( There is nowhere for him to go, nowhere for him to stalk off to, to retreat and center himself the way that she tries so hard to do in her own right. He can't pull the paneling off the walls with a sharp motion of his palm or activate the ignition on his non-existent lightsaber and tear angry red scars into the floor and ceiling. He can't cross the distance that his strides have carried him, the distance that Rey seeks to make up now by stalking forward herself, by reaching for her through the Force and halting her with pressure flat against her windpipe. The indignation and hurt and anger at himself for such a pathetic display of weakness and inability has nowhere to go, no channel to travel to stop it from backing up and reaching critical mass.
He should be beyond this. He should be above this. That was the rule. That was the idea. That was the test that he had been tasked with. Rey had stumbled into Han Solo's path and she had brought him to Kylo Ren and he had killed him. He killed his father. That was supposed to be the beginning and the end of it, the final task in a transformation that he had leaned into and leaned into and convinced himself was innately his nature, his birthright, his duty, the natural course and blessing of the power that he had, all his power. He was special. He was different. Over and over, in whispers and conversations and shouting matches since before he could remember. Now, more than anything Kylo can remember the bite of the durasteel as his knees hit the weaving of the bridge's floor, the white hot pain that erupted in his chest like a nuclear blast and licked throughout his core until the distraction of a second detonation in his flank actually brought him down to his knees.
Rey surges in front of him like a wall of rock, impenetrable and immovable, a steadfast structure that makes up in persistence what it lacks in overall physical size. Her voice is loud in the antechamber and in the echoing dome of his own mind, and she seethes in a way that he perceives as natural, a dam let down within her, supreme power and potential and this is what he has been trying to make her realize and accept since the beginning, this ability within herself that she could siphon into a deadly storm of perfect power and rage. He should lean into that, stoke it, build it, bring her out of this with him and harness that power. Make her gaze into the abyss and see how difficult it is to truly feel torn between plunging into the darkness while being ripped backward by the light. Because there is no place left in their respective worlds to straddle the line, as Skywalker and Snoke would have them believe. Up close, however, he sees the damp on her face and the tracks salt makes before she has a chance to smear it away. It rips him open, and he can't be sure if it's a manifestation of her feelings the way her rage fills the air like toxic humidity or his own answering anguish that beats through him on a level he hates but can't shake. Or something else entirely.
He can't walk away from her, so he doesn't, lets her get up in his personal space and scream in his face. Every word that spills out of her mouth lands somewhere within him and rips a hole in its endeavor to find a foothold. She calls him a coward, and he knows without having to combat the point and draw the argument out any further that despite all the ways in which she's wrong about that, Rey is right in a way, too. Because it's true, Kylo takes offense. She examines him with a critical lens, the fibers of what has sewn him together visible to her on a molecular level, the way that she was able to look into him and see the fear in him laid plainly, like the freckles and moles that map constellations in his complexion, the same way in which he was able to peer into her and extract her loneliness like drawing blood from her veins. )
I'm not a coward.
( He grabs her arms in retaliation, fingers locked around biceps, palms scratching the fabric of her sleeves into her skin. It's petulant, small, and his fingers flex on her as if to drive the part home in the only way that he knows how: through violence and intimidation. It's making a point for the sake of making a point, but even as he does it, he realizes there's no point to be made and that he's going to lose this fight. She's right, that's why they're here in the first place, even if her perspective is distorted and manipulated. His fingers are white where he grips her so he lets go, steps back and turns his face from her with burning eyes. )
You expect me to just walk away from all of it. Like it's that simple.
( It all boils down to one distinct truth: )
I can't.
( Something in the back of his throat comes apart like a clumsy mechanical failure. He feels like he's choking on his own tongue. His legs come out from underneath him, and he sits down heavily on the floor, knees raised and bent at the apex to allow his head to hang between them, the broad line of his shoulders a rising tide of jagged breathing. The bodies vanish but the blood remains. )
no subject
He should be beyond this. He should be above this. That was the rule. That was the idea. That was the test that he had been tasked with. Rey had stumbled into Han Solo's path and she had brought him to Kylo Ren and he had killed him. He killed his father. That was supposed to be the beginning and the end of it, the final task in a transformation that he had leaned into and leaned into and convinced himself was innately his nature, his birthright, his duty, the natural course and blessing of the power that he had, all his power. He was special. He was different. Over and over, in whispers and conversations and shouting matches since before he could remember. Now, more than anything Kylo can remember the bite of the durasteel as his knees hit the weaving of the bridge's floor, the white hot pain that erupted in his chest like a nuclear blast and licked throughout his core until the distraction of a second detonation in his flank actually brought him down to his knees.
Rey surges in front of him like a wall of rock, impenetrable and immovable, a steadfast structure that makes up in persistence what it lacks in overall physical size. Her voice is loud in the antechamber and in the echoing dome of his own mind, and she seethes in a way that he perceives as natural, a dam let down within her, supreme power and potential and this is what he has been trying to make her realize and accept since the beginning, this ability within herself that she could siphon into a deadly storm of perfect power and rage. He should lean into that, stoke it, build it, bring her out of this with him and harness that power. Make her gaze into the abyss and see how difficult it is to truly feel torn between plunging into the darkness while being ripped backward by the light. Because there is no place left in their respective worlds to straddle the line, as Skywalker and Snoke would have them believe. Up close, however, he sees the damp on her face and the tracks salt makes before she has a chance to smear it away. It rips him open, and he can't be sure if it's a manifestation of her feelings the way her rage fills the air like toxic humidity or his own answering anguish that beats through him on a level he hates but can't shake. Or something else entirely.
He can't walk away from her, so he doesn't, lets her get up in his personal space and scream in his face. Every word that spills out of her mouth lands somewhere within him and rips a hole in its endeavor to find a foothold. She calls him a coward, and he knows without having to combat the point and draw the argument out any further that despite all the ways in which she's wrong about that, Rey is right in a way, too. Because it's true, Kylo takes offense. She examines him with a critical lens, the fibers of what has sewn him together visible to her on a molecular level, the way that she was able to look into him and see the fear in him laid plainly, like the freckles and moles that map constellations in his complexion, the same way in which he was able to peer into her and extract her loneliness like drawing blood from her veins. )
I'm not a coward.
( He grabs her arms in retaliation, fingers locked around biceps, palms scratching the fabric of her sleeves into her skin. It's petulant, small, and his fingers flex on her as if to drive the part home in the only way that he knows how: through violence and intimidation. It's making a point for the sake of making a point, but even as he does it, he realizes there's no point to be made and that he's going to lose this fight. She's right, that's why they're here in the first place, even if her perspective is distorted and manipulated. His fingers are white where he grips her so he lets go, steps back and turns his face from her with burning eyes. )
You expect me to just walk away from all of it. Like it's that simple.
( It all boils down to one distinct truth: )
I can't.
( Something in the back of his throat comes apart like a clumsy mechanical failure. He feels like he's choking on his own tongue. His legs come out from underneath him, and he sits down heavily on the floor, knees raised and bent at the apex to allow his head to hang between them, the broad line of his shoulders a rising tide of jagged breathing. The bodies vanish but the blood remains. )