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The city air is wet, heavy with the sticky heat of August, and Kylo's curls are sweat-plastered against his temples. He huffs around the final two boxes of his belongings, piled one atop the other, as he begins the last trek up the stone steps to the Music Honors house. Once he reaches the lawn proper, a few tall oaks are kind enough to offer patches of dappled shade along the staircase. There are a few other students - his housemates, now, he corrects himself - scattered over the porch, lounging in the yard. One or two of them had waved a lazy greeting at him when he began unpacking the sedan, and he's been trudging past them with boxes ever since. Besides his few grunts and hisses, the house is otherwise quiet, the ivy climbing the stone facade utterly still in the breezeless heat. Kylo swears that he can already feel car exhaust in his pores. His ragged black vest clings to his back, trails of hair at the nape of his neck escaping his messy bun to hang just under the hem of it.
"Is that it?" Leia is at the bottom of the stairs, both hands on her hips. The embarrassment of her squinting up at him, perpetually calculating and always finding something wanting, is eased only by the knowledge that freshman move-in is two weeks before most upperclassman return to the house. He'll be spared the ordeal of most of his housemates ever having to meet her.
"Yes." He calls down, shifting the boxes in his arms so the weight is against one hip. He sighs as she begins trotting up the stairs, ducks into the house ahead of her in hopes of being cornered in his own room instead of in public.
He's nearly up the stairs when she catches up behind him, leaning to the side to check his hold on the boxes, "You sure you have that?"
"I have it." He snaps, mouth twisting into a small frown. She dogs him all the way into the room, watches him heave the boxes onto the bare bed with a stack of others.
"Do you need me to make that?" She motions to the sheetless mattress.
"I- what? Do I need you to make the bed?" He groans, "Mom, I swear to god. I could have just driven myself if you'd let me use the sedan."
"And park it where?" She arches an eyebrow, "Do you have any idea how expensive it is to park in the city? How often there are break-ins? You don't even know how to change a ti-"
"Fine. Let it rot. Not like Dad'll ever drive it again." He cuts her off.
She shoots him a cold glare, "Don't do this to me." She begins, "You know just as well as I do that his name is still on the title, you can't just-"
"Fine!" He throws his arms up, "Just-...ugh, it's fine." He sighs and flattens his bangs back with one palm, "Just go. I'm fine."
Her lips tighten, and she watches him for a moment before pinning her arms around him. He grunts, pats one of her shoulders, barely higher than his navel.
"You'll call." She says.
He rolls his eyes, "You're half an hour away."
"You'll let me know if you need anything."
"Mom, I'm fine."
Leia looks up at him, and her eyes are glassy, but hard, "Good. I love you."
He cringes, "Yeah."
She steps back to take another glance around the room, and he busies himself with opening boxes. She lets out a soft, pinched sigh, then nods once.
"I'll see you in a few weeks." She tells him, hovering in the door.
Kylo nods, and Leia watches him a moment more before slipping back out into the hall. He waits, hands poised over a box, until he hears the door shut downstairs, then sinks down onto the bed. The mattress is about as thin as he expected. His eyes flick over the boxes, rest for a moment on the double bass looming in the corner near the door. He's tucked the electric in its case beneath the bed already, although he can't imagine it staying there for long.
He wriggles free of the vest, letting it fall to the floor. With some quick work, his combat boots thud down beside it. The crinkling of the bare mattress cover beneath him when he slumps onto his back is its own small pleasure. This is his, finally. No more Leia nagging him to practice upright instead of electric. No more Han barely picking out Stairway to Heaven in the middle of the night. No more fights about applications, about eyeliner, about anything. He lets out a relieved sigh, rubs at his forehead with the heels of both hands. After a few moments, he lets his arms drop, splayed above him, long and angular. Somewhere on campus, a clock bell chimes, deep and even. Kylo's eyes flutter shut.
He's already dozing when there's a knock on the doorframe. He starts, wipes his mouth with a, "Hngh?"
The woman in the doorway must be at least an inch or two taller than him, broad-shouldered with a whorl of short blonde hair that just barely grazes her angular cheeks. There's a clipboard tucked into the crook of one of her arms.
"Are you settled in?" She questions, eyes darting over the boxes.
Kylo sits up, nodding, "Yeah."
She returns the nod curtly, "Good." He can feel her gaze turn more fully onto him, taking in the chipped black paint on his nails, his overlong hair and tight, ratty jeans. He watches her struggle to keep from raising an eyebrow at him, "...Voice?"
He shakes his head, "Bass." He replies, "You?"
"Violin." It takes her two steps to cross the room from the door to offer him a hand, "Phasma. One of the house RAs. The grad RA is touring, he'll be back during the first week of school. "
Her hand is like iron when Kylo takes it to shake, "I'm Kylo."
"Kylo?" She peers down at the clipboard, paging through a list of residents.
He winces, "Uh...Solo. Ben. I go by Kylo."
Phasma's eyes lift quickly from the page at the admission, "...You're the first chair freshman."
He can feel the flush as it creeps over his neck and cheeks, "Yeah."
"Well," She plucks a pen from behind her ear, makes a sharp check by his name, "I trust you've signed the housing agreement and rules. I don't imagine you'll need any further briefing?" This time she does lift an eyebrow, almost challenging.
He manages a small huff, "No drugs, no candles. Got it."
"Any inter-house conflicts, you come talk to me, or Hux once he's back. Otherwise-" She extends her arms in a brief shrug, "Welcome. I'm sure we'll see one another around."
Kylo is halfway through nodding agreement and she's gone, sweeping from the room in sharp, measured steps. He rolls his eyes after her, then slouches back onto the bed.
***
Freshmen orientation slides by in a haze of quick greetings and workshops that Kylo manages to attend about half of. By the time the actual school year arrives, he’s stopped wearing his school ID lanyard, leaving it rumpled at the bottom of his messenger bag. The house has filled out with other Music Honors students, around twenty, maybe twenty five. He's never certain of the number, just that the house is consistently buzzing.
The walk to his first orchestra rehearsal is blessedly short, though shouldering the upright is enough to make any journey stretch into the infinite. He's panting softly by the time he makes it to the door. A wide-eyed brunette - Kylo vaguely recognizes him from the house - darts ahead to push open the door for him. Kylo gives him a short, thankful nod.
"You're the new bassist. Professor Snoke's student, right?" The shorter man questions with a shy smile.
Kylo eyes him for a moment, notes the oboe case in one hand, then nods slowly, "Yeah."
The other man matches his gait with small, quick steps of his own. Kylo strains to remember that he's a sophomore, lives on the other side of the house, wakes up too early, "...Mi-...is it Mitchell?"
"Mitaka." His smile brightens even at this half-recognition, "Dopheld Mitaka."
"...Dopheld."
The small man's brows knit, and he blushes, "Just Mitaka is fine."
He skitters forward to push open the door to the rehearsal hall. Kylo gives him another small nod, then peels away from him to head towards the back. As he perches on his stool, legs still easily long enough for his boots to touch the ground, one or two of the other bassists appraise him silently. His lips thin into a line as he unpacks the upright, and he keeps his gaze decidedly on his work.
He's just finished rosining his bow when he catches a glimpse of Phasma entering the hall. She drops into the chair to the left of the concertmaster's as if it's a second home. Kylo watches her prepare as the rest of the orchestra files in, and his brows cant in surprise when she rises to lead them in tuning. His gaze falls curiously to the empty concertmaster's chair.
He doesn't have much time to wonder as Snoke slips through the double doors, alights on the conductor's podium like a gnarled bird. When Kylo was younger, just beginning private lessons, the wine stain across the left side of the man's face, cutting along the bottom of his nose and clearing the corner of his lips by a hair's breadth, was a source of both intimidation and fascination. Now, he barely notices it as Snoke's knobby, delicate fingers pluck the baton from the stand.
"Students. Good morning." He drawls in his grainy basso, "For those of you who are unaware, I am Professor Snoke. I will serve as your maestro during the coming year. It is my intent that each member of this ensemble-" His dark eyes slide briefly to Kylo, "-will be held to the highest artistic standard within their ability. You are to be prompt. You are to be practiced. Absenteeism will not be tolerated. This is not a concert band. You will perform up to the standards of this honors program - to my standards- or you will be terminated."
Kylo feels a stab of worry in his chest, and the neck of the bass is heavy against his shoulder. He chews on his bottom lip, fidgets with his bow. The stool feels suddenly too small for his lanky frame, as if he's curling in on himself just to stay upright. Snoke has always expected this of him. Will always expect this. But now, somehow, without Leia waiting at home to debrief him on precisely the contents of his lessons, it's somehow realer, closer than it has ever been.
He can feel Snoke's eyes on him as the man directs them to open their scores. Kylo realizes that he hasn't even peeled back the cover of the spiral-bound book on the stand in front of him. When he does, he sucks in a sharp breath. Berlioz, Symphonie Fantastique. He's listened to his mother's ancient vinyl copy of Sir Colin Davis conducting it so many times that the grooves are nearly worn clean. His gaze snaps back up to Snoke. The man offers him a hint of a thin, knowing smile, and lifts the baton.
***
By the end of the rehearsal, they’ve stumbled their way through sight reading the first three movements. Kylo is panting quietly at the end of the first, right bicep aching as he saws the bow over the strings, incisors digging into his bottom lip. The second and third offer a slight reprieve, but simply the idea of the fourth and fifth, not just reading through them at the next rehearsal, but playing them, earnestly playing them over the course of the semester keeps a low, excited current thrumming through him for the entire class.
Snoke takes notes in a pocket sized leather notebook beside his score during their read through. Kylo watches him huff a few short breaths through his nose as he does, redoubles his efforts every time. When the second chair bassist, a square jawed man with dark eyes like a doe that Kylo half-recognizes, leans in to whisper something to him during one of these pauses, Kylo slouches back to ignore him entirely. The man’s brow furrows. At the end of the rehearsal, he slides off his stool to extend one broad hand to Kylo.
“Hey. Solid read through.” He offers, “I’m Finn.”
The taller man takes it after a moment, shakes, “Kylo.” He can’t escape the feeling that he knows this man’s face. Slowly, his mind fishes out the answer, “…Are you with Poe Dameron? I think I’ve seen you on Instagram.”
Finn blushes and laughs, “Yeah. That’s Poe. Always sharing.”
Kylo resists the urge to call it boasting, and to warn the other man that Poe has never, not once, stopped since they were both in high school and Poe first started working at Han’s auto detailing shop. Kylo hasn’t spoken to him in the months since Han left home, but his humble bragging on social media is a consistent, if minor, day-to-day annoyance. Kylo hauls the strap of his case over his shoulder as soon as the bass is secure inside to avoid further conversation, and manages to escape with only a small nod of acknowledgement.
Snoke has already disappeared into his office, and Kylo isn’t secure enough about the day’s sight reading performance to follow him. Instead, he begins to make his way back towards the house, slides his phone out of his pocket idly as he goes. Earbuds quickly secured, he flicks on the shuffle and thumbs through the few apps that he bothers to check regularly. Sure enough, there are three new Instagram posts from Poe. The first is a gleaming shot of a freshly painted car that Kylo is disgusted with himself for recognizing as a ’65 Corvair, followed by a series of thumbs-up emojis. The second is a close up of a coffee cup with an attempt at Poe’s name scrawled on the side and the caption, “who is paul darmon and why does he keep copying my order???”.
The third makes Kylo cast an instinctive glance over his shoulder as he scrolls down to it. Poe is pillowed in a cream colored comforter, morning sun pouring in his apartment window, with one hand faux-casually tousling a handful of his own curls. He’s giving a half-squinting, sleepy smile that it pains Kylo to admit is somehow endearing despite the clear hours of practice that have gone into perfecting it. The warm filter over the shot highlights the planes of his bare chest. The caption, which Kylo barely remembers to read, proudly crows, “fetlife was NOT ready for me this AM ;)”.
Kylo rolls his eyes. Where the hell is Poe crossposting this kind of shit from? He clicks away from the photo to google “fetlife”. He nearly drops the phone when the first hit that comes back begins with, “Bondage, BDSM, and Fetish Community”. His eyes dart over his shoulder once more, and he shoves the phone into the pocket of his dark jeans. Holy shit. Since when is Poe into that sort of thing? Kylo swallows at the implications this revelation casts on his stand partner.
He makes it the entire way to his room before he lets the bass come to rest in its spot by the door and pulls out his phone once more. The google results page is still up, and Kylo argues with himself for only a moment before sprawling back into bed and clicking the link. The front page, besides offering testimonials and several links that Kylo is disappointed to find only lead to a sign up page, features a crisp, dark image of two nude women, bound together with rope at the wrists and feet and suspended in mirror image of one another. Kylo’s breath hitches. He sets the phone down and drags his laptop from under the tangle of blankets, tries to navigate around the insistent sign up links in a proper browser. Nothing.
He snaps the laptop shut and huffs. He’s not signing up for this just to see what the hell Poe’s gotten himself into. It’s not worth it. And he’s certainly not signing up to participate. So he’s not signing up at all. He’s not.
The laptop is open again. He’s filling out his gender, sexual orientation, then pushing the computer aside when the site asks him to select a “role” from a list of terms that he’s only stumbled across before in late night searches when Leia is out of the house entirely. It takes a full minute to drag it back to himself, hesitantly select “undecided”, and fill out the more practical details of the form. At last, after biting the inside of his cheek for what feels like an eternity, he taps out “SonicCrisis”, his go-to handle, in the nickname field and hits “Join”.
Kylo sinks the hour and a half he has between classes into curating a profile that is vague enough to keep himself from being identified (he hopes) and which contains enough small details to be worth reading (he also hopes). He avoids posting a photo, combs through the extensive lists of fetish preferences but doesn’t attach any to his profile, sends a few curious friend requests to screen names in the area, and tries to ignore the wave of guilt that rolls over him as soon as he closes the laptop to gather his books for Music Theory.
If anyone finds out about it, he reasons, he can just delete it. Deny it ever happened. And besides, he’s not Poe. He won’t link it anywhere. He’ll just use it for browsing. Simple.
The knot in his stomach doesn’t ease until halfway through the Music Theory syllabus.
***
By the time Wednesday, and his second orchestra rehearsal, rolls around, Kylo has slogged through four individual syllabus introductions and little actual material. When he pushes his way through the concert hall door, though, there is a low murmur of excitement buzzing through the ensemble. Snoke is already in the hall, in the middle of the back row of the auditorium seating. Kylo casts a curious glance his way until he sees Phasma raise one arm and wave towards the door. He feels more than sees another man brush past him towards her.
When the redhead wraps one slender arm around her shoulders, Phasma smiles wider than Kylo has ever seen her. She returns the gesture, locks one muscular arm around the man's waist in firm affection.
"Welcome back." She grins, "How was Berlin?"
"After rehearsal." He tells her. His voice is clipped, though he offers her a narrow smile as he withdraws from her embrace.
She nods, and he steps, to Kylo’s surprise, onto the podium. Kylo leans towards Finn, “What’s he doing up there?”
“Wednesday is grad assistant’s rehearsal.” Finn tells him, “Always is. Part of their work for their Master’s, I guess.”
“Snoke lets his grad assistants conduct rehearsals?” Kylo arches an eyebrow.
“Has to. It’s a departmental thing.” Finn shrugs. When the grad student taps the baton on the edge of the stand, Finn rolls his eyes and hisses, “This guy’s a real asshole, though.”
Kylo’s gaze falls back onto the redhead. He’s tall, probably only an inch or two shorter than Kylo, with a tight mouth and posture so rigid that it makes Kylo snort. Finn goes pin-stiff on his stool as the assistant’s eyes zero in on the bass section.
“Something to discuss?” His tone is bone dry.
The dark haired man frowns and considers shooting back a remark, but Snoke clears his throat in the back of the auditorium and Kylo bites his tongue.
“Excellent. Then we may begin reading. Fourth movement. From the top.”
He lifts the baton. Kylo is startled into motion, flipping hastily through his score, having expected further introduction. He misses the downbeat, growls under his breath and jumps into motion a measure later. They make it about a minute through the piece before the assistant cuts them off, rapping the baton against the stand.
“Basses. Dragging the tempo. With me.” He snaps without looking towards the section.
Kylo scowls and shifts the neck of the upright on his shoulder. His eyes flick to Snoke in the seats, but the man’s face is impassionate, fingers knitted together in front of his mouth as he observes. With a shallow breath, Kylo positions the bow over the strings and waits. His eyes lock on the conductor, and he carves into the downbeat as the baton falls.
When they cut off in the same section again, it’s all Kylo can do to contain a snarl. This time, the assistant turns to face them.
“Basses. I am aware that this movement is a march towards death, but I should very much like if we weren’t forced to die of old age before we can reach its conclusion. Count.”
“We were with you!” Kylo growls, unable to control himself as he extends one arm to point towards the middle of the orchestra, “The bassoons are rushing!”
There is an audible murmur throughout the ensemble, and even Mitaka leans forward in his seat to peer over his stand partner at the bassoon section. Two of them are glaring at Kylo, the other thin lipped and pale with his eyes focused on the conductor.
The redhead’s nostrils flare, but otherwise, his face remains stoic. He sets down the baton, watches Kylo, green eyes narrow, for a long moment.
“Count or leave.” He deadpans.
“What?!” Kylo feels his pulse leap into his throat.
“I won’t repeat myself. If you are unable to comport yourself like a professional-” He takes the smallest of pauses to look Kylo up and down with a hint of a sneer, “-you may also leave. Is this clear?”
“Wh-“ Kylo stammers, eyes wide, knuckles white with fury. He looks once more to Snoke for support, but the professor’s gaze is fixed on his graduate assistant.
“Is this clear?” The assistant repeats, voice clinical.
Kylo wrinkles his nose. His hands are beginning to tremble, “…Fine.” He grinds out through clenched teeth. He can almost feel the heat of Finn’s eyes boring into his cheek beside him.
“Excellent.” He raises the baton once more.
It takes the first hour of rehearsal to make it through the fourth movement. They’ve barely scratched the surface of the fifth by the time they’re dismissed. Kylo’s grip is so tight that the strings leave angry red indentations in his fingertips, even through the callouses. When the redhead steps back from the podium, Kylo’s jaw aches as he watches him report to Snoke.
“Shit.” Finn lets out a relieved sigh, the tension draining from his shoulders, “Thank God.”
“Who the fuck does he think he is?” Kylo snarls as he begins to pack up. The pages of the score flutter with the force he uses to throw it into his bag.
“That’s Hux. He’s the concertmaster.” Finn whispers, as if the assistant will somehow hear him from the back of the auditorium, “Toured Europe with the Berlin Philharmonic this summer.”
“I don’t care who he’s toured with.” Kylo grates, “He’s a fucking tightass bastard, and if he thinks he can talk to me like that-,“ He trails off into a muttered stream of curses.
Finn shakes his head, “No, man. He’s been playing since he was like, four.”
“So?! So have I!” Kylo barks. It’s loud enough that a few of the cellists turn back to glance at them. Kylo scowls and falls silent. When he shoulders his bass, it’s with one hand already shoving his earbuds into his ears, thumb jabbing the volume up to drown out the murmur of the ensemble, the chatter of two violinists speaking nervously behind their palms, and the memory of the entire godforsaken affair.
***
Even after two more classes, Kylo is still muttering under his breath when he pushes through the Music Honors house door. From the kitchen, the sound of music and loud, lively chatter floats down the hall. Kylo grumbles and stalks up the stairs to stow his bass and bag, seizes a cup of easy mac out of the crate at the foot of his bed. Halfway back down the staircase, he realizes that he's stomping. He's in the middle of deciding that he doesn't care when his foot catches on something shooting up the stairs past him and he tumbles down the last four steps in a tangle of limbs.
Phasma's head pops out of the kitchen at the sound, and she raises one eyebrow. Mitaka gazes out fretfully behind her.
"Are you all right?" He asks Kylo quickly.
"What the fuck was that?!" Kylo scrabbles to right himself and glowers up the stairs. Perched on the top step, preening its ruffled ginger fur, is a small cat. It turns to look at him for a moment, sniffs once, and slinks down the hall.
Kylo stares, "...When the hell did a cat get in here?"
Mitaka hurries down the hall, offering a hand, "That's Millicent, she's Hux's."
Kylo ignores the hand entirely, the name keeping him planted to the ground, "...Whose?" He checks.
"Mine."
No. Oh, absolutely fucking not. Kylo cranes his neck over his shoulder. The redhead's arms are crossed, and although he's dispensed with the suit jacket he'd been wearing during rehearsal, he's in the same ribbed black turtleneck. Kylo's mouth sours.
"What the hell is he doing here?" He snaps as he stumbles to his feet.
"He's the graduate RA." Phasma speaks up, leaning against the kitchen doorframe, "I told you he'd be here this week when you moved in."
"No." Kylo says, flat. Mitaka winces.
Hux's eyebrows cant, "I'm not certain that's within your power to decide."
At Kylo's side, Mitaka is gently attempting to push the now-crushed cup of macaroni into Kylo's hand. Kylo gives a faint growl and swats him away, "What the fuck?! How do- wh-..." He stammers with a scowl, finally settling on, "...You can't have a fucking pet here!"
"Please, do inform res life." Hux's face remains expressionless, but his eyes are dark, "I can't imagine anyone has ever failed Honors Symphony so quickly, it would be an achievement of sorts."
The blood rushes in Kylo's temples. He's going to break something. He's going to shove past them into the kitchen and start throwing dishes. Chairs. He's-
Mitaka wraps one set of delicate fingers around Kylo's wrist, tries to tug him back. Kylo snarls, slapping the cup out of his hands and storming for the stairs once more.
"Pick up your garbage!" Hux snaps after him.
"Fuck you!" Kylo roars, then thuds the rest of the way up to his room and slams the door behind himself. The house is quiet for a moment before he can hear Phasma trying to muffle startled laughter.
***
The first few weeks of the semester are an exercise in aggravation. When Hux is in the house - which is thankfully somewhat rare - Kylo remains in his room with the door locked. Most of these hours are spent sprawled over the bed with the electric bass laying on his stomach, fingers slamming at the strings until he can hardly feel them anymore. Every half hour or so, there'll be a sharp knock beneath the floorboards as a broom is jabbed against the kitchen ceiling, and Kylo turns the amp down for three or four minutes before redoubling his efforts.
Rehearsal is a silent war. Kylo’s score is covered with emphatic markings, scratched deep into the paper in constant pursuit of perfection. Every suggestion Snoke offers is carved into the margins of the music. During Hux’s rehearsals, Kylo counts eighth notes, then sixteenths in his mind for greater accuracy. He rosins his bow as if he’s sharpening a weapon and draws blood from his bottom lip more than once as he focuses on its ideal arc across the strings. He can feel Snoke’s eyes on him each Wednesday, restrains his temper just beneath the surface solely in deference to the elderly professor.The thought of walking out does occur to him, but is such an absolute and unacceptable failure that the idea seems ridiculous each time he considers it.
On Mondays and Fridays, Kylo can always see Hux just over Snoke’s left elbow. The angle of the redhead’s arm is mathematical, his violin never a degree from horizontal. Kylo watches him with a tight jaw and his breath strangled in his throat during the sections that he’s memorized by the fourth week. When their rhythms intersect, he imagines that he feels Hux’s precise bowing cutting into him from across the orchestra. Once, at the beginning of October, Hux’s eyes meet his near the end of the first movement. Kylo manages to hold his cold gaze, scowling, until Snoke cuts them off. Hux’s lips purse as he turns away.
Phasma occupies the contested area between them with tenacious poise. In large part, she manages to direct each of them out of the other’s way with a series of careful social maneuvers. Mitaka is often responsible for the execution of her strategies, and seems to thrive on fulfilling her plans. Kylo, to his annoyance, finds himself shepherded to the dining hall by the wide eyed man almost weekly. Mitaka chatters and fidgets, and Kylo thumbs through his email with unusual devotion.
In the middle of October, Mitaka is fretting over a sociology paper. Kylo drags his thumb down his phone screen to reload his mailbox for the fourth time. To his surprise, an unread email appears at the top of the listing.
JuteKuchkist has accepted your friend request.
Kylo blinks and glances over the sender. FetLife. After the first few evenings of curious browsing, he’d forgotten that the site existed. He hesitates, then taps on the email. It opens, offers only a confirmation of friendship and a link to a profile page. Kylo’s eyes flick up to Mitaka.
“…What is it?” Mitaka’s brows are already furrowed, and his forehead creases even deeper under Kylo’s gaze.
Kylo does his best to shrug it off, “Nothing.” He says, rising and scooping up his tray, “Just not hungry.”
“O-Oh…” Mitaka glances down at his watch, bites his lips, but nods, “Uh…I mean, just so you know-“
“I know Hux is at the fucking house.” Kylo snaps, and Mitaka cringes. Kylo rolls his eyes, sighs, “It’s-…I don’t care. Whatever.” He grumbles.
“A-All right…” Mitaka says, “If you n-need anything-“
Kylo is already striding across the dining hall with his tray as the other man trails nervously off. He dumps his plate, throwing it and the tray onto the top of the garbage can, and pushes through the double doors of the hall. Dragging his phone from his pocket, he slides it unlocked to the still-open email. He recalls the username, although he’s not certain he ever really looked at the profile. Part of him does half remember extending the friend request based entirely on the Russian Five reference. He takes a small breath and clicks on the link.
The profile photo is minute on his phone screen, but Kylo recognizes it as a dark haired woman bound in what must be four or five different lengths of rope, intricate patterns woven into the harness that keeps her suspended several feet off the ground. When he taps to expand the image, her expression is placid, almost smiling. He swipes to the next photo and is surprised to find that this one is a man, body secured in a stark arch by a labyrinthine arrangement of knots joining both arms and legs. Kylo scrolls down to the caption.
“Photography: @Waxen_Rose
Model: @BoundEleventh
Ropework: Mine.”
Jumping back to the first photo reveals that the caption gives similar credit to another model and photographer, while claiming it for the ropework. Kylo swallows and continues thumbing backwards. The profile lists its owner as a 29M Dominant, but otherwise contains only a single italicized quote(“Man is a knot into which relationships are tied. –Antoine de Saint-Exupery”) and a plethora of photos.When he skims the cluster of fetishes grouped at the bottom, Kylo feels the color beginning to rise in his cheeks.
He hardly notices that he’s reached the house as he ducks one shoulder and pushes through the door without looking up from his phone. The cat lifts its head to peer at him from the mat in the foyer. He steps over it to climb the stairs in a few long strides. The door of his room clicks shut behind him, and he checks twice to see that it’s locked before falling back on the bed.
For a heartbeat or two, Kylo’s thumb hovers over the private message button. The profile’s latest activity before becoming friends with him and two other users is listed as five months ago. If he doesn’t act, it’s possible that the owner will log off for another half year without ever checking for a message. He chews his bottom lip for another few seconds before tapping the button.
Hey. I like your profile. He types into the message box, then frowns and erases it.
Your pictures are really interesting. Still too bland.
Where did you learn all of those knots? No, no, no. Come on.
Kylo groans and pushes the heel of one hand against his forehead. Squinting at the blank message, he gives a low sigh. Then, slowly, he taps in, I never get why they were all so wild about Cui. Might as well have just been Schumann, stabs the send button and tosses the phone onto his pillow. An agonizing handful of minutes pass by, during which Kylo is certain that he’s ruined his chances of piquing the other man’s interest. Then, the phone vibrates by his ear and he seizes it.
The art songs are acceptable, but his orchestration is average at best.
Kylo stares at the screen, blindsided, for a few seconds, then a small chuckle bubbles up out of him.
You actually are? He replies.
The message field lights up after a brief pause. A Kuchkist? Somewhat, though not solely. I respect dedication to one’s aesthetics and passions.
Rolling onto his side, Kylo releases a held breath. His lips feel suddenly dry. He types, Yours seem pretty distinctive, and hits the send button before he can reconsider.
Your profile doesn’t appear to express particular interest in rope. Or anything, it seems. The response flashes.
Sort of new to this whole thing. Kylo sends back. There’s heat rising in his cheeks, running down the length of his throat and extending out to the tips of his ears.
Ah. I suppose I’m flattered to be included in your explorations, then.
None to speak of yet, He taps out and curls closer around his phone.
The response is a single word: Tempting.
Breath hitching, Kylo sets the phone down on his pillow once more. He fumbles beneath the covers for his laptop and opens it quickly to the same conversation, then brings up the man’s profile in another tab. He flips through the photos as he considers his reply. Although the collection highlights several impressive suspensions and – warmth begins to pool somewhere low in Kylo’s stomach – bruises and welts the owner has left behind on others, none of the photos seem to show the man himself.
I’m curious. He finally ventures in reply.
There is a long pause. I imagine that I could oblige this curiosity, if asked.
If asked? Kylo questions.
Admitting one’s needs is the predecessor to exploration, after all.
Kylo rolls onto his back, drags the laptop up onto his stomach. What do you want me to ask you?
For what you need. Respectfully.
Swallowing, Kylo reads over the message once, twice. It's not that he's entirely in the dark. There have been evenings alone at home that melted into unexpected discoveries online. He's read and watched enough to understand what's being asked of him. The responses he imagines sending straddle a wide range of tones, explicitnesses. He considers asking what the other man would do to him and is surprised to find himself shuddering at the idea.
Would you tell me what you'd want from me? He sends back.
The reply is quick, If you were to address me properly.
Kylo wets his lips with his tongue, As?
Are you really quite so inexperienced?
Glad that the other man isn't in the room to see him blush, Kylo slowly pecks out, Would you tell me what you would want me to do, sir? When he hits the send button, it feels as if the invisible boundary he's crossed is one he's been standing in front of for years of teenage curiosity.
I would require your location. The other man types back.
Pushing himself back against his pillow, Kylo sends, My bedroom.
"My bedroom"...?
Another small shiver. My bedroom, sir, he corrects himself, then waits as three painful minutes slide by.
I would provide you with instructions. You would establish your ability to serve by following basic directives.
To serve. Kylo's breath is shallow, and he can feel his cock stiffening in his jeans. He's too far now to take it back, too eager to cut off the conversation and dive into studying to pretend that it never happened. What sort of instructions, sir?
You would be told to kneel.
Kylo's pulse thuds in his temples. He peers over his shoulder at the wooden floor, then casts a glance at the doorknob to make certain the lock is still depressed. One hand shuts the laptop to scoop up his phone once more. Slowly, carefully, he slides off the bed and sinks down onto his knees. When he's positioned himself, he snaps a close-cropped shot of his knees against the floorboards. In lieu of a response, he attaches the photo to their chain of messages and hits send.
I see. This exceeds my expectations.
He can't help it. He sets one palm against himself over his jeans, rubs haltingly, sighs with pleasure. What else, sir? He thumbs in with the other hand.
The screen flashes again. You will place your right forearm on the ground, from the palm to the elbow, directly in front of your knee.
Nearly whining out loud, Kylo obeys and fumbles to take a picture of the position with his left hand. When he manages one that he likes, just enough light to silhouette the crook of his bare elbow against his knee, he attaches it to the message.
Excellent. In this position, you would be permitted to request the privilege of being bound.
Please, sir. Kylo replies immediately, then drops the phone just beside his forehead to scrabble at the zipper of his jeans. When he manages to undo it, he curls his fingers around himself. The left hand is unpracticed, but the exchange has left him so riled that he bucks up into it without a second thought. His knees and elbow stay riveted to the floor.
The phone’s vibration pulls his glance away for just a moment, Are you touching yourself to this conversation?
Kylo whines softly and releases his grip on himself. As he lays panting on the floor, he considers denying it. Besides what his profile outlines, he doesn’t know anything about this man. Maybe he should stop. He casts a glance down between his legs, hisses in pain at the mere thought.
Another message lights up the screen after Kylo remains paralyzed with indecision for a few minutes. You will be allowed to come only if you admit to your indiscretion. I imagine that our exchanges will otherwise remain very brief.
With a whimper, Kylo knots a hand into his bangs and yanks. Yes, sir. He stabs into the message field.
There is a small pause, then, Your compliance is noted. Permission granted.
Kylo groans in relief and doesn’t even manage to reply before he’s pumping into his fist once more. All of it, the sudden and strangeness of it, overwhelms him in a matter of minutes. He entire body seizes as he comes messily over his knuckles, biting back a shout into his shoulder. He lays gasping on the floor for another few moments before he manages to peck out an exhausted Thank you, sir.
You are welcome. Perhaps we can continue this line of exploration another evening. Alternatively, we could always continue discussing Cui’s mediocrity in juxtaposition with his cohorts.
As the tension drains from his body, Kylo huffs out a soft laugh. He slumps onto the floor and lets the bottom of the phone rest against it as he taps back, Either, sir.
***
Over the course of the next few weeks, their occasional messages range in content from the names of knots to exchanges of preferred orchestral recordings. If Kylo is honest with himself, he’s not even certain which he finds more alluring. He keeps his phone close, even in the practice rooms.
Finn catches him at the beginning of a Friday rehearsal near the end of the month with a small, private smile on his lips.
“Girlfriend?” He grins as Kylo tucks the phone back into his pocket.
Kylo huffs, quickly frowns, “What? No.” He busies himself with thumbing through their score to avoid looking at the other man.
Finn holds up both hands, brows lifting, “All right, all right, man. Touchy.”
“I’m not your boyfriend.” Kylo shoots back.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Before Kylo can describe a personal life that doesn’t entirely orbit Instagram, Snoke gives the baton a single, delicate tap. Straightening, Kylo plucks his bow from the lip of the stand. For a split second, his eyes instinctively flick to Hux. The redhead’s posture is as immaculate as ever, lips pursed and gaze centered on Snoke. Kylo snorts under his breath.
“This afternoon’s rehearsal will commence at measure thirty-eight of the third movement.” Snoke intones, “Before we begin, be informed that your mid-term individual coachings are approaching. Professor Hux will schedule these coachings during the upcoming week. You will receive one hour of mandatory coaching to address any weak points in your performance, and monitor overall progress in this course. The results will be reported to me.”
Kylo’s eyes widen, and his gaze snaps back to Hux. To his surprise, the other man is already looking at him with the faintest of smirks crooking his mouth. Barely holding back a snarl, Kylo scowls. He’ll reserve extra time in the practice rooms. He’ll hone the entire score into a sharpened point and drive it into that smug bastard’s chest. There will be no room for criticism. He’ll strangle a perfect score out of the man if he has to.
When Snoke lifts the baton, Kylo's eyes are hard, dark. The first downbow is sharp, measured, a swordsman's lunge, aimed directly towards Hux.
***
The more hours that Kylo spends preparing for his midterm coaching, the less he feels ready. Every note seems to blur together into a hazy, uncomfortable sense of overall imperfection, and he curses and spits at the practice room walls, sleeps only a handful of hours a night. By the beginning of the next week, the circles beneath his eyes are stark against his pale skin. On Monday morning he dodges Mitaka's concerned glance in the hall, ducks past the kitchen without breakfast, and slams the house door behind himself.
His phone vibrates in his pocket, but he ignores it. Leia has been endlessly texting him for days, inquiring about the minutia of each of his midterms. His shoulders slump under the weight of the bass as he trudges back towards the music building. His name is on the practice room reservation list for three hours this morning, as much time as he could secure before Honors Symphony.
When he reaches the top floor of the building, several of the practice room doors are already shut, muffled snippets of various instruments and melodies crowding the hall. Kylo picks out a cornet practicing its solo for the afternoon and a soprano tripping desperately through a selection from the Messiah before he reaches the door of his reserved room.
It's closed. He glances down at his watch and sighs. Three minutes until his reserved slot. He leans toward the door, tilts an ear against it to see if there's actually anyone inside.
When the first strains of the Rachmaninoff Vocalise begin to filter through the door, he blinks in surprise. The violin's tone is warm, lingering. Even from outside the room, he can hear the control in each tender stroke of the bow. His nostrils flare. Hux.
Kylo slumps back against the opposite wall and scowls. If Hux goes over his allotted time by a single fucking minute, Kylo is going to yank the door off its hinges. He crosses his arms over his chest, trying and failing to block out the sound of Hux's practice. The piece rises and falls, a constant whorl of building and fading. Kylo can hear the full length of the bow being pulled over each crescendo. Near the end of the melody, as Hux's fingers climb the strings higher and higher, Kylo realizes, to his shame, that he's holding his breath. He allows himself to exhale slowly as the final few notes diminish into delicate, longing quiet.
There is a brief pause, then Kylo hears the zipper on Hux's case. He digs out his phone to check the time, finds both a minute left to spare before his reservation and a message waiting for him from JuteKuchkist. Sucking in a breath, he flicks the phone unlocked.
You've been very quiet recently. It states simply.
Kylo bites his lip, quickly taps out, Sorry. Midterms. The sound of the door sweeping back pulls his gaze away from the phone.
Hux's lips purse at the sight of him. He glances at the list of reserved slots on the door, noting Kylo's name.
"...Kylo Ren?" He drawls, arching an eyebrow, "My, my. A dramatic pseudonym."
"Shut up." Kylo spits and shoulders past him into the practice room.
Hux grunts at the impact, sniffs and straightens, "I suggest a metronome if you intend on practicing the fourth movement, Ben." He snips, then turns on one heel and is gone.
Kylo growls in earnest, then throws the door shut hard enough to rattle the doorframe. His digs in the outside pocket of his case for his metronome, slamming it onto the stand the moment his fingers grip it. The stand tilts perilously under the force of the motion, and Kylo lets out a groan as he seizes it to balance it once more. His phone buzzes just as he’s slouching down onto the stool. He pauses, gaze dropping down to the bass, still in its case. A hint of guilt nudges at him as he fumbles the phone out and swipes it open.
The screen is still open to his chain of FetLife messages, Ah, I see. Stressful, I would imagine.
More aggravating than stressful. Kylo replies with a huffed sigh.
Unfortunate. Perhaps I can assist you in alleviating your aggravation.
Kylo nearly whines. As exhilarating as their exchanges have become, he’s in no state of mind to jerk off, and certainly not in the practice room. Still, he’s loathe to refuse after being offline for several days and give the other man the wrong impression. He tries the beginning of a few responses, deletes each of them, fingers curling in frustration.
A second message flashes before he can compose a reply to the first, I don’t mean this suggestively. I was more considering proposing the idea of coffee.
Eyes widening, Kylo rereads the message. In the few weeks since their correspondence began, he’s been aware that the other man is local, but never bold enough to mention it.
You want to meet up? He types back.
If that is something which would interest you.
Kylo bites the inside of his cheek. It does. When?
The screen blinks, Is this evening convenient for you?
After six. Kylo sends back.
Six thirty, then. There is about a minute’s pause. The Sprout and Bean? We should be able to find one another by the back window, the seats are often vacant.
Kylo thinks through about thirty variations of “Yes, absolutely” before he simply settles on, I’ll see you there.
He sets the phone down on the edge of the stand, draws in a deep breath and slowly exhales. His hands flutter over the bow, tightening the arc of it as he sucks on his lip. Compared to the strict protocol of some of their previous conversations, the invitation was surprising in its ordinariness. Leia would kill him. The thought only heightens his commitment to going through with it.
***
The hours in the practice room, eating lunch, in class, might as well be spent trudging through mud for as achingly slow as they pass by. Kylo checks his phone every few minutes, half-worrying that the other man will reconsider. When no messages arrive by the end of his music theory course, he’s bristling, fidgeting and rolling his eyes until the professor dismisses the class. He rises from his chair before she’s finished the sentence and slings his bag over his shoulder.
It takes about fifteen minutes to make it across the entire campus, towards the western edge of the city. Student bookstores and sub shops taper off into hole-in-the-wall bars, small cafes and restaurants. Kylo has been to the Sprout and Bean a handful of times, mostly for open mic nights with his band in high school. It’s a cramped but clean shop, walls lined with shelves full of beaten books and tiny potted succulents. The coffee counter is tucked against the back wall beside a bank of windows that overlook a nearby park and a few scattered round tables.
Kylo hesitates just to the side of the door when he reaches it. He checks his phone once more. There’s a single new message.
I’m here.
He chews at his thumbnail and tries to peer in the front window, but a display of recommended books obscures the back of the shop. Letting his eyelids fall shut, he takes a gathering breath. One hand curls around the door handle, and then he’s inside. There’s a small jingle as the bells on the inside handle bounce against the door.
Kylo waves off a smile from one of the employees sorting books near the front of the shop as he makes his way for the book display. It provides enough cover to allow him to peek into the café section. A couple, close and conspiratorial, chat quietly at one of the tables. There’s a group of four students in hoodies groaning over their notes and a shared textbook. Next to them a dark haired man with a broad, square jaw taps at the screen of his phone, the other long hand curled around a steaming mug. At the corner table, Kylo recognizes, to his disgust, Hux silently reading.
Fuck. His eyes return nervously to the brunette. The man is leaning back slightly in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, and his elbow rests over the back of the chair. Kylo imagines him rereading their exchanges as he waits for him to arrive, suppresses a shiver. With a minute frown, he glances back to Hux. It’s not as if he knows. Even if he notices Kylo, he won’t know it’s a-
It’s a date.
Kylo swallows. If he’s quiet, he might be able to extract the other man without Hux even looking up from his book. Jaw firming, he curls and uncurls his fingers once before stepping out from behind the display. He measures his gait carefully in his mind as he approaches the man. The brunette glances up as Kylo arrives at the edge of the table.
Kylo does his best to force his tone neutral, “Er…Jute?”
The man’s brows furrow, “Sorry?”
“You’re not-?”
A chair scrapes behind him, and the realization hits Kylo all at once. He freezes, blood rushing in his temples. His pulse is pounding in his throat as he peers back over his shoulder.
Hux is paralyzed mid-rise from his chair. His light eyes are wide, face almost colorless. He stares at Kylo for a long, silent moment, and Kylo can feel himself flushing all the way to his ears. Then, at once, all of the expression drains from Hux’s face. With his book tight against the crook of his arm, he ducks his head, mouth a thin line, and brushes past Kylo. After a few seconds, the door jingles.
Kylo gawks after him until the man at the table beside him gives an awkward cough. The sound pulls his gaze down, and he frowns and mutters a brief, non-committal apology before bowing into the nearest aisle of shelves. There, he stands, mouth dry and skin too tight for his body, until he remembers how to walk.
***
It takes less than an hour for Hux to block Kylo’s profile. Kylo avoids returning to the house for the rest of the evening, curses himself hoarse into his pillows when he finally stumbles in just before midnight. The sleep that he does manage is ragged and restless, and by the morning, it feels as if there’s a viscous, invisible membrane between himself and the rest of the world. He shuffles through his morning routine, barely remembers it by the time he’s dragging himself out the front door.
The idea of skipping Honors Symphony turns his stomach. He hovers outside the hall door until a minute before rehearsal begins, and only ducks in behind a violist as she pushes open the door. His eyes rake the floor, then remain glued to his bass as he unpacks and prepares himself. He swears that he can almost smell Hux at the conductor’s stand. Frowning to himself, he wonders if the other man is already sneering.
Hux is buried in his score when Kylo sinks onto his stool. Kylo allows his gaze to rest on the other man –the sight of him now somehow foreign- for a few long moments. Hux’s lips are pursed, and his sharp jaw is tight. He waits until the hour to lift his face, silences the ensemble’s chatter with the smallest clearing of his throat.
“Movement five. Square sixty-five.” He announces, voice hard and toneless.
Kylo seeks out Snoke in the back row. The older man watches silently, eyes dark and face as impassionate as it is during any of his assistant’s rehearsals. There’s no way he could know. No way Hux would have told him. Besides, what good would informing Snoke of their mishap do? It’d endanger Hux’s position just as much as it would Kylo’s.
Throughout the rehearsal, Kylo waits for the hammer to fall. He frowns to himself, watches the redhead closely, but Hux never looks in his direction. In fact, he doesn't correct the basses once during the entire class. Near the end of the rehearsal, Kylo is considering scratching out an off-key note just to break the man's facade.
When Hux replaces the baton on the lip of his stand, his fingertips linger on it, and Kylo sees the corner of his mouth twitch just once.
"That is our time for the day. Your midterm coaching time slots will be emailed to you directly after class. They will take the place of one of the upcoming week's rehearsals." Hux notes, and slowly shuts his score, "If there are any questions, you may address them to Professor Snoke or myself. Thank you for your work. You are dismissed."
"...Are you all right?" Finn ventures as the rest of the students begin to chatter and pack up.
Kylo glances back at him. He's not sure he's even laid eyes on him yet today.
"Yes." He grates, scowling.
Finn arches an eyebrow, "That doesn't sound all right."
"I'm fine." Kylo snaps and slides off his stool. He turns his back on the other man as he begins to put away his materials.
Finn lets out an audible grumble behind him. Kylo grits his teeth and ignores it. He just barely zips the bass into its case before he's scrolling through his emails, refreshing them until the coaching schedule crops up.
The email is simple, curt. Your scheduled midterm coaching will take place at 5:00 PM on 10/21. Please arrive five minutes early, and be prepared to begin the coaching immediately at your appointed time. If missed, coachings cannot be rescheduled, resulting in a null score.
Kylo winces. Of course his coaching is the last of the day. Of course Hux would make him wait, force him to sit through hours with nothing to do but practice in the afternoon. His mouth twists into a grimace. Miserable bastard.
He rises and shoulders the bass strap, doesn't bother with a parting word as he slinks down the stairs off the stage. He's surprised to find himself looking down at a pair of weathered black wingtips as Snoke steps into his path.
"Professor." Kylo feels himself shrink as he raises his face to meet the man's eyes.
"You are distracted this afternoon." Snoke pronounces each word languidly.
Kylo's eyes widen, and he goes motionless, "...I didn't sleep well." He tries, stumbling over the words, "I- the house was loud, everyone is practicing for midterms-"
"See that you focus. Talent without dedication is meaningless." The older man tells him, mouth thin.
Nodding wordlessly, Kylo lets his gaze drop to the floor once more.
Snoke watches him, then nods in return, "I will be looking over your coaching results."
"Yes, Professor."
Snoke turns, climbs the stage stairs and disappears into the wings towards his office. Head still lowered, Kylo watches him go through his bangs and swallows over the knot in his throat.
***
On the morning of his coaching, Kylo awakens to weight on his chest. A bleary grumble escapes, and he glances down in confusion. When a pair of wide green eyes meet his, he starts. The cat gives an indignant chirp.
"What the fuck?" He groans, jamming the heels of his hands over his eyes. The cat rises, as if incensed at the disturbance in its sleeping space, and pads up onto the pillow instead.
"No, no, you stupid- ugh-..." Kylo mutters and reaches up to push it towards the edge of the bed. It swats at his hand, and he winces, "Fuck!"
The cat watches him as he rolls out of bed, long limbs graceless and knocking together. He glowers at it and stumbles out towards the bathroom. Barring his morning history class, he has all day reserved in one of the practice rooms. His score and metronome are already packed in his messenger bag.
Rubbing his eyes, he surveys himself in the mirror. The previous day's liner is smeared in streaks around his eyelids. A tangled whorl of hair is matted against one temple. He sighs. Yesterday, the idea of preparing for the day had seemed exciting. Now, there's not even the chance of a message arriving to buoy him. He sleepwalks through the shower, paws a cereal bar out of the kitchen pantry and skulks to his first class.
There’s not a word of it left in his memory by the time he locks himself into a practice room for the afternoon. He plays until his fingertips ache, snarls obscenities at himself while attempting to massage another five, ten minutes out of them. He finally gives up about an hour before the coaching in favor of pacing the halls with earbuds blasting.
At 4:50, he stalks into foyer of the concert hall, double checks that the bass is still in tune, and slouches against the wall outside the doors. When he strains to listen in on the coaching previous to his, he can make out a trombone marching through the fourth movement. The first chair, if Kylo’s read on them is right. Passionate, but sloppy. They emerge from the auditorium a few minutes later, drawn but intact.
“All you.” They murmur to Kylo as they pass, “Good luck.”
Kylo sets his jaw, adjusts his case, and pushes through the doors.
The stage seating has been cleared away save for the conductor’s stand and chair with a mirroring arrangement facing it. Both the house and stage lights are on. Hux is perched at the edge of the conductor’s chair. He doesn’t look up when Kylo enters, but Kylo notices the line of his shoulders stiffen.
“On time.” Hux notes, voice dry as he tics off a box on the assessment sheet before him.
Kylo’s frowns, mouth twisting around a few choice expressions of displeasure that he barely manages to hold back. Instead, he unpacks his bass and score, stands to face Hux. The sudden recognition that he’s awaiting orders from the other man makes him unpleasantly aware of his body.
Hux takes a measured breath, opens his score, “Movement two, measures three through thirty.”
The excerpt is fairly straightforward – swells of rising eighth notes. Kylo’s long fingers navigate the length of the bass’s neck with little difficulty. He becomes aware of Hux’s gaze on him in the eighteenth measure, cool and precise.
“Begin again.” He interrupts abruptly.
Kylo blinks, scowling, but obeys. This time, when he reaches the middle of the segment, he lets his eyelids flutter shut, breathes through the phrases. He hears Hux draw in a small breath as well. The sound stirs in Kylo’s temples, and his brows knit.
There is a moment of quiet when Kylo finishes. Hux clears his throat, “Softer at the beginning of each phrase. Allow more space to grow into the crescendo.” He instructs.
They repeat the selection twice more before Hux allows him to move on, and the excerpt he assigns from the fifth movement takes up a solid fifteen minutes of the coaching in what feels like endless minutia. Kylo’s bowing arm protests, and he grits his teeth to ignore it. The third segment is at the top of the fourth movement. They’ve argued over the tempo more times than Kylo can count, and he curses under his breath when Hux announces the measure numbers. Hux arches an eyebrow, and Kylo fixes him with a narrow-eyed glare in return.
"Are you unprepared to present this section?" Hux inquires, holding his gaze.
"I'm not fucking unprepared!" Kylo erupts, "I could play it in my goddamned sleep, you just-!"
"I what?" Hux's nostrils flare, his tone low and precise.
"You only put it on the midterm because you want to mark me off for the fucking tempo!" Kylo shoots back.
"That is my job, yes." Hux drawls.
Kylo growls, arms beginning to tremble, "To pretend you're coaching me while you just try to fail me?!"
Hux's knuckles whiten, "To see that you are instructed on your weaknesses."
"Interpretation is not a weakness!" Kylo can feel himself slipping before he's even finished the thought. One hand keeps the neck of his bass steady while the other whips the score off of the stand, then sends the stand itself careening across the stage. The clanging and scraping of metal against wood echoes through the hall.
"Enough!" Hux barks, brought to his feet.
The directive hangs in the air between them, answered only by Kylo's soft panting.
"This behavior is unacceptable." Hux grates, "I will not tolerate it. You are to compose yourself immediately. Do you understand?"
Kylo feels something behind his anger stir, tries to push it back as he glowers at the other man.
"Do you understand?" Hux repeats.
"Is that an order?" Kylo spits back poisonously.
Hux flinches. Kylo watches his throat work as he swallows.
"Don't." He warns.
Kylo plunges onward, too galled for caution, "Are you going to make me?"
"Mr. Solo-"
"How long did you know you were just playing with me?!" The taller man finally exclaims.
"What?!" Hux's eyes snap to his, wide, "You think that I-?" He snorts, "You believe that I knew? How absurdly presumptuous of you. Had I known, I assure you, I would have never-"
"Would have never what?" Kylo hisses. He's coming undone at the seams, crashing and exploding into innumerable pieces.
Hux takes a narrow breath through his nose, "This line of questioning is unproductive. I am your professor. This is your midterm coaching."
"Asked me out?" Kylo presses, frowning, "That was what it was, wasn't it?"
"What it was is no longer pertinent to our professional relationship!" Hux snaps.
"You're a fucking student!" Kylo storms.
"I am a graduate assistant. I am a conductor for this ensemble, and responsible for your grade this evening."
"You're not conducting a single concert. Professor Snoke is. You're his student, just like me."
Hux pinches the bridge of his nose, "This is utterly ridiculous.”
"You're a better musician when you're not teaching." Kylo tells him.
"...What?"
"Your instincts are better when you don't know who's listening. When you're not assuming what they know. What they can handle. Can do." He pushes on.
"That's outrageously sentimental." Hux grumbles.
"I heard the Vocalise."
Hux shifts his weight, crosses his arms over his chest, "So?"
"You play better when you don't think you have to carry the orchestra."
The redhead wrinkles his nose, "...We don't have time for this. You need to finish this selection for your coaching."
Kylo watches him for a few moments, lips tight, "...Tell me to."
Hux's breath hitches, "I won't."
"Tell me to because you know that I can." Kylo's jaw is tight as he speaks, "That I will."
A slow, pinched breath. Kylo curls his fingers against his bow, waiting. Hux's eyes cool. He sinks back into his chair, folds his hands in his lap. His eyelids fall shut for a moment as he draws in another, deeper breath. When he opens them again, his brow is smooth.
"You will collect the effects that you have thrown-" He begins, voice clear and unhurried, "-and perform the aforementioned segment of the fourth movement. When you have done so to my liking, you will be permitted to ask my forgiveness."
Kylo's pulse jumps into his throat. He opens his mouth, but finds himself empty. Silently, he moves to retrieve the score and stand. Hux makes a scornful sound low in his throat, and Kylo glances back over his shoulder, cheeks flushing.
"...Yes, sir." He murmurs.
Hux gives a single, satisfied nod. When Kylo returns to the task, he swears he can feel the blood rushing beneath his skin. He rights the stand, then lifts the score onto it, carefully smoothing the rumpled pages.
"Begin." Hux orders.
Kylo breathes out another soft, "Yes, sir", and then the bow falls against the strings. The frenzied counting of his time in the practice room falls away. He cuts short, staccato eighth notes, breathes in time with the music. The dynamic unfurls into deeper strokes, pales for a single measure just before the final three powerful notes of the selection. Kylo furrows his brow and carves the full length of the bow into each of them. The body of the bass thrums against his chest. Hux is watching him when he lifts his face out of the score.
"...Adequate. Your improvement is noted." He remarks. He breaks eye contact with Kylo to make a mark on the midterm paperwork.
Kylo blinks in surprise. He glances down to his fingers, over the score, and lets out a held breath, “…Really? But-”
“You may add the implication that our interactions would affect my grading system to the offenses for which you will now be allowed to seek forgiveness.”Hux cuts him off.
Something in Kylo’s chest jumps, “…How?” He does his best to keep his voice level.
Hux watches him evenly, steepling his fingers, “You may beg.” He answers.
“Wh-“ The color rises in Kylo’s cheeks. With Hux in front of him, orders clear and measured, the idea of submitting to him in earnest has become infinitely more intimidating.
“Put your things away.” Hux orders.
Kylo draws a stilted breath, “Yes, sir.” He stoops to unzip the bass’s case, realizing only after he’s done so that the action puts him on his knees. He secures the bass, reaches up to the stand to tuck the score into the outside pocket of the case. He dwells for a moment with his hands on the zipper before lifting his eyes to Hux.
“Remain where you are.” The redhead directs, “Hands on the ground.”
The wood of the stage is smooth, polished and unmarked save for small scoring left behind by the stand being flung across its surface. It already feels cool against Kylo’s warm palms.
“Don’t move.”
Hux’s chair rumbles back as he rises. Kylo watches him as he strides down the stairs into the aisle. When he reaches the doors, Kylo hears the lock give a sharp clack. He swallows, drops his gaze to the stage. Hux’s even footfalls reach the stairs once more, and then his immaculate wingtips come into Kylo’s view. As he threads long, delicate fingers into Kylo’s hair, the taller man becomes acutely aware that this is the first time Hux has ever touched him.
“I don’t imagine that you’ve had the opportunity to ask forgiveness in this manner before.” Hux murmurs.
“No, sir.” Kylo breathes. The weight of Hux’s hand is heavy against the crown of his head.
Hux’s fingers curl, tightening in Kylo’s hair, “Exceptional. I will instruct you.”
A small, deliberate jerk of his wrist yanks the other man’s face up, dark eyes wide and pupils blown. Kylo hears more than feels himself give a small cry of surprise. A thin smile curves Hux’s lips.
“Tell me what you’ve done.”
Kylo struggles to keep his palms against the stage with the demanding way that Hux arches him back, “I-I-…I threw a st-stand…a-and my score, sir.” He stammers.
“You disrespected me.” Hux intones.
Shuddering, Kylo gives as much of a nod as he can manage, “Yes, sir.”
“Do you believe that you deserve punishment?”
The taller man sinks further into Hux’s grip, panting quietly, “Please, sir.”
Hux regards him for nearly a minute, considers, “…Stay.” He orders simply.
He disappears into the wings of the stage. Kylo slumps forward, hands remaining in position. The first few seconds melt into minutes. He’s achingly hard against the front of his jeans, and the delay makes him bite back a whine into his shoulder. Hux has left him alone before, during their online exchanges. Has made him hold uncomfortable positions, kept him from touching himself for what seemed like hours. Each time, the thought of silently, constantly being bent to the other man’s will has held him in place, smoothed the usual pitching and roiling of his thoughts into a sort of placid, subservient calm.
He isn’t certain how long Hux leaves him there. Against the unforgiving floor, his knees begin to ache, then burn. The sensation melts into the sum total of his obedience, and he bears it with slow breaths through his nose. Eventually, he lets his forehead rest against the coolness of the stage. Whorls of dark hair cloud his peripheral vision.
When he hears footsteps in the wings once more, his pulse jumps. His shoulders shriek in protest as he pushes himself up to a sitting position, hands never shifting. Hux has a satchel over one shoulder, and his cheeks are ruddy with autumn chill.
“You didn’t move.” He exhales.
Kylo’s voice is cracked from disuse, “No, sir.”
Hux cups the taller man’s jaw with one hand, tilts Kylo’s face towards himself, “Stand up.” He commands, voice soft. He supports Kylo with a hand at his waist as he stumbles to his feet.
Once he's steadied, Hux lets his hand slip into the small of his back. He guides him towards the wings of the stage. Kylo shudders beneath his touch the entire way, allows himself to be maneuvered into leaning against one of the fly systems when they arrive.
Hux lets his satchel slide to the floor. From within it, he produces a small set of medical scissors. Kylo watches curiously as Hux clips them to one of his belt loops, then lets out a soft exhale as the man withdraws a length of jute rope from the bag.
"Shirt off. Present your wrists. Palms down." Hux instructs.
Kylo obeys, trying his best to still the eager shivering in his arms as he does. It takes Hux three wraps, two twists, and about fifteen seconds to bind them together. Kylo's cock is already leaking when the redhead guides his arms above his head and fixes them to one of the supports among the flys.
"Pull." Hux orders.
Kylo gives a tug, manages to bring his palms just to the crown of his head before the rope holds him inextricably. The bite of it against his skin sets him trembling anew.
With a curt nod, Hux runs his fingertips along the remaining rope to lead it down Kylo's spine. A few silent turns around his chest fix his back against the support bar as well. Kylo watches, flushed and panting, as Hux's slender hands weave over his chest. When the length of the rope is spent, Kylo's entire upper body has blossomed into intricate wraps and knots.
Hux steps back to admire his work. Kylo's cheeks are so dark that he can't help but press a hand to one of them, stepping close enough to put his lips near the taller man's ear.
"Let go." He murmurs, "You'll feel it more."
Kylo can already feel himself drifting, as if his consciousness has been pull thin, kneaded out into blissful unawareness. He draws a deep breath, wills his body to relax further. Even as his weight sags, the rope holds, riveting him in place. He only realizes that he's moaning, low in his throat, when he hears Hux chuckle over it.
"Good."
The praise is enough for Kylo to let his knees fall open without a second thought, and he whimpers out a soft, "Please, sir."
Hux watches him, "...Please what?" He questions, barely a breath.
"Anything you want." Kylo grates. There's a slick spot on the front of his jeans, visible even against the black material for the way it reflects the light from the stage.
"And if what I want is to leave you like this until I think you've had enough?" Hux asks, one eyebrow quirked, "Send you home without ever touching you?"
Kylo whines in desperation, "S-sir..."
"Well?"
Squeezing his eyes shut, Kylo swallows, "I-I-...I would l-let you..." He manages.
"And if I wanted to fuck you, just like this, right here?"
Kylo's hips jerk, hard enough to set the bar he's bound against rattling.
"Please, sir." He gasps.
Hux leans closer, lips just grazing the shell of Kylo’s ear, “Is that what you want?”
Kylo nearly whimpers, “Yes, sir.”
“Ask me for it.” Hux steps back to watch the other man’s face as he speaks.
Twisting in the grasp of the rope, Kylo sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, does his best to collect himself
enough to speak, “S-ˇSir, please…oh god, please fuck me.” He grinds out.
Hux draws in a short, sharp breath. It takes only a few moments for his delicate fingers to free the taller
man from his pants. Kylo finds himself bucking up into every brush of the redhead’s fingertip. When Hux
finally peels away the garments entirely, Kylo curses and writhes into the friction of it.
The bar behind him is cool against his skin, but Kylo is too far gone to recognize his nakedness as
anything but a means to an end. Hux slicks two fingers over the tip of Kylo’s dripping cock, and Kylo
imagines himself dissolving under his touch. The feeling of Hux’s fingertips pressing at his entrance,
slippery with his own precome, makes his toes curl.
“Is this what you need?” Hux breathes against Kylo’s cheek.
“Please, sir.” Kylo groans.
He feels Hux’s fingertips pressing into him, drops his face against the redhead’s shoulder and winces.
Hux takes in another deep breath.
“…You’re a virgin.”
“Please!” Kylo begs hastily, “Please, don’t stop, sir, I-I can-“
“Shh.” Hux quiets him. He leans back to look over Kylo’s face. The brunette is panting up at him through
his bangs, eyeliner smudged, working his hips to push down deeper over Hux’s fingers with his cock still
heavy against his stomach. Hux shudders.
“Relax.” He breathes.
Kylo leans back into the tightness of the rope, then nudges a calf behind Hux’s to urge him closer. Hux
works the taller man open with slow but demanding strokes of his fingers. Kylo feels himself
disintegrating, hisses and sighs in equal measure until Hux manages to slide a third finger into him and
crook them in a way that makes Kylo’s chest heave.
“Hux! ” He cries out and jerks back against the other man’s hand.
Hux buries his fingers in him to the knuckle, and Kylo wails into his shoulder. Another few thrusts satisfy
the redhead that he’s ready. When he finally withdraws, Kylo’s body is bowed into the ropes for support.
He whines at the sudden emptiness.
The sound of Hux’s slacks being unzipped silences him. As Hux positions himself at his entrance, Kylo
slowly lifts his knees, folding in on himself. The harness around his chest holds him upright, and Hux
takes the opportunity to slide one long leg over his shoulder. Kylo looks up at him, pupils eclipsing all but
a silver of dark iris, pleading.
“S-sir, please, I-“
Hux rolls his hips forward, and Kylo strangles out a moan. Thrashing as Hux seats himself inside him, he
feels a bead of precome rolls down the underside of his length.
“This is what you wanted?” Hux’s breath is hot against his ear.
“F-fuck…fuck …” Kylo rasps deliriously, “Oh god, yes, sir…”
A single thrust, measured and firm. The support bar clatters. With gritted teeth, Kylo shoves himself back
against Hux.
“Please, sir.” He begs, “Fuck me. I need it.”
Hux exhales, drops one hand to guide Kylo’s other leg around his waist. With the taller man in position,
he allows himself to fall into rhythm. Soon, he’s pounding the brunette back against the fly system, Kylo’s
desperate groans urging him faster, deeper. Kylo can feel the rope digging into him, rubbing him raw,
knows that there will be marks in the morning and only pitches back against Hux more eagerly at the
thought. The way Hux stretches him, fills him with each motion leaves his cock dripping steadily against
his stomach.
By the time the redhead finally wraps a hand against Kylo’s straining prick, there’s already a small pool
just below his navel. Kylo throws his head back, shakes wordlessly for a few long moments. Then, he’s
seizing, nearly sobbing as his climax rips through him. His body clenches around Hux, and within
moments, the tightening of his muscles drags the other man over the edge as well.
The sensation of Hux spending himself inside him draws the aftershocks out so long that Kylo is shaking
by the time he’s finished, the length of his chest spattered with his release. His bottom lip is bruised from
his own teeth. Hux pulls back from him, slow and careful, and Kylo goes limp in the rope, eyes heavy-
lidded. Hux leans down to pluck a handkerchief from the bag, cleans himself discreetly, then makes quick
work of undoing the other man’s bindings. Kylo is all long limbs and exhausted angles as he sinks into
Hux’s arms. Hux lets himself sink to the ground under the brunette’s weight, Kylo’s back resting over his
knees.
The taller man’s dark hair splays in tangled curls over one of Hux’s thighs, and he takes a shuddering
breath, “…Wh-…what does this mean?”
Hux cringes.
***
Beautiful accompanying art by http://milkcraving.tumblr.com! STRONGLY recommend checking out his other stuff, the line work is GLORIOUS ❤️
