Finn stepped into the senate chambers, his heart thudding hard against his chest. This was his second year in the senate and the start of sessions always did this to him. He wondered if it would always be so and couldn’t decide if he’d have wanted it to be any other way or not. On the one hand, the excitement, the fear, focused him, made him strive to do better. He never wanted to become like some of the senators he saw. Bored and long-faced, not a single one of them seemed to care about the issues nor even their own people’s problems. They sat in these chambers, day in and day out, and gathered dust and cobwebs about them.
“You seem quite deep in thought,” Senator Casterfo said, leaning close, speaking only for his benefit. “Nervous?”
“Yes,” Finn answered, “a little.” He adjusted the deep, forest green collar of his tunic. He smiled gamely. “Am I that obvious?”
“Yes,” Casterfo answered in the same tone Finn had adopted, “a little.” His smile, in turn, was equally game. They didn’t always see eye to eye, but Finn had always appreciated the senator’s support. “It’ll be fine. It always is.”
“That doesn’t mean it always will be.”
“True.” Casterfo conceded with an elegant tilt of his head. Then again, everything Casterfo did was elegant. “But hopefully today is not that day.”
“Hopefully.” Before Finn could say anything more, the moderator droid beeped the five minute warning. Instead of trying to speak over the sound of thousands of grumbling, groaning senators making their ways to their seats, Finn quieted. There would be time to speak later. There always was. And anything of interest they would have to say to one another would only become apparent once they’d gotten through the day and had something new to talk about.
One of Finn’s favorite things to do were the post-mortems they completed at the end of most days. Debates, motions, legislation, they picked all of it apart and put it back together again until they were certain they understood every nuance and pitfall presented to them.
It made for long days and longer nights, but Finn wouldn’t trade it for the galaxy.
Finn allowed his attention to drift to his pad, his fingers swiping at the screen until he found the schedule. Skimming it, Finn didn’t see anything amiss and so relaxed back into his seat, awaiting the moment when the chaos would begin.
It didn’t take long. In fact, by the time the droid issued the final alarm to indicate the senate chambers would be closed and the work of government would begin, there was already a pod blinking, a senator readying themselves to make a declaration. Flicking his attention back to his pad, Finn frowned. Remarks weren’t to begin for another three hours. The first moments were purportedly to discuss the usual housekeeping.
“The senior senator from New Alderaan will please hold,” the droid said, mechanical voice dripping with contempt. Despite regular wipes, it somehow always managed to retain that haughty edge that Finn in turn loved and loathed. Loved because it was amusing to hear it smack down his fellow senators. Loathed because that derision could as easily be turned on Finn as it could anyone else.
“This will not hold,” Ben Organa replied, equally contemptuous. Just the sound of his voice brought a smile to Finn’s mouth, one he smothered quickly behind his hand. Ben, just like his mother, who was conspicuously absent now that Finn’s attention was on New Alderaan’s pod and he gave it half a thought, had already made a name for himself as a rabble-rouser, a malcontent. Sometimes, it felt like half the legislation that made it through these doors was on the back of Leia and Ben Organa’s obnoxious determination to see their work done.
Finn leaned forward, fingers lacing together. A portion of his attention was on Ben as he was, planted on the other side of the room, visible only in miniature from so far away. The rest was on the cam feed playing itself out on the holoprojector in front of him. The blue, static-laden live-time video flattened and smoothed out the worst of Ben’s dismissive hauteur, but it couldn’t entirely hide his impatience nor the condescending posture he’d adopted, hands folded behind his back, his chin tipped up even as he looked down his nose at everyone all at once.
“We are at war,” he said, and it was only at this moment that Finn realized Ben was wearing white, a concession to his heritage, his family, his mother’s long, storied shadow. He never wore it, always chose darker shades to distinguish himself from her—she whom he called the iconoclast when she wasn’t within earshot, and only among friends at that. Everyone already knew he was Leia Organa’s son; he didn’t ever want to rest on that legacy.
Except, Finn supposed, for today.
The gesture mattered little, however. Jeers rose from the crowd. Hissing and clanking issued from every corner of the rotunda as senators from the most loyal Core worlds to the newest Outer Rim territory. Nobody wanted to be confronted with such things on the first day of a new session. Still lazy from the break, senators from all over just wanted to pretend their vacations hadn’t yet ended.
“Whether you want to recognize it or not,” Ben continued even more forcefully, propelled forward by his reception, “we are at war. And it’s only a matter of time before we’ll have to choose sides—or have them chosen for us.” He paused—a bad idea by Finn’s reckoning because that just gave angry senators more time to boo and dismiss Ben. “The Imperial Remnant is a danger to us all.”
“Kriff the Imperial Remnant!” someone with a far more raucous spirit than Finn possessed shouted from one of the higher, recessed pods. Finn wanted to turn and look, but the cold fury on Ben’s face stopped him. He couldn’t embroil himself in Ben’s melodrama publicly, but he could show his loyalty by giving the crowd as little of his attention as possible, particularly the ones of his own party.
“I’d like to hear what Senator Organa has to say,” Senator Caila of Ohlen replied. A populist from a populist world, she only invited more ridicule from certain corners of the room.
Though Finn could feel the weight of Casterfo’s gaze on him and saw the slight shake of Casterfo’s head in disapproval in his peripheral vision, he couldn’t stop himself from pushing himself to his feet. Slapping the microphone on his own podium, the light on his pod blinking its demand for attention, he said, “I second Senator Caila’s request.”
The chambers fell silent for the first time in what felt like years and, even from this distance, he could see Ben’s head snap in his direction. He didn’t dare look at the cam droids that started zooming and circling him and he didn’t dare look at the holoprojector that still showed Ben’s features in far more detail than Finn could readily stand at the moment, especially when he was sure his own betrayed far, far too much and seeing Ben would only make things worse.
Moment shattering, Ben took hold of the crowd to give what Finn would later be told was an impassioned, bitter speech condemning the senate’s lack of foresight and its inability to move on anything more important than a new, hardly improved tax code. Finn was a little too busy wondering if he’d just tanked his career to pay it much mind.
Casterfo, who was usually the first to offer his support, remained suspiciously, uncharacteristically quiet on the matter.
Finn was screwed. So very, very screwed.
*
Finn never enjoyed the receptions that followed starts of sessions, but he usually approached them with more grace than he felt at this moment. Throat tight, palms warm and slick with sweat, his heart thudding hammer fast against his sternum, he thought seriously about ducking out and abandoning Casterfo to the charms of a party neither of them much cared to attend. Casterfo, of course, was much better at pretending than Finn was, but even he would prefer a quiet dinner with close friends to this—a morass of varied clumps of fellow politicians all trying to sniff out a deal and an angle, perhaps even scandal.
With that in mind, Finn found himself accosted by a much wider variety of senators than normally saw fit to trouble him with their conversation. “Yes, of course,” he said to the latest, a populist from Carala or Vebatalal or somewhere, he wasn’t sure what she’d said. “I’ll take that under advisement, thank you.” Yes, he added mentally, I’ll just single-handedly bring Riosa to the populist cause. That’s how it works. ”If you’ll excuse me…?”
“Absolutely,” the woman said with maternal graciousness, like it was genuinely her right to grant Finn his freedom from her regard. He bowed slightly and—he’d only admit this to himself—booked it for the refreshments table for a glass of glowwine and a moment’s respite from the attentions of his peers. It worked, his plan. That was to say, half of it worked, which was twice as much as he expected considering the day he was having. The other half was ruined by an insistent hand on his elbow and a hushed voice near his ear and the wafting scent of Alderaanian muskwood and starblossom in his nostrils.
“We’re getting out of here.” The tone Ben adopted sent a shiver down Finn’s spine, one he wasn’t sure if he liked or not. It wasn’t that he wasn’t perfectly happy to leave with Ben in tow, but with all these people around… “Now.”
“Now?” Finn repeated. “Oh, okay. We’re going now. Sure. That’s just fine.” He stretched to grab a second flute of glowwine. This isn’t alcoholic enough for this, he thought. Port in the Storm wouldn’t have been alcoholic enough for this. “You can definitely tell me what to do.”
Ben’s lips thinned and his eyes flashed a warning. He didn’t say anything, but he obviously wasn’t impressed with Finn right now. Which just wasn’t fair. He’d gone to bat for Ben today and all he’d gotten out of it in return was a whole lot of scrutiny.
“Fine,” Finn said, abandoning his goal of obtaining more glowwine. “Lead the way.”
At least that earned him a smile, an almost pretty one at that, enough to send a wholly different sort of shiver through Finn. “Good,” was all Ben said, spinning away, fully expecting Finn to follow him.
Whereas Finn could easily have kept up with Ben despite Ben’s height, he decided to meander, take his time, try to make it less obvious that the junior senator from Riosa and the newly minted senior senator from New Alderaan were about to disappear from a party together. Besides, it wouldn’t do for Ben to think he could order Finn around or otherwise get exactly what he wanted just because he demanded it.
Sometimes, Ben’s head got bigger than the rest of him all on its own. Finn didn’t need to contribute to that. Surprisingly, Ben didn’t snap at him to move faster. Maybe he also enjoyed the anticipation.
Whatever the reason, Ben soon reached his chosen destination and waited, his arms crossed and eyebrow arched.
Smiling, pleased, Finn said, “I hope this is worth it,” as he passed ahead of Ben into the room. The lights came up automatically and Finn was left with an eyeful of a boring, white room with hardly enough room to move around, let alone—
Before Finn could complain—and oh, he definitely intended to complain—Ben was pressing him back against the wall, his hands everywhere on Finn’s skin, warm and heavy and so good. Ben’s breath ghosted across Finn’s face, his neck. “You didn’t have to do that,” Ben said, whisper quiet, so low that Finn almost didn’t hear the words.
Finn, now the impatient one, grabbed hold of Ben’s chin and pulled him into a hard kiss, his teeth biting at Ben’s lower lip. It’d been months since they’d seen one another, no time during the off-months to do more than make the occasional comm call, and as much as Finn hated that, he couldn’t deny it made these moments all the better. “Shut up,” he answered as the kiss ended.
When Finn leaned in a second time, Ben pulled back a little. “I’m serious.” His eyes searched Finn’s face, a lost expression clouding his features. “I don’t need you to—”
Finn sighed. “I didn’t come here to argue about this. You deserve to be heard.” Finn still didn’t know what he thought of the First Order. Most in his party believed they were nothing to concern themselves with; they thought the populists were just drumming up negativity in the hopes of undermining the centrists who stayed within the New Republic government. Finn didn’t think it was that simple; he’d seen the same reports Ben cited today and they troubled him. “If you think I only did it because of this—” He slapped the back of his hand against Ben’s chest. “—then I might as well walk out of here now.” Indignant, he stepped out of Ben’s grasp. Or tried to. Ben objected with a hand on Finn’s shoulder. It wouldn’t have stopped Finn if he really wanted to leave, but it served its point well enough.
“I didn’t—”
“You did.” You just hoped I wouldn’t call you on it. It was always something. Relationships were hard at the best of times. It was just that little bit harder when one of you was a centrist and the other a populist.
Ben breathed out, leaned his forehead against Finn’s. “I didn’t. Really. I just—I know what these sort of things cost. I owe you.”
Finn shook his head and chose not to be indignant all over again; there was no point. In this, Finn believed Ben didn’t mean it. He was always so very aware of the costs of politics, weighed up the benefits and consequences like he’d been born to it, as easy as breathing. “It’s not about owing me or doing favors or treating this like I didn’t do it because I care, too.” He wished they could go back to the kissing part, forget that they’re leaders in the senate who represent their homes and people for five Force-damned minutes. But that wasn’t who he was. And it certainly wasn’t who Ben was. The moment they shared was all he could hope to get for now, the mood effectively killed. Thoughts pulled viciously back to the problem with the First Order, the growing antagonism between his party and Ben’s, there wasn’t any room for anything else.
Reaching for Ben’s hand, Finn smiled, fond and affectionate, the only thing he had left to spare. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.” He brushed a kiss against the back of Ben’s knuckles. “Whatever it is the First Order wants, they won’t get it.” If he has to be the lone voice of dissent in the centrists, so be it. “Not if I can help it.”
Glancing down at their joined hands and back up again, Ben had a stunned look on his face. “I love you,” he said, so quick like he didn’t realize he was doing it. In fact, he probably hadn’t, because both he and Finn froze at the admission and Ben paled, all color draining from his face as he took on the hunted look of a frightened manka cat.
Finn’s heart climbed his throat, throbbed through every inch of him. They hadn’t—Ben had never said the words before. Finn had never said the words. He hadn’t thought they were that kind of couple. Hell, sometimes, he wasn’t even sure they were a even a couple at all. So much of the time, they didn’t behave like one. They stole moments between the massive stacks of work that kept them so occupied they barely slept and sometimes snuck away for some food from a street vendor in one of the lower levels, dressed down to such a degree that no one paid them any mind. They met at events and stood a little more closely to one another than they did to anyone else.
Ben’s head tipped down as he tried to hide a bashful look that crept across his too-pink mouth. Finn had done that to him and now, now he said he loved Finn.
Shit. Shit, that was awesome.
If that glowwine hadn’t already left him with a slightly giddy, exuberant feeling, subsumed for a moment by his frustration, that revelation would have. Ben loved him. And Finn didn’t even doubt it, because it wasn’t like he made a habit of saying anything of import that didn’t involve work. It might have been an accidental assertion, but Finn didn’t believe for a moment that it wasn’t true. Finn grabbed Ben by the chin, raised his head, looked him straight in the eye and said the words back, as serious as he’d ever been about anything.
“I love you, too.”
It felt good, letting those words out, as good as Finn had felt in a long time. Relieved, lightened, emboldened by the admission, he pulled Ben back in for another kiss, this one slower, less desperate. He poured everything he was into the kiss, each instance another expression of those four words given again and again. Ben sighed against him, warm, his weight resting easily against Finn’s, fitting perfectly, his hands settling on Finn’s waist. As his fingers tightened in the thick, sturdy wool of Finn’s tunic, Ben gasped, offering something Finn couldn’t take here and now, not in this room that was neither his nor Ben’s.
He pulled away, apologetic, his meaning clear when he tipped his head toward the door. “Let’s get out of here. For real this time.”
“Sure,” Ben said, his voice scratchy and low, uncaring of appearances if he was willing to abandon his duties here. His lips were even more red now, bitten, a little fuller than before. Perhaps it was for the best that he agreed. “You really think we can do it?”
He nodded, certain. “I know we can.” Unable to keep his hands off of Ben, he smoothed the fabric of Ben’s own tunic free of wrinkles as best he could. “We will.”
“Okay.” Ben nodded, accepting Finn’s certainty as his own, a surprise all its own. Before a crowd of thousands, Ben feigned confidence with ease, but with an audience of one, it all crumbled before him, no lifeline in sight. It was one of those things no one except Finn knew about him and he loved Ben for that, too. “Okay, we can do it.”
&lquo;Okay, then,” Finn answered. “Let’s do it.”