this night is sparkling (don’t you let it go)

or: a quick only-text reimagining of reylo in my fic, “still learning (to love myself)”

Ben wishes he could get paid to attend the Oscars, even with his movie so graciously up for the best documentary nomination.

He’s tired of this stuffy black tux, of the cameras and schmoozing with other people he has to pretend to care about.

He just wants to lose and leave.

CW: blood

Cinnamon gum snaps between his back teeth, and he checks his nails and the tiny hairline scars on his palms are the only evidence he toiled for this nomination.

Snoke liked blood oaths with people he worked with. Now Ben’s number is blocked, the man not too happy.

But regardless, the film is out. Even after a disastrous legal battle that had Ben shoving his fist into walls more often than patching them up.

His family won’t talk to him because he worked with an evil Republican, but Ben argues that’s bullshit. He’s here to be unbiased.

Nothing can get in the way of that, not family or an immature man’s hissy fits over his true portrayal. He wants to believe in himself, that he’s unaffected by things like a subject effectively telling him to get fucked and talk to his lawyer.

Ben’s glad he lost the election.

He glances around the auditorium. Ben got here early for some reason, given he drove himself, so a lot of celebrities are filing in and being led to their seats.

Ben didn’t take a look at the seating chart that his team got, confirming that he can sit by certain people.

Beef in Hollywood is a hotter commodity than beef off an actual cow. Ben doesn’t have drama with people, given that most of the industry barely speaks to him. It’s the perks of producing documentaries; you interact with actual human beings instead of over glorified entertainers.

A jealous sounding female voice whispers to a seat mate, stationed in the row behind him, “Ugh, who invited the *popstar*.”

Ben doesn’t mean to eavesdrop but also it’s his job to observe the nebulous world they reside in.

Popstar? That’s intriguing and he turns his head.

She’s a brunette, and everyone is watching her enter in with her team. Ben doesn’t recognize her at all, not really into pop music. She looks like she can spin a hot track, given her satin lilac ball gown that she looks fed up with.

She’s also making a beeline for his row.

She stops at the beginning of the row, and he can see her hair is pulled back into three stegosaurus type buns at the back of her head. She’s also chewing gum, and waiting for a shorter Asian girl to probably confirm that this is their row.

Ben refocuses ahead.

Once they get the all clear from what he can hear over the din of the auditorium, Ben decides to stand to make their entry into the row a lot easier.

There are four people with her, all women. They all file past him first, some trains dragging over his Givenchy oxfords.

The popstar in question files in last, and has a little trouble getting her skirt uncaught from the seats in front of them. He expects her to go all the way down, to leave a space between her team and him.

Instead, she plops right next to him in a heap of petticoat.

Ben slowly sits down, giving her sideways glances and assessing what a fucking fine ass specimen she is up close. She’s playing with her manicured nails, and he can hear her heels click around in nerves under her skirt.

He’s not going to talk though. She’d be uninterested.

Or so he thinks. Because a posh-sounding British accent comes across his ears with a, “Some awards show, huh?”

Maybe she’s not talking to him, but he takes a chance of a glance. She’s staring straight at him, glossy lip bitten. The thoughts he has immediately are indecent.

Ben opens his mouth to reply something hopefully not snarky, but she interrupts him by thrusting a hand out. She has scars on her fingers, the type you get from constantly plucking guitar strings.

“I’m Rey.”

Rey.

What a beautiful name, and what a beautiful creature.

He shakes her hand, feeling the scrape of rings. There are none on her wedding finger through with a sneaky glance, which means she’s fair game.

The older, darker skinned, petite woman with a shaved head is staring at him next to her. It must be a manager-

Until the woman also thrusts out her hand. “Maz. Rey’s mother.”

/Mother/. He didn’t expect to meet the parents so fast, and he wants to kick himself for the internal joke.

That gets the attention of the woman next to her, also older and with a visible tattoo of a whale, done in a style he saw on a ton of natives when he went to Hawaii last summer.

She doesn’t hold out a hand but breezily says, “Ahsoka. Also her mother.”

Rey has functional parents who actually want to attend her accomplishments; good for her, Ben wishes he could relate. He was constantly forced to go to the Grammys when he was a kid, the least Leia and Han of “Millenia” fame can do is send him a fucking edible arrangement.

Rey then reaches up to brush a loose lock of hair out of her face, and Ahsoka reaches past Maz to do it in a motherly way.

Rey gives Ben a look, like a huffy six year old who can’t sit still. He decides to be personable for once.

“Are you nominated?”

She nods, and Ahsoka and Maz set their eyes forward to give them a moment. Rey answers, proudly, “Best original song.”

She looks so babyfaced to have a nomination and he asks, “How old are you?”

She blushes and smiles. Answering proudly, “Nineteen.”

Then she queries, “What about you? Nominated?” The age question is unsaid.

He answers, “Best documentary, and I’m thirty.”

She makes the cutest little “ooh” noise he’s heard, before rubbing her chin while looking around. “It should be a fun night, right?”

Ben doesn’t want to burst her bubble, given that music awards shows are probably way more fun than the stuffy film ones. He shrugs, “Perhaps. Who knows how this will go, you know?”

It’s not like he’s been sleepless with want of that stupid gold plated statue.

It must be less pressure to win for her, she’s in her prime at nineteen. He’s thirty and nearly went bankrupt because of a former presidential candidate, not mentioning the other documentaries he’s toiled over.

She then says, “I know I’ve only just met you, and I don’t know who else is nominated, and also I don’t really watch movies these days-“

Rey takes a deep breath to recenter on the topic she probably wants to get to, a nervous little thing.

“But I hope you win.”

That makes the cockles of his cold, dead heart basically explode into flames. His breath coming out like a whoosh. She smooths out her dress and looks down nervously.

He can only reply, waiting until she stares directly at him and into his serious eyes.

“I hope you win too.”

She giggles nervously, their eyes still locked. Her cheeks then turn red and her green pupils flick away to look at the empty presentation stage.

“I hope you mean that.”

Then quietly, like she hasn’t realized he has supersonic hearing, “It’d suck hard if you didn’t.”

He reassures, “I do. I don’t know who else is nominated, I’ve never heard a track of yours, but I want you to win for the sheer fact that you probably deserve it more.”

It’s always the underdogs that deserve things, but never get things. He doesn’t want her to get chewed up.

She chastises, “You can’t comfortably say I deserve it more-“

He shrugs and waves that notion off, “I can say what I feel, can’t I?” She takes a deep breath, and he checks his watch before noticing she’s taken out her phone and buried it covertly in her skirt to text people.

They’re five minutes from the start of the show, and the auditorium has gotten louder as more people take last seats.

She then asks, “Are you going to the after party?”

He noncommittally says, “If I win, sure, I’ll pop in. Otherwise, Taco Bell and emailing my psychiatrist.”

He jokes, “Why, need someone to buy you drinks?”

Rey rolls her eyes, clearly used to the age jabs. “I get served at after parties, because they’re afraid of my security guard if they don’t. I just would like...more time with you, I guess.”

She likes his company. Interesting.

“I’ll think about it. Let’s just see what happens, baby.”

He doesn’t mean for the “baby” to slip, and he wishes the floor would swallow him now. Peculiarly, she bites her lip and giggles.

The lights dim.

Then she leans over, whispering in his ear, “Yeah, we’ll see, *baby*.”

That’s how he ended up with a hard-on for the first half of the Oscars. It’s one that can barely be hidden by his slacks or seam in his slacks, and he really hates being a creep.

Rey seems to enjoy the predictable award show theatrics, the way they act like good sportsmen.

Her category is before his according to talk during commercial breaks. She looks increasingly nervous as the category draws closer and closer. Ben feels bad, wanting to continuously reassure her that there are other opportunities.

For both of them, because he can still fight.

Finally, the graphic for “Best Original Song” comes up along with the presenters (whom he doesn’t care about), and he can see a cameraman bolt from one side of the auditorium to their side to get the live reaction of Rey’s win or loss for the people at home.

She’s trembling as she waits for the envelope to reveal her fate.

“And, the winner of best original song in a motion picture is-“

“𝗥𝗲𝘆 𝗞𝗮𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗮.”

He nearly goes deaf at the shriek that erupts from her, Rey jumping up with her mothers and the other two girls on her team. They all collect in a group hug as Rey starts to *sob*, wiping her eyes foolishly despite the eye makeup and blazing past him with her heels clicking.

He’s happy for her, especially as she bolts onto stage and continues to wipe her tears off as she spies her award in the flesh. Ben wishes he could relate, and maybe he will in a mere fifteen minutes.

She takes it so gingerly, like a new kitten. Then she faces the audience.

Her mascara isn’t smudged somehow, her eyes are watery, and her face is like she’s the kid who found the golden ticket in the chocolate bar.

Her mouth opens, “Holy fuck.”

That gets him to chuckle, and Ahsoka smacks her forehead and Maz says under her breath, “That’s my girl.”

Then Rey says, in the cutest little bashful tone he’s heard in his lifetime, “Oops. Sorry, language. Uh...hi! Wow! This is crazy.”

She stares at the Oscar before looking bewildered and laughing to herself. “And I thought I peaked in high school.” That rouses a laugh.

She then continues, “Usually all of the songwriters and producers of the song that wins would be up here, but fun fact, I wrote “Today Was a Fairytale” all by myself and my friend Kaydel produced it. She couldn’t be here tonight, she’s checking out a rapper in Okinawa.”

He can’t tell if it’s meant to be shade, but he likes it anyway. “So Kaydel, babe, Shake Shack on me when you get back stateside. I’d also like to thank my parents for giving me the opportunity to live my dreams like this.”

She snorts, “I think most parents are wary for good reasons when their child wants to become a superstar, but having them foster my growth as a songwriter, singer, guitarist, /or/ a pianist in any way really changed my entire life.”

Rey holds the Oscar close to her chest.

“I know that people run the clock on these types of speeches, but I’m very shy if you ask anyone in my circle. So I think I’ll leave it at: don’t doubt yourself, write music, get your hands on as many pieces of music you can study. Thank you so much.”

Then she walks off.

Ben knows she’s not going to come back to her seat, probably getting accosted by reporters and taking portraits.

He’ll have to face his category alone, and he doesn’t mind it. He can do it. He white knuckles the seat he’s in as the graphic comes up and the nominees are read.

There’s a camera in his face to catch his reaction, and he swallows down a lump in his throat as the envelope is opened then.

“The winner for best documentary goes to...”

He crosses his fingers.

“𝘉𝘦𝘯 𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘰.”

His brain flatlines. He’s stunned and sitting still as everyone stands up around him to graciously applaud.

Then he manages to get up, sweeping his hair out of his face as he removes his freshly chewed stick of gum from his mouth as he walks up.

It takes him everything not to jog, especially as the Oscar that makes all his hard work valid stares him in the face. Ben, unable to look at anything but gleaming gold, takes the award.

Then he turns, and can’t help but say, “I know why Rey cussed now. This is wild.”

Then he reaches to straighten his bow tie, remembering his prepared note cards in his pocket of everyone to thank. He pulls them out quickly and clears his throat. “I have a horrible memory so I do need to plan things I say.”

Then he looks back at the award.

“Okay. My most heartfelt, deepest gratitude to my production crew. Specifically Hux, Mitaka, Phasma, and Bazine.” The last one is a sore spot, since she got snatched by Snoke to create content for him.

She doesn’t talk to him anymore.

He looks at the next names on his list: Leia Organa and Han Solo. Did he write these while drunk?

He continues on anyway, knowing there is no harm in a public display of gratitude for his parents. It’s a good PR move if he wants to get shady about it.

“Thank you to my mother and father, Leia and Han. We haven’t spoken in awhile but...thank you.” He bites the inside of his cheek.

“I guess this is the moment where I say something inspirational. Or I be a complete smug a-hole. All I have to say is: participate in politics.”

He explains, “No change can be done without the people directing where the change goes. So please participate in politics in anyway you can.”

Then he snorts, “You know, having a mirror “fall” on me in the White House and getting a facial scar was worth it for this.” He puts the word in air quotes to throw a barb at Snoke, then looking back down at his award.

“Thank you so much. I could’ve never dreamed of this actually occurring.” Then Ben takes his leave, throwing tragic finger guns on his way out.

He doesn’t know how he gets back to the winner’s area, just knows he’s accosted by a stagehand and led there through hallways.

A lot of the winners of the night are there, some crowded around the television set up to see their peers.

Rey is there, in her ball gown still. Maz is holding her Oscar as she texts on her phone, a big smile on her face. Ben glances from side to side before starting to step towards her. Rey lights up when she sees him.

That’s when she rushes him with a hug, “Congratulations!”

He wasn’t expecting the hug, and she slams into his chest and her arms tighten around him quicker than a zip tie during rushed BDSM.

Should he hug back? Would that be out of line? His arms are wrapping around her anyway as he sways her.

“We did it. We really did it.”

She sounds like she’s in disbelief. He chances a half smile at her, because she makes the butterflies in his stomach take off. She pulls away, and she looks bashfully at the floor.

Ben blurts, “Can I give you my card?”

She looks up in surprise, and he amends, “Business card. So you can...text me.”

She beams at that.

“I would love that.”

He has a funny feeling this girl might stick with him, but for the life of him, he can’t pin why.

the end?

for those who read this, you’re fantastic. if you want to read about these two (rey is a lil older, and so is he) making a documentary together in the same universe, you can do so here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760542