Rey/Kylo Ren - the one where your soulmate’s name is on one wrist and your enemy’s name is on the other and you have no clue which is which.
After the Falcon’s door closes, after she’s helped the survivors with medical attention and getting set up in quarters, and after she’s reassured literally everyone that yes, she’s fine, Rey is able to have a moment to herself.
Herself, in a general sense. There’s no room for privacy anymore, not with all of them stranded to this one freighter. But she has her own hammock, and it’s strung up beside roommates that are either unconscious or asleep. It’s close enough.
In the dark, she sends a careful look around before she begins to tug down the edge of her arm wrappings. She’s worn them for years, and for good reason now, it seems. The spidery crawl of Aurabesh characters makes out two names:
Ben Solo on the left.
When she was younger, she thought it might be a relative to the infamous smuggler Han Solo. Some dashing rogue who had good hair and was impossibly tall. Who made a living thwarting gangsters and kissed princesses and was common but earnest in his underhandedness. When she was younger, scavenging the graveyards of space battles long lost, she thought such a person made sense for her. Scavenger and Scoundrel, chasing across the galaxy.
Kylo Ren on the right.
Her thoughts drift to the vision she saw on Ahch-To. His fingers touching hers. Him standing in the dark, and her the light. How he stepped forward to grab onto her hand once more. He had turned back to the Light, to the Resistance. She had helped him.
But that hadn’t happened...had it?
...her younger self was wrong.
She remembers the figure, kneeling in the dirt, and how his eyes, she thinks, had been rimmed in tears when she left him there.
Rey sits in the dark, picking at the edge of cloth, and wonders what any of this means.
--
Across the universe, he stares at his own name. He is hunched over, sitting on the edge of the bed in his new quarters, inhales long as he tries to regain composure. As he tries to recover from rejection, from being left once again.
The room around him sparks from the damage he had unleashed. The walls are scoured with gouges from his lightsaber. The console lies in a smoldering heap of wires after he Force-threw it across the room. Normally, such letting helps with the anger, the frustration in his veins. It doesn’t today.
Today, his fingers dig into the hair on the back of his head. His body doubles over as though in pain. His inhales don’t give him composure, as they become more and more ragged.
On his left wrist, there is the name Rey written neatly and boldly.
There is nothing on his right.
