destroy what destroys you.

          a flicker of ears, and he hears the stirrings somewhere in the house. it’s not loud, but it’s enough to make him lick his lips, jaws falling open. cason has long abandoned his human form in an effort to keep himself from his emotions ever since the witch had disappeared. but there’s hope now, a spark of it that stirs in his chest as he slinks from the corner of the room. he hangs low, like a predator hunting, ears pinned forward as he moves. his teeth even bare a little, just in case it isn’t who he’s hoping for.

          it’s foolish to hope, and he knows it.

          creeping forward, he makes his way ever closer to the room, only to draw his vulpine-like head upward, a noise of surprise in his throat as he sees the very familiar form in front of him.

    But then he had met Cason -- darling Cason, with his own set of troubles, and who better to fall in with than someone who also had an affliction that forced seclusion from the outside world? If Kylo had ever taken the time to fully explain himself to the other, it might have been perfect. Only, how does one start such a conversation? How to explain the follies of his youth? How to explain the struggles of his present?

    How could he have told the man he loved that he was never quite alone in his own head, in his own body? That at any given moment during their time together, there was another voice, whispering to him, criticizing him? 

    That it was only a matter of time until this body was theirs? 

    Those problems are not fixed -- only delayed. He’ll have to face that voice eventually. He doesn’t know, yet, what the outcome will be on the day that he does so. But he does know that he couldn’t have gone another day in the quiet of his own home, and finally, the fear of doing so forever had been greater than the fear of explaining himself to Cason.

    So here he is, in the man’s home, bustling about his kitchen as if nothing has changed. There’s the soft scent of freshly chopped herbs, gathered from the woods. Something simmers on the stovetop, fresh vegetables from his own garden, a sauce almost finished. It smells like warmth, smells like home, smells very faintly of the witch’s magic. 

    With his sleeves rolled up, there is evidence of some changes -- black bands, tattoos, wrap his wrists like shackles. He looks paler even than usual, and a touch thinner than normal.

    It’s to be expected. He hasn’t been well. 

    The noise is so small, he almost misses it -- would have, in fact, were it not for the fact that he has been so anxiously awaiting this moment. For a moment, he stops his motions entirely -- and then he turns to face the wolf in the doorway.

It’s dark by the time he gets home. Hux supposes it’s always dark this time of year, and the combination of lab finals and grading papers because one of his TA’s is out sick (painfully convenient, really, all things considered) has kept him on campus later and later. He works on keeping his thoughts of Kylo out of his head during the day, although they have a tendency to creep back at the most inopportune moments. Layers of skin, peeled back to reveal the bone and flesh beneath, students dutifully taking notes, and all he can think of is the delicate, iridescent flesh of Kylo’s wrist beneath his, the sluggish heartbeat. A student with complicated plaits in her hair, and he yearns to do the same with Kylo’s, to doll him up, to make him perfect in a way only they understand. Sometimes he catches the eyes of a student, and they look at him the way Kylo did, before. When he was still Ben, still just a nothing who didn’t know his own potential.

Still, he tries not to dwell on those thoughts, tries to keep the anxiety about leaving Kylo alone for so long at bay. It’s rare, in the winter, for him to find Kylo too far out in the woods, but he also knows that the earth calls to him in ways Hux will never understand. Hux doesn’t think he wants to understand either. He likes his world clean and neat and orderly, but he cannot begrudge Kylo his little quirks, especially not after he’s given him so much and asked for so little in return.

“Love?” he calls out, voice echoing in the halls. The house is too big, but he wants room for Kylo to wander. He wants with everything in him to make this less of a house, to let Kylo make it a home. Millicent curls around his feet as he attempts to take his shoes off, and he gently but firmly scoots her over. Anxiety claws at him, and he finds himself hoping against hope that Kylo hasn’t made a mess again. He understands, as much as he can understand this sort of thing. The gnawing need for release, for escape. Part of him sympathizes, but not enough that Hux is willing to let him go fulfill that need.

Instead, he has taken to exploring. The house is much too large for just two...people and a cat, but Hux says it is theirs, and so Kylo tries to learn it, when he can stand to be inside of it. It’s not that he dislikes being here. There are soft things here. Hux is kind to him. 

But Ben gets lonely, out there in the graveyard alone. Kylo likes to sit with him. To dig his fingers into the damp earth. To dig and dig and dig and...

There is a crack in a window in the upper floor of the house. The wind howls just outside, frigid, and Kylo can feel the cold tendrils of it on his skin.

The house is not warm, but neither is it cold. Not like the wind. Not like him.

His hands press to the broken glass, as if he could seal the wind out simply by covering it. Instead, he feels a slight sting. 

He thinks it’s the cold, until he pulls his hand back, and sees the dark smear on the window, not quite red, and not quite brown. 

There are a lot of not-quites about him.

Sometimes, things happen that Kylo doesn’t understand. His thoughts feels sluggish; the winter always slows him down, makes it harder for him to connect what should be obvious dots. His eyes slide between the window, and his hand, trying to understand how this had happened.

Thoughtlessly, he brings his palm to his mouth, heavy tongue dragging along the thin seam, smearing the dark color at the corner of his lips, and across the pale of his hand.

It tastes wrong. Nothing like the last thing he had sank his teeth into. That had felt right. It had been warm, so warm, for just a moment, warm outside, and warm inside, when he’d swallowed, and it had been so, so red.

The stairs creak. There’s a voice.

For just a moment, he feels his lips peel back, feels his teeth bare.

Love?

Hux.

Are you up here?

The tension bleeds from his body, and he unfolds himself from the pool of lace and skirts he has created on the floor. A docile sort of smile slips to his face, the earlier wrongness forgotten. It’s hard to remember what all is wrong when Hux is here.

He appears at the top of the stairs. No grave dirt sullies his gown or his feet this time -- but blood remains on the window, on his hand, on his mouth.