This isn't where he'll find what he needs. Not like this. Not in desecrating his sanctuary. Kylo's rough, violent thrusts are little more than the consequence of momentum, now, aimless, useless things. He's thrashing blindly in the dark. And when he feels Ronan reach for him, his breathing breaks in a sharp, choked stop. He gathers himself for one last, futile attempt to make this work, whatever it is he chose to do instead of everything better— but he can't. He can't.

He slumps, heavy on Ronan's back, saturated with all the misery he's caused and gained nothing from, all the evidence of his monstrosity spelled out in Ronan's tears, his trembling, his faithful desire to be comfort for him, even now.

Kylo doesn't believe in forgiveness. Mostly, because if he did, it would be another grace he was built without capacity for, another respite he could never earn.

He doesn't deserve Ronan's fingers tangled in his own, but he can't stop himself taking them all the same.