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"He's still angry about Skywalker," Hux growls as he lowers himself into the tub on shaky limbs. "The fool. Can't he see there's nothing to be done about it?"
The question hangs there as pointless as fog on a mirror, answered only by the drip of the faucet, the sharp gasp that cuts across the room when Hux's hip kisses the water. His entire left side from the peak of his shoulder to mid-thigh is a bouquet of purples and yellows, painful enough to look at but harder to imagine bearing on one's own, though Hux does an admirable job of it. He makes it almost to the bottom this time but slips suddenly, his body kicking up waves that crash against the walls of the tub and soak the thin fabric of Mitaka's undershirt. Mitaka scrambles to readjust his grip—one hand tucked beneath Hux's armpit, the other cupping his elbow—careful not to squeeze too tightly while he helps ease him down the remainder of the way.
Both the tub and the 'fresher tiles are a deep black, speckled with shimmering flecks of chrome, and no matter how often he's done this, Mitaka always feels as if he's guiding Hux into some starry abyss, willfully watching his pale figure being swallowed by the darkness. He holds onto him until his muscles stop twitching and his body begins to relax, until clutching him for another second would be too awkward to explain away, though Hux never asks and Mitaka knows that he's committed far worse sins without reproach. As he draws his hand back, he taps his fingers on a relatively safe spot by Hux's ribs, to prove to himself that something still exists beneath the surface. Content with what he finds, he shakes off the excess water and wipes the rest on his trouser leg.
His other hand lingers by Hux's elbow, trembling anxiously as it searches for an excuse to stay. Mitaka looks to him for even a hint of approval, but Hux's eyes are pointed towards the ceiling, his head resting against the tile wall, neck angled to display the crown of bruises that encircles it. His jewel is a garnet crack that splits his bottom lip on the right, the origin of which he'd been unwilling to divulge. Shying away from the sight, Mitaka decides to test his restraint with a feather-light brush of fingertips across Hux's forearm. When Hux doesn't respond, he boldly continues on, gliding over delicate skin and downy hairs, exploring every last inch as though trying to recall a memory that should have been familiar by now.
The problem is that wherever he looks, there are new obstacles in his way: Scabs strewn across his path, marks to be circumnavigated, a knobbish wrist that had been fractured and pieced back together too often for comfort. He's barely grazed the ridge of Hux's knuckles when Hux quietly slides his hand out from beneath his palm and slips it into the water. Mitaka's fingers stutter for a moment, but he quickly gets them moving again, reaching to the corner ledge of the tub for the washcloth and bar of soap as if that had been his intent from the start. With a muted sigh, he leans forward and dips both into the water, rubs them together vigorously to work up a good lather.
"You shouldn't push him, Sir," he comments, once he's found his voice. "You know how he is."
"It's been nearly three months. He needs to stop acting like a petulant child." Hux's knees jut out above the waterline like two barren islands, patches of red sand where there should have been white, where Hux had stubbornly refused to apply bacta and Mitaka had quit pressing the issue after about thirty minutes of arguing. "The future of the Order is at stake," he rasps. "If it were me—"
"It's not, Sir," Mitaka pleads, unable to look at Hux's throat for more than a few seconds. "I'm sorry, but it's not."
"It could have been," Hux persists. "It still can be—"
"Sir, please." He plunges the soapy washcloth beneath the water in frustration, splashing even more of it against his already damp shirt. Ripples of anger spread and subside, tears evaporate before they have permission to fall. Swallowing hard, Mitaka calmly stirs the bubbles with his hand, then sets the bar of soap down and reaches for Hux's left heel. "Lift your leg."
Hux obeys quietly, flexing his toes as Mitaka begins working the cloth in soft circles against the arch of his foot. He tackles them one at a time, then moves on to Hux's ankle, continues upward to his slender calf and skinned knee, sinewy thighs that could wrap around a man's waist and squeeze the breath from him with surprising ease. He tries not to think about it, focuses instead on the sound and feel of the bathwater sloshing around his wrist, the way his fingers tense as they creep closer to Hux's groin.
He stops there and places Hux's leg back into the water before taking a moment to re-lather the washcloth. Hux presents his other without prompting, and Mitaka dutifully starts over. He's just finished scrubbing the crevices between his toes when he hears, "You stopped getting undressed. You're going to make a mess of your uniform, you know."
"You stopped chiding me about it," Mitaka replies flatly. For two weeks now, he'd done this while still dressed in his boots, trousers and undershirt, and Hux hadn't said a word. There was a time it seemed he would harp on these things until Mitaka's ears felt ready to fall off: "The wool will get ruined;" "You'll scuff up the tile;" "Of course you can fit, you just aren't trying hard enough." Mitaka cracks a smile as he recalls how Hux had once spent the entirety of his bath worrying over his knees becoming sore from kneeling on the floor too long. "At least get yourself a pillow so we both don't end up sporting bruises."
The echo of his voice is bittersweet; the rusted scab on his knee, with its white, water-bloated edges, makes Mitaka's smile wilt instantly. "I suppose it isn't that important," he breathes. "There will always be more uniforms."
Hux answers with a nasal hum—whether in annoyance or agreement, Mitaka can't tell—and allows his leg to be lowered again, positions it so Mitaka can easily clean the inside of his thigh. Only this time, Mitaka doesn't stop short but continues to slide his hand toward his genitals, gently rubbing the cloth around his flaccid penis and scrotum and delving into the sensitive space underneath.
This particular task never ceases to remain awkward for him, despite the knowledge that he'd touched Hux here before, and with much less than a washcloth between them. He casts a glance in Hux's direction, sees his eyes fall shut and hears him groan low in his throat, and hurriedly moves upwards, traversing a thatch of copper-colored hair on the way to his stomach. As Mitaka peers into the clouded water, he thinks the skin there looks less sickly than usual, though it could simply be wishful thinking, or a common trick of the lights.
"How is your abdomen?" He asks.
"Oh, about as good as it can be. All things considered."
Mitaka slows his hand, blinking nervously at the ripples below. "A—A conference table, you said?"
Hux laughs. "Petty Officer Arret's workstation. Our Supreme Leader didn't like my remarks regarding the funding for his new superweapon, so he threw me across it. In front of everyone else on the bridge."
Mitaka hadn't realized how tightly he'd been clutching the edge until he reaches to retrieve the soap again and feels his fingers prickle in the open air. He never should have mentioned it, not even as starved as he was for conversation, as badly as he longed to draw the shame from Hux's voice and drown it in the depths of the tub.
He lathers up the washcloth before returning to bathe Hux's chest, but each blemish, every twinge of pain tugs at his mind like threads connecting one nightmare to another. "You..." Mitaka hesitates, biting his lip. "Next time you could—"
"No," comes Hux's emphatic reply. "I won't send you to him again. You're not as indispensable to his cause as I am."
"I understand, Sir," he says in a hushed breath. "Please lift your arms for me."
Slowly, Hux pushes himself into a sitting position and holds out his right arm. They've made it an unspoken habit to begin with the better of the pair, and this half is spotless by comparison—one oblong set of bruises on his bicep, a darker blotch at his wrist, chafed palm where his own nails had bitten through the skin. Mitaka cleans all of it as delicately as he would Hux's more tender parts, then repeats the process on his left, his hands moving with a smoothness that he was sorry to say he'd come to master.
"You're healing nicely," he remarks. "Even without bacta."
Hux scoffs at such an obvious lie, pulling his arm from Mitaka's grasp before Mitaka has the chance to rinse the soap from it. "Don't—" He starts to say, but his lips tremble around the word and his eyes sink to the water below, his anger dissolving in a dull whisper.
"Please don't."
Mitaka watches in stunned silence as Hux's hands slide up his shins and clasp the space just beneath his tattered knees. When he draws his chest towards them, one thick, disobedient lock of hair falls across his forehead, begging Mitaka to reach out and sweep it back into place.
He looks down at the rag balled up in his fist, the pruned fingers that never seemed to dry out or lose their selfish twitch. Banishing any other stupid ideas he might have, he leans over and brings the washcloth to Hux's upper back.
Some of the purple from his throat had bled around to the nape of his neck, a sobering reminder of all the times Hux had lamented his genetics, and Mitaka had thoughtlessly laughed and asked why he would ever want to be rough with him in the first place. Each bump in his spine is another memory, another hurdle for Mitaka to mount; he traces them down to the very end, then follows their curve back up, desperation hidden under the slow drag of the cloth.
"They all look at me differently now." Hux mumbles, the pith of his voice thick and foreign, like he'd swallowed a mouthful of bathwater.
Mitaka wrinkles his nose at both the statement and the sallow flesh covering his ribs. "Who does?"
"The officers. The 'troopers. The entire crew." He shifts his hips so Mitaka can clean between his cheeks. "Even you, Dopheld."
Half-numb, Mitaka plunges his other hand into the bath and rubs the last traces of soap from the washcloth. "I don't, Sir." At least, he tries not to. It was hard when he'd spent his days and nights watching his once proud commanding officer wither away like a flower in drought. When he'd stared at the starlit silhouette of his back as he sat on the edge of their bed at 0300 hours, or listened to him bark orders across the bridge, his pale green eyes clinging to what little fire remained inside of them.
He lifts the cloth above Hux's shoulders and wrings it tightly. "I don't," he echoes, gazing at the water that cascades over his skin and recalling what it had once looked like, under its ugly mosaic of black and blue. "I wouldn't."
Hux huffs. "You were always a bad liar."
"Come," Mitaka says softly, "let's wash your hair now." He tosses the still-dripping rag to the floor, hoping for some sort of rebuff but receiving only silence. There's a small part of him that vows to stop expecting so much, to count what he has, what he can get. Hux has been talkative today, his words a weight bearing down on Mitaka's back, but they were there nonetheless. And for all the hurt they'd caused, Mitaka would greatly accept it tenfold. At least it would show that Hux had some bite left in him.
He's still sitting motionless when Mitaka turns around with the bottle of shampoo in hand, his chin resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the tiled wall opposite him. Gripping the edge of the tub, Mitaka pulls himself up and slides over to perch atop the corner, gives his aching legs a good stretch before popping the cap and squeezing a large dollop into his palm. It's a delicate, floral scent, something oddly exotic and distinctively Hux, a fragrance that Mitaka could breathe in as readily as if it were oxygen. He taps Hux on the shoulder to signal that he's ready, then reaches for the pitcher he'd set aside when he'd filled the tub earlier.
It takes a minute, but Hux eventually sits up again, tipping his head back so Mitaka can pour some of the clean water over his hair. Once he's finished, Mitaka sets it down on the floor and gently works his fingers through Hux's damp locks.
"Your hair has grown a little. You should get it trimmed."
Hux closes his eyes and gives a quiet hum. "Perhaps. I'll consider it."
Mitaka frowns. It was challenging enough to convince him to shave most mornings and eat something other than wheat biscuits and bitter tea. "I could do it for you, if you'd like."
"What do you know about cutting hair?" He snorts.
"I know enough to try, Sir."
Hux's eyes slowly blink open, their crystal green tinged with a faint shade of red. "You don't call me 'Armitage' anymore."
The sound of that name, like the distant crackle of static, stops Mitaka's fingers dead in their tracks. "I...I never really did. We both agreed—"
"You used to, on occasion," Hux interjects. "When we were alone." He swallows. "When I asked you to." His lips part slightly, and for the briefest of moments Mitaka can see himself bending down and smothering them with his own, sucking the sorrow from Hux's lungs as he'd attempted to do so many times over. He tastes it at the back of his throat when he inhales, feels it slither around his brain and tighten like a vise as he reluctantly tries to let the thought drift off.
Below, Hux flashes him a pleading look and sniffles. "My neck is starting to hurt."
"I-I'm sorry." Mitaka's hands slip downward one painful inch at a time, until both wrists are submerged in the chalky depths of the tub. A quick shake has them clean enough to allow him to cup his palm under Hux's jaw, giving his head a bit of support while he carefully rinses the foam from his hair. He leaves just enough in the pitcher to avoid needing to refill it, the few steps it would take to reach the head of the tub too great a distance, too long a time to pass away from Hux's side.
Tiny beads of water trickle like raindrops over his back, nourishment for nothing except Mitaka's wistful stare. He fumbles one-handed for the bottle of conditioner, and eventually succeeds in capturing something slim and cylindrical. It's the same shape, the same sweet-smelling scent as Hux's shampoo, but although Mitaka is convinced he could do this blindfolded, he ends up checking the label three times before finally pouring some into his palm and slicking Hux's hair with it. His fingers carve out smooth, even rows of orange, and try as he might, he can't resist picking up a lock and flicking his thumb over the tip, admiring its texture and color as though seeing it for the first and last time.
A faint rattle licks at his ears, a shudder of air being pulled through quivering lips. "Do you pity me, Dopheld?" Hux asks with a tremor in his voice. "Is that why you stay? Why you do this for me?"
Every part of Mitaka's body seems to run hot and cold all at once. "O-Of course not, S—" He stumbles, tries to turn it back around. "I—I never—"
Never thought their paths would lead them here. Never imagined he'd be capable of carrying so much pain inside himself. Had never wanted for anything but to see Hux smiling back at him, to hold him in his arms without the fear that his heart might break.
He'd almost lost him once already, visions of his demise streaking across the bridge's viewport with the shimmering debris that had been their greatest achievement, crisp and clear in his mind even now. He remembers rushing to the nearest public 'fresher, locking himself inside one of the stalls and crying so hard his shirt collar became wet. Not stopping until the comm system blared the announcement that the General's shuttle had docked in Bay 5, and all parties on board were reported safe. So many times, Mitaka had told himself that he should be happy just to have Hux back alive. And yet he couldn't stop hurting, couldn't stop wanting—begging—for something more.
Bleary-eyed, he blinks past the husk of a man that sits before him, to what he's seen, what he's felt, what he knows to be there: Laughter in bed and warm hands beneath the covers. Songs that ring out above the hiss of the shower, secrets that light a fire in their cheeks, stories that never grow old. Gentle lips that caress the moles on his face with a tenderness he'd only dreamed of.
A tongue sharp as a blade, insults scathing. Tense shifts on the bridge and sleepless nights at work, early mornings spent arguing over caf and hot cereal. Another wasted opportunity, another ounce of breath that could have been saved for more important words.
"No," he finally replies. "You've never needed pity."
"What, then?" Hux spits mockingly, angling his neck so Mitaka can rinse off the conditioner. "What do I deserve, if not pity?"
The empty pitcher drops into the bath with a dull splash, sleek metal swallowed up by a wave of bubbles and the mist that floods Mitaka's eyes. "Someone to love you."
"And I suppose you're that person?"
He smoothes the hair from Hux's forehead with his palm, trailing his gaze over the lines on his face where tears had fallen and dried. "Do you really need to ask that?"
They stare at each other in the silence left behind by Mitaka's question, out of answers, out of commiserations. Out of time. Prying himself from the edge of the tub, Mitaka grabs one of the towels hanging to his left and turns to Hux, though his arms shake too much to offer it properly. "The water will be getting cold soon."
Hux doesn't respond. He's let his hands slip from around his legs, his eyes fixed on some unknown point beyond them—quiet and still as a statue, had statues not been burdened with the need to breathe. Mitaka tries again, this time sinking to his knees beside the tub, back to the place where they started, where they'd always seemed to end up. But he can't convince his hands to move, can't open his mouth to speak or look at Hux's hollow face without feeling something sharp and heavy crash inside of him.
He clenches his eyes tight, but he can't hold it back any longer.
The soft splashing of water sounds a thousand kilometers away; the voice that brushes his ears a speck of dust on the breeze. "Please don't cry now. I didn't mean what I said."
"I-I'm sorry," Mitaka sputters under a river of tears. "I wish—I wish I could help you."
"But you do help me," Hux insists. "What do you think—"
"No—I mean—I wish I could make things better. Make it go away. All of this."
"Dopheld, you do make it better."
"I—but—how—"
"Look at me, Dopheld."
On command, Mitaka slowly raises his head, blinks until the finer details start to drip into frame, until he's met by the somber glow of red-rimmed eyes, the sparkle of a teardrop that trickles down Hux's cheek and clings stubbornly to his jaw as he speaks.
"You do. You always do."
Mitaka sniffles, choking back the glob of mucous that had formed in his throat, the part of himself he'd grown to doubt—a pinprick of light that had only expanded with each new constellation scattered across Hux's skin. Drawing a ragged breath, he untangles his fist from the towel on his lap and reaches out a cautious hand, lets it hover dangerously close to Hux's face.
"May I?"
Hux gasps, "Please."
Timid fingertips brush the small droplet by his chin, painting a damp trail along his jawline, over the pale dot of a mole, the bristly border of sideburns. He cups Hux's cheek in his palm and watches his plush lips purse to let out a sigh. And suddenly, he finds himself unable to resist.
Edging forward, he kisses him softly on the corner of his mouth, far from the split that mars the opposite side. He'd been so desperate, so starved for this, his heart nearly stops when Hux turns and slides his tongue between his lips, as hot and sweet as Mitaka had always remembered it. Wet hands come up to cradle his face, fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer. Mitaka ignores the building pressure of the tub against his stomach and allows himself to be devoured in a hungry kiss, slipping his free hand into the water and clutching at the small of Hux's back as if his body were his only ledge, the one thing to keep him from plunging headfirst into the darkness below.
"Will you take me to bed now?" Hux half-mumbles into his open mouth, his fingers still cinched tightly, unwilling to let go.
Breaking away from him—even for a second—is the furthest thing from Mitaka's mind; nevertheless, he makes a basic attempt at politeness, manages to pull back just far enough to gaze into Hux's glassy eyes. "Are you tired?" He asks, licking his lips and trying to hide his disappointment in a torrent of heavy breathing. "I—I can get your—sleep aids if—"
"I don't want any bloody sleep aids, I want you, Dopheld." Hux lunges to kiss him again, but Mitaka deftly turns his head, moist lips skidding across his cheek.
"A-Are you sure? You're not too sore or—"
"Phel."
Mitaka eases back at the sting of fresh tears, his brain struggling to process the last time Hux had whispered that—only once, in the hazy hours of morning, when their bodies were tangled together and their minds swam in a sea of exhaustion. He watches Hux's lips tremble into a frown, feels his palms trail down the sides of his neck and his fingers trace the curves of his ears, a luxury he'd missed so badly it almost hurts.
"Please," Hux urges, "I just want to pretend we can be like we used to."
Closing his eyes, Mitaka leans in and kisses him again, soft and tender and hopeful. When they finally separate, he exhales all of his apprehension in one long, uninterrupted breath.
"We don't need to pretend."
His skin tastes of soap and salt, all the things Mitaka had missed these past few months, sensations at the tips of his fingers, just out of reach: A tickle of wet hair against his nose; the fleshy nub of an earlobe between his teeth. Nails on his back and a pulsing hardness grazing the inside of his thigh each time Hux arches his hips off the mattress in an attempt to close the small gap separating the two of them.
He's being cautious, though he knows exactly where to kiss, where to touch, how best to navigate the minefield spread out beneath him while still giving Hux the pleasure he deserves. He drags lips along his jaw and around the purplish spots on his neck, slides his hand from his hair and weaves a jagged path down his side, pausing to suckle at his collarbone, to tease the tiny bud of a nipple with the pad of his thumb.
Hux's gasps are a forgotten melody, played out in a clench of fingers, a clumsy stutter of palms on his shoulders. They grow sharper, increasingly desperate as Mitaka slinks lower, gliding over paperlike skin and sinewy muscles, until his feet hang off the bed and his face is nestled in a damp tangle of unkempt curls.
He could drown here in the scent of him, gorge himself on the memories of sweat and musk that lurk just below that floral mist. The heat of Hux's erection burns a hard line against his cheek, but he nudges it aside in favor of lapping at the hairs surrounding it, chasing their taste up to the wispy trail that ends at his navel.
When he finally takes him into his mouth, the strangled cry Hux lets out is so wanton and lovely, it buzzes across his lips like an electric current.
"Oh...Oh, Dopheld. Pfassk…"
Hands shoot to the back of his head, fingers twisted in his hair, trapping him in a frantic tug-of-war once Hux starts rocking in and out. For all his eagerness, Mitaka is sadly out of practice, gagging around his length until Hux takes pity and draws him back to his lips for soothing round of moist kisses. They're equal parts enticing and fulfilling, yet the longer their tongues intertwine, the more insatiable Mitaka becomes. Shifting his weight to one side, he slips his hand between Hux's thighs and gingerly presses back, brushing two fingertips over his delicate furl.
"I want to taste you here," he groans, with a drag of teeth on Hux's chin. "I don't mind that you've stopped waxing."
Hux's bruised throat bobs in a rough swallow, the only acknowledgment he gives before pushing himself onto his elbows and quietly moving to turn over. Without a second's hesitation, Mitaka is up on his knees beside him, holding his body steady as he guides him back to the mattress and stretches him out on his stomach. One of their plush pillows catches his eye, so he snatches it from its resting place, lifts Hux's hips just enough to slide it underneath, hoping to make him as comfortable as possible while he spreads his legs and settles in between them.
The view from this position isn't half bad, either—a selfish indulgence Mitaka would be willing to overlook, if his admiration weren't tinted with a hue of guilt whenever his gaze falls upon another patch of discolored skin. He tries to erase them by skimming his hands along Hux's sides, covering as much as he can with his palms. It doesn't quite ease his mind, but it is enough to elicit a pretty cry from Hux's lips and a light thrust against the pillow, his pale cheeks clenching with the effort.
Mitaka had often liked to joke that Hux was supple in a way that porridge was smooth, but once the obligatory griping and the laughter had died down, he'd always found himself with his lips glued to those rigid curves, hands worshipping him with the same awe as they do now, though his angles have become sharper, his valleys almost too deep to tread. Sighing, he strokes a tiny divot near the top of Hux's cleft, then slips both thumbs into his crease and slowly pries him open.
Matted strands of ginger hair frame his freshly-washed pucker, bright beside ivory skin and soft on Mitaka's nose and lips—a rare treat by any definition of the term. He licks him gently, savoring the feel of him against his tongue, the way he moans and shudders when he pushes inside with the very tip. Tight and hot. Delicious. His fingers tickle the sensitive stretch of his perineum, snaking upwards to join his tongue in a saliva-soaked dance around Hux's rim.
"Dopheld...please," Hux begs.
With a short, parting flick to his clutch, Mitaka leans back and reaches over the side of the bed to where he'd left the bottle of lubricant earlier, when he'd had a brief opportunity to free himself from the frenzied hands trying to tear off his trousers. As he crawls into place again, he bends to suck a small mark on the creamy underside of Hux's knee, overcome by the urge to create something no one else could lay claim to, something he could look at and remember fondly as his own.
He watches its color swell and subside while he drizzles the cool liquid over his fingers, knuckles drenched by the time he shuts the cap and sets the bottle aside to tend to Hux once more. Dipping between his cheeks, he opens him up as though it were their first time together: One finger gradually leading to two, an eternity passing before the third; probing, twisting, curling until Hux starts to grind against him, quiet whimpers of Please, Please the only word he seems capable of speaking.
Mitaka waits for their echoes to dissipate, then carefully withdraws his sodden digits and wipes them on the pillow. They've made a fine mess between the two of them, one flimsy thread of precome tethering the damp fabric to Hux's crotch as he climbs onto his knees and raises his hips in the air. Shaking, he spreads his legs as wide as he can, but Mitaka merely shuffles up behind him and drapes himself over his back. His hand finds Hux's atop the mattress and gives it a gentle squeeze.
"Not like this," he whispers. "I want to see your face."
Together they turn Hux around so he's lying supine again, his hair fanned out in a starburst on his pillow, porcelain skin glowing a spectrum of color under the lights. He's flushed a ruddy pink from root to tip, leaking glittering pearls of fluid that Mitaka eagerly smears over his crown and along his shaft before sucking his fingers clean with a loud smack of his lips. Hux squirms and lets out a breathless moan, watches with a panicked sense of urgency as Mitaka seizes the bottle of lubricant and quickly slicks himself.
Their hands meet again in the warmth under Hux's thighs, fingers twitching while they collectively guide his knees to his chest. Reaching between his legs, Hux cups his sac and draws it up to offer Mitaka a filthy view of his hole, though all Mitaka can seem to focus on is how pasty and slight his wrist appears where it lies against his shaft. He pauses with the tip of his cock pressed to Hux's entrance and looks up at him.
"Please let me know if I hurt you in any way."
There's a quick nod and a gasp from Hux, and then Mitaka is breaching him in one long, decadent slide that he hopes will somehow last forever. His soiled hand drops to the mattress, greedy lips seeking out Hux's mouth as he finally bottoms out.
"Stars…" Mitaka moans, "you feel so good." He shivers in spite of the sultry warmth that sucks at his arousal. "I'm not sure I can last very long."
Slender legs coil around his waist, fingertips brush his jaw, the softest touch more than enough to steal his breath away. Hux delicately lifts his face and holds him so their gazes meet. "Then give me everything you have."
Mitaka smiles through another cloud of tears. "Always."
With that, he begins to roll his hips in a slow, pleasurable rhythm, letting go of the bruises, the bickering, all the nights he'd ached to hear Hux utter even a fraction of those words. Nothing matters now but the feel of his skin, the throb of his pulse, the sight of his lashes fluttering and his mouth agape in bliss. Mesmerized, Mitaka reaches up with his thumb and leisurely traces the outline of that perfect little O, grazing the cut on his bottom lip before bowing his head and dragging the point of his tongue across it.
Hux gasps and pulls him into a sloppy kiss, fingers determined to make a mess of his hair, thighs poised to tug him over the edge with each squeeze. One of his heels grinds against a ticklish patch of skin above Mitaka's crack, and Mitaka tenses instantly, his hand fumbling for purchase on Hux's hip, ever mindful of the pain he might cause when he clamps down, buries his face in his neck and gives him exactly what he's wanted. What they both need.
"Yes...Ah! Don't stop don't stop," Hux chants as his thrusts become faster, more focused. He holds Mitaka tight against his heaving chest. "Oh, I'm so close."
With every move, Mitaka feels his own orgasm start to crest, from his toes knotted in the sheets to tips of his nails, the bulge of Hux's cock trapped against his belly. Slowing his hips a bit, he wedges his hand between their bodies and grasps his shaft, rolls his palm around in a clumsy attempt to bring him off first. It isn't pretty or vaguely sexy, but it does the trick; in just a few strokes, Hux's legs tighten to a bruising clench, his back arches off the bed and he cries out loudly, spilling warm and thick over Mitaka's fingers. Another minute, another gasp, another pucker of those smooth muscles around his length and Mitaka shudders his release deep inside of him, mouth pressed to his throat as he twitches through wave after wave of glorious aftershocks.
And then, it all comes to a stop.
Only a handful of seconds pass by, a smattering of breaths, but Mitaka can already feel their time together fading to a memory, reality trickling in with the perspiration that rolls down his brow.
Not now, he pleads. Not yet. Not with Hux's legs still wrapped around him, with his frail body trembling and his spunk soaking into his skin. Please.
Though he fights, Mitaka knows in his heart that no matter what he does the sheets will eventually cool, the sweat will wash clean, the nights will draw to a close while he lies awake until morning, wondering what they have left, what they could have done differently, if only they'd had the strength.
He pulls his hand free and wipes it across his thigh, his sticky palm coming to rest once more on Hux's hip. Raising his head, he stares down into eyes that flicker with the faint reflection of all he'd ever known and loved.
"I—"
"Shh…" Hux breathes, and brushes his thumb over one of the moles on his cheek. "I know, Dopheld. You don't have to tell me anything."
"I had this wonderful dream once," Mitaka says as they're lying naked in bed afterwards, fresh linens beneath them and lights set to zero percent, chests swelling gently against one another in the darkness.
"Oh?" Hux murmurs into the crook of his neck. "What was it about?"
"We were sitting alone at a small table in the officers' lounge, sipping on brandy and talking about nothing in particular. We'd just finished our second glass when you invited me back to your quarters for another. I told you I didn't think it was a good idea for me to drink any more, but you only smiled and said, 'We don't have to drink.'"
A hot puff of air billows across his skin. "And then what happened? Did you take me up on my offer?"
"When we arrived, you pulled me inside and started kissing me. My hands were on your face, and yours on my waist, tugging me close. You led me into your bedroom, laid me down and climbed on top of me, rode me until I thought I would break. Your skin glistened so beautifully in the starlight, and when you climaxed, you called out my name like you'd been holding it inside you forever." He reaches up to stroke Hux's hair. "It was the happiest moment of my life."
"Mmm…" Hux purrs. "How ever did you stand waking?"
Mitaka presses a soft kiss to his forehead. "Goodnight, Armitage," he whispers.
The mattress dips slightly as Hux shifts against him and settles in with a sigh. Content for the moment, Mitaka listens to the calm hiss of his breathing, the downbeat tempo of his heart—weary with exhaustion and slow from the painkillers he'd convinced him to take before they'd crawled back into bed together, the sex having made Hux...agreeable, if not happy.
Aside from that, everything else is the same; he isn't sure what had made him think it would be otherwise.
Turning his head, he looks out the large viewport on their right to the expanse of stars beyond, ever-present in one form or another, regardless of how the two of them move, how they lie, how they clutch at each other's bodies in the hopes of feeling something different. A promise unbroken; a glimmer existing long after both he and Hux will have burned out.
He slides his hand from Hux's hair and wraps his arm around his shoulders. Stares at the twinkling stars and makes a vow of his own.
He'll hold him close until the morning alarm sounds, stay by his side until work drives them apart, until fate draws them back together. As he always had, and always will.
Letting his eyes fall shut, he squeezes Hux tighter, feels the edges of a smile creep across his chest and looks forward to glimpsing it for himself, under the bright lights of a new day. Whatever tomorrow may bring.