Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

2003

A small town, somewhere in Georgia

Him

Ben Solo is disgustingly sure that the universe is out to get him. If you ask him, the whole thing with the sequence of the stars aligning with the colossal mistake that is the concept of fate, is protesting against his very being.

Infact, he’s pretty sure this is how it’s been his whole life.

He's only being half dramatic. Things never turn out the way he'd like them to, and here he is, facing yet another predicament that only further proves his point.

“Will you quit making that sour face already?” admonishes Maz, his not-so-actual aunt from behind the counter of the cafe he visits almost every week, interrupting his thoughts. The little dining property belongs to her, her having bought it after her husband Chewie- his father’s best friend- died. She’d opened the establishment as a tribute to him, dubbing it The Falcon.

That would be a reference to the war plane that his father, along with Chewie, had piloted back in the 60s. The both of them enlisted in the military at a young age, fighting tooth and nail for political goals he wasn’t exactly sure they cared much about at all. No, for them, it had always been about the thrill of it, the spinning movements of a sleek but heavy machine dancing in the air, the world narrowed down to precision and destruction. Maz had said it was oddly fitting to name the cafe after that plane- given that if Chewie had lived longer, he’d himself care less about the place’s patrons and more about how he’d like to run it.

His family members always got a wry laugh out of that. He, on the other hand, could never really figure out why the joke never appealed as funny to himself. He supposed the tone of it always seemed too close to how his family would avoid a certain dark history that flowed into his bloodline- never ending and impossible to leave behind.

They’d always turn to humor. He could never understand it.

It gave plenty of material for his notebooks though. Notebooks he hasn’t touched in a very long while, now.

He snapped back to the present as Maz waved a hand in front of him, her expression caught between worry and amusement.

“So?” she tilts her head, eyes scrunching until her face turns into the splitting image of her husband’s from decades ago, a look Ben had been on the recieving end of whenever he would try to get away with a lie. “Why the long face?”

Ben stared at her for a few moments, his own eyes too intense for someone as young as him. He presses his lips together, frowning a little in thought, Maz patiently watching him. He’s aware he can tell her anything. Sure, he’s never been on the best terms with his family ever since he turned into a teenager, and he does love his parents, no matter how overbearing they can be, but Maz is different. She may not be directly related to him, but she’s always been there for him- ever since he was just a litte kid.

He hesitates for a few seconds more, willing the words to flow out as easily as they sometimes do on paper- crawling out of his hands in the form of ink. Laying everything to rest into the fresh blankness of a page- like a truth finally spoken after centuries of dishonesty.

“I… I think I have a new concept for my book,” he says, breaking eye contact with her, looking at the floor in shame. Shame he never lets anyone else see- because surely, it’s ridiculous, him feeling this way. No one would understand, not even Maz.

His not-so-actual aunt doesn’t even notice the war flickering like shadows in him as he clenches his jaw, bottom lip trembling the slightest bit. 



(Most would miss it. Looking back, he’d had no clue that one day, he’d meet someone who’d learn to actively look for those miniscule changes that give everything away. Those like the twitch in the hollow under his left eye, the way he swipes his hand through his hair while putting up an aloof front.)

Maz just beams, the color in her irises brightning as if sunlight had directly been poured into them. “That’s amazing Ben, I’m so happy for you!”


Ben smiles sadly, partly in relief that she’ll never object to his passions, partly in bitterness that she hasn’t said anything to stop it. Maybe she does know. Maybe she chooses to remain silent, to let him carve his own path, no matter where it may lead.

He shakes his head slightly, staring back into his mug of black coffee. “I don’t know Maz. What if I don’t…” He clears his throat. “What if the words come out wrong again?”

He feels a hand ruffling his hair, and a raspy chuckle. He can’t bear to look at her, so he keeps his eyes down. “I can’t tell you what’s right or wrong in how you write, Ben. Only that you deserve to say what you feel, no matter what.”

 So she does know, then. He decides to leave it at that, absentmindedly and halfheartedly humming in affirmation as he goes back to sipping his drink. In a few hours or a few minutes, Ben will leave this cafe with the same guilt plaguing his mind like a fatal poison. In a few days, he’ll walk in here again, carrying those exact thoughts he's been having for years now, like a dead body, a crimson trail left in his wake.

But for now, he simply considers what Maz says. He’s good at that, being told what is and what isn’t. And listening. 



Mostly. Once, when he didn’t, it changed the trajectory of his whole life.

******


It first starts when he turns thirteen. So far, he knows nothing of what activity brings him joy, except for the easier ones, those that he’s told don’t really lead to actual careers. Those like reading books that require a certain level of intelligence, or playing the harmonica. Sometimes, drawing illustrations of his favorite movies. Ben has countless talents, in that way. Useless ones. He can ice skate without needing any practice- his balance somehow impeccable, he can transfer melodies he conjures on his harmonica to a piano, he can think faster than most, he can sing softly despite how deep his voice is compared to other boys his age, he can run fast with no difficulties, and he can certainly even cook, if he wanted to.

People often argue about what is considered to be “genius.” Is it being perfect at everything? Is it having the drive to achieve your goals? Is it staying consistent and motivated? Is it having a high intelligence?

No matter what the verdict is, the one thing grumpy, disinterested, moody teen that he was had always lacked, is interest. He did not want to sit in a cold, clinical boardroom with meetings that would drag on for hours about things he classified utterly pointless. Han encouraged him to try out sports, but he found no paticular enjoyment in kicking a ball around until it was shot into a post with a net. Or running track- which would essentially be moving in circles with no varied outcomes each time.

He’d much rather spend his time pondering things, expressing his feelings in the only way he knew how- through musical notes and tunes. Songs he’d conjure up way past most midnights- melodies he’s long since forgotten- in a house too big for his father and him alone, occupying the wings furthest from each other. Ben would devote countless hours there, in the left wing, in front of the piano, losing himself in uncertainy and reassurance all at once.

But growing up in a family like his- with Leia always busy with senate affairs and Han running away on his little escapades- there are protocols to follow, and reputations to maintain. Public images that matter more and more each day, headlines reserved for his family’s impeccable success, and most of all, people that watch closely, ready to pounce at the first indication of a mistake. And so, no one really has time for what he would like to say. Or do. Or show.

Ben Solo is weird, and anti social, and far too intense.

And he is lonely.

When you’re an only child, with the world beckoning you spill all your secrets, you cannot help but run. For a boy like him, it was easy to do. He’d shut himself off, barely attending public events that would boost Leia’s campaign and pay homage to Luke skywalker, his asshole of an actual uncle. 


It came to him, one day, that instead of cowering in fear, or kicking things in frustration when people would get too close, he could wield a weapon. A different kind. He realised that not even music could grab stress by the feet and yank it out of him as something else could.

He’d sit calmly with a book on a flat surface and a pen in his hand, and he’d discovered that he’s found it at last. 



Salvation.

******

He had not known, that not even relief such as this, this- countless poems and literature textbooks and papers scattered on a mahogany desk- could ultimately save you, once and for all.

He had not known that soon, he’d wither slowly, unable to speak to empty rooms and lined paper without speaking at all.

He had not known if he wanted to save himself- when it came down to it.

Not until her.

Chapter Text

2004

Reine, Norway

Him

No. No, this is all wrong, he thinks. He can see the hills towering humongously over the painted houses from his window at his desk, shapes of reds and blues and the occasional off whites. Everything’s white here- colorless, meaningless. Far from the only world he knows.

But if it really is so, why isn’t it working? He shakes his head, sighing in defeat. The mahogany desk he’d purchased earlier from an antique shop- partly for himself and partly for his friend- stands utterly wasteful in front of him, a collection of Hemingway’s works and various other tid-bits of literature spread messily, as if waiting to serve his purpose.

But he doesn’t have any. He’d thought reading Robert Frost would awaken something new in him, but it seems that he’s now not only afraid to write, but also incapable of doing so.



Brilliant. 



The last few publishers he can remember signing on with- those that liked him for his writing and not for his last name- all told him the same thing: “You have talent, Ben. Just not the motivation to cultivate it.”



What the hell does that even mean? He’d cared less for how easily they’d walked away and more about how their words burnt. That was his job- making people feel, not the other way around.

When he’d damned everything else and decided this was the only thing he was good at- never mind that out of all the other passions, it was the one that serviced people the least in the matter of personal taste- he’d prepared for only numbness and a bit of shame.


Not guilt.

Maybe you can start helping your mother write her speeches- until she’d slowly pull you further and further into her campaign and have you be the star politician working to please the elitists of the city before you even know how it all begun. Great use of your language skills, Bennie boy.

He barked out a laugh bitterly- the dark sound of it almost echoing in the empty, attic like room he’d rented out through a friend. The wooden floors and walls, and ceiling for that matter, all had tiny, exposed spaces- as if someone had thought to cut bars of wood and use them to make one, gigantic box. The area below, that his friend used whenever he came here, was a lot more insulated and clean. This meant that no matter how many layers of clothing Ben wore, and how much dusting he did with old laundry around his uncomfortable bed and side tables and the centuries old desk in front of him, it always remained cold and miserable and dusty.

But there was a happiness here, a kind of freedom he couldn’t explain. (Something that picked him every morning when he’d go to the diner closeby, watching snow fall off the roof every time someone would enter, pancakes and maple syrup melting into sugary goodness inside his mouth. He’d ponder what exactly felt so good about this place, empty as it was, whenever he’d settle in bed with the stained white sheets and his little dark blue blanket- gifted by mother dearest, with a little parting “keep yourself warm,” and a smile that made his heart ache- opening up his chinese takeout containers with the same spicy food every night.)

There was a reason he’d picked out the top half of this house, unused as it was, despite his friend’s insistence.

He decided to take a break from reading and writing nonsensical one liners, hoping they’d slowly turn into a book or even prose. Scanning his eyes around the room, he noticed only a messy bed, a little stool kept near the entrance with a plant on top of it (a little moving-in present, his highschool friend Finn called it) and only a desk with a few knick-knacks and a suitcase below it. This place was sterile. 



So Ben made his bed, grabbed his keys, a coat and a scarf, and headed outside into the cold air of Reine. He’d make for the populated districts, loiter inside shops containing decorative items, and hopefully bring something back.

Her

Rey’s first impression of Norway, is that unironically, it is very, very cold. She’s currently wearing a grey shirt with at least two more sweaters on top, along with a puffer jacket, and two layers of stockings and thick pants as bottoms, and still, it has not been enough.

She only came here because of her colleagues. They’d pleaded and pleaded, and she was only human, and so she’d let out a very frustrated yes. She despises cold countries. Not winter itself, but then again, it varies on how long winter lasts. And here, Rey’s heard it lasts long enough for her to loathe coming at all. But then she remembers the research, and the purpose, and it reminds her to stop being a brat.

Catching a car ride to her destination, namely her colleague Mike’s house, she reflects upon what she wants to do tomorrow. She needs to start her thesis on the type 1 population here- how they feed along with the commonly known humpbacks, and whether she can discover anything that everyone else has not.

Truth to be told, she’s already suspecting this is a paper she should not have agreed to write. There is little chance that she will actually be able to uncover any ground that others have not explored before. Besides, even though she did start out to be a scientist, and knows enough to deserve to be called one, hasn’t she been moving more towards activism for so long? What on earth is she doing here, when there’s Rain in Miami, that still needs her help, or Chamelot in Ontario?

Still confused by her colleagues’ decisions, Rey decides to simply post-pone her usual job and might as well focus on the one here. It might be a welcome distraction from the constant disappointment from before.

She almost misses the water when the road follows onto a highway. Wide and blue, and ice. Ice everywhere, and cliff tops emerge from practically everywhere, too. It’s breathtaking She briefly remembers something about Reine being called the most beautiful village in the world, or something of the sort, but she can hardly be blamed for her being distracted- she’s never been good at daydreaming. She’d acknowledged the information and simply turned her attention back to statistic reports that detailed gruesome captures.

At the far left, if she cranes her neck enough, she can see the rest of Norway, spiraling this way and that, sprawling in curves along the water- soft, gold splotches of lights glimmering in the gloomy dark. That’s when she understands why people bear with the extremely chilly weather.

By the time she reaches Mike’s bright red house at the edge of the water later, she’s forgotten all about her regrets. The water is almost illegally pretty from this close. Climbing up the stairs, she knocks, but no one answers. Frowning, she tries the handle. 

Left open. Snorting at Mike’s careless nature, and double checking it actually is his house, she heads inside. On the dining table, she finds a note from him, Sofia and Noami- the three having gone on Mike’s boat out into the sea. Looking for whales probably, she quips to herself.

Since there’s no way she can actually go and join them- unless of course, she wants to try swimming and conduct another thesis statement on her belief that she certainly won’t succumb to hypothermia- she decides she’d rather just start unpacking and settle into the room Mike’s giving to her.

Him

Ben is in a rather solemn mood. He’s found quite a few shops, but he has no idea what he was actually thinking. At first, he’d collected a whole basket full of things he’d found interesting, that seemed to define some piece of himself or another. But he put most items down, not being able to discern why. And besides, what will he do once he needs to return back to Georgia in a few months? That’s too much stuff to carry, surely.

He sighs for the upteenth time in frustration, standing in an isle full of cute figurines. He’d buy the silver little dog for his daughter, if he ever had one. The black cat for a son.

In the end, he’d left the shop with a fake cactus, the display dog and cat figurines- though he’d simply refused to acknowledge why- and from a toy store, a gigantic killer whale plushie. Why he bought the latter is beyond him, he’s probably lost it for good this time.

On his way home, he asks to take the route that passes the airport- delaying the ride home by quite a few minutes more- namely so he can watch the beautiful coast as they drive by. He lives at the far end of Reine, but still cannot see the coast behind him, only that in front- which is a little far, though still fairly visible. While passing through the airport and lazily looking through the crowd that has arrived in Norway today, he spots a girl bundled up in the thickest layers. She’s struggling to haul her luggage in the back, her driver watching on in worry. The sight lasts in front of him for only a few seconds, but for some reason, it makes him smile.

(Years later, he won’t realise that the first time he’d ever seen her, it was actually here.)

Half an hour or so passes, and Ben returns back to his empty, slightly depressing but also calming loft. He puts down the things he’s bought to take out later, simultaneously chucking the monstrous, black and white plushie onto his bed. It’ll make his sleep more comfortable, so there’s that, at least.

He follows the routine. Forgets his love for speaking without speaking- letting it all sit uselessly on his desk during night hours. Goes to get the usual dinner, and returns back to his lonely, night clad, temporary living space.

(Temporary until he makes it his home- in a few years, with someone else. He’ll be able to tell everyone exactly when that had begun.

The walls won’t be empty. The attic will be dim, not dark. The bed will be much bigger.

He will know the words. )