A/N: AU in which Hux and Ben were sent to an unaffiliated, independent boarding school in the Outer Rim (instead of to the Academy or to Luke, respectively).

They sit near each other under the tree with the pink leaves, and Hux tries to find something to say. He knows, whatever it is, he has to say it quick: the gangly mass of limbs and black hair next to him always scarfs down his sandwich in under ten minutes or so before getting up to go inside the main school building. Hux wonders if Ben ever gets much sun, although how pale and vaguely sickly his skin looks seems to give him a clear answer. Hux wonders a lot of things about this boy—maybe that's why he's had this urge to say something to him. Maybe that's why he was going to speak up today.

"Ben," he says suddenly, not much more than a squeak.

Ben stops mid-chew, his sandwich almost finished, and barely turns his head in Hux's direction. "Yes?" he responds, the tone totally unclear to Hux. Annoyance? Curiosity? If anything, the only thing Hux picks up is a sense of practiced neutrality—something Hux still wishes he can perfect.

"How...how are you today, Ben?"

"Fine?" It's definitely confusion, now.

"Good." Hux decides that's good enough for today, that this won't get any farther. He tries to get back to his own sandwich, tracing the imaginary border where the crust used to be.

But Ben apparently doesn't agree. "Why?"

Hux doesn't understand the question, and regrets ever getting into this whole thing. "Is being good not fine?"

"No. Why are you asking me?"

All Hux can muster is, "It's standard small-talk."

Ben scoffs at this and is silent for a few moments, setting what's left of his sandwich down on the grass in front of him impulsively. Hux shudders inside thinking about how unsanitary that must be, but is refocused when Ben speaks again, his dark eyes fixed intently on Hux's. "Bren—Hux—you haven't spoken to me since we were freshmen. Besides, no one makes small-talk."

Hux's embarrassment begins to give way to a vague sense of annoyance, and he retorts crisply, "We are acquainted with one another, and usually one does start a conversation with pleasant small-talk—"

"Yeah, we're acquainted. That's about it. We were fourteen," Ben interrupts. "We're seventeen now. We're graduating from this fucking place."

Now Hux is the one who's entirely confused, this time about why Ben is having as strong a reaction to his...well, Hux isn't sure exactly what that how are you was supposed to be. He thinks about escalating this further, but knows it wouldn't do any good. It's bad tactics, especially remembering that Ben has an infamously bad temper: Hux was as far removed from the proverbial sewing circles as anyone at the Drem'il School could be, but their senior class was small, and even he heard stories of what Ben was like when he was mad.

Hux deliberately raises his hands in apology. "I'm sorry, Ben. I just wanted to...well, as you said, we're graduating. I don't think any person could blame me for trying to be friendly in the face of that."

This seems to work, as Hux notices Ben's chest rising and falling at a something-closer-to-normal rate. "I know," Ben says. "Sorry, I just..." Ben looks at Hux strangely, almost as if prompting him to interject. Not knowing what to say, though, Hux says nothing. Ben's eyes continue to dart around in Hux's direction for a few more seconds, considering wherever it was his sentence was going. "It's just...things are, uh, well, things are definitely stressful," Ben says, and he chuckles softly at that word, stressful. "And, I mean...I guess I just...well, I just thought it was weird that you don't say a thing to me for like, three years, and then you just sit next to me today and want to make small-talk. I guess I'm just kind of...well, you know I don't have friends here, so I don't know why you'd just..."

"I don't really speak to people here, either, Ben."

A smirk creeps across Ben's face, conspiratorial. It's the first time in a long time Hux remembers seeing him smile—and Hux would remember. "You know, that's fair. I guess we're both losers here. Which I guess is saying something at a place like this," Ben says, and gestures to the campus around them.

"The Drem'il School is a reputable school in the galaxy, Ben—"

"It's a boarding school founded by some Human-Ferroan hybrid, on some random planet in the Outer Rim, where one of its claims to fame is being factionless and unaffiliated with any potentially dangerous elements. It's not a total shithole, maybe, but this isn't where people who are destined to greatness get sent."

That last part stings Hux, travelling all up and down his spine, a tingling feeling spreading out along the skin on his back. His instinct is to quickly rebut Ben, and he can already feel a slight flush in his face, but there's something in the way Ben said it that didn't seem accusatory—not like what he's used to hearing from his father. Instead, Hux takes a breath and looks up at the bright sky between the pale pink of the leaves. "At least the trees are beautiful," he says suddenly, without much thought at all.

Ben looks up in turn, and considers the tree. He glances around at other ones nearby. "I guess they are," he says. "Different than what you normally see, I guess." Then he adds with a grin, "Loser trees."

Hux feels his own lips curl into a slight smile, too. He'd wager that he smiles less frequently even than Ben, at least in public. Maybe that's what motivated him to start this whole awkward morass of a conversation—that, and Ben's eyes looking at him intently, maybe, or possibly how fast his chest rises and falls. Hux can't speak with any certainty. "Yes," he says. "I'm sure they're all going to go on to spectacular failures of careers—"

"Or no careers at all," Ben adds.

Hux cocks his head at this. "No career?"

"Well, I don't exactly see myself becoming the Chancellor of the Republic, you know?"

Hux is profoundly amused by this. "No," he says. "Neither do I."

Ben rolls his eyes. "Please," he says. "You seem like exactly the type."

A nearly imperceptible amount of graveness creeps into Hux's tone. "I'm no politician." Something in him wants to say more, but that same something also remembers his father's extensive list of instructions about what he could and could not say at school. He remembers how much easier it became to simply say nothing. Hux prays to himself that Ben won't press him.

Luckily, if he wants to probe any further, Ben shows no sign of it. "Neither is anyone," he says absently, staring at the sandwich and the grass surrounding it in front of his crossed legs. Hux wonders if Ben actually means anything by saying this—judging by how his lips moved when he said it, it's unlikely.

They sit for a few minutes like this—Hux looking at Ben looking at the ground. As he looks, certain things about Ben become increasingly vivid for Hux: something about the way he folds his arms in his lap seems oddly delicate to Hux, pleasant. He also takes note of Ben's curved back—the ridges of his spine barely noticeable under his uniform as they curve from the base of his neck down toward his tailbone—and how greatly the posture differs from his own, how much more relaxed it seems. Ben itches the side of his face, and Hux sees the same gentleness that he does when Ben's hands are down. It's strange to Hux to see this boy—so awkward he seems to be cobbled together, and so easy to anger—with a strange kind of grace. Although he's to be a general, and nuance is not a general's ally, Hux can't help but find this tension endearing, intoxicating.

Intoxicating. The word floats by in Hux's consciousness, and suddenly things seem to thunk into place. Although his father would not begin his Academy training until he got a standard education, Hux remembers some of the basic principles he picked up secondhand—including a disdain for drunkenness and intoxication as dreadfully inefficient and dangerous states of being. And, Hux knows, this includes a disdain for this kind of intoxication he's experiencing right now. This, too, is inefficient to the reproductive process. Although Hux had been aware of such moments with other boys, they were never the sort that he'd ever imagine being friendly with—and so things still made sense. But today, Hux realizes, looking at and talking to Ben makes him feel more than just intoxicated—it's pleasant. He realizes that, in terms of following the Commandant's rule, he's a loser. And it feels good.

For a moment, Hux wonders whether this is why he had never spoken to him more than those few times freshman year. But then his attention is called away when he notices his watch: nearly time for the school's allotted lunch period to end. Ben has apparently noticed this too, as he rises to a kneel, and then to his feet, picking up the sandwich. Almost instantaneously, Hux rises too, a familiar sense of panic—whenever he feels the potential for failure near—spreading through his veins.

"Okay," Ben says with a shrug, a placid smile on his face. "I guess I'll talk to you later, then? We'll see each other at lunch tomorrow, definitely, anyway?"

"Yes, certainly," Hux barely gets out.

Ben nods and starts to turn to go, when Hux finally gets just the right amount of courage to interrupt.

"Ben."

When he stops and turns to Hux, Hux doesn't know exactly how to say it. "I, uh..." Hux says, openly lost for words for the first time. "I...thank you for the talk, Ben. I, uh...well, I look forward to talking to you again, soon." Hux knows he's beet red, and he can see plainly that Ben knows exactly what's going on in his head: another rare smile is painted on Ben's face.

Ben quickly embraces Hux, saying nothing. Hux feels the wind rush out of him, shocked, before he instinctively returns the hug. After a few seconds, the hug breaks up.

"Thank you, too," Ben says—with a bit of color in his own pale cheeks, Hux thinks he sees—and speeds off.

Now smiling, himself, Hux can imagine the scorecard in his head: HUX -1. But, watching Ben walk away, Hux doesn't care. All he can do is blush and smile.

Above him, a breeze makes the pink leaves dance.