’t want that vulnerability to be erased from those eyes. He doesn’t want that rage from last night to leave, either. Both those things are a part of Ben that Hux would kill to keep. “Take your time, then let’s go back.”

Ben nods and doesn’t move, but has the decency to get up after five minutes, accepting a helping hand up from Hux. They descend the massive hill back to Hux’ Mercedes. The windows stay down and make Ben’s face feel tight with the dried tears on them. Hux keeps one forearm resting on the center console as they cruise down the freeway back home once more.

Teammates are starting to act like teammates around Ben, now. They don’t treat him like an actual rookie, what with the pink backpacks and the candy. He’s just one of the guys. Living with Hux has more perks than he’d thought initially. The other guys near his locker start getting to know him.

No one asks him about San Francisco.

Hux brings up that they’re flying out to travel tomorrow, and he should pack his bags. Ben nods and does so upstairs after dinner together. Their suitcases wait at the door together, and Ben doesn’t have anything to worry about.

The flight isn’t until noon, so they get to laze about longer than they usually do in the mornings. Neither of them are morning people, though Ben is at the age where he isn’t an evening person either. It’s strange to see Ben loafing around the condo like he actually lives there. Millicent even comes and sits on his chest where he’s laying down on the couch. Hux is doing some business things on his laptop at the counter a few feet away when he sees this.

He’d taken Millicent, then just a kitten, to Los Angeles with him after signing his first big contract. The cat had been a way of letting himself know that he was going to be there permanently. Hux didn’t attach himself to much. He only cared about the cat. Or so he thought.

Watching Hux play on the days Ben wasn’t pitching was a treat. The man was old, for a baseball player. At 34, the man stood just two inches shorter than Ben, but walked with such a secure air of superiority that it left the teen boggled. Just from being in the same league as him for a couple of months, he’d heard members of the Giants talk about him, how he’s the most stuck-up guy they’d ever met. Even for a Dodger.

However, Ben knew better than that. Hux was just a very professional man. He knew Hux would play baseball in a bespoke suit if he could get away with it. He’d still be the best shortstop in the National League.

Ben had even pitched against him a few times, last season. Not so much during the playoffs, when the Dodgers had just missed the cut. He doesn’t remember anything in particular about those times, no stand-out memories. He’d just been trying to play as hard as he could every day, show all his teammates he deserved to be there just like everybody else. Hux was a legend, a veteran. Ben remembers being determined .

Hux, however, remembers those few at-bats very well. He remembers watching tape of Ben prior to arriving in San Francisco for the series. He thought he was boring. If he knew what he was like then, he would have maybe tried to boost Ben’s confidence at the detriment of his own stats. At the plate was a different story. Ben was a whirlwind of movement, his windup similar to the style most of the pitchers from Japan had been privy to. His release looked like it was all over the place due to how much of his body he put into it. One misstep and the kid would go tumbling over. Ben used to be a disaster at the plate, unpredictably.

Watching Ben from his seat between second and third makes him feel lucky he doesn’t have to come face to face with that newfound intensity. It’s scary to look at. His windup is still just as full-body, but thanks to their pitching coach, he’s managed to lengthen his stride considerably, squaring up his shoulders almost perpendicular to the direction of his hips. He looks like Lincecum out there. In his prime, at least.

Ben never had time to spare a thought for his other teammates when he was out on the mound representing the Dodgers. He just wanted to destroy anyone that came up to bat.

But up on the lip those next four days, Ben’s eyes never leave Hux’ figure. Memorizing his stance, the pattern of movements he went through, the code to communicate with the other infielders and even back with Snoke. Ben is perceptive; he caught on fast. Even the way he interacts with the others off the field is intriguing. Ben is too shy to be social anywhere but near the lockers or back in their condo.

Hux is on his game tonight. For whatever reason, the Diamondbacks want blood. Every hack to the ball that made contact is swung round to the left, making Hux dash this way and that for it seemingly every batter up. Two outs into the top of the seventh, Hux makes a diving catch that ends in a full somersault—and catches Ben’s breath. All eyes are on that stretch of dirt Hux is laying on.

Suddenly, a glove lifts straight up, securely showing the line drive Hux had in his hands. The man looked downright exhausted, laying in the dirt like that. Ben wonders how much longer he can do it. Possibly the whole night. That would be interesting later.

(Ben and Hux had been chosen as roommates for the Diamondbacks series. Entirely coincidental.)

When he rises from his dirt nap (and Ben only snickers a little bit) Ben actually laughs at the state of him. The once-and-always pristine and clean housemate Ben is used to is now covered and stained a light dusty brown color, from the sides of his calves to the tops of his thighs and all up his back and shoulders and all in his hair. His hat is knocked a bit sideways, too. It’s an image Ben files away under ‘happy thoughts’ and leaves alone.

Hux comes down into the dugout and Ben notices the scrapes up his forearms and his elbows, a little raw but not bloody. His jaw has a few ticks on it, but nothing too serious. A strange sort of heat invades Ben’s gut, pooling low and deep and consistent. He can’t shake the feeling. Hux meets his eyes, now a brilliant, vivid blue that pierces him in place before moving on to something else.

Phasma is checking over his scrapes as Ben continues to watch sneakily from his spot on the lip. He prefers to be directly between the two sets of stairs up. It gives him a broader view of what is going on rather than being directly at one end or the other. Hux is going to be fine, by Phasma’s indication. Ben feels rather than sees him approach.

“Saw you laughing,” he says as a greeting. He usually stands by Hux, but apparently tonight is different.

“It was hard not to when you look that mad about a little dirt,” Ben teases.

“I am not—” Hux goes to protest, which only serves to make Ben laugh again. Hux pushes a hand through his hair, breaking up the gel and the dirt. It leaves him looking a little like a hot mess. Ben knows the scrapes on Hux’ jaw will need time to heal, which means Hux wouldn’t be shaving the next couple of days. It’s things like that Ben notices.

They stay that way, together, the remainder of the game. When the Dodgers win, it’s no doubt thanks to Hux’ quick thinking and endless determination in the face of the Diamondbacks’ unexplainable beef with him. The only thing a target can do in defiance of a bullet is stay standing.

That night in the hotel room is quiet, save for the air conditioning chugging along at work.

Hux is staring up at the smooth stucco ceiling. The design of the hotel is southwestern, as most things are in Arizona, he’s observed. He only ever is there for three reasons: he’s playing the Diamondbacks, he’s in Spring Training, or he’s there for a layover. It’s miserably hot all year round, so he wouldn’t dream of going there for any reason vice business.

He can’t sleep. He’s too nervous sleeping in the same room as Ben, almost like he’d be a bad influence on him. Or something in that vein. He wants to roll over and ask if Ben is awake, which, of course he is, it’s only around 9:30 and they’d jumped back a timezone. Furthermore, Ben is thinking rather loudly, and his breathing hadn’t evened out in the way it had on the plane when Hux had sat next to him. Not only is Hux wide awake, he’s restless, like the four hours of the game that night hadn’t happened.

Fed up with just laying there , Hux sits up and rubs roughly at his eyes. He can feel Ben looking at him. It’s become a familiar sensation the last three weeks. Normally it would rub him the wrong way, but there’s something inflating about Ben wanting to keep his eyes on him.

“You can’t sleep either?” Ben asks, his voice small and shy. He doesn’t sound sleepy at all, like Hux would have hoped he would. It’s not like he has a start this series. He doesn’t have to really look out for the kid at all.

“No. Why aren’t you asleep?” Hux can’t help the bite of his words.

Ben almost seems to shrink away at that. “I dunno.” He shrugs half-heartedly. “I might go to the gym.”

“Nonsense. We’re going out.” Hux doesn’t want to give Ben the impression that he makes a habit of harboring a flip-flop attitude, so he aims for a more positive self. Ben waits a moment before following Hux’ lead and getting out of bed. They both pull on jeans and shirts, the typical fare of the average baseball player, before Hux is calling a cab down to the hotel.

The latch on the door seems too loud at this time of night, and Ben winces as they walk side-by-side to the elevators. He looks behind them at the empty hall, expecting some grizzled vet to poke their head out and shake his fist at them for being up past ten. Hux doesn’t seem to mind, walking into the gold box of their elevator as soon as the doors slide open.

It’s quiet for nearly ten minutes until Hux speaks up to tell the cabbie to take them to the nearest movie theater that’s open. The drive involves Ben picking at his fraying jeans and Hux pushing his hands off, subduing him.

Hux buys them both tickets to whatever’s showing next, and they walk in. Ben hasn’t said a word since they were back in the hotel, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s late at night, Ben doesn’t know what to say this late at night anyway. He’s usually asleep. The movie turns out to be some thriller, the third in its franchise. Ben has his reservations, but tells Hux he’s going to go get popcorn. It’s a solid deflection, and gives him something to do other than sit there and be scared. Hux doesn’t say anything when Ben buys it, but takes a handful whenever Ben offers.

It’s hard to hide how jumpy of a person Ben is, especially once the movie edges toward the climax. They’d both eaten through the medium bag of popcorn, the waxy, buttery paper discarded on the empty seat next to them. Hux actually yawns, which makes Ben feel kind of worse, eyes flicking from his lap to Hux (and occasionally peeking up at the screen through his hair).

He makes an almost-squawking noise when Hux pulls him in, an arm around his shoulders. He’s forced to kick his legs up on the seats next to him, the back of his head coming to rest in Hux’ lap. Ben is stiff as a board until Hux starts carding his (probably salty) fingers through his hair slowly. The tips of those calloused fingers tease gently at Ben’s scalp, never staying in one place for long. Ben tunes out almost instantly, his body’s exhaustion catching up with his strung-out mind. Hux sighs, and Ben can feel the faint breath upon his skin. He’s wrapped in such comfort and relaxation, he’s dismayed when Hux is shaking his shoulder to get him up. He’d fallen asleep through the entire movie.

It wouldn’t be Hux without some snarky remark.

“Usually when my dates fall asleep on me, I’m a little miffed, but I think you’re the only exception.”

Chapter Text

Hux frowns at his plane ticket as they wait to board from Phoenix. PHX to SFO. They’d be in San Francisco by the end of the day, and playing that next afternoon in AT&T Park. Ben starts the day after tomorrow. He’d be a mess on this plane ride, on the trip from the airport, at the game the next day, and at his start the day after. It was everything Hux didn’t want for him. Maybe he could get him drunk.

Even the other players on the Dodgers know of the coming storm, giving Ben a wide berth wherever he walks in the terminal. Hux takes the liberty of corralling Ben into the window seat and keeping the window shut. The less he sees of the city he played for last, the better.

Ben is looking at his phone worriedly.

“Your parents?” Hux guesses, and by Ben’s grunt, he’s guessed right.

“They want dinner when I’m there. Tomorrow night.” The night before his start. Hux instantly thinks it’s a bad idea. From what he’s heard of Ben’s parents, they’re very busy people and don’t know the difference between speaking to their son, the teenager, and their son, the adult. The Skype calls (from what Hux can hear) are quite one-sided, with a long-winded condescending rambling coming from one end, and Ben’s monosyllabic affirmations coming muttered from the other side.

“Maybe after your start would be better?” Hux suggests lightly.

“Mom’s got a thing on the day of my start, in Sacramento. Dad’s got a car show.” Ben sounds resigned. Hux is angry. How could any parents be anything but fully supportive of their extremely talented only child? “I told them not to come, anyway.” he sighs.

“Why would you tell them that?” Hux asks, keeping the conversation going throughout pre-flight procedures.

“Because I never hear the end of what I do wrong when they do come. It’s like they expect a perfect game out of me every time since I did it in triple-A.” he mutters, crossing his arms.

Hux had heard about that. Ben Solo is the current record-holder of one perfect game and three 1-hit starts while pitching for the Giants’ minor league. He’s also had the highest home-run record for any pitcher since he was drafted. He hadn’t hit one since being on the Dodgers, but Hux knows his time would come.

Definitely not during his San Francisco start.

They stay quiet through the flight, Ben chewing on the lip of his cup of ginger ale, moving on to chewing his lip and chewing his fingernails, which Hux puts a quick stop to. Two hours later, they’ve touched down, and Ben’s hands have started to shake. They’re not even in the city, yet. Hux starts talking with him about other things, unrelated to even baseball. Ben is smart as a whip, incidentally. Hux had no idea he was taking college courses, much less an anatomy course.

“I took classes in high school. If I was signed by any college, I would’ve wanted to study biology.” He speaks so softly about this, as if having a life outside of the MLB was so taboo to talk about with other baseball players.

“No colleges signed you?” Hux asks, knowing the answer already.

“There were a few that wanted to. I couldn’t say ‘wait, hold on’ to the Giants when they came knocking, so.” The shrug conveys an unspoken here I am now .

“I could’ve gone to Cambridge, but I was already in the international exchange by then, and—”

“And you had to sign whatever contract was offered you. You and Jack Mercer went to America, you to the Dodgers, and him to the Red Sox. The both of you were Rookies of the Year when you made it to the bigs.” Ben is speaking quite calmly. It’s just common knowledge. A lot of the other ballplayers don’t pay attention to things like awards, really. There’s a kind of shared  paranoia regarding them. Like it paints a target on your back.

Hux wants to fire back with the same obsessively-detailed version of Ben’s career thus far, but knows it’d do nothing else but send the poor kid into a spiral of despair, and he’s already looking pale as it is.

“So where’s the best place to eat here at 2 AM?”

San Francisco is beautiful from their hotel room. The sun is bright and covers all of the light gray buildings in the downtown area. Ben took the bed closest to the door, turned away from the window the whole night. Hux couldn’t even convince him to watch TV with him. Concern gnaws at the back of his mind as they’re bussed to the park. Maybe green wasn’t such a great color to wear to the park today, seeing as Ben is starting to match hue.

Hux is the only one that catches his misstep as he starts walking down the third-base-side tunnel, before he remembers quite visibly: you’re not home. This isn’t your home.

And God, Hux wants to drag him back to Los Angeles and make him hold Millicent for a few hours until that distraught look leaves his face. He looks like he’s barely holding it together.

Understandably, the night is uncomfortable, at best. Hux hates that he can’t be down in the dugout with Ben throughout the night, because he’s starting. From what he does see of the kid, he’s pale and keeps his head down, a puddle of mud forming from where he’s spitting into the dirt. Hux shoots Phasma a look, and she just responds with a shrug. He’ll have to do something about this later.

But he has no chance to, because Ben is being picked up by a black car before he can get back on the bus. Hux watches him go, and sends him a text.

Hux: Let me know if I need to come get you.

It’s a long time before Ben replies, even though the read receipt on the text is almost instantaneous.

Solo: I don’t think that will be necessary.

Solo: Thank you.

Hux sits uneasily in his hotel room that night, waiting up for Ben.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re not waiting up for him. You just…” He’s pacing, now. “You just don’t want to be rudely woken up when he does come back.” A thought strikes him as he looks out at the view of the Golden Gate Bridge.

What if Ben doesn’t come back?

Before Hux can do anything drastic, he reaches for his phone again, but as he goes to unlock it, it begins to buzz in his hand. Ben’s contact name shows, with a goofy picture Ben had insisted on adding once he’d entered his information. Hux answers it, a little breathlessly. “Ben.”

The teen on the other line takes a deep breath, shaky and uneven. It’s a few seconds before he speaks. “Hi.” his voice is almost a croak, and it pulls right through Hux’ ear to his heart, wrapped around it like barbed wire.

“Where are you?” Hux asks, pulling on a jacket already. The fog had rolled in fifteen minutes ago, and with it, the temperature had dropped considerably.

“I’m at my coffee sh–I’m at a coffee shop. I’m. I’m at a coffee shop.” He sounds so stricken, and for a moment, Hux fears the worst: he’s been drugged, he’s been kidnapped and this is some code he’d come up with, he’s drugged and kidnapped—

“What’s the name, I’m on my way to get you.”

“I...God, I never looked at the name before.” The little laugh Hux can hardly hear twists at the barbs in his heart. “Butterfly Café.”

Hux multitasks, taking the stairs so he doesn’t have to hang up on his Ben.

“I’m coming. Just...stay there and don’t. Move. You got it?”

“Yes, Hux,” comes the mumbled reply.

Hux finds him on the corner by the shop, leaning against the ancient black brickwork like he is a fixture there, himself. He’s been crying, that’s apparent, and Hux seethes over not being there to assure him everything was going to be alright. “Ben!” he calls from the cab, waving a hand out the window. His roommate peels himself off the wall and folds himself into the backseat. Normally, Hux would take him out drinking, to forget all about this, or just out somewhere to forget. But in a city like this, it’s impossible to forget it once you’re in it. Hux gets them turned back around to the hotel.

Once inside, Ben drops to the bed, and folds himself up in the covers. Hux gingerly sits at his foot, and waits a whole ten minutes before asking, “Do you want to tell me what happened at dinner?”

The lump under the white sheets shrinks in on itself, and the soft hair peeking out from the top shakes in response. Hux sighs and moves to sit at the headboard. He isn’t paid for this. Somehow he doesn’t care.

Ben stiffens when Hux’ hands slip into his hair again, but his tension is brief. He melts into the touch, deprived.

“You...are a terrifyingly good baseball player,” Hux says, and once he starts, he can’t stop. “Sometimes I look at your career stats and it reads just like a fairytale. Not that I read fairytales. But if I read fairytales, I’d probably be disappointed they’re not your stats instead.” He sounds fucking ridiculous, but Ben seems to be relaxing the more he talks. “I haven’t seen you hit a homerun in person yet. I want to…” He talks like that until Ben is sound asleep. When he shifts around to something a little more comfortable, Hux can see the tear tracks anew.

Hux wants to kill something. Slowly.

Ben is pitching in the day game that next day, so they’re at the park early. Hux and everyone else stay away. When he emerges with Phasma from the stretch room, he’s become that different persona again, the terrifying part of “terrifyingly good” that Hux was talking about. Hux goes through his own steps to get ready for the game, but this time, he (and everyone) is keeping an eye out for their newest addition.

He stalks the field like a predator, like he’d murder anyone in his path and smile with a face full of blood. It brings a smirk to Hux’ face when he sees how uncomfortable his former team is. Chew on that .

However, come game time, the jeering starts up, just the same as they had in Los Angeles that first night. The inverse of what happened there, happens here. Hux watches his pitcher deflate on the mound, his confidence shot by his first run through the opposing lineup. Breaking from the regular tradition of ignoring a pitcher during a start (as to not mess up their vibe), Hux comes and sits next to him in the dugout between innings.

It doesn’t seem to help the massive clusterfuck that comes in the end of the fifth.

There’s three on, two outs, and Ben had already given up four runs that game. Snoke is giving that glower that means he’s gonna get yanked soon, and Ben is sighing every other breath. The kid isn’t even in his own head. He must be on some other planet by this point.

Hux jogs over in a few steps, just to talk, but Ben has glazed-over eyes and his normally-pale skin is slick with sweat and almost green-tinged. “You look sick.” Hux says from behind his glove. Ben almost forgets to bring his own glove up to respond.

“I’m fine. I can get him out,” he mumbles weakly.

“I’m gonna tell Snoke to start warming up Chapman,” Hux says, and it’s not a threat, it’s a fact. Ben’s eyes seem to glaze with panic, before settling with resignation.

“Even if I get this guy out?” he asks.

“Yes. You’re going to let this guy ground out, something, anything to get you off the mound.”

Ben is the only pitcher he’s met that’s ever agreed to that order. It makes the hair on the back of Hux’ neck stand up. Where was the rage he’d seen in Los Angeles? The fury he’d had dreams about? He didn’t look like himself, like he ever had really, on any field, ever, for as long as Hux could remember watching film of the kid.

Once they break, Ben squares up and pitches a strike right onto the fat side of the Giants’ powerhitter’s bat. Hux can only swear under his breath as he watches the ball sail up, up, up, and out of the stands. A grand slam. A quick glance back to the mound only confirms that Ben was beating himself up about this, losing his fucking mind. The screams and shouts coming from center stage direct everybody’s attention. Hux dashes up, along with Phasma and Snoke and the catcher.

Ben is shaking, keening in some terrible manner, shouting at himself. His hair is plastered to his face, a tangled mess that Hux can’t sort out right now. Wild eyes rake over them all, landing nowhere in particular. Snoke signals quickly to the bullpen for another leftie to finish the night up, and Ben goes from bad to worse.

“NO. I am NOT leaving the mound I can FINISH the game LEAVE ME IN,” he demands, shouting right in Snoke’s face. Hux has his hands round Ben’s arms, but it’s all so quick he’s dizzy.

Phasma hauls the shouting teen down the steps, to the sound of the boos and jeers coming from the San Francisco fans. Hux is standing in the middle infield, dazed. He wants to follow Ben. He wants to finish the game.

Swallowing his guilt, he chooses the latter.

There’s no recovering from that 8-run deficit. Hux takes the loss, preoccupied. Phasma stands guard in front of the trainers’ room, big arms crossed over her massive pectorals. Not even Hux is allowed past.

Showers and dressing and interviews stay at a dull roar. Ben doesn’t emerge until after every reporter has left. His hair hangs wet around his face, dripping slightly onto the carpet. He’s wearing his workout clothes, and his face is blotchy and flushed. His hands are beaten red-raw, knuckles an angry mess. He’d been punching something. Hux takes an aborted half-step toward him once he sees him. The rest of the team is instructed to leave, save him and Phasma.

It’s a fucking adventure getting a catatonic Ben back to the hotel and into bed. He was given the day off, and an appointment with the team psychologist as soon as they got back down south. Luckily they flew out that night, anyway. For now, however…

No amount of talking and stroking his hair could fix Ben’s problems, so Hux bites the bullet and cracks open the minibar.

It’s alarming how easily Ben takes his drinks and downs them. Even at 220 lbs, he’s knocked on his ass after twenty minutes of hard consumption.

“We’re gonna watch South Park and go to sleep.”

“W’nna watch Toy Sturry.” Ben complains, pawing at Hux and managing to still be able to move around in his state.

“Okay, we’ll watch Toy Story.” Hux wonders if making Ben pay for Pay-Per-View would hurt his feelings.

Hux holds him the whole night. His poor, broken boy. And the city that doesn’t know they traumatized him beyond repair.

No, he determines strongly. Not beyond repair. I’ll prove it.

Ben thinks that after all the fuss he made on the roadtrip, he’d be back to square one and go down as the kid who couldn’t get over being traded from his first team. Surprisingly, it’s the opposite. In the wake of his total meltdown in San Francisco, he’s been approached by nearly everyone on the team, each of them offering an open ear or the like. He takes the offers with a grain of salt, despite himself. The last good thing he’d trusted wholly had tossed him away.

Hux, however, is almost annoyingly supportive. The morning he’d woken up nauseated and hungover, Hux had been there to hold his hair back from his face as he barfed into the toilet, sitting on the tub as he groaned his miseries. He’d made him wash up and shave, directing his every movement in the cramped bathroom. Ben wouldn’t think about how much Hux was seeming to enjoy himself.

Snoke didn’t give days off to his pitchers just because they weren’t starting, however, which is why Ben was pushing himself in the visitors’ gym, working himself out until his hair plastered itself to his face. Hux was on the starting lineup that day, which meant Ben hardly saw him from the moment they walked into the stadium. He felt a little lost, but not as horribly helpless as he’d been the day before.

It’s a long day, one Ben spends hunched back against the wall of the dugout, in the shade. When Hux is at bat with two on in the ninth, Ben drifts up to the lip. They’re behind by two, and the potential winning run is at the plate. This would be the best time for Hux to pull out something magical.

Ben knows from his time studying Hux on film that a lot of pitchers underestimate him due to his general lankiness. He knows better, however, the memory of the shortstop crushing home run after home run in batting practice still fresh in his mind. He hides his smirk from behind his forearms, watching with delight. His mood has lifted considerably since the morning.

The whole stadium seems to snarl as Hux hits a long, long foul down the first base line, soaring back over the stands and onto the boardwalk behind the right field wall. The pitcher, the catcher, and Hux reset. The runners on third and first step off their bases, a few steps down the run path. Ben rubs at his shoulder, the soreness from yesterday keying up a little bit.

The next pitch is a ball in the dirt, just in front of home plate. Hux is known to dig out all kinds of crazy pitches and produce some extra-clutch batting, but this pitch isn’t fought for. Hux is cool at the plate, looking up at Snoke, who is signaling for him just to bunt, which Hux makes an obvious face at. He’s a clutch hitter, he’s not going to fucking bunt. Ben stifles his laughs as Snoke sighs and gives up trying to tell his MVP what to do.

The pitcher is getting antsy, and Ben knows this guy. He’s the one Ben was traded for. Finn Guerra. Number 87. He used to be number 21 on the Dodgers. Right handed pitcher. Losing seasons until he was traded, now his current team’s record is 2-1. Ben takes pleasure in knowing he’d been promoted to the number three pitcher, and Finn was in the number four spot now. Ben knows Finn is a bit unpredictable under pressure, so he’s expecting aggression now.

Sure enough, the release on the pitch is quite early, and the ball goes whizzing past Hux’ nose at 94 miles per hour. The crowd is insatiable; they want blood. Ben doesn’t realize his nails are digging into the weak plastic covering the lip. A woman behind the Dodgers dugout shrieks insults at them. Hux is staring Finn down from just outside the box, a challenge. It’s a hot day for San Francisco, making Hux’ eyeblack drip almost obscenely down his high cheekbones. Ben hadn’t seen it ever drip until now, and the effect makes him suppress a shudder. He wouldn’t want to be facing Hux right now, not when he looks like that.

Poe Dameron, the catcher, jogs over to his pitcher on the mound, just to calm his nerves and surely speculate on how they could get Hux out as soon as possible with a 2-1 count. Ben looks back at Hux, who hasn’t moved from his spot near the box. Those eyes are still boring down onto the pitcher.

Play resumes after a clearly-biased amount of time spent convening. Dameron says something to Hux at the plate which snaps the cool persona the batter had been holding onto. Ben can’t hear what he says, only the sharp cut of his accent. The crowd just gets louder and louder. The sun burns at the back of Ben’s neck but he can’t move, can’t take his eyes away.

The wind-up. The step. The release. Ben is holding his breath as the slider, sure and true, sails across the space between the mound and the plate. He blinks and nearly misses it, if not for the deafening crack of a bat and the unanimous gasp that overtakes the screams of forty-thousand strong. Ben’s eyes water as he watches the path of the ball soar across the brilliant blue sky overhead, and for a moment he thinks it’s going to be another foul, but the wind catches it just in time. With the course changed mid-flight, and the bright June sun beating down, the outfielders have no chance as the ball hits the wall and stops in the middle of Triples’ Alley.

Hux, meanwhile, is sprinting faster than Ben had ever seen him go, halfway to second long before the ball has even hit the ground. Everyone in the stadium is on their feet as one, two Dodgers are waved in to score. Ben is leaning halfway over the lip and screaming absolute nonsense as Hux is given the signal to try to make it home.

It looks hopeless. The center fielder is already making his throw to Dameron and Hux is just propelling himself off of third base. No one cheers louder than Ben in that moment, heart in his throat and tears in his eyes. He’s pretty sure his gum has fallen out of his mouth. Dameron has squared up in front of the plate, fully intending to block Hux on the way there.

Feet battle forward motion in a race to the plate. Time seems to slow down as the ball hits Dameron’s glove, and Hux takes a leap, both hands in the air as he—

Hux isn’t jumping or sliding for home, he’s leaping for it.

Ben hasn’t seen anything like it, as Hux does a complete forward roll for the plate, both hands touching down on it before Dameron can even react. Hux bends in midair to complete the roll across, landing with his legs spread apart on the dirt. The ump’s arms fly out to his sides. Safe .

Someone is screaming in his ear, shaking his shoulders so hard his cap flies off. Pure joy rips through his chest and he’s laughing, he’s laughing. God, he loves baseball so much. The wildness of those last fifteen seconds were the most excited he’s felt in a long time.

Hux’ eyeblack has been smeared across his cheek where he’d tumbled into the dirt after his flip . He’s covered in dirt everywhere else, and his hands would be scraped to all hell if he hadn’t had his batting gloves on. That boyish smirk is widened to a handsome grin that makes Ben’s heart pound. Ben can’t even form words as Hux comes back into the dugout, met with twenty screaming grown men. Everyone wants a piece of him, pulling and tugging at him as he descends the stairs. Ben gives him space, while he gets his cheek checked out by Phasma. The moment he’s tossed back a cup of water, Ben makes his move.

He turns Hux around by his shoulders, and tries to put all of the joy Hux just made him feel into his expression and an elated shout. Hux is laughing (and...blushing?) as he punches Ben in his non-pitching shoulder, that grin pulled even wider. God, now Ben is blushing and grinning, and he’s sure his heart is going to beat out of his chest.

Incidentally, they both get the idea to kiss one another at the same time, and they both squash it at the exact same moment as well. They let go of one another, creases left in their jerseys. Hux comes and stands by Ben on the lip, nevertheless, and they talk in hushed tones, but loud enough to drown out the boos coming from behind them.

The Giants let Finn finish the inning, knowing it’d be too humiliating for the kid to be taken out in the middle of the ninth. The Dodgers make swift work of the Giants in the bottom of the ninth, and they all go back down to the tunnels, whooping and slapping Hux on the back so hard and so often Ben sees clear handprints in his shoulders in the shower not much later.

The blush he’d had on his face since the flipping home run has been burned into his complexion. This is it. I will look like a fucking china doll for the rest of my life. This is my fate.

Ben takes longer than Hux does in the shower, on account of all the hair. When Hux walks by him and snaps his towel against his ass, Ben honest-to-God yelps. The guys around him, already in a good mood, roar with laughter, whipping him with their own towels as Ben rinses and makes a speedy escape.

Hux is smirking to himself as Ben hobbles over in his squeaky shower shoes. “You are the biggest asshole…”

“I’m honored to have claimed the title from you,” Hux snarks back.

Ben just shakes his head with a huff of laughter and pulls his briefs on. He doesn’t catch Hux’ eyes as they glance over his ass, nor the way they flash back up to his shoulders, now a raceway for two very interesting drops of water sliding down the valley of Ben’s spine. He’s breathtaking, and Hux sometimes thinks himself cursed for being both gay and in an extremely tempting career field, but in moments like this, he finds himself lucky.

Interviews are more of the “amazed journalist” variety tonight than the usual “bad bad evil Dodger” kind Hux is used to in San Francisco. They wrap up quickly due to their flight leaving in less than six hours. Ben is stealing every glance he can get at Hux, and it’s so different from the dazed teen he’d had to drag along through the tunnels just three days ago. Hux doesn’t mind.

It’s become an unspoken rule that Ben and Hux sit next to each other on every transport, whether it be buses or planes or cabs when they all go out. They talk shop, they talk about the day, Ben’s online classes, what Hux had read in the news that day.

Hux is sure being near Ben Solo’s biceps so much will give him an aneurism one day.

They’re at home and Hux has let him drink a few beers at dinner when Ben says, “I call you Hux in my head, is that weird? Do you call yourself Elan or Hux in your head?”

Hux is quiet for a few moments, wondering what he’s gotten himself into, letting a 19-year-old drink. “I never really considered a question like that before. I haven’t been Elan since I was four years old, sitting on the naughty step at my mother’s house.”

Ben laughs out loud, a deep belly laugh that lapses into silent giggles. “Naughty step?” he asks, amused beyond compare.

“Yes, we had a naughty step. It was the fifth one up and squeaked if you tried to get up without being told.” Hux feels a strange sort of comfort in telling Ben about his life, like he wants to keep spilling forth every scrap of information about himself until Ben knows him, wholly. “To answer your question, I don’t think it’s weird at all. I call myself Hux, and I’m glad you don’t call me Elan.”

“What do you think of me?” And oh, isn’t that the loaded question of the year. Brilliant. Beautiful. Breathtaking. Maybe a few other things...

“I think of you as Ben.”

They’re in New York when Hux walks out of the bathroom in their hotel and finds Ben scrubbing his palms over his eyes. He’s got his headphones in so Hux can’t tell if he’s watching a sad movie or not, but his worst worries are confirmed when Ben croaks, “I know mom. I’m sorry.” Hux wants to take a step forward, but he’s frozen in place because Ben has seen him already.

There’s a pause, before Ben is shutting the laptop and ripping the headphones off his head. Hux doesn’t quite know what to say. He doesn’t think Ben is weak from crying thanks to his own mother, or anything as stupid as that. He wants to help him. Ben speaks before Hux can say anything, caught up in his own imagined shame.

His face gets redder as he stutters his way through talking about how his mom loves him differently than most mothers love their sons. That she was just cranky from being kept from her work, she works a lot. He stumbles through a few more excuses before his complexion returns to normal. His cheeks are still a little ruddy just from the tears, but he looks better. He must have been going through this kind of treatment from her for quite awhile if he recovered this quickly from it.

“You don’t have to make excuses for anybody, Ben,” Hux says gently.

Ben wants to get mad, wants to shout at him to not patronize him. But Hux is being polite and kind and he’s really been nothing but polite and kind when he’s seen Ben like this. It stops him short, and he breathes out a large, shaky huff of air.

“Can we go out and see a scary movie?” Ben asks. They’ve developed an almost secret language with one another, and this phrase means can I put my head in your lap for a few hours while you pretend to be exasperated with me?

“I’m sure there’s something on pay-per-view we can watch here. I was looking at the room service menu, anyway. I wanted that cacio e pepe ,” Hux says, finally moving forward and taking the shut laptop and headphones from Ben’s hands. He’d turned 20 just last week, and Hux had bought both of these things for him as a gift. The shade of red Ben had turned was akin to the color that Ben’s favorite cinnamon gum got when he’d just started chewing it. New plan: stop thinking about Ben’s mouth.

“Night in?” Ben asks, looking up at him for clarification.

“Night in.”

They find themselves wrapped around one another on the bed, halfway through some D-list free movie from the hotel’s on-demand list. The string-heavy soundtrack hardly distracts them or puts Ben at unease. Hux’ long, strong fingers are playing with Ben’s hair again, twisting gently at the locks like silk ribbons. Their plates of cheesy, peppery pasta were finished about an hour ago. Hux watches Ben drift closer and closer to sleep, concentration unbroken. The fire that’s been burning a hole in his heart grows stronger with every soft breath blessed upon his wrist.

“ Hux .”

The blood in his veins freezes to a halt, and everything seems to cease movement. Ben is asleep, now. He’d muttered the name, so gentle and almost... reverent , in the safety of his own dreams. He starts to stir, and his face pinches up a bit when Hux’ fingers have stopped carding across his scalp. Hux is about as graceful as a stalled car as he continues, and gently extricates himself from Ben’s hold, the ache behind his ribs pulling as those large hands grasp and curl around air.

Hux is breathing hard, now. The room is spinning. He needs air, cold air. Quietly, he shuts off the television and leaves the room. His thoughts are racing at a million miles an hour, all over the place and somehow still focused on Ben.

With his hands jammed in his pockets, he makes his way to the roof of his hotel. They’re in Flushing, a bit upstate of New York City, so the noise level isn’t as bad as when they’re playing interleague in the Big Apple. He watches the lights from below, the drifting low clouds over the city. He tries to describe them in his head, getting caught in the details and not in what he should be thinking over.

“It’s entirely unprofessional, you bastard,” Hux growls at himself, pacing the edge of the building, stepping over air vents and water pipes. They have water towers this far east. “Not to mention completely...stupid. He’s going to be traded away, or you are.” He adds this logic sadly, almost regretfully. He usually doesn’t say these things out loud.

“Hux… ”

The way his voice had sounded , though...He was in Ben’s dreams , for fuck’s sake! Hux shakes his head, hard, to rid himself of the memory.

“Yeah, well the feeling is mutual, kid,” he bites out bitterly, under his breath. A breeze blows icy above the city streets, and Hux is the only one awake that feels it. Just a moment ago, he was wishing for some kind of frozen clarity, and now all he wants is to crawl back into bed with Ben. He wants to live in that bubble with him for the rest of their lives. “That’s a dangerous thought,” he muses, a hysterical laugh threatening to bubble up past his lips.

Tormented by his feelings, he sits down on the ledge. Not far enough to be in any danger of falling, but enough to swing his legs out over the ground.

What if Ben doesn’t get traded, though? What if Ben is given a contract at the end of the season? What if Hux gets an extension like his agent had been begging him to do for the last eight months? What if they both stay in Hux’ apartment and never leave Los Angeles? What if Ben—

What if Ben loves him too?

The very fucking thought makes him sit up so quickly he has to steady himself on the gravel behind him so he doesn’t do something like fall off. He’s reminded of being in secondary school and having to analyze Shakespeare. Something about Hamlet contemplating his own mortality. Something about carpe diem . Something about doing what’s right, instead of what people think is best for you.

God, the hope that blooms in Hux’ chest whenever he sees Ben smile. The flames that lick up his neck and chest whenever he’s near him in the lockers. He’s burning, burning alive. That hysterical laughter he’d fought earlier wins now, carrying over the empty space to the buildings around his. He hasn’t felt this mad in his life, utterly helpless and all-powerful at the same time. He scrambles to his feet, bolstered by foolish romantic energy. He laughs again, and figures he could get away with a silly little dance about the thought that someone could love him as much as he loves them.

This is completely out of character for him. Love transforms regular people like him into crazy people like this.

He sprints down the stairs, nearly crashing into four separate walls in his attempt to get back to the third floor. He has to tell someone, anyone, about this revelation.

He runs into Snoke as he’s trying not to skip back into his room. He skids to a halt, face flushed, eyes wild, hair windblown. Snoke looks quite nonplussed at his appearance. Hux straightens himself back up into the stoic MVP persona he normally is around his manager.

“You’re out late,” the older man says, giving another displeased onceover. “Late-night rendezvous?”

“Girl in every port,” Hux coughs, admitting to nothing. His mood is already deflating. He’s torn between going back on the roof and deluding himself, and facing reality and seeing Ben again.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Snoke waves him off, no doubt on the way to the hotel bar. Hux takes controlled, measured steps all the way back to his room, almost forgetting about his sleeping roommate until he’s halfway through the door.

The room is warm to the point of being stuffy, but smells like good food and Ben’s shampoo. A small smile creeps onto Hux’ face, and he relaxes.

It wouldn’t be a very good idea for him to have Ben wake up in his arms. Well. For now. He takes the loss with grace, flicking off the lights and curling up in his own bed, staring across the space between them until his eyes burned and his face ached with a smile, before sleep claims him at last.

The first of July is Hux’ 35th birthday. He finds it a bit serendipitous that he and Ben both have birthdays in the summer and can celebrate them with one another. What with them being at home the next few weeks before the All-Star Break, Ben has decided to make him a ‘pre-birthday dinner’ dinner. He’d given Hux the shopping list, but aside from a very specific bottle of wine, his intent for dinner is very well-hidden.

Which is almost no surprise when Hux returns from Whole Foods to find Ben has already been cooking it. There’s a pot of boiling pasta on the stove, and a pan frying chicken on the next burner. Ben’s pop music is blaring from Hux’ iHome, and he’s dancing as he stirs a sauce simmering atop a third burner. Hux hardly cooked, and wasn’t aware Ben did at all. But overall it smells mouthwatering.

“Could you turn down Ms. Gaga while I’m in the kitchen?” Hux nearly shouts as he walks in.

Ben nearly jumps out of his skin, but breaks into a wide grin once he sees Hux. The poor man’s heart pounds a little too hard for a 35-year-old. “Surpriiiiise!” Ben says, giving him a one-armed hug they almost don’t let go of.

“So sending me away to do the shopping was all part of your master plan?” Hux asks, inspecting the pots and pans atop his range. He nods in approval.

“Yes. It was a beautiful plan, and you were surprised, so I’m satisfied. Birthday over. Let’s move on with life.”

Hux feels the thread of joy wrapped around his heart tighten. Ben’s sense of humor had grown so similar to his own in the last few months.

“Not a chance. I want food, wench.”

Hux slaps a hand on the counter, and Ben throws his head back and laughs. Hux is breathless.

Dinner involves Hux setting out plates and pouring wine, and Ben wearing oven mitts Hux is sure aren’t even native to the condo. Ben’s ears get a little pink after a few glasses, and they both finish everything he’d cooked.

“My compliments to the chef.” Hux raises his glass in a toast.

“I hear the chef’s quite an asshole.”

“I heard he can’t hold his liquor,” Hux smirks.

“I heard he likes to beat up customers he doesn’t like,” Ben snaps back, one eyebrow quirked up.

Their banter is cut short by a phone ringing. The Imperial March is playing, so it’s Hux’ phone.

“What does Snoke want this time of night?” Hux says as he rises, unplugging it from the charger next to Ben’s phone and answering. “Hux.”

There’s a bit of a long pause as Hux listens to whatever Snoke is saying, but Ben’s phone starts ringing. Hux tosses it over, and Ben catches it. He doesn’t know the number, but it’s from St. Louis. He cradles the phone in his hand, afraid he might drop this one, too. Phones are so small.

“Hello?” he answers timidly.

“Ben Solo, this is Lando Calrissian.” Oh fuck, it’s the Cardinals’ GM. “Hope I didn’t interrupt dinner.”

“No, we’d just finished up. How can I help you, sir?”

“I’m gonna keep this quick because I’ve got a few other phone calls to make. Son, what do you think of starting the All-Star Game?”

The floor seems to drop out from under him, eyes bugging out. He has to grab a chair.

“Th-that’d be. That’s. That’d be amazing, sir!” He covers his mouth with his hand and looks over to see Hux looking at him with concern, which softens at Ben’s elation. “Thank you!”

“I’m glad you’re excited. We’ve had our eye on you since your first start with the boys in blue.” This stabs some unease into Ben, but it’s barely anything compared to his excitement. “I’ll forward the information to your skipper and agent. My people talking to your people.”

“My people. Yeah. Absolutely. Totally. Thank you, so much sir. I can’t wait.” He laughs again.

“I’ll let you go call your family. Glad to have you, son.” The line goes dead and Ben has to set down his phone before he throws it in excitement.

Hux is leaning against the counter, a satisfied smirk on his lips. “Well?”

“I’m starting the All-Star Game!” Ben blurts out, doubled over. Hux’ eyes go huge; if he wasn’t surprised by Ben’s ability to cook, he is surprised by this now.

“That’s fucking amazing!” Hux rounds the table to help him over to the couch. “Snoke just called to tell me I’m starting, too, at short.”

“ What ?!” Ben shouts, clearly not in control of much right now. Hux tugs him down so he’s got Ben’s head in his lap and his fingers in his hair. “No way this is gonna be so cool…” Ben grins, looking up at Hux.

“At least we’ll have each other to sort out this media circus.”

And a circus it is. In addition to the loads of interview questions they’re bogged down with before the All-Star Game, the actual media day is a logistics nightmare. If it weren’t for Hux’ four-time All-Star experience, Ben would have been lost to the masses and disappeared helplessly into the crowds. They get to ride together in the back of a pickup truck in the parade down Market Street in Downtown St. Louis. Ben is taking countless photos of the fans, of the Gateway Arch at the end of the road. He’s filled with a childlike wonder that Hux wants to preserve for the rest of his life.

Ben makes him think a lot about the rest of his life, and what he wants to do with it.

It takes the delivery guy an hour to get a pizza up to their room, because of all the tourists in the area. Ben is whining on the bed, sipping water because he’s not allowed to have any of the beer Hux had brought up until the food is there. It’s a quite sexual cry of rapture that falls from Ben’s lips when the pizza arrives, and Hux has to fight getting hard in front of a star-struck pizza man. Hux tips well, despite the late delivery.

“Gimme gimme gimme.” Ben is reaching for the three pizza boxes Hux is balancing on one hand.

“Impatient baby,” Hux chuckles. He thankfully doesn’t catch Ben’s blush at the unintended endearment. He would have jumped the poor kid.

They’re watching some action movie tonight. Daring rescues and breathtaking adventure. It gets boring after thirty minutes, and Hux seizes the remote. His incessant channel surfing ends on some cheesy rom-com.

They watch all of it, slowly gorging themselves on pizza and beer, drifting closer to each other on the bed until their bodies are flush side by side. “That was...actually really good, wow,” Ben says once the credits roll.

Hux barks out a laugh. “You’re right.” He shakes his head and looks over at Ben. God, they’re so close. Ben’s lips are greasy from the pizza, and he keeps sucking on them so temptingly, as he does whenever Hux gives him something to drink.

“Ben, have you ever been kissed?” The question sticks half in Hux’ throat, so he has to cover it up with something. “You have probably the most beautiful lips I’ve seen on a person.” Shit. Shit. Shit. Abort. Stop SPEAKING. “And I’m sure that anyone you kiss would be fucking elated.” This is it. I have to go back to England now. Never play baseball or watch baseball again.

“Thank you?” Ben mumbles, his entire face red. “You have a purdy mouth too.” Hux almost cries in relief for Ben to bring humor to this moment. He gently shoves at the pitcher, who gives a profound pout. “Where you goin?”

“Bathroom. Such a needy baby.” There’s that blush again. Hux wonders why Ben doesn’t respond to the quip, but writes it off as nothing serious. They’ve called each other worse.

“What if I took BP tomorrow?” Ben calls from the bed, rolling over to move the pizza boxes off.

“What do you mean, what if? They won’t let you.”

“It’s a National League park. They’ll let me.”

“You just want to be in the Home Run Derby.” Ben’s silence is kind of telling. “They have only let one pitcher, ever, participate in the Derby, and management was so embarrassed they made a statement about how unexpectedly excellent he was.”

“And why can’t I be unexpectedly excellent?”

“There’s already a media uproar about you being here in the first place,” Hux says, getting a bit serious. Ben frowns, hides his unease.

“Why?”

“Your last start in San Francisco. Ignorant people saying ignorant things. Do you really not have a twitter?” Hux pokes his head out of the bathroom. He’d lost his shirt at some point.

“My agent hasn’t cleared me for one yet.”

(Everyone wanted a piece of Ben. His parents took his confidence and independence. Luke took his intuition. The Giants took his hope. His agent took his voice. Ben sometimes wonders what Hux would inevitably take.)

“You listen to your agent too much,” Hux sighs, walking back in and sitting on the bed.

“And you listen to what people you don’t know say about you too much. And about me, for that matter,” Ben says, getting up. He moves over to the sink to scrub at his face with some water from the tap. It feels refreshing against his hot cheeks. He winces, feeling the twinge of a sunburn on the back of his neck. Hux always packed aloe, but they just depleted their last stores of it.

Hux doesn’t really have anything to say. Ben’s right, and Hux would rather jump in front of one of Ben’s sliders before admitting it out loud. He sighs and starts picking up the pizza.

“So what does it all mean, Hux? That I’ll have more eyes on me because of it?”

“It’s actually more like all eyes on you.” Hux is, unsurprisingly, on his phone, most likely scrolling through some media feed.

“It’s not like I can do anything about my image. People never really cared to get to know me.” The shy regret within his voice hurt Hux’ heart.

“I want to get to know you,” he says lamely. The conversation had taken a different turn than expected, and he attempts to bring it back. “Maybe you can do a sit-down interview in the condo.”

“People do that?” Ben says with wonder. “You’d be okay with that?”

“I’ve done a few, myself,” Hux says. “The most you really have to do is make them dinner and tell them something you haven’t told anyone else.”

Ben hasn’t ever thought about what he says in interviews, not like that, at least. Most of the time he’s trying not to stutter over his words. Hux has been trying to coach him on what to say when presented with awards, recently. His roommate is obsessed with the idea that Ben will be some high achiever within the next few years. Ben isn’t so convinced.

He tells him he’ll consider it, and they go to bed not long after.

The morning of the Home Run Derby is relaxed. Hux has been an All-Star for most seasons in his career, and been named MVP twice. He’d given the prize cars away almost instantly, barely keeping himself from sneering at the American-made standard. He prefers his Mercedes, exclusively. He’s had a sponsorship with them for the better half of the last decade, as well. It’s comfy. His image of the ‘posh foreign baseball player’ has been bolstering him through some of the most extravagant sponsorships the MLB had ever seen.

He’d even had a word with his agent to politely request (threaten bodily) to Ben’s agent to see about getting his roommate some sponsors as well. Ben needed more nice things. The people at Puma that Hux knows would love Ben. If he were anyone else than himself, he’d feel a little bad for orchestrating Ben’s life like this. But Ben hasn’t had a sullen day in weeks, mostly because he’d had almost nothing to worry about in his everyday life. His finances, his bills, his food, all taken care of. He just had to sit there, look pretty, and play baseball. Hux didn’t mind that one bit.

Hux has to admit that it gives him a bit of a shameful thrill to see Ben’s eyes light up with appreciation at the sight of Hux’ every gift. He wants to run his hands through Ben’s hair and tell him he deserves the world until he believes it.

Ben can’t stop taking pictures of the crowd, the people around him, of Hux, of the Derby, of Hux again. Hux is glad he sprung for the largest memory size on Ben’s new phone. Ben’s commentary during the Derby is cute, scoffing at every missed pitch. It’s a pitcher’s ego, one that took Ben a while to cultivate.

“If you were doing the Derby, I’d twist your arm until you let me pitch for you.” Ben leans over and whispers in Hux’ ear, and Hux is glad he’s got his hat on. His splotchy blush would not look good under the high St. Louis sun. Ben has his hat backwards, his hair poofing out by the nape of his neck. He has a bit of sunscreen that hadn’t been rubbed in near his ear, so Hux reaches out and fixes that. “Thanks.”

“As for your ever-so-polite offer, Benjamin,” Hux says, leaning in just the same as Ben had. “You’d do much better at the plate than I would in one of these things. And I’d pinch your ears until you let me pitch for you.” The wolfish grin that follows is completely Hux . The two of them laugh it off and try not to think of jumping each other’s bones.

Once the Derby is over, there’s more and more interviews and photo ops and Ben generally being away from Hux. He honestly can’t say he’s fine with it. Not having his hulking leftie around at all times has been the source of many of Hux’ recent anxieties.

They decide to get dinner in the city, somewhere upscale that would make Ben’s eyes glitter at the luxury. They’re both dressed nice, and Ben looks like he walked straight out of a photoshoot in Venice, all harsh angles and neat coolness. He learned the latter from Hux. They’re in step with one another all the way to their table. Hux needs to buy him an entire J. Crew. And a couple Armani suits. Maybe a dozen. That seems enough.

“I don’t even know what confit is…” Ben mutters, betraying his appearance of some suave mystery man.

“You don’t want that,” Hux says, not looking up from his menu. “I’m ordering for you anyway. You can pick out dessert.”

“I don’t want dessert from here.” Ben maintains just that little bit of stubbornness.

“Then we won’t have dessert from here. There’s one of those shops you like just down the road from our hotel.”

There’s barely any heat behind their banter. (All the heat they feel comes from something different) The last time they had a screaming fight, it was over who was doing dishes and who cleaned up Millicent’s puke. That had only ended in poor Millie puking again, on the dishes. They’d laughed so hard at that, they’d been unable to stop snickering about it for days.

Dinner is a classy affair, the both of them managing to keep conversation light and impersonal as they eat. Hux has to say that he’s impressed by Ben’s manners. He supposes that, with a mother in such a high position, Ben was subjected to many an etiquette class. He keeps his elbows off the table, and does not speak with his mouth full. Hux is overcome with misplaced pride, seeing him perform so well in public. Most baseball players his age have no idea what to do in an upscale restaurant such as this. Ben doesn’t even bat an eye at the extravagant array of cutlery.

That leads Hux down a line of thought, wondering: if Ben was so used to this kind of high-class modus vivendi , then why did his eyes light up every time Hux asked if Ben wanted to drive the Mercedes or borrow a Rolex? Perhaps the luxury wasn’t his to regale in the first place, borrowed from his mother’s stuffy station. Hux really wants to ask about Ben’s mother, but they’re having such a good time at dinner he chooses not to. Hux would just continue spoiling him rotten the rest of his days.

Hux pays, of course. Ben insists, as he always does, that he’d pay the next one, but the clumsy pitcher isn’t fast enough with his wallet as Hux is. He’s had “years of buying experience”, as Hux so pretentiously boasts. Ben didn’t even have a credit card. His agent told him not to even think about getting one until the ink had dried on a contract.

The froyo shop is where Hux remembered seeing it, two blocks from the hotel. It looked pretty basic, shelves of sugary candy and stations of dispensers. They attract some attention as they walk in, in all their finery. Ben has loosened his tie just a bit, and Hux keeps catching glimpses of a stark white collarbone that makes him nearly swallow his tongue. Get it together.

Ben, for all his pickiness, is actually quite simple in his tastes. He likes a plain chocolate and an obscene amount of nonpareils. Hux prefers the cheesecake yogurt and fresh fruit. “Next time we’re in New York, I’m getting you actual New York cheesecake.”

“But we went to the Cheesecake Factory three weeks ago.” Ben isn’t protesting, just innocently questioning Hux’ kind (ha) gestures.

“Yes, well, that was Los Angeles New York cheesecake,” he says, like that explains it well enough.

They walk and talk all the way back to the hotel. Ben has a smudge of chocolate on the side of his lip, which Hux again reaches out to clean off with his thumb. Without thinking, he sticks that thumb between his own lips, sucking the chocolate off without tearing his gaze from Ben’s slightly shocked expression. They’re both left breathless by this. Ben can’t seem to decide where he wants to look, Hux’ fiery eyes or his lips, which probably taste like strawberries and cheesecake—

“I want a bite of that,” Hux says, voice having dropped into some obscenely low tone. Ben’s face feels like it’s on fire.

“I want a bite of you—yours,” Ben stutters. They both load up a bite on each others’ spoons, feeding one another at the same time. The burst of flavor and the unbidden thought of this is what the inside of his mouth tastes like right this very fucking second flash through their senses like a wildfire.

The both of them are breathing a little irregularly by the time they regain their composure.

“That’s good. I’ll have that next time,” Hux says, giving Ben a considerably slow once-over.

They seem to stride back to their hotel room, getting ready for bed and not quite looking at one another, still processing what had just happened between them. They sleep in their separate beds, reeling. Hux regrets brushing his teeth, as childish as that sounds, because he doesn’t want to rid himself the taste of chocolate, irrevocably now the taste of Ben.

For the billionth time, Hux thinks to himself: I’m fucked.

Chapter Text

Ben is quiet the morning of his All-Star start. His nerves are going to exhaust him by the time he actually gets to pitch, if he doesn’t relax. He tells himself he’s only probably going to pitch an inning or two, to give all the other pitchers selected a chance. He’s pacing in the room; they don’t leave for another hour. Hux is in the shower, taking his time, which isn’t normal for the efficiency-praising man. He never says anything about Ben’s long showers in the apartment, he understands Ben has a lot more hair and wants to take care of it.

He really wants Hux to run his hands all over him, not just his frazzled head, but his shaking hands, his jittery knees, his tapping feet, his unsettled stomach. Breakfast wasn’t filling or satisfying. Not like that one bite of yogurt last night . Ben shakes his head. He’s reading too far into that.

Even if there weren’t any rules within the league stating otherwise, they can never be together. Hux’ carefully-cultivated image would be destroyed, Ben would be kicked out of the MLB. Ben has been privy to the workings of male superiority, and the slurs that come with it. All this over being anything but straight. Not only was he queer, he was in love with his teammate, lockermate, roommate, best friend. He groans in frustration and sits on the edge of the bed.

“Tone down the angst there, Hamlet,” Hux says, coming back into the bedroom area, nothing but a towel wrapped around his slim hips. Ben could imagine wrapping a hand around those hips, how perfectly he could cup Hux in his hand like some kind of treasure, feel the warmth of the sun that came from his hands whenever Hux’ calloused fingers skated along his scalp. “What’s the issue?” Hux interrupts him from his daydream.

“Nothing. Nervous.”

“Don’t be. You’re going to be fine. I’ll be on the field with you. At least you know Dameron behind the plate. It won’t be a problem.” Ben could somehow feel his worries disappear as long as Hux kept speaking. He feels foolish to find such an escape in someone else’s voice. “Think you can hold it together long enough for me to get dressed?” Ben just nods, shoving his hands roughly through his hair. They’d be meeting the rest of the team in Florida after the break, and he’s worried what the humidity would do to it.

Ben’s so worried he doesn’t even watch Hux get dressed, a usually indulged guilty pleasure of his. He’s sure Hux has watched him get dressed a few times before, but isn’t certain.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder, and he looks up. Hux is in a stark all-white suit, one button undone at the top of a black dress shirt, and Ben can see what he’s guiltily come to call his ‘favorite freckle’, just above Hux’s collar, but low enough to be covered by a shirt. His hair is gelled back in its usual style, but with a little more thought put into it. Ben is breathless. “You. I’ve never seen you wear that before,” he stumbles over his words. Hux gives a soft smile.

“I saved it for today,” he says, with a shrug. “You need to lay down before you get ready?” Ben can hear that it’s not really a question, but he nods anyway, once Hux sits down on the bed. Ben’s head lands atop Hux’ white lap, and there’s hardly a moment that passes before those hands are sliding into his hair once more. “You have nothing to be worried about. You’re going to blow them out of the water,” Hux says, voice carrying a slight edge that makes Ben not question him.

“Part of me just wants to go be home with you and Millie,” Ben says plaintively. Hux sighs gently, the other hand coming up to thumb at Ben’s temple.

“Me too, you baby.” Except, that’s not what Hux said. Hux never called him a baby anymore. Ben wished he could have heard the you in that sentence. It would have uncomplicated things so much more than they already were. Ben’s eyes are closed, like he could block out this whole situation.

Hux wishes he could be quiet, but all he can do is softly whisper baby over and over again to Ben, while stroking his fingers through that sinfully soft hair. He’s in the perfect spot to see Ben’s breathing hitch, and his face flush red.

“We’ll be home soon, don’t you worry,” Hux says, finally, pulling his hands from Ben’s hair. Ben whines softly in protest, and it goes straight to Hux’ dick. He has to grit his teeth to keep from popping a boner three inches from Ben’s ear. “Come on. Up. You have to get dressed.”

“But I am dressed,” Ben is wearing one of the ill-fitting shirts he’d brought with him from San Francisco.

“Nonsense. Go put on what’s in the bathroom.” Hux makes to stand, spurring Ben up.

“You got me a suit?” he asks.

Ten minutes later, Hux knocks on the door. “Let’s go, Ben. They’re waiting for us downstairs.”

“I can’t go out in this!” he protests. “This is ridiculous.” Hux doesn’t have time for this crisis of confidence.

“Benjamin Solo, you have to the count of three...One, two…”

With an almost-snarl, Ben tears open the door. Hux is momentarily blinded by the sheer amount of red before him. He adjusts, giving a whole fifteen-second once-(probably twice-)over. Aside from the black patent shoes and the white dress shirt, Ben is clothed in a bright red bespoke suit. The brown tie hangs useless around his neck. Ben looks flustered, almost as red as the suit.

“Well?” Hux says, wondering what in the world Ben couldn’t like about it. He looks drop-dead gorgeous. The only way that suit would be coming off right now is if Hux ripped it from Ben’s very body and proceeded to do very nasty things to him.

“It’s Gucci,” is all Ben has to say.

“It’s fucking sexy on you, is what it is.” Hux reaches a hand out to make Ben turn. The lines hug Ben so well it’s ridiculous. Hux pats himself on the back for knowing Ben’s measurements by heart. “You’re not taking it off.”

“I wanna wear the other one,” Ben whines.

“You don’t look like an All-Star in the other one,” Hux snaps, and Ben has nothing else to say after that, conveniently. “Come here, let me tie that for you.” Hux brings Ben forward by tugging on both ends of the tie, effectively reining him in.

Ben lifts his chin so Hux can get at his tie a little easier, deft fingers brushing bits of skin along his throat and Adam’s apple that even Ben knows is completely unnecessary. Neither say anything. Hux is pretty sure Ben isn’t even breathing. He knows he isn’t. “There,” Hux says, patting down the tie, elegantly knotted at the base of Ben’s throat. Indulgently, he runs his thumb over Ben’s chin, and then above his lips. Ben’s pupils have widened to almost the edges of his irises. That thumb touches his lips again, and Ben can’t help the moan that rips itself from his mouth, small and weak and needy.

It’s enough to bring them crashing down to the floor, but they both resist. “Making sure you shaved.” Hux doesn’t know when his voice started sounding like he’d swallowed glass. He’s sure it’s all Ben’s fault, however. “Come, let’s go,” he says, tossing a Vogue sunglass case to the pitcher before they grab their bags.

Ben pushes the glasses on at the end of the elevator trip. He’d been starting to feel dizzy and overheated in the confined little box. They strut out into the St. Louis sun, crossing the lobby and the sidewalk to get onto the team shuttle to the park. They get quite a few whistles and comments from their teammates. Ben keeps his cool, sitting near Hux like always. Hux is on his phone, no doubt tweeting and not trying to kill his boner like Ben was.

He leans his head against the cool glass as they take off.

Warmups and stretches are all a blur to Ben. Thankfully Phasma had followed along to St. Louis with him and Hux, and he was able to get in his usual stretching routine, to the tune of critical talk radio. Phasma had asked him if it motivated him, to prove them wrong, once. He’s shrugged.

“You don’t owe them anything, you know,” she mutters as she leans hard onto his calf.

“I know.”

“No matter how good you get, they’re always going to try to talk shit.”

“I know.”

“And no matter how wrong they are, how consistent you are, you’ll always be talked down to.”

“I know, Phas.”

“But I want you to know, they’re already wrong.” She waits a beat for his affirmation, but it never comes. “They could never do what you do. They’d never stepped foot on a field, or in the clubhouse, have never worn a jersey before like you do. And I never want you to forget that they could never touch you. No matter how right or how awful they sound. Never forget that, Ben.” she pushes quite hard into his leg, making him cry out a little. “Tell me you won’t forget.” she demands.

“I— I won’t forget. I won’t forget.”

But now, in the stretch room, it’s relaxed. There’s music on now, something hardcore that he’s sure Hux would hate. He’s grounded in a way he hadn’t been. He’s not even lost in his own thoughts. He’s a beam of focused, laser intensity and sharp resolve. The coaches in San Francisco never met Ben’s eye when they stretched him out. They ignored him, just gave a questioning sound, expecting a grunted reply. Phasma bore right into his soul when she had her hands on him. She unraveled him, until he was nothing but Ben Solo, the Baseball Player. Ben Solo, the Badass Pitcher. Ben Solo, the Future MVP. Ben Solo, the All-Star.

He prowled the dugout, eager to get on the mound and rain hell to the American League. He’d watched some film with Hux about the lineup yesterday, but they were mostly just relaxed. He pitched some warmup pitches to Poe Dameron, who didn’t spare much more communication with him than a nod. They went over the signs and were ready. Hux came by and they touched gloves, a tradition. Ben couldn’t have done any of this without Hux. He’s gonna buy Hux something nice for these last three days of guidance.

The lineups are introduced. St. Louis doesn’t have a regular bullpen, so he actually jogs out there with the rest, tipping his cap once the cameras pan to him.

The screams are deafening. It leaves him breathless and overwhelmed with appreciation. The anthem starts, some singing contest victor. It’s to-the-point, no excessive runs on notes. I like this one . Ben is a little startled to hear Hux’ voice in his head, but he knows it’s just a memory, Hux leaning over to talk to him after one anthem in particular. Ben blushes a little at the thought that Hux is the voice in his head. It’s so cliché. Ben loves it.

Once they jog out for their inning, Ben already knows he’s pitching fire. Dameron looks more than pleased at his performance. After one pitch in particular, the crowd makes some shared noise of awe. The first three batters go up and down, three consecutive strikeouts. Lando Calrissian is clapping enthusiastically as Ben walks back down to the dugout. “Wanna pitch the next?” he asks, and Ben nods, a small smirk crawling onto his lips.

Hux comes over to him, a grin so wide it could split his cheeks. “Holy shit!” he says, shaking him by the shoulders. “You just pitched a hundred-eleven mile per hour pitch!”

Ben didn’t know this. He remembers the crowd, awed at something that had happened. Dameron is walking by. “Damn right you did,” he chuckles, shaking out his glove hand. “You going in next inning?”

“Sounds like it,” Ben says with a nod, and Dameron nods.

“Good.”

Hux sits with Ben on the bench, chewing seeds while Ben has his cinnamon gum. Hux has taken to keeping a pack of Big Red in the Mercedes for him, just in case. Hux is batting just before Ben in the lineup, on the tail end of it. “You gonna hit a homerun for me?” he asks.

“We’ll see if we make it that far in the lineup,” Ben laughs. “But yeah, I’ll hit a homer for you.”

“Thanks, baby.” Ben’s ears go bright red, but Hux is just smirking out at the field. “Make sure to let me get a few grounders. You know I like to show off, too.” He rolls his eyes over to Ben, blinking slow and happy.

“Sure thing.” Ben wants something to call Hux, too. He would never get away with calling him baby or the like. Something to ponder on later.

The National League turns out to rally behind Ben Solo’s pitching, racking up three on the board just in the first inning. Hux is on deck, and Ben is in the hole to bat before long. “This is nuts,” Ben mutters.

“You look nervous, Solo,” Lando says.

“Maybe a little bit, sir,” Ben nods.

“Don’t be. We’re getting you all the run support you need.” Ben doesn’t know why, but this sounds like some kind of backhanded compliment. Like Ben couldn’t get his own run support in also. The NL was up by four with one on, two out, and Hux getting up to bat right then. Ben walks out into the on-deck circle, loosening up his swing as Hux battles it out against the stud pitcher from the White Sox. Ben grins as he’s walked, and there’s two in scoring position for him.

He knows what kind of image he’s putting out: the aw-shucks, I’m just a pitcher and can’t hit for shit, go easy on me ball player. Ben knows this pitcher (and Hux on first) knows better than that. He squares up, all six-foot-five hulking pitcher’s body, towering over the short little catcher squatting down below. He can feel Hux’ eyes on him, burning with expectation as the windup comes, and—

Ben Solo has grown up with a lot of discipline in his life. From his mother, he was expected to behave himself and achieve certain things by a certain age. From his father, he learned he basically had to raise himself or starve. From Luke, his distant-yet-hovering uncle-turned-pseudo-coach, he had to keep his head down and just take every criticism and play baseball, pitch, everything, the way he wanted. That was an entirely different kind of discipline. When he’d met Hux, he thought the same thing was going to come, be patient , where are your manners, how about a ‘yes, sir’, but it never did. Ben just seemed to be polite all on his own. Hux was more than impressed by it. And if he dropped the occasional F-bomb in the car, Hux didn’t bat an eye. Hux even encouraged Ben to let loose. Ben brought that same self-discipline onto the baseball field with him, watching every pitch go by, waiting for the perfect one.

It didn’t mean the perfect pitch wasn’t the first one.

Ben planted his foot down into the soft, crumbly dirt, spikes taking grip instantly. His leg goes still as steel, hips magnetically centered in place, his arms and shoulders rotating at an incredible velocity. His head remains static, eyes watching the ball slide perfectly down the path. The jolt and intense vibration of the ball hitting the wood in his hands would have rocked any man off-balance, but not Ben Solo. Ben Solo had a follow-through that brought tears to Hux’ eyes, left arm outstretched behind him, holding the bat in a perfect extension of his body, right hand hovering just over his heart, face upturned to the flight path of the ball.

There was no doubt: it’s gone.

Elation, pure and light and beautiful, floods his veins. The crowd, oh god, the crowd, they were on their feet. The ball was still fucking flying through the air as Ben regained control of his legs, letting the bat flip out of his left hand as he started his round-the-bases jog. Hux was already rounding second as he was reaching first, never too far ahead. (A silly part of him is thinking isn’t it the first fucking inning? but he can’t bring himself to care)

The crowd seems to cheer louder and louder with every base touched. By the time he reaches home, it’s deafening, and the two runners he’d knocked in are waiting for him. Hux is waiting much the way he greets him every time he does something brilliant: smile so wide it looks like it hurts, eyes nearly squinted shut. As soon as Ben steps on home plate, Hux and the other runner are slapping him on the back and shoulders, hi-fiving him and slapping his ass. Ben is riding an incredible high. He jogs back in with the rest, and meets Lando Calrissian’s eyes as he descends. I can generate my own run support, thank you very much.

Hux won’t leave his side, still losing his mind over that. “That was my home run. You did that for me,” he keeps saying in his ear, messing up his hair as he takes a drink of water.

“I did.” Ben grins at Hux. Their faces are mere inches apart. “I did it all for you.” They’re drunk off of each other, staring deep into one another’s eyes, transported somewhere far, far away. Hux still has his hand on Ben’s left arm, warm underneath from the heat he’d been throwing.

“Thank you, Ben.” Hux says. “I wanted nothing more than to see you do that.” This all sounds so proper and breathless-in-love, because they are. They are, they are, they are.

The world comes rushing back in around them in a loud snap, and they pull apart quickly, and oh dear god, they had almost kissed one another. In front of forty thousand people, their teammates, and live television. Ben pushes a hand through his hair, nervous habit, and Hux resolves his face into some stony thing that Ben doesn’t like one bit. The light in Hux’ eyes is still there, however, and that reassures him.

“Damn,” Ben breathes out a shuddering sigh.

Hux nods in agreement. “Damn.” The baby left unspoken is only heard by the two of them.

Ben and Hux both jog out to the field at the start of the next inning, but Ben is pulled after the inning, getting two strikeouts and letting one man on. At the fourth batter, he’d indulged Hux, even, angling his pitches to get the batter to pull hard to short, sending Hux into a rolling dive, catching the skittering grounder and tossing it on his knees and barehand to second, who gets the out, throwing to first for fun. Ben walks off the field victorious, knowing the rest of his team can handle this. Hux is replaced by some two-time All-Star shortstop, so at least Ben has company in the dugout.

“Let’s go clean up a bit.” Hux says, motioning for Ben to follow. They bump shoulders in the bathroom, the both of them projecting so much longing they can taste it. Hux has a bit of a scrape along his elbow, but when does he not get scraped up on the field? Ben sneaks into Phasma’s bag and plays nurse with him, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration in the clubhouse.

He’s startled when a hand pushes through his sweaty hair, all the breath leaving his lungs when his vision is filled with a pale, white wrist. Hux is a big advocate of sunblock. Ben’s eyes flutter shut, memories from earlier that day— baby, baby, baby, the suit, Hux’ fingers on his lips — flood into his brain. Hux murmurs, “I know, baby, I know.” and Ben simply melts, his face turned into Hux’s skin, lips pressing reverent kisses along that pale forearm. Hux makes a strangled sort of noise, which Ben takes as a good sign. He wants to taste—

Then there’s feet coming down the stairs, and Ben has to collect himself quickly before they’re caught like this. Hux pushes Ben’s hair back in place, thumbs at his lips once, and stands, distracting whoever is walking down the steps. Ben rises as well, and follows Hux’ lead. It’s just a trainer (Ben isn’t cognizant enough to recognize which team they’re from) that ignores them, anyway. Hux wants to push Ben against a wall and kiss him til the end of this fucking game, but knows he can’t. If I kiss him, it’s all over . The thought comes, unwelcome, to the forefront of his mind. He knows it’s true, but can’t seem to glean why.

The game passes in a blur, a strict five inches between any body part of Ben’s and any body part of Hux’. Of course, the National League wins, bolstered by their early rally. Ben is named MVP and given a truck. He manages to thank everyone that played, that watched, all the sappy things Hux had trained him to say in these situations. Ben had thought the speaking exercise was bullshit, but Ben would have thrown up in front of millions of people if not. “...and my best friend Elan Hux, for helping me with everything since I got to Los Angeles.”

Hux feels faint. He could keel over right now and die happy knowing Ben Solo called him his best friend. Incredible rushing fondness fills him up. He knows he has about four billion interviews to get through, but he’ll be glowing through every single one of them. He wants to go kiss Ben silly right fucking now.

Once Ben is released from the death grip of reporters, he calls Hux, who had left about 18 text messages, two missed calls, and a series of screenshots showing how much Ben had blown up online. “My roommate is a trending topic. I could never be more proud,” is the first thing Hux says when he answers.

Ben just laughs, loud and long. “I don’t know where you are, I wanna go back to the hotel and eat pizza.”

“Anything you want, baby,” Hux says. “You were just. So amazing out there.” Hux groans, and it sends tingles down Ben’s spine. “I’m waiting outside the doors, in the parking lot. How the fuck do you have reception underground ?”

They’re both still stunning in their flashy suits, but this time, Hux chose to keep his hair free of product, letting it breathe. It’s lighter without the gel, and gleamed in the yellow streetlights. It looks soft to touch, but Ben is afraid to ask to touch it. That’s something only Hux did to him.

They almost, almost can’t keep their hands off one another, guiding each other forward, helping one another into the town car Hux had called for. Their flight is a redeye to Miami, so they have a few hours to kill in the hotel before leaving.

The first thing they do once they’re inside is call for pizza. The suits come off next, put away into their garment bags to be shipped home. These suits were for a special occasion. Ben lounges around in basketball shorts and no shirt, and Hux wears nothing but boxers. They’re dead on the bed, quiet from their adrenaline crash, until the pizza gets there. Ben is the one that gets the boxes this time, leaving Hux to decide whether to open the minibar or not.

He elects not to; they’d been through a lot that day, and he had too many things to work out in his head to introduce alcohol into the mix. What did If I kiss him, it’s all over mean?

Hux has to force himself to think past the unbridled joy he’d get from kissing Ben, and ponder instead on the consequences. The very word makes his stomach turn.

Being gay in a masculine sport was risky. They repealed Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell from the American military years before, but no such thing has come from the powers that be in the sports world. Hux has always been an open advocate for LGBT+ causes throughout his career. He donates and is a known supporter of many charities, most of them going towards sports and baseball programs, of course, but he has an anonymous annual scholarship for LGBT+ youth in sports in Los Angeles. It’s full-ride. Hux is a very fulfilled man. Or at least he thought he was until he met Ben. He was content with being alone with his cat for the rest of his life until Ben. In another world, Ben would have won his scholarship. In another world, they would have hardly any boundaries between them.

Boundaries. That’s what’s holding them back. For one, Ben is fifteen years younger than he is. The thought should make Hux’ skin crawl, but it’s just a non-issue. They’re both consenting adults. There is no rules against relationships in the Major Leagues, but then again, there’s no safety net for anybody other than straight.

The bitter thought makes him start to pace in frustration. He knows if he kisses Ben, he wouldn’t want to stop kissing Ben, ever, so that would lead a risk of exposure. Without a doubt, Ben is attracted to him and has feelings for him, but Hux is afraid he’d balk in the face of making such a big decision. Hux was always there to make these big decisions for Ben, but this one would have to be willing and all Ben’s choice. Hux wouldn’t take it personally. He knows Ben’s career would be on the line more than his.

“But what if we wait until he has a contract…” Hux mutters to himself. And if Hux has anything to say about it, Ben would be with the Dodgers for the rest of his life. For them to be together, in secret, all the time? It would kill Ben. Ben is a free spirit, that cries a lot about everything, but never hides that part of himself from Hux. If Ben has to hide who he is from everybody else, he’d never be the same again. The thought pains Hux in a way he didn’t know was even possible. He pushes his hands through his hair, groaning. Maybe he does need a drink.

Ben, however, keys back into the room, toting three proclaimed ‘victory pizzas’. Hux smiles, though his heart feels so heavy, and the taste in his mouth is bittersweet. He watches Ben shove cheese and bread into his mouth, and still loves him. Still wants to know the taste on those lips.

If I kiss him, it’s all over.

Chapter Text

When they’re finally back in Los Angeles, it feels like a million years have passed. The first thing Hux does is find Millicent and give her all the love she’d missed in the two weeks they’d been away. Their first away was in St. Louis, then in Miami, a quick two-game series in San Diego, then they were finally home. Ben’s welcome-home ritual involves taking one of the longest showers Hux has ever known a man to take, and napping until dinner, which is usually takeout from the vegan place down the street. Ben had introduced Hux to kale in the first week they’d been living together, and the rest was history.

Hux is still burdened with the weight of his revelation from St. Louis. Luckily, he hides his emotions much better than Ben does, so Ben suspects something , but is none the wiser.

Ben is incredible. He nearly starts a brawl against the visiting Rockies barely three innings into his start. He hits the cycle in Houston. Hux has to bite down on a pillow at night to keep from going over to Ben’s side of the room and kissing him into the sheets. He repeats his mantra, breaking himself down, bit by bit. Hux has been struggling at the plate as a result of it, unconsciously bringing in that outside frustration and being unable to let it go. Ben is concerned. Hux just hides it better.

Ben doesn’t know why Hux is avoiding him as much and as intensely as he is. He wonders about all the normally superficial things Hux would be annoyed with and comes back with nothing. He pays his rent on time, he could afford to cut back on the nice showers (though he really doesn’t want to), he feeds and plays with and takes care of Millicent, he cooks… Ben wonders if it’s just him. The thought settles heavily inside of him and takes root, growing quite fast over the course of a week. Hux has been hard at work trying to get back in his groove, but he won’t listen to Ben whenever he offers any kind of advice. In fact, he snaps.

“I’ve been playing baseball at this level for three-quarters of your life, Ben. I think I know how to handle myself without some hotshot pitcher’s advice.” The crumpled expression on Ben’s face is deeply upsetting, and Hux looks like he could regret it, but that evil part of him that wants to push Ben away is just nodding solemnly in approval. Ben slams the door to his room when he goes upstairs not long after.

Pacing around, forcing himself not to break anything or lash out from hurt and rejection, Ben almost misses the sound of his phone ringing. It’s his agent, who has been honored with ‘Loser’ by Beck as his ringtone for two years now. Ben smashes his thumb against the accept button. “What.”

“Whoa, whoa, Benjamin, no reason to be so hostile to your buddy…” It’s followed by an awkward laugh that’s only come round recently. Ben knows it’s a side effect of his newfound rage on the mound, his take-no-shit attitude he’s learned from Hux.

“It’s almost nine. What do you want right now?” Ben really doesn’t want to talk with him, and he knows Hux is ascending the stairs, which gives him a feeling akin to a water balloon already at capacity, being filled up more and more.

“I wanted to talk to you about what you wanna do next season. This year’s almost over and I really don’t think the Dodgers are gonna ask some hotshot pitcher to sign anything over two-fifty-kay this winter.”

Ben has to sit down. He wants to scream and cry again. Just when he was getting settled, making friends and good memories here, his agent, who’s gone on record recently as “knowing Ben better than anybody, even himself”, lands this on him. Ben doesn’t even want to play baseball again if this is true.

“They don’t want me here?” Ben whispers, deflated. Someone has popped that water balloon self of him. He’d thought he would burst.

“Well, I’ve talked with one or two players, y’know. They didn’t seem keen on talking about you with me all that much, and in my history, that doesn’t mean anything very good…” Ben knows Hux would say some very expletive-ridden things about his agent’s history , but Hux isn’t on the phone with him right now.

“You couldn’t convince them otherwise?” he croaks. “I like it here…”

“I was talking with a few people back in San Francisco, and they could probably be convinced to take you back.”

“I don’t want to go back to San Francisco, I want to stay here!”

“You don’t know what you want, Ben! You’re twenty years old and have no idea what you’re doing!” Ben is being yelled at now. “Why do you think I won’t let you get any social media! You’re too much a bleeding heart that you’d probably post something you regret in the morning. I’m only doing this to protect you.” Guilt, dense and sticky, floods his veins instantly. Hot tears form in the corners of his eyes and his throat is catching in the way it does when he’s on the phone with his mom and she’s yelling at him like this.

He can see Hux’s shadow outside his door. He doesn’t want to cry in front of Hux, not again. He doesn’t want Hux to see him as some hotshot pitcher that can’t even take bad news. Guilt and sadness morphs into rage and fury. He stands from his seat.

“You were supposed to protect me from getting traded from San Francisco in the first place! Whatever happened to all those ‘lunch talks’ with the higher ups? The ones you insisted were for the good of my career, so they were on my dime.” He can hear his agent choking on some kind of excuse, which only keeps the accusations coming. “You’ve been in Los Angeles once since I’ve been traded. You fucking work thirty minutes from where I do. You don’t know who the fuck I am, much less my own capabilities and what other people think about me.” His agent stays silent. “You and everyone else wants a big huge fucking piece of me, and offers nothing but garbage in return.”

“Ben, we can talk about this—”

“No. I’m done. You’re fired. I refuse to speak with you ever again. Go deal with whatever else you think is so important that you can’t juggle the biggest rising star in the MLB.” Ben should feel kind of ridiculous quoting the most recent article written about him, but he doesn’t even register it. “Go fuck yourself.” Ben hangs up.

The weight of what he’d said and done doesn’t so much crash down on him. It just simply appears . He glares about his room, trying to find a piece of furniture that would tell him he was wrong. Hux’ shadow is still underneath the door.

Ben thought he’d feel triumphant and victorious about this. He’d been thinking about it for a long time, thanks to Hux planting the idea in his head. His agent always had his foot over Ben’s every move, but when moving to Los Angeles had given Ben an inch, Hux had shown him the mile.

The rage that had overtaken him is nowhere to be found. He’s filled with a numbness, a void he has never felt before. The breeze from the overhead fan makes him shiver. He feels cold, freezing cold. Cold like Hux’s hands and Hux’ eyes and Hux’s voice less than ten minutes ago.

“Go away, Hux,” Ben says, rolling onto the bed. The door handle rattles softly, like Hux had been holding onto it the whole time he’d been standing outside Ben’s door.

They play in San Francisco again and Ben starts at night. It’s cold as fuck and goes into extra innings. Ben is shivering in the dugout, arm long since iced up, while Hux is trying not to let the cold get to him on the field. Ben had been only a little anxious about this matchup again, especially being moved into the number two spot in the pitching rotation just two weeks ago, but he’s come a long way since his epic meltdown back in May.

One rogue grounder sneaks up on Hux and spins up his glove, past his fingers, and into his face. He’s bleeding everywhere as soon as the runner is out at third. He’d pulled a fingernail off, and broken his nose. Ben had been frantic about it, following Hux down with Phasma to the trainers room.

“You want him here?” Phasma asks Hux. Hux just nods and lets Ben come closer. There’s so much blood on his uniform, and Ben might not be able to handle it if it weren’t for the (closed-lipped) smile Hux offers in reassurance. Ben nods and watching Phasma crack his nose back into place, straight as an arrow as it had been before.

“ Fffffuck , Phasma!” Hux cries, doubling over once it’s done.

“You massive child. Hand,” she demands, holding hers out for him to put his in. It’s brutal, the spot where his nail had come loose. It hadn’t ripped from the bed entirely, so she could wrap it up and he’d be fine. “You’re gonna be on the Disabled List for this,” she informs him unhelpfully.

“How long?” Ben asks in a small voice.

“However long it takes his fingernail to fuse back. Until then, no throwing, no hard gripping, no unnecessary pressure. It’ll take six months to completely heal, but for baseball purposes, probably 15 days. If you follow directions.” She finishes her lecturing by turning to leave. “I’ll get you something for it.”

“And my beautiful face?” Hux asks.

“Yes, o vain one, your face will heal. Your nose is already swelling, however,” she says. She cracks him an ice pack and makes him hold it there. The skin around it is purpling. “No interviews on camera, for the time being.” She goes back up to the dugout, leaving the two of them alone.

Ben looks conflicted, introspective. His arm and shoulder are all white-pink blotches from being iced up earlier. “You’re avoiding me,” he murmurs shyly.

“Me breaking my nose has nothing to do with you,” Hux snarks, hoping he can get out of this topic alive.

“You know that’s not what I mean, Hux,” Ben says gently. “I feel...alienated. You’re so quiet, at home now. You never talk to me anymore. When you do it’s just mean and cruel. You don’t…” he chokes up at the end, looking up and around and at anything but Hux. “You don’t touch me at all, anymore.”

Hux hates himself for being the reason Ben is so upset. He wants to tell him, wants to tell him the reason for his torment, but that would do nothing to save Ben’s precious heart from breaking. But he can’t, he can’t. His mantra is still too loud in his head. If I kiss him, it’s all over. Ben has asked him multiple times if there was anything he wanted that he hadn’t or couldn’t buy for himself. Hux hadn’t answered, because the answer would have been shouted from his lungs, “YOU! YOU! ALL I WANT IS YOU!”

“There’s just been a lot going on, Benjamin,” he only calls him Benjamin when he’s cross with him, or pretending to be cross with him. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“What wouldn’t I understand? You’ve always explained things to me when I didn’t understand them. I’m fucking smart, Hux, but I can’t read minds.” And better it was that he didn’t. “Please, please just tell me. I’m dying, here, Hux.”

The bag of ice shifts on Hux’ face, and he can allow himself to wince at Ben’s words. He closes his eyes.

“I can’t, Ben. I can’t tell you,” he whispers, shame and guilt burning in his veins like molten lead. He hides from this, from facing this.

“Fuck you, Hux.” Hux doesn’t miss a thing, doesn’t miss the catch in his voice, the beginning of Ben about to go hide and cry somewhere. For the first time, Hux won’t be there to tell him it will all be okay. The door to the training room slams shut. Hux imagines the way Ben’s eyes must have looked, storming over in hurt rage, the way he had for his first start but sadder. He tells himself it’s going to be fine, that it’s better this way.

It only hurts when he breathes.

Infuriatingly, they’re still paired together for room assignments, despite their icy demeanor in the clubhouse now. Hux would have expected him to at least start talking to the other players, move on, but he only seems to spiral deeper and deeper into a sadness Hux had no chance of pulling him out of. Hux throws himself into work, being ever-careful of his healing finger. He needs that, he tells himself. His nose, he needs that. Ben.

He stops short. Ben. He needs that, too. It’s a quiet surrender of his heart. Ben doesn’t know the power he has over Hux. How much of his heart he has in his hands.

Ben doesn’t speak to him. They don’t sleep very well on those road trips, and things are just as awful at home. Neither of them are happy.

Hux knows Ben is starting to feel the same isolation and alienation he felt back in San Francisco. His pitching doesn’t suffer as a result of it, no, but every day spent off the mound, he grows visibly sadder. Just a sad, lonely boy.

Hux had done some investigating in the clubhouse. Ben had fired his agent, yes, and from what he gathered from that fateful phone call, it hadn’t been pretty. Hux wanted to know who in the clubhouse had talked to the agent. Once Hux knew, he not-so-gently interrogated them until he got the full story: His agent had been spinning some tale about how Ben didn’t want to be on the Dodgers, and that they shouldn’t get too close. That he wasn’t going to be that good in the long run, anyway, so don’t even try making friends with him. Some of the more gullible guys believed him, and tried spreading the word. Hux was enraged. These people were his friends , shouldn’t they listen to Ben instead of someone that claims they know him?

After rectifying the situation, getting the other guys to just fucking talk to Ben, Hux feels like none of this is going to matter if the two of them never make up. Ben won’t be able to survive on this team without Hux. It’s written all over every lonely expression he thinks Hux doesn’t see.

Hux is beginning to grapple with the fallout this whole thing would cause, in troubled daydreams on flights and at home and on days off. The DL offers quite a bit of time for introspection. He supposes there’d be some kind of reason the MLB would want them off the team, out of the league. Hux knows the order of which he’d come out to people, if he ever did. He’s kept it secret all his life, and he’d intended for it to be like that until he met someone like Ben. He just really didn’t expect to meet Ben on his team.

He’d come out to Phasma first. She’s the most understanding person involved with the team, and doesn’t care what you like or who you like as long as you don’t prove a liability to the team. Phasma knows all the gossip on the team, and would basically roadmap how Hux should proceed. For someone so obsessed with controlling every aspect of his life, Hux puts a lot of trust into a very few people.

After he’s come out to the entirety of his team and gained their trust and respect (like he hasn’t already) he would branch out to the rest of the league, team by team, until every player shows the kind of solidarity he needs, that Ben needs. It’d be rough, and most likely take a very long time. If Ben was still with him by the end of it, everything will have been worth it.

That’s if Ben would ever forgive him for ignoring him. Maybe he’d be open to talking about it after his next start.

They’re at home when it happens. They’re playing the Diamondbacks, and only need one more win to sweep the series. Hux had heard Ben throwing up in the bathroom as they’d gotten ready to leave, and he looked pale going to the park that day. Hux couldn’t make himself ask what was wrong. The shame in that speaks for itself. He considers buying Ben something nice, but knows it’d probably make things worse between them. He’ll have to talk to him when this is all over, when they’re back home.

Hux notices around the fourth inning. There had only been twelve batters up, but all twelve batters had gone down without touching first. Eight of those twelve batters had gone down with a K on their shoulders, unable to figure out the whirling dervish on the mound, raining fire from above.

The players in the dugout are all looking around but deathly silent. Ben is glaring at the other pitcher from his spot on the bench. Snoke seems to fucking love saying “perfect” over and over again, much to the aggravation of every person within earshot.

There’s a heart-pounding situation when Hux nearly misses a grounder that skips past Ben’s glove. He is nearly sitting on his ass when he throws it to first, making the out in time. Hux’ teeth are chattering in anticipation, excitement, and fear. The whole team is apprehensive about the game by the top of the eighth. Ben is at over a hundred pitches in the counter, tossing in the high nineties and low hundreds. Hux feels worry gnaw at him like a dog on a bone. Would Ben be able to make it another six outs?

The frightening intensity falters, just once, when a batter tries to start something with Ben on the mound. Hux sprints over to where Ben is walking toward the guy, who is being held back by the catcher and the umpire. Hux thinks, oh, this is it, this is the moment my roommate becomes a murderer , when the batter spits right in Ben’s face. The ump, the crowd, the gathering players, all freeze. Ben doesn’t move, one eye closed against the gross, tobacco-laden glob of spit high on his cheek.

The ump throws out the batter out as Hux reaches up to Ben. He cleans off every bit of spit he can, wiping it on his own pants. “There. Better,” he murmurs. Ben opens his eyes, finally.

Hux is stricken by the incredible amount of emotion Ben has in his eyes. His whole body screams I miss you and I hate you and I love you . Hux has to keep going, though, patting him on the shoulder like nothing is amiss. “You gonna keep going?” Hux asks, the first words anyone has said directly to him the whole night. Ben nods, clearing his throat a bit.

“That was gross,” he admits. It’s so unbelievably Ben to say that Hux has to laugh, but it’s not a laugh, it’s a sorrowful stunted wail that barely sounds like a laugh. It’s the sound of Hux’ heart breaking just a little bit more.

Play resumes. Ben strikes out the next two batters with ease, strutting down to the dugout bathroom to clean his face off. Hux buries his face in his hands at the lip. This whole night is fucking insane. He lets a hysterical laugh bubble out of his lips, looking out over the field he calls home. He’s never truly felt more alone than he does right now.

Ben, however, comes over to his side once he’s out of the bathroom. A temporary truce between them. “Thank you. I probably would have blacked out if you hadn’t been there, earlier,” he says from behind his arms. Muffled. Private.

“I thought I was going to turn around and snap a neck, myself.” Hux admits. “If you weren’t there,” he shrugs. They’re not quite touching. Ben gives a grunt of assurance. “So are you gonna do this?” Hux asks, not looking at him.

“Probably.” Ben sighs, like he was talking about filing taxes instead of pitching a perfect game.

“You wanna do it for me?” Hux asks, an easy smile on his face, hiding the ache that’s migrated into his very teeth.

Ben looks kind of shocked, but very, very tired. “I’d do anything for you, Hux.”

Time stops as they stare at one another, lost in the gaze they refuse to let go of. An evil part of Hux’ mind tries to scream that unholy mantra at him, but everything is silent. Every single sense is taken up by Ben, every breath in his lungs, every cell in his body. “Don’t you know?” Hux whispers hoarsely. Don’t you know I love you? Before Ben even has time to process what Hux had said, the inning has shifted into the ninth, and it’s Ben’s time to shine.

Hux is practically vibrating, his nerves are so shot. He probably wouldn’t be able to catch anything at this point. Quicker than he could process, the first batter up pops out to left, and Hux watches Ben, who is just pacing and occasionally glancing back at Hux. Hux chews on his lip to keep it from quivering. He’d never been a part of a perfect game, even in all fourteen of his years as a Dodger. He’d never met someone like Ben before. Not even close.

Ben puts down the next batter up, catching a liner straight back at him. His reflexes are so fast and ridiculous, Hux can’t breathe. His heart is pounding in his chest, sheer admiration for the man on the mound, and the imaginary consequences of what he’s going to do later that night.

Hux is floored when Ben racks up a full count on his last out. There’s something holding him back from just ending it. When he looks back to Hux for confirmation, Hux nods meaningfully.

Ben wastes no time in finishing him off after that.

For a moment, there’s nothing but white noise all around them. Hux is running full-tilt at his best friend, his heart, his everything. The moment he gets his arms wound around his waist, he never wants to let go.

There’s no time for thought as their other teammates come flooding in around them. Ben has his head on Hux’ shoulder, shaking with exhaustion and overwhelming emotion. “Thank you. Thank you,” is all they can say to each other.

The party migrates down to the clubhouse not long after. Hux had somehow lost his pitcher, his Ben. He’s disappointed. He has a great many things to do to him, some up against a wall, some on the floor…

While everyone else is distracted by champagne and corporate-sponsored beer, Hux tries every door until he reaches Phasma’s stretch room. Hux takes a breath and slips in, unnoticed, knowing Ben would be inside. He flips the lock before turning around.

Bitter tears flood out of Ben's hazel eyes, scowling failingly at the wall. There's no sound but Ben's labored, uneven breathing as Hux steps away from the door towards him. Even the celebrations in the clubhouse are muffled out. Hux feels his heart breaking just seeing his Ben like this. This isn't the time he caught him wiping away tears after his mother's scathing Skype calls. This isn't homesickness or being in San Francisco. This is the same feeling Ben has had since he got to Los Angeles:

How can I be perfect for a team I hate, and not good enough for the team I love?

There's no words as Hux holds his face in his hands, wiping away the tears as they fall. They race down his wrists and into his sleeves. Gently, he pulls Ben into an embrace. He smells like sweat and baseball and cinnamon, and Hux knows if I kiss him, it’s all over . All this fragile preparedness and eight years of fighting for what he loves, couldn't have prepared him for the one person he'd throw it all away for. And God, does Hux love him. There wouldn't be a day after that he wouldn't.

“Ben, baby, baby, baby…” Hux whispers, pushing his fingers into Ben’s hair again after so long. It’s welcome and elicits the softest cry from near Hux’ shoulder. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” he murmurs, rubbing his hands down his back.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Ben croaks, breaking down into shuddering sobs once more. “I can’t do this without you.”

Hux pulls Ben’s face back from his jersey. His poor Ben looks so miserable, sad and hopeless. Lonely and desperate, missing him. Hux knows what it looks like because he feels it too, in every inch of his bones. “You don’t have to, ever,” he says softly. “I promise you that.” Hux would fight for Ben every day of his life if need be.

“Why?” Ben asks, eyes rolling to the side in helpless misery.

“Because I love you.” Hux feels like he’s in the space between two trapeze, reaching out desperately to Ben, who has already been in possession of his very soul for months, now.

Ben’s hands are shaking as he touches Hux, gentle, worshipful touches, softly stroking against his neck and face and shoulders. “You what?” he whispers, in awe.

“I love you,” Hux whispers, hushed and vulnerable. “So, so much, Ben. Don’t you know?”

“I love you,” Ben finally says, hands resting on Hux’ sides. Hux takes this opportunity to reach up and throw every caution to the wind, giving in to the only thing he’s dreamed of, these days.

Ben’s lips are salty and a little wet from his crying, but to Hux, they’re nothing but soft and gentle and a little inexperienced but that’s going to change if Hux has anything to say about it. His hands are in Ben’s hair, gently cradling his skull in his palms. That first kiss opens the floodgates, and Hux is suddenly fisting one hand into the front of Ben’s jersey and pressing him up against the nearest wall, claiming his lips with his own. Small whimpers and moans fall from Ben’s mouth, only to be swallowed up by Hux’.

Hux could never think of another person as perfect until he’d met Ben Solo. When they finally pull apart and look at one another, they’re both grinning. Ben’s lips had been kissed to some obscenely sexual size, and Hux had the ruddiest cheeks he’d ever had in his life. They were both a hot mess. Ben startles when Hux starts laughing, and realizes that he’s crying as well.

“I have wanted...I have wanted you since I met you.” He laughs again, still wiping his eyes. “It has eaten me alive every waking moment of my life.” He feels light and free, like all their problems could be put off forever and ever.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” Ben says. He’s usually so much better with words. But Hux tends to be dramatic and think out the way he’ll say things. And he’s dwelled for so long on what he’d say post-kiss. He just didn’t expect to be so overwhelmed he cried about it.

“Come here, baby,” Hux says, opening his arms to Ben again, who scoops him up in a massive hug. Hux nearly gets the breath knocked out of him, but he could definitely survive being in Ben’s arms no matter the circumstance. “We need to get home as soon as possible,” he murmurs.

“Why? They’re all celebrating,” Ben mumbles.

“Just trust me, we will be too.”

Loose excuses and a hasty escape later has them zooming down the 5 with the windows down. Hux realizes the taste of cinnamon in his mouth comes from Ben and nearly crashes the Mercedes. He’s reeling from kissing him after so long.

“Millie!” Ben exclaims, picking up the fat cat, who gives an annoyed mrrrow . “Millie I am the best ball player ever,” he boasts.

“Put poor Millie down, baby, let’s go, come on.” Hux is impatient, pulling Ben towards his bedroom. Ben realizes where this is going almost instantly, and is excited.

Hux’ bedroom is sparsely but tastefully furnished, and Ben knows the closet is stocked full of very very expensive suits and shoes and watches. It’s done in whites and grays and browns and blues, very calming. Ben is pushed up against yet another wall, and he’s starting to think this is a thing for Hux. “God, baby, you drive me crazy,” Hux mutters, and the electric thrill Ben gets whenever he hears that makes him shudder and moan.

Hux’ mouth latches onto Ben at the base of his neck, sucking and biting and tasting the places he’s been haunted by. Each taste brings a moan to Hux’ lips, already half-hard just from being so near. Every noise he wrenches from Ben’s lips is a gift from on high, and he feels enlightened, soaring. Hux starts pushing Ben’s shirt up and off his head, desperate and needy. “Mine. You’re mine.” Hux growls, sucking kisses into every inch of skin he can get at. They’re both breathing so heavily Hux could be brought to worry about it. But probably not right now, not when he’s got Ben’s sharp collarbone between his lips like he’s going to tear into it with his teeth. He has half a mind to do just that.

“Yes, yes …” Ben is moaning, and Hux realizes he’s being told: yes, I’m yours, I’m all yours.

Time has been starting and stopping irregularly since their first kiss back in the clubhouse. This is one of those times it stops. Hux looks up into Ben’s eyes, mouth slack in awe, gaze impaired by his own hooded lids. “Say it,” Hux demands hoarsely.

“I’m yours. Yours.” Ben whispers, frantic and desperate, like a prayer. Hux leans up and captures his lips once more, his hand coming up to cup the back of his head, the other splaying across Ben’s hip. His skin is hot to the touch, just like Hux had expected. The grip on him tightens as Hux brings him over to lay in the center of the bed.

Crawling forward almost predatorily, Hux hovers atop Ben, drinking in his half-naked form. Ben paws weakly at Hux’ clothes, and they both make a mad dash to rid themselves of it. They’re soon grinding against one another, slick with sweat and flushed all over. Hux can only imagine the state his hair must be in at this time, past the point of looking presentable. Fuck it. Ben looks just as debauched.

Ben. Ben . Hux can’t seem to touch every part of him he wants at once, after months of pining from so close. The acuteness of the ache he’d felt every moment has dulled into a flat satisfaction, wrapping around him like...well, like how Ben is wrapped around him. Ben kisses wherever he can, sometimes missing and laying his lips somewhere silly, an ear, a bicep, a palm. He giggles almost constantly. Hux’ heart is roaring with love.

“You’re brilliant, amazing, beautiful, baby...you’ve stolen my heart,” Hux breathes. He’s impressed to maintain even some semblance of poetry in his situation. Ben flushes a deep crimson.

“You too,” he says shyly, one finger tracing over his favorite freckle on Hux, like he’d wanted to do for so long. “I love you,” he says, and Hux could keel over, it’s so sweet.

“I love you.” It’s a phrase never to be left unrepeated between them, never unpunctuated by a kiss, a touch. They rest their foreheads together, just breathing.

“Um...Hux?” Ben is biting his lip, making Hux jealous of those crooked teeth. Hux makes a noise of acknowledgement. “I want you. To um.”

“Fuck you?” Hux provides with a smug little grin that makes Ben’s brain short out for a moment.

It’s a delayed response. “Yes! Yes. I mean. Yeah. That’d be. I want that.” He’s nodding over and over, grin growing by the second.

“Anything you want, baby,” Hux murmurs, kissing him before slipping down off the bed. Ben feels a bit silly and exposed for a moment before Hux returns, setting down a bottle of lube on the bed near Ben’s hips. Hux spreads Ben’s legs wide, and Ben lets his head fall back just a moment, expecting the intrusive press of a slick calloused finger—

Instead, he gets incredible, mind-blowing wet heat around his dick, enough to make him shout in surprise, and find Hux’ eyes on him as he takes more and more of Ben into his mouth. Ben gives another strangled noise, pushing his hand through his hair as he struggles to stay up watching. The stretch of Hux’ lips is familiar to him. He’d seen them go that wide around a smile almost every day on the field. He’s never be able to see that grin the same way again.

“Fuck, Hux, please, oh fuck…” Ben isn’t as adept with words in bed as Hux is. His moans are loud and long every time, music to Hux’ ears. Hux makes it good for Ben, getting him nice and relaxed before he flips up the cap on the lube, coating his fingers liberally. He knows Ben would love a lot of prep, if how much he loves Phasma’s borderline abusive stretching is anything to go off of.

Hux manages to keep his head bobbing as he starts toying with Ben’s ass, teasing him until he is begging for it. It doesn’t take long; Ben is so obviously new at this, and is overwhelmed. Hux can taste how much Ben likes this, there on his tongue. Fuck .

Finally, finally , Hux is able to push one, then two fingers into him. Ben is panting and moaning, breaths shallow and giving away everything he feels. A hitch of his breath as Hux makes him stretch just right, an unforgettable moan the first time Hux touches Ben’s prostate. Hux is sure he’d remember that noise to his dying days. Hux pulls off. “Tell me how much you like that, baby.” he rasps, voice wrecked from Ben’s cock brushing the back of his throat.

“ Fuck… ” Ben whines, voice suddenly high and breathy. “Fuck I love it, I love it, I want more I want more…” he begs, sending a shudder down Hux’ spine.

“You want three or do you want my cock, baby?” Hux is stroking Ben’s leaking dick in time with the fingers pumping into his ass. “Come on, tell me.”

“You. I. You. I want your cock,” Ben whimpers, squirming around on the bed, hot all over.

“That’s a good boy.” Hux pulls his fingers out of Ben, just to get more lube involved. “Gotta get you so wet for me.”

“I want to feel you inside of me, all the way, please Hux.” Ben whines, arching his back in a way that would look obscene from any other person. To Hux, there’s nothing more appealing.

“Anything you want, baby,” Hux murmurs, leaning down to kiss his lips, before he’s grabbing at a condom and tearing it open with his teeth. Ben watches in suspended fascination, entranced. Hux never thought they would get this chance. He can’t screw it up now. He wants to keep Ben forever. “You’re gonna be so tight for me, baby, just you wait.” Ben gives a groan of impatience, but his eyes fly open the moment he feels something blunt and hot pressing against him insistently. “Just relax, baby, relax for me.”

Ben takes a breath to calm himself, and he’s steadied just a moment before Hux is pushing in, in, in, filling him up so completely it’s making him go crosseyed. Hux can’t look away from where he’s sinking in, claiming him, owning him. They’re both holding their breath now, taking in every sensation of flesh against unyielding flesh.

It feels like a million years before Hux bottoms out in Ben, groaning out loud in relief, sharp and blazing hot. Ben is breathing shallowly again, eyes wild and desperate to see Hux. Ben feels like heaven, and Hux feels saved. “ Move .” Ben pleads, his voice some dark, sensual version of how it normally is. Hux obeys, pulling out just a few inches to push back into that otherworldly heat again.

They find a rhythm that won’t make Ben pass out from sensation alone. Hux peppers Ben’s face with kisses and praise. “So beautiful, so smart, so talented…” he says.

Ben doesn’t know what to say to these nice words, so he supposes moaning will suffice. Neither of them are going to last long, just on account of how long they’d wanted this. Ben has been dangerously close to coming since Hux put his mouth on him.

Low grunts become moans become snarls as Hux gets closer to reaching his peak. He wraps a hand around Ben’s dick and picks up the pace. Ben’s eyes nearly roll back in his head. “G-guh…” Ben is hardly coherent.

“Come. Come, baby,” Hux orders in a breathy command.

Ben’s whole body bows out against Hux as he crests over his orgasm, face twisting into something resembling pure passion and arousal and relief. The choked out noise from Ben’s throat causes Hux to shout in surprise, orgasm wrought from him by force. They fuck through it, Ben’s release hot and thick against their skin. Hux finally slows, his hips shuddering to a stop after a few more thrusts.

A whine leaves Ben’s mouth as Hux pulls out, leaving him bereft of Hux’ cock. Hux wishes they lived in some other world where there was no such thing as messy bodily fluids, but alas. He finds some washcloth and cleans up Ben first, cleaning the come off of his still slightly-heaving tummy. Hux lets his fingers linger, teasing. Ben whines. “No fair.” he pouts. Hux just laughs and cleans himself off, knotting the condom off and tossing it. Only then does Hux return to bed.

“Well?” Hux asks, settling down and wrapping his arm around Ben’s waist, keeping him on his side. Ben just hums, on a different planet entirely.

“Well what? We’re doing that again soon,” Ben says, yawning. Hux can’t think of anything other than how lucky he is.

“Anything you want, baby. You’re perfect,” He plants a kiss on Ben’s overlarge ear. Hux knows they’ll have to sort out some serious things in the morning, but for now…

They just dream.