If he didn't have his senses threaded right through Ronan's, Kylo might be alarmed by the sudden appearance of tears. He might be concerned that he'd said something wrong, too much or not enough. But there's no room for misunderstanding when he's wrapped around Ronan like this, when every last part of him is focused on nothing else. Ronan's relief is so intense, so powerful that Kylo struggles for a moment with the sense that he should have said this sooner. It hadn't been any less true a week ago, a month, six— he can't remember how far back this feeling stretches— but all of that could have been time that Ronan knew. And that's what he wants. That's what he wants to plant inside him, that knowledge. Of everyone, everything in the universe, he is the one, singular being Kylo dares to love.
(A long time ago, when they were just beginning, Kylo had reached up and plucked a star out of a sky they had built together and pressed it, firmly, into Ronan's palm. He'd guided Ronan's fingers to curl around it, to be certain he had it hidden safe and secure in his hand. Hold it for me, he'd said. He just hadn't known, then, what it was made of.)
Kylo's lips pull into a curve, tugged by the fierce currents of emotion running though them both. Smoothly, he eases Ronan onto his back, rolling with him and leaning in over him as a warm, protective shield.
Love, Kylo knows, is no promise of safety from hurt. They both know it is frequently the opposite. But the kind of love he wants to surround Ronan with is the kind that promises to share in it, all of it, without shying away. He kisses Ronan's tear-streaked cheeks— one, then the other.
"Good," he says, low, almost affectionately amused if not for the strength of the vow underpinning it. "Because I am reliably informed you don't stop, when it's real."
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But there's no room for misunderstanding when he's wrapped around Ronan like this, when every last part of him is focused on nothing else. Ronan's relief is so intense, so powerful that Kylo struggles for a moment with the sense that he should have said this sooner. It hadn't been any less true a week ago, a month, six— he can't remember how far back this feeling stretches— but all of that could have been time that Ronan knew. And that's what he wants. That's what he wants to plant inside him, that knowledge. Of everyone, everything in the universe, he is the one, singular being Kylo dares to love.
(A long time ago, when they were just beginning, Kylo had reached up and plucked a star out of a sky they had built together and pressed it, firmly, into Ronan's palm. He'd guided Ronan's fingers to curl around it, to be certain he had it hidden safe and secure in his hand. Hold it for me, he'd said. He just hadn't known, then, what it was made of.)
Kylo's lips pull into a curve, tugged by the fierce currents of emotion running though them both. Smoothly, he eases Ronan onto his back, rolling with him and leaning in over him as a warm, protective shield.
Love, Kylo knows, is no promise of safety from hurt. They both know it is frequently the opposite. But the kind of love he wants to surround Ronan with is the kind that promises to share in it, all of it, without shying away. He kisses Ronan's tear-streaked cheeks— one, then the other.
"Good," he says, low, almost affectionately amused if not for the strength of the vow underpinning it. "Because I am reliably informed you don't stop, when it's real."