THE KING'S THIEF
("Don't ever stop writing; not even for yourself. You were always so good...")
Time is irrelevant right now; the man doesn't remember when he had arrived at the subway station. Actually, he doesn't even remember when he had woken up, or even when he had gotten… ready for the day. But somehow, he's here, standing in the middle of all this busy movement like a statue. He's vaguely aware that someone asks him to watch where he's standing and a get out of the damn way! But he doesn't move; he doesn't even know how long he has been standing here. Yet, with everything that has been happening lately, what has happened to him, he wonders if this is what his father, Han Solo felt at some point just after knowing he was passing from this world.
("Don't worry about me, kid; I don't blame you for anything. You had every right to be upset.")
He tries to picture his father's face; old, worn and nearly lifeless thanks to the cancer, but with all the light and mischief someone like himself could never possess. Those eyes never dimmed away, not even in his last moments.
("Your mother and I… we never gave you that chance, did we? To be what you really wanted.")
In the very moment his father's image pops into his mind, he wonders what would happen if he just... jumps. Right now.
("Don't look so glum; everyone has a time. Mine just happens to be sooner that most. That's alright...")
His eyes stay fixated on one particular spot, beyond the heads within the bustling crowd and even as the trains speed past. Blank, hollow and utterly impassive at the sight before him; everything is in motion, too fast and a mix of colors and shapes, but only serving to disassociate him even further in the blank niche at the back of his mind. It's to the point where even the noises around him are merely whispers that echo somewhere in the background; it's all absolute nonsensical conundrum. The only constant variable within his grasp, quite literally, is the cigarette that he fingers within the pocket of well-ironed slacks. He slips just a little further within himself, and he realizes in that very second he's about to do it; truly and without hesitance. Even without consciously realizing it, his muscles tense; fists clench and his jaw hardens. In this very second, he's being torn apart by his own volition, but he remains immobilized beyond that point. He knows the current train is about to depart, so he waits.
Eyes close.
One… two… —deep breath— ...thr—
("Don't rob yourself the opportunity to be happy; look at the world around you. Open your eyes, Ben.")
He almost chokes with his own spit at the action of hitching his breath. Air escapes his lungs and he feels like he's going to collapse beneath his own mangled weight right then and there. The very moment he decides to open his eyes, flickering up, something stops him even before his mind commands his limbs:
A pair of eyes looking just as intense as he feels. Staring straight at him.
The woman standing on the platform across him, tracks separating them, is the only thing he can see clearly. She stands out crisp against the motion around her. Her auburn hair curls almost protectively, gracefully, around her face, flowing with the wind's direction; eyelashes fan out against her cheeks, and lips slightly pried open as if she had just been about to say something. Not that he would have heard her.
But it's her unyielding, bold eyes that have him enthralled; he can't and doesn't look away.
He feels like he's been caught red handed; even though he knows that, realistically, he hasn't moved within the timeframe of his mental recession. There's no way anyone would have picked anything from him just by looking alone. So why does he feel like she knows exactly what's going on through his mind? The thought alone is all it takes; the noises seem to fade in from their previous mute state, the blurred figures and colors become undone as they divide into solid forms and he takes in the full weight of the action he had just been about to take. His Adam's apple bobs painfully against his throat as he struggles to breathe again.
But his eyes still don't stray from hers. And neither do hers.
It takes him a moment to realize he is trembling and simultaneously clutching onto the now destroyed cigarette in his pocket. He swallows painfully, and the effort is felt even through his chest. Yet, with a burning sensation that travels to his head, he wonders if it's even him she's looking at; she could very well easily be staring at someone behind him. What if he had just pulled himself out of it because of some… mistake? Or had it been a desperate attempt to grasp at straws and find an excuse to chicken at out the last minute? As the seconds pass, he begins to become more and more panicked, the prospect at having been caught is unbearable and shameful.
But as he strains to reorient himself, he notices that the woman looks a lot less bold than they did just a few seconds ago. What he had perceived to be sharp attentiveness is actually a look of sadness. Like she's disappointed. He wants to know what she's thinking, and he wonders if that thought crosses her mind as well.
"—Hey! Can you either move outta the way or get on a damn train already?! You've been hogging up space for the last five minutes, buster!" yells an obviously distressed passenger, all but waving his briefcase at Ben. Has it really been only been five minutes? The next train pulls over on their side, and it takes him a second to realize that he's right smack in the way of the door, blocking the entrance.
Ben sighs under his breath, but he moves out of the way regardless. The other man harrumphs indignantly, but passes quickly, much to his relief. He wants to look at her again, at the woman who had just… inadvertently stopped him from doing something absolutely maddening and insane and— He waits for the trains to pass and for the hoard of passengers to disperse. He actually tries to recapture her gaze, trying to imprint her appearance into his head so that he can remember exactly what shade of brown hair to look for; even against his own consent, his feet shift on their own, trying to see past everything and everything. In retrospect an unnecessary movement, since he's already a large beast compared to the averaged height person in New York. But as it all disperses before him, and he waits patiently for her form to reappear, he's momentarily shaken by the fact that nobody is standing at that spot.
His eyes widen, and he wildly looks to either side, hoping to catch her at the very least leaving. But he sees no one with those soft curls. Or those parted lips. He's stupefied in place, and though he still feels hollow, he's visibly shaken. So he leaves, and begins walking to his apartment. Ben doesn't look back.
He still has to unpack, anyways.
{ *** }
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UNTITLED
DRAFT #001
By: Ben Solo
The King can already feel a monstrous headache creeping up just from the sound of all this nonsense. The shadows that form beneath his weary eye bags pronounce at the bask of moonlight from the windows. The black tendrils of his hair graze his cheekbones sit like dead spiders; a dark and regal presence that bears the weight of his own crown like Jesus's thorned coronet, and his place of crucifixion is his own throne.
His Judas speaks. "They are making a mockery of Erste Bestellung!" The Head of The Royal Guard's words echo throughout the walls of the throne room, traveling beyond the corridors that trail to the castle's entrance. None of the other knights respond, keeping their heads low; not one single man has enough courage to so much as breathe when Hux, their commander, is ruddy in the face, cursing upon the Gods in the sky and back.
Sometimes, the King wonders if, indeed, Hux is deemed more appropriate for the title, rather than himself, from their reactions alone; he forgets how melodramatic his Royal Guard can be. One would think that he's the one being personally vilified, meanwhile Kylo Ren remains absolutely indifferent, chin resting at the base of his palm and his bored gaze directed to the floor. He sits on his throne like an uncaring onlooker; trapped in the scene that unfolds before him, without a real say in the matter. Radiating the royal aura cursed to him, but no more than only a puppet tied to the strings of what has already been decided for him in the preface of his birth; his reactions are only a mirror of whatever the Kingdom of Bestellung expects him to be, a prisoner beneath his own castle. His parents had tried to shelter him, too much, from the reality outside the Kingdom's walls; in their love, they had failed him tremendously.
He had become the very ruler that everyone fears and that everyone wants dead. But that's only because that was the only other option that was chosen for him. Kylo Ren never bothered to find out who he really was beneath his own hollow eyes. Neither his own father or mother bothered to ask him —who are you? and instead asked —why do you have his eyes? His alliance was already decided for him.
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{ *** }
He sighs and hurls the pen behind him, his fist poised just above the paper, itching to grab it and crumple it. He doesn't know why he stops himself from doing so, but he does. His brown eyes remain impassive at the words before him, the black pencil scratches seeming to mock him with their abundance in prose and length.
It's all nonsense.
His hand rubs against his eyes and forehead, and he decides that for now, the passage is enough. It's not like he's on a deadline this time; his first and only series of vignettes compiled into a single book, Within The Force, published 'success' was a joke at the time four years ago. He has no doubt it probably ended up in a five and a ten store for less than even that. It isn't so much the fact that he can't write, but that he never knows what to write about. In his world, thrown and locked away from since he was raised, he could be whatever he wanted; nevermind the fact that his parents didn't pay attention to his craft or even frowned upon it. He had perfected the art of overwriting his whole character, bleeding all his own internal struggles and make it a wondrous tragedy on paper; Kylo Ren is a King, a merciless ruler and the man who held a Kingdom's prowess in his fingertips. Whereas Ben Solo is struggling would be writer trying to ease his depression by living off a meager wage as a part time graveyard busman on the restaurant by Fifth Avenue.
The black finished rotary phone to his left —brrrrrriiiings to life, and he lets it ring at least two more times before picking up and holding it to his ear. He says nothing, and he waits patiently. Nevermind his bouncing knee and the chewing of his fingernail; he's not nervous. Really.
"Ben."
He doesn't reply to that.
"Ben. I know you're there. I can practically hear that knee shaking."
Still no response from him.
The older woman on the other line heaves a weary sigh. "You haven't called me."
"….I've no reason to."
"No reason to call your only mother? I find that a bit hard to believe."
"Well, believe it; because it's the only truth."
"Don't— You… you… Mm."
He raises a brow at her loss for words, and like only a mother can only do, she becomes annoyed quickly.
"Don't give me sass."
"I didn't even—"
"I said not to give me sass. Enough of this, it's been four months already… Just stop being a petulant child and come home already. We both mis—" her voice stops, catching herself in her mistake; whether they know it or not, they both flinch. "I miss you. I need you here."
"No, you don't. Enough of this, mother; stop fooling yourself. You don't need me. You never did." Bitterness seep through his words like sand through cracks.
She sucks in a breath. "You know that isn't true. You know it." Ben can hear her voice crack through quivering lips, and he hates himself for it.
But enough is enough.
"Do I? Because last I recall, you haven't called me just to 'talk' ever since I moved out of that godforsaken house fifteen years ago. And you know what? Maybe this is a good thing; maybe now you can realize just how fucked up this family really was without him—"
"Don't you dare finish that damn sentence. Benjamin Solo, don't you dare! It's because of your father you are alive and I'll not hear it from your blasphemous mouth to disrespect him in his grave just because you—"
"DON'T PRETEND YOU BOTH WERE THERE!"
His sudden outburst silences her, and he wishes he could take it back; but he's already lost himself too much in his own temper. Years of pent up frustration spill on their own accord despite his own best efforts. A shuddering breath expels from his chest painfully, and his hold on the phone is about the break it. "Don't… for a fucking second pretend that you didn't hire nanny after nanny to watch over me as soon as I was barely able to talk. Don't pretend that you didn't send me off to some private school when I was twelve. Don't pretend that you didn't let him influence your decision in sending me off to enlist in the army as soon as I was seventeen. Don't fucking pretend you were any more a part of my life as I was in yours."
She says nothing, but he can already imagine crystalized droplets falling onto the wooden floor beneath her feet. He can hear her regret laced in her tone, like she's trying to convince herself more than him. "….everything we did was for you… we loved you so much, we still do. Please.. please understand..." A part of him does understand, but it's overshadowed by all the bitterness of a child scorned by neglect from his own parents; he had to find solace in the safety of his own mind. "Despite everything, you're still our son… we're a family..."
"Not anymore." He says with finality; any chance of such a thing has already been shot along with Han's passing. He can hear her breath shudder over the line, but he doesn't relent despite the self-hate he develops with every passing second.
His mother was never one to waver in an argument, much less when it's personal. Her persistence would be endearing, had the circumstances been different. "I thought… I thought you two had… made up. That you resolved your differences when he was… approaching his final moments. Ben, he forgave you… I know he did."
There's a slight pause after that. "Perhaps he did. But I haven't." At that precise moment, neither know exactly to whom he hasn't forgiven. Whether it's his father…
Or himself.
"Benjamin—"
But whatever semblance of regret he may have just conveyed to his mother, even inadvertently, withers away as his stubborn resolve surfaces through, hardening his visage into a mask of indifference. "Don't call me again. You don't have a son." —click.
He basks in the twelve seconds of silence he's craved since the phone rang.
But it does nothing.
With a scream of rage, he throws everything off his desk, and chucks the phone across the room. He sits in silence for the rest of the day, crumpled over on his chair, hand plastered on his face. But he doesn't let himself cry. Not once. He falls asleep with nothing but his despair clawing at his insides like barbwire.
He'd have to make a note of that description later; it's more than suitable for Kylo Ren.
{ *** }
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"First, it's Her Late Majesty's parure, then it's His Late Majesty's ring, and now… now the thief has the sheer audacity to— to—!"
All this over my Uncle's bracelet. He decides that Hux's voice is exhausting and annoying. Kylo breathes a tired sigh, massaging his forehead with his gloved hand as he wordlessly commands Hux to be quiet with his other hand, waving him at him like he's a fly. With only a slight gesture, he summons Phasma to the front.
Without faltering in her steps, the Commanding Knight hands him an enclosed envelope. "This was found in place of your Late Majesty's possessions, your Highness." It's unopened, and he is immediately drawn to the grubby finger prints that flutter on the parchment like butterfly wings; his lip twitches when he catches the smallest whiff of honey, of all things. With flowing precision, he opens it effortlessly, and a breath hitches in the back of his throat:
Would you fancy scavenging some treasure? I can be your eyes, and you can be my wings.
But you're going to have to catch me first. Watch out for me.
Your crown will be next.
This isn't just some hit and run thievery, it's a vendetta. The words are meant to be mocking, a thinly veiled threat under the guise of a flirty cat and mouse game initiation; by the time he was meant to find this, the thief had already passed through the walls, which is exactly the scenario that's playing out. They had even used his ink. From his study. The thief is familiar with the interior of the castle's walls. With him. And he's been letting it happen right under his nose for the past four weeks. Kylo should be seething, he should be choking someone out of pure rage; it wouldn't be the first time he had done so. Because nobody has ever had the nerve to steal from Kylo Ren, unless they have a death sentence; and yet, in spite of all that, he catches himself, catches the muscles around his mouth trying to form upwards against his own consent. The last time he has ever felt such a need was when he was twelve; when his father had handed him his first, real, handcrafted sword, specifically made just for the golden child.
The Hel prince of the underworld that's been honed since before birth wants to be angry and vexed at the audacity of this thief. But underneath that mask and to his proper horror, he is entertained and eager.
He wants more.
His lower face is hidden from view behind the dirty, honey scented parchment, scorching and darkened eyes wretched with the added intensity of his silence. His men are staring, their breaths caught in their throats like sheep in the slaughter. So he plays the part, brown eyes flickering to all of them, to Hux, to Phasma.
...and he crumples the paper ever so slowly.
"Your Majesty…?"
The whites of his eyes flash dangerously in the darkness.
He opens his mouth to speak—
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{ *** }
Ben jolts from his slumber, mentally cursing at the interruption of his dream.
—bzzzzttttttt
Some idiot has forgotten their keys.
He can hear the landlord's buzzer going off from here. Ben tries to drown out the annoying buzzing from his ears by smothering himself into his pillow. His body aches, and he can faintly make out the slightest drizzle from the sound of droplets that plop against his window glass. His eyes tighten in an effort to fall back asleep; the last thing he wants right now is to be coherent. He should have drunk himself stupid right after talking to his mother. It certainly would help in this situation.
The sound continues on for a few seconds, stops, and then repeats...
bzzzzttttttt
...but why does it keep getting—
bzzZZZZZZzzttttttt
—louder—
bzzzzZZZZZZzzzzzttttttt
—and closer—
bzzzzZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTT
"Oh for FUCK'S sake!" he wrenches the sheets away, nearly falling over from the speed of the near whiplash he practically gave himself. —can't even get a damn break from my own damn head in my own flat…
Though the stranger on the other side of the door doesn't seem to have heard his outburst, for the damn buzzer is still going. "I'm coming… I said I'm coming, goddamnit!" He wipes the sleepiness from his eyes with a heavy hand, not much caring how unkempt or scruffy he looks; he hopes that his tired eyes and unkempt curls scare off the person who's robbing precious minutes from his sleep, from his next passage in the chapter. But he prefers the anger, the annoyance; it overpowers the guilt and the hurt that worms his way through his gut like slime. He lets his temper flare as the seconds pass, working enough brute, vigorous strength to almost haul his own door off its' hinges. He's about to unleash hell on the recipient; who knows, he may even feel up to slamming the door to the face once he finishes swearing and asking just what the fuck do you think people are doing at this time of day?
But whatever ball of rage he'd built up goes up in smoke when he sees who it is. It's nearly unmistakable, but his mind just can't quite process it.
—It's the girl from the subway, and his mind reels.
He gulps, for all the world feeling to him like it's the most audible thing in the confined space between them.
And yet, there she stands; with a slight, bemused smile on her face. If she recognizes him at all, she makes absolutely no indication of the fact, and it makes him feel ill. He doesn't know how he's so sure that it's the same person, and the self-doubt of that thought makes his insides lurch; what if he simply imagined everything? What if it never happened and now he's projecting onto this… this girl simply for the fact that shade of brown is unmistakable or because her face is just so familiar? What if he's truly gone mad?
"….—couldn't get the downstairs door open; they sent me the wrong key."
...say what?
He says nothing to give any indication that he's heard her, and it takes him a moment to realize he didn't hear her at all. Frankly, he's been standing here like an idiot, staring at her with blank eyes and a slight gaping mouth.
She should be put off by his strange behavior, but whether it's Ben's sleepy state or his own hallucination, to him, she looks to him like they're exchanging pleasantries.
He's…. he's getting embarrassed.
And, he realizes with newfound dread, that her eyes have not wavered from his; they're bold and bright, and he can't seem to really look away from them despite his best efforts. Ben can't seem to form any words, for his tongue is thick with uncertainty and, more importantly, sleep.
"Sorry about interrupting." She has a very… genuine smile, one that travels from the slope of her jaw to the crinkle of her hazel eyes, looking like she has absolutely no care in the world other than when her next spa appointment is going to be.
A green monster worms through his guts at the sight.
His hand vaguely gestures behind him, then to himself and then the hall, "...uhh...mm'sorry I— 'sleeping…" He can't even speak coherently. Coming to from his just waking up state, Ben is left more and more exposed to how truly embarrassing this whole situation is. He'd feel less awkward if she recoils from him, but this… girl is looking at him like she's holding back laughter, and his disheveled hair and ridden up shirt is not helping him in looking at all threatening or scary as he would have hoped, he now realizes.
Wait. His mind suddenly snaps. Wait… what did she— Realization dawns on him.
His neck and ears suddenly feel a little too warm for his liking. It all pieces together when he studies her face again; delicate eyebrows slightly raised and soft lips puckered to a slant like she's biting the inside of her cheek.
You have got to be—
Words seem to grasp his tongue again, thankfully. "I wasn't— you didn't interrupt anything. I was sleeping!" Why the words come out so unnaturally high pitched and cracked is beyond his own understanding, and it amplifies the warmth to his neck and ears even more.
That does little to convince her, and she chortles. Nobody chortles at him.
"I mean… it's okay, it's not like I'm judging; we all do it." She shrugs so casually, so easily.
Her words should not be eliciting unease in the magnitude they do, but they do. Ben huffs indignantly, eyebrows furrowing into a look of annoyance. "Look, kid— you didn't…. I was sleeping," he finds himself repeating the phrase, and it annoys him a lot more than it should.
"Sounds a lot like you're trying to convince yourself."
His fingers twitch at her remark. The nerve of this damn brat— "What are you— What would even give you that impression anyway?!"
The stony gaze she sets on him all too suddenly unnerves him; her flickering gaze examines him head to toe, not shy at all in the open display and he finds himself unconsciously recoiling ever so slightly at her boldness. She then raises an eyebrow like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and, without his consent, she peers her gaze to his room; it's messy, but the bed is absolutely atrocious. The sheets are rumpled, and, reluctantly, even he can admit that looking at the whole scenery a second time, does give the impression that the room has been… used.
Why is he feeling embarrassed for something he didn't even do? And even if he had, there shouldn't be shame or embarrassment or anything, right? Right? Ben feels like a damn teenager all over again; like all the times his mother would shuffle around his things, making sure he didn't have any hidden goods in possession.
"O-kay!" he places an arm on the doorframe with a loud thunk, —just a tad forcefully— blocking her line of sight and giving her a clear message of stop looking in my house you lunatic— "well, I am so glad we had this conversation. Kindly leave so I can—"
He's cut off by her laughter, and he's so very undignified. What makes matters worse is that her laugh is so sincere it shouldn't sound like honey or sensual in the least, and what is he even on right now—? The only proper response he can conjure up is to cast her with a blank look of utter disbelief once again. What is with this woman?! Is she crazy?
It takes for her laughter to subside and fade into amiable silence to realize just how much he already misses the gentle sound.
Maybe she's not the crazy one.
"Oh goodness; your face… wheeww, your face is just—" she wipes a legitimate tear from her eye, and Ben is utter shell shocked at the ridiculousness of this whole thing. And as if things couldn't be any more ludicrous, she holds out a delicate, gloved hand in his direction.
"I'm Rey; your new neighbor. I just moved in."
At those words and that impromptu introduction, his first instinct is pure venom wrapped in a bow along with sarcasm. Thanks for fucking humiliating me, but I appreciate the pleasant introduction; I'm Ben, by the way— His gaze flickers to her hand and then back up to her, and he lets himself take on the sight of her eyes. Her eyes aren't scary or wide open; but they're just too much for him. Too bold, too precocious and too damn observant. And unlike him, Rey's eyes do not flicker all around but him; they stare right at his, not daring, and not even challenging.
… inviting.
Rey doesn't repeat her introduction again, but she doesn't pressure him with further gestures or a raise of her brow; but she just… stands there and waits for him to take her hand, almost like a child would.
But something catches his eye, and he sees it plain as day next to her hip, within the grasp of her other hand:
Within The Force by Ben S.
The book, along with what he assumes is her boxcutter, sit perfectly nestled against her slim hip, and he can tell she has a firm grip on both items. He thinks his heart stops in that very second, and his head is filled with more questions than ever.
She has not moved an inch, but he feels cornered. It's too hard to breathe and his mouth twitches at his own discomfort. He does what's perfectly logical for a man of thirty-four to do in that moment:
Without a word and a loud scoff, Ben slams the door in her face.
On the other side of the door, he's more than surprised that he counts out exactly 60 seconds for her steps to retreat.
That same hour, he tries to imagine what it would have been like to actually shake her hand, and maybe even ask her if she likes to take the subway periodically or why the hell she has a copy of his stupid book?!
But for the next oncoming days, his dreams are not of reliving his father's death or delving into the story of Kylo Ren.
It's of hazel and emboldened eyes staring at him from across the subway rails.