Chapter Text
Hux slips into the phone box as easily as if it were an Aston Martin, a little shimmy of his lithe hips. The fantasy only lasts him so far, as he surveys the scene before him, because even if he wasn’t somewhat of an expert on the interiors of Aston Martins, he wouldn’t expect them to be quite so sticky and grimy nor have so many tiny photocards of women in varying states of undress and unusual names tacked up on the walls. Valiantly, he tries to breathe purely through his nose as he picks up the receiver, holding it a sensible distance from his face, lest he pick up anything nasty from it. Who knows where it had been, (although, it was attached by a fairly thick, plastic cord so ultimately it was impossible for it to have been many places) after all?
Dutifully, Hux begins the task of inserting his coins before keying in the first number he has memorised. And, Jesus Christ, the keys are sticky… actually sticky! Hux supresses a shudder and forges on. It’s not as if he has much choice anyway. He works through the list of numbers, carefully catalogued in his memory in alphabetical order, getting a range of responses from guilty sounding no’s to categorical no’s to cheery voicemail’s that tell him they’re busy right now but they’ll get back to him soon. Absolutely. Definitely. This is a thing that is certain to happen.
Hux is, however, nothing if not tenacious. So, onwards he pushes, becoming far too at home in his little booth as his wallet becomes every closer to empty.
‘Ah, yes, hello,’ Hux says. He wouldn’t usually be so forward, instead preferring to let the other person speak to him first, keeping the ball in his court, so to speak. Except that, he’s getting rather desperate and more than a little frazzled by the second. ‘I was hoping to speak to Ben.’
There’s silence, stretching on long enough that Hux thinks the line has gone dead.
‘I’m Kylo.’ The voice is so deep, so rich and soulful, rumbling out of the silence. It’s enough to make Hux shiver, despite the tinny distortion of the cheap receiver. The voice is certainly the same, then, and Hux wracks his brains to remember the face to accompany it. Ah, yes, there is was – neatly filed next to Professors Who Weren’t Shit and Supermarket Sweep Contestants Between 1993-1995. Tall, big hands (Hux shivers), plush lips, brown eyes that appeared wide and owlish behind the thick-lenses of his glasses, short-cropped hair that was such a dark brown it was almost black and curled wildly in opposite directions as if it was just as nervous as it’s owner. Anxious, gangly and a little awkward.
‘Ah, well, you see, I was looking for Ben-,’ Hux tries again. He knows he sounds desperate, just the thought of it has bile gathering at the back of his teeth. Armitage Hux does not beg. Except that right now, his situation is comparable to a frankly unnaturally large pile of steaming shit and he could really do with a fucking break. Like, really.
‘There’s no Ben Solo anymore. Only Kylo Ren. I killed him,’ the voice announces as if this is, in fact, a perfectly normal thing to say. However, strange statements of murderous intent are enough to confirm to Hux that this person is indeed the one he was looking for.
‘I see you’re still one for the dramatics. Still the amateur kind, though, I’d wager.’ They’d been at Cambridge together; Kylo, who had been Ben at the time, studying drama while Hux had studied economics, only meeting through mutual friends and a mutual love of getting absolutely bladdered. They’d hardly been friends at the time, closer to enemies really, famous for winding each other up and the ensuing shouting and wrestling matches. So, it’s only natural for Hux to prod at that sensitive spot of Kylo’s. His parents, high up in the American political sphere that Hux only nodded and politely pretended to understand, had wanted him to study politics. Kylo had thought that idea thoroughly shit and odious and lame (according to him anyway) and therefore in the throws of young adult rebellion, had elected to take drama. And thus, Hux’s ribbing of his acting skills had be born.
The teeth grinding isn’t actually audible down the line but Hux likes to imagine it anyway.
‘Actually, I decided to move on. I had hundreds of agents calling me. Even got on Snoke’s books but it wasn’t for me. Acting world’s too fake, y’know?’ Kylo says, crossly.
‘Oh, I’m sure that was the issue. Well, I didn’t just call to catch up with you. Like I would care what you’re doing. Hilarious to even think of, actually. But, no, this isn’t a personal call, Ren.’ Here comes the hard part. It rattles him to his core and beyond, to show weakness, to ask for help. But what else is there for him to do?
‘There were some rather, unpleasant circumstances with my current residence. I won’t bore you with the details. The ceiling in the fourth bathroom is a terrible state and the workmen can’t come until Thursday week. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you; a man’s fourth bathroom is his castle and I simply can’t bear to stay in the same house as such a thing. That poor plaster!’
The lies flow quickly, easily to someone so practised. Poor frivolous Hux, such a wealthy bugger that he’s got no idea about the real world. He is accustomed to using that ruse to lull his opponents into a false sense of security, coming off as an overprivileged toff who can be easily manipulated, but this time even this painful parade of ridiculousness is less agonising than the truth.
‘So, you call me at 6 o’clock on a Friday to… let me make sure I’ve got this right… to insult me? And then to ask for my help?’ Ren’s voice is very low, a veritable black hole of a voice that seems to suck in everything around it, leaving only dead air.
‘Yes, I did. Now hurry up and tell me to piss off, or whatever the American version of that is. You’re using up all of my credit.’ Hux feels his cheeks flushing with blotchy red patches. Of course, even after all of these years, it’s not enough for Ren to simply get a rise out of him – oh no! – Ren also has to thoroughly humiliate him, to stir Hux up until he feels like a kettle ready to blow off its lid.
‘Y-O-U-R-E R-I-G-H-T,’ Kylo says, drawing out each letter like he’s been put into slow motion. ‘H-I-L-A-R-I-O-U-S-S-S-S.’
‘Arsehole!’
‘Bring your crap around any time after 2 tomorrow. If you come any earlier, I’ll break your legs.’
‘Fuck y- wait, you’re serious?’ Hux wets his lips nervously, pressing the cracked, plastic receiver a little closer to his ear as if, somehow, it’ll make Ren’s somewhat questionable decision making more understandable.
‘About the roommate offer? Or the leg breaking? Because I’m easy.’ Ren says, smooth as syrup. Hux can even hear the smirk that must be distorting Ren’s features, making them far too punchable (or, something else that Hux is not yet quite ready to examine).
‘The… the… you’re… I can stay with you?’
‘Course,’ Kylo says, continuing to sound intensely smug the (generous but still) bastard. ‘You’re a posh twat, might actually be some use persuading the landlord to fix the leaky tap.’
‘Never say twat again. That's an order,’ Hux says, scrubbing a hand across his face. He realises, distantly, that it’s shaking – that his entire body is quivering like a leaf as the tension that had been pulling him as tight as a bowstring, leaks out of him. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Leg breaking will be unnecessary, I assure you.’
Kylo grunts before the line goes dead.