Chapter Text
There is no emotion, there is only peace.
II.
Meals at the Temple had significantly improved once Luke had stopped being the one in charge of making them. There was much to admire about his uncle, but Ben didn’t believe his culinary abilities were very high on the list. So the students had taken over, splitting the duties as best they could. It had marginally improved things - the food had become less military, more edible. The dining hall, however, hadn’t changed much since the days of the Rebel base, making the whole room feel cavernous in comparison to the small collection of students which gathered in it.
It made the presence of a few extra faces all the more obvious.
At the far end of the room, one of the older students sat with a few visitors. Seated between two older members of the Church of the Force, padawan Tionne drew warmth into the room. Ben knew she was striking - Ros had seemed to have developed a slight infatuation with the older trainee - but felt her presence in the Force was far more interesting. Tionne had hair like rivulets of leaking mercury and spectral-white eyes, but in the Force she presented more like the beginning stirrings of a ballad. She wasn’t very powerful, but what Tionne lacked in ability, she’d made up for with a tireless thirst for Jedi knowledge and history. Ben could only guess that her companions had arrived at the Temple with information, and so instead of eating in companionable silence, he made his way towards Tionne’s table.
Upon closer inspection, Ben recognized Lor San Tekka, a tall, older man who bore the disposition of a scholar, coupled with an all-too-familiar sense of adventure. It reminded him of his father, although perhaps with slightly more sense. More sense of his own mortality. Ben bowed politely before he sat down, eying the third person at the table.
“Lord Lor San Tekka, Tionne,” he greeted simply, placing his tray on the table.
Tionne’s aura shifted, and Ben sensed the sweeping cantation of a melody. He usually avoided trying to pick at other student’s thoughts, but Tionne was a performer at heart, and her emotions tended to float easily to the surface.
“Ben,” she replied, smiling at him. “This is Hazaan,” Tionne gestured to the other middle-aged man fluidly, conducting her next verse. “He has joined Lor San Tekka in searching for artifacts. They’ve brought us a few things rescued from Imperial archives.”
“Really?” he said quietly, raising a brow. “That’s wonderful. I’ve been hoping to go on a few searches myself, there’s so many things missing…” So many things destroyed, confiscated, hidden… Ben’s heart ached when he thought of how many things he wouldn’t master simply because the knowledge might have been lost forever.
“Well, we only found a small group of Jedi materials - something closer to a personal collection of an Imperial commander than a mass confiscation vault,” Hazaan explained, leaning forwards on his elbows as he spoke. His cropped, shiny black hair fell over his eyes slightly, and Ben was careful to note that unlike Lor San Tekka or Tionne, the man’s presence felt slightly more sharp. Something about him felt coiled and restrained, much like the bodyguards of diplomats on Hosnian Prime. Given the rough scars on his hands, it seemed fair to assume that Hazaan had made himself available as the muscle of Lor San Tekka’s operations.
It was probably for the best. Ben couldn’t imagine the older man being a terribly good shot, and there were plenty of old Empire loyalists who held out on the fringes of the galaxy.
“It’s wonderful,” Tionne interrupted, her voice ringing over Hazaan’s. “They’ve brought back two Jedi holocrons, one seems to be mostly historical records, the annals of the order, really,” she said excitedly.
“A very lucky find,” Lor San Tekka conceded, smiling benevolently. “One which will no doubt cast much light on the ways of the Jedi for you all.”
“And the other holocron?” Ben asked, beginning to poke at his meal. “Is it more of the same?”
“No,” Hazaan replied. “It seems to be a training program for the saber forms. No replacement for a master instructor, of course, but it seems to show how to practice the movements.”
Ben swallowed his soup, and considered what that possibility meant. “Still, a significant improvement from educated guesswork.” His Uncle had trained, certainly, but it had been…rushed. It was hard to fault Luke for this, but easier to feel that his Uncle didn’t truly want to remedy the lack of saber practice. No matter that the lightsaber was the weapon of a Jedi, a hallmark of ability and pride, Luke Skywalker seemed to believe it was best to never need to actually use one. Violence could lead to the dark side, the weapon was a crutch for when you lacked more diplomatic solutions… he’d heard every reason before.
That didn’t change the fact that the Jedi used them.
Or that using them could be incredibly ...useful.
“It sounds like an excellent find,” Ben said finally. Tionne, no doubt, would spend weeks pouring over the first holocron, composing ballads and epics. Maybe even slipping long dead heroes into casual conversations, when she remembered that not everyone had time to listen to a three part overture.
“It is not all we found,” Hazaan looked over at Ben, dark eyes suddenly fixating on him. The air between them shifted, and Ben felt the sharp edge of promise in Hazaan’s voice. “Master Skywalker is inspecting them, but there were three lightsaber hilts. Presumably still functioning.”
“Displayed horrifically,” Lor San Tekka added quietly. “They were…difficult to retrieve.”
The words sent a shiver down Ben’s spine. Whether Lor San Tekka had realized it or not, he had projected the memory of seeing these sabers so vividly that it turned Ben’s stomach. It wasn’t simply a matter of display — a grisly image swam before him. An acrid tang in the room swelled, and Ben saw them, two disembodied hands still gripping their lightsaber’s hilts tightly, bone and sinew preserved underneath the gloves that still encased flesh. They’d been hunting trophies. Put on macabre display to boast about how many Jedi had been slaughtered —
Ben gripped tightly at the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. He stared ahead at the flat top of the table, ignoring the now nauseating scent of his lunch as he struggled to breathe. Without looking, he felt Tionne’s gaze upon him.
“Ben?”
“I can imagine,” he said belatedly. “The- the sabers are with Master Skywalker now?”
“They are,” Lor San Tekka said, quietly watching as Ben reached for his glass of water and willed his hand to stop shaking. “We delivered them to him as soon as we arrived.”
Water tasted like sand as it slid down his throat. Schooling his expression, Ben stood up. “Apologies,” he said. “I look forwards to hearing more about the holocrons, but I have to…meditate.”
He left without another word.
_______________
The halls of the temple were mercifully empty. Ben’s footsteps echoed loudly against the heavy stone, his padawan robes rustling as he moved. Once he’d left behind the dining hall, his breathing eased. Ben moved faster than his mind could work out where he was heading, the lingering tendrils of his vision clawing at the back of his mind.
When he stopped, he found himself standing before a small practice room. Ben stretched out an unsteady hand, grasping weakly at the force to open the door. Behind it, his Uncle was running through practice forms.
Luke pivoted, thrusting his saber forwards in a fluid lunge.
“Ben,” he acknowledged, turning to meet his student’s gaze. “Lor San Tekka has found—,” Luke dropped his guard position, smiling at his nephew. “You already know.” He concluded. Luke inclined his head, gesturing subtly to the additional three lightsabers laid out on a bench.
“He and Tionne were taking lunch,” Ben said simply. The sabers called to him, and he took an uneasy step forwards. Seeing them side-by-side, he wondered how long it had taken each owner to create them. How long their owners had been dead.
He bit his lip.
“The lightsabers — is there a way to learn who they belonged to?” To know what sort of people had wielded them, what they had been like. Anything to overpower the overwhelming sensations of death that lingered over the smooth metal casings.
“It’s possible the holocrons might tell us something,” Luke answered. “And every lightsaber is crafted individually. Narrowing it down shouldn’t be too difficult.”
Ben kneeled, dropping quietly to examine his reflection in the polished hilts. The hilt to the left was plated with a dark bronze, on the right a dulled silver. But it was the middle that shone under the lights - a meteorite platinum that shone so brightly Ben felt it sear through his pale skin. In the surface, Ben could see his own dark eyes pool across the curves of the handle, chapped and cherry lips bright against white metal.
The visage rippled, and Ben’s eyes lightened, melting into soft ice, hair more strawberry than ink. Ben blinked, and found that he was meeting his Uncle’s curious gaze. The reflection was gone.
“Master Luke,” Ben said, faintly aware of how far-away his own voice sounded. “What happens now that we have them?”
Luke deactivated his lightsaber, before kneeling across from his nephew. “Finding them is a great benefit to us — now more than ever, the New Republic needs the Jedi.”
“You mean we might finally begin to train.” Ben surmised, suddenly uncertain if he was as eager as he had been. “Is it right to use another Jedi’s blade? They’re…they feel powerful.”
“It’s not always preferable, but they can be studied, at least.” Luke reached for the bronze and black hilt, setting his own lightsaber down. “Connecting to the past will guide us forwards.”
They both fell silent then, Luke grasping the older lightsaber in his hands, carefully hefting it. Ben’s stomach turned, and his vision blurred, a shadowy imprint of a Togruta woman slipping over his uncle. As soon as Ben made out her features, the face was gone.
“Or the past will imprison us there,” Ben said softly. “These were used in the Clone Wars, weren’t they?” Perhaps that explained their uneasy aura, the sharpness which radiated off of them. A sharp pricking sensation pierced Ben’s palm as his hand hovered over the middle blade’s hilt. “When Lor San Tekka mentioned them, I felt — I sensed they were important.”
The rounded base of the lightsaber trembled, rolling slightly under Ben’s open hand before it began to float effortlessly in the air.
“It’s very probable,” Luke answered, watching his student carefully. “But perhaps you should reflect at length before practicing with one of these. Consider that they may have only ever been used for protection during a war.”
Ben’s fingers grasped at chilled metal, the hilt of the blade feeling perfectly in balance with his hand. He frowned.
“Isn’t that all the more reason to study? If the New Republic needs us, then we should be prepared to learn who crafted these blades, why they used them—,” Perhaps then, their energies could be put to rest, subsumed into the greater currents of the Force. Ben’s breathing hitched as he titled his hand, feeling the weight of the handle shift. Memories pulled at his consciousness, but Ben eluded them, focusing instead on the physicality of the work of art in his hands.
And then there was the most pressing question, one that surely had to haunt his Uncle as much as it did him. “These people were masters - powerful Jedi with powerful resources — and they still fell. Shouldn’t we learn why? Train as much as we are able so that this can never happen again?”
To think such an elegant weapon could still fall in battle. It was more than mere mortality that concerned Ben, but the strength of something other that worried him. In a way, it was easy to understand how the Empire had rose — but Ben had to admit he was not entirely sure how the Jedi order had fell.
“Your question belies your answer, Ben,” Luke said, setting the bronze hilt down before he stood up again, face suddenly somber. “Even a weapons master can be defeated. Combat training cannot prevent the Dark side, nor is it the only thing that will keep you alive. The solution for the future of the Jedi is not in warfare.”
Ben released his grip. “If the Jedi had been better prepared for it, maybe they would have brought the Clone Wars to an end all the more quickly. Preparation for war doesn’t threaten peace —,” A fact he had intimately learned due to his mother’s role in the New Republic’s military. His uncle couldn’t seriously insinuate that training itself was a threat, could he? You could hope for peace, but inevitably, you had to prepare for war. If the Jedi council of old had understood this, then maybe…
Maybe they would have survived.
“It maintains peace, safeguards the people…” Ben stopped, looking at Luke’s unchanging expression.
His uncle shook his head. “We cannot let an emotional response like fear dictate the New Jedi Order. There is no emotion, there is peace. That is the Jedi code.”
“But the New Republic believes they need the Jedi because they are afraid — why pretend otherwise?” Ben protested. rising to his feet quickly. “I don’t understand. These Jedi waited until they had no other options but to react according to someone else’s emotions—,”
“—No,” Luke said, holding up his hand. “They waited to ensure all other options had been exhausted. Immediate action is an emotional response to someone else’s provocations. The New Republic — your mother — needs us, but not as soldiers,” Luke warned, calling his own lightsaber to his hand.
“She has those. A Jedi Knight is not merely a soldier, they are guardians, sentinels, consulars… We act with the guidance of the Force, not the minds and wills of a loud minority.” He sighed, attaching his hilt to his belt. Ben felt his neck prickle. His face was flush with the discomfort of the look his uncle gave him, tinged with what Ben assumed was disappointment. “Even if,” Luke mused, “—that loud voice is your mother.”
“Master,” Ben said, bowing his head. “I didn’t mean… I only want to learn.”
“I know, Ben,” Luke nodded. “I want to believe that Lor San Tekka finding these lightsabers means you are ready to begin training. But I must always remind you - and the others - a Jedi fights as a last resort. I’d imagine that’s why Leia refused to train as a Jedi,” He said, a slow smile creeping over his still boyish features.
Ben managed a small smile in return. “She says she already tests her patience enough with me, father, and the diplomats.”
At this, Luke tipped his head back and laughed, blue eyes sparkling. “Fair enough. Leave the military concerns to your mother. One more Jedi knight is more than enough of an equal trade to having another General.”
_______________
Leaving the training quarters left Ben with a nagging, sickly feeling of anxiousness. He could have asked Luke if the master had felt the discomforting aura surrounding two of the three lightsabers. Surely Luke would have understood his questions better if Ben had revealed their impetus. But deep down, Ben couldn’t imagine sounding sane when describing his utter certainty that he could still sense the very hands that had died clutching those weapons.
The Force was many things, but its presence wasn’t always a comfort.
If he had been closer to any of his fellow padawans, Ben might have considered mentioning his feelings to them. Tionne was likely to know something more about the history of the Clone Wars, Ros was familiar with stories about how the Force adept - like Ros’ mother - were hunted by the Empire… and there were others who might have had advice, or legends to draw from.
But that would have meant letting the others in on how frequently Ben felt things that he knew weren’t there.
It also might have meant running late to the speeder race he’d promised Poe he’d be at. And when weighing the options of being conspicuously absent from the race, or emotionally aloof with his classmates, Ben knew the latter option was preferable. Poe would notice if he wasn’t at the race. His classmates, however, would chalk it up to dedication and determination if he didn’t spill his every personal thought about the Force.
So rather than dwell on the uneasy knot in his stomach, Ben approached the race line where the Shrike was primed for flight. Poe and Tamora were bent over the engines, inspecting them carefully, while Ben rounded the back of the racer, hands gliding over the metal body. It would have been cheating to use the Force to ensure Poe won…but using it to detect flaws was not.
He wouldn’t forgive himself if he missed anything.
“Terra firma to Benji,” Poe said, interrupting his examinations. “Tamora says it all checks out.”
“Well unless something happened between this morning and now…” Ben replied, giving his friend a look. Tamara stood up, flashing him the pad screen that displayed the Shrike’s readouts. Ben reached for the pad, gaze flicking over the numbers and charts quickly.
“Of course not,” Poe said, in a manner that Ben could only term as suspicious. He didn’t dare ask if Poe had gone back to pushing the limits in air. It was probably better if he didn’t know.
“It’s running beautifully,” Tamora chimed in, “So if he crashes, we can just patch up the speeder and get a new pilot.”
“Very funny,” Poe retorted, snatching his helmet off the ground. “I am not going to crash.”
“I don’t know,” Ben mused. “If that happens, maybe we should just switch to an astromech. Save us the trouble.”
“And,” Tamora said with a conspiratorial smile, “Think of how much easier upgrades would be. No talking back…”
“Always taking directions—,” Ben added, fending off a smile as Poe prickled at that.
“Hey—,”
“And best of all,” Tamora finished, rapping the Shrike’s exterior with her knuckles, “Droids come with mechanical overrides.”
“Hmm,” Ben agreed, casually examining Poe’s change in stance as the older boy frowned comically. The pout of his lower lip was mesmerizing, but before Ben could voice a reason to perhaps keep Poe as he was, the horns that announced the set-up for the local race blared.
“That’s our cue,” Tamora said, shrugging her shoulders. “I guess we’ll put up with you this race,” she teased, bumping shoulders with Poe before walking past. Holding tightly to the readouts pad, Ben hesitated for a moment, before he smiled at Poe.
“You’d better win,” Ben warned, hoping Poe translated it as the ‘good luck’ he really meant.
“And if I lose?” Poe dared, stepping into Ben’s personal space. His mouth twitched, and Ben swallowed. The next count-off alarm sounded, and Ben took a step back, grateful for the excuse to slip away. Poe spun on his heel, lingering before he broke his gaze with Ben.
“Don’t,” Ben answered, tucking the video pad under his arm. The roar of engines revving picked up, and Ben slipped away, following Tamora’s path towards the constructed viewing balconies. Though he didn’t attempt to brush against Dameron’s consciousness, Ben could feel the rising energy of the pilots swelling in excitement.
When he approached Tamora’s side, Ben offered up the video pad, swiping to the race-screen. Numbers flashed across the pad, and Ben scanned the line-up, watching Poe climb into the Shrike as other racers readied themselves. From the vantage point, he was able to see the other racing speeders — the Illusyan, the Kaetel, the Starseed, the Gallia, and a few other ships Ben couldn’t name. Beside Tamora, he spotted Ros, leaning casually over the barrister.
“Tell me you two, if I bet on Dameron, am I going to get my credit’s worth?” Ros asked slyly, flicking over the vid-screen in his own hands. His silken robes crumpled against the railing, and Ros gave a bored look at the track before he raised a brow.
Tamora scoffed. “My job is done. That machine is the best speeder on this moon. It’s up to Poe to win.”
“Ben?” Ros prompted, gesturing to the countdown as the speeders lined up at the track.
“He’ll win,” Ben said with conviction. “We did a trial run this morning.” True, Poe had gotten…distracted from just running the gauntlet, but Ben had felt more than he’d seen Poe’s technique, and knew that he’d taken to the updated repulsorcraft incredibly well.
Seeing Poe in action, however, was a different story entirely.
There was chatter in the crowd about the different racers, but Ben fixated solely on his screen, tuning them out the moment the final gong sounded out over the track. Though he didn’t feel the same pull as before, his stomach still turned as he watched. The adrenaline he had now was purely anticipation, excitement — and a desperate need to have Dameron win. Ben found himself nudging the mechanic beside him as the Shrike peeled off, gunning for first place within seconds.
In the din, Ben heard an announcer declaring the speeders at the head of the initial breakaway — but the rest of the commentary seemed less important than monitoring his screen.
Tamora watched, ignoring Ros beside her as she tracked Ben’s vidscreen. “Is that Davik Al-ket racing in the Gallia?”
“It is,” Ros said, toggling for a closeup on the speeder. “He’s my choice for second. I hear he’s been training to beat Dameron.”
“That so?” Ben said mildly, watching as the onscreen image of Poe inside the Shrike revealed a slight shift that Ben recognized as preparation for an acceleration and ascension. Watching Poe in his element was just as compelling as experiencing it with him. Ben wondered briefly if he closed his eyes and tried to focus, would he feel Poe within the force —
“Hard to tell if it’s an obsession with winning, or a crush, honestly,” Ros said with a shrug. He swept a gloved hand over his screen to pull up the holo projection of the racers on the track. Ben’s eyes flitted from his screen to the holo, and back again, pushing back the sudden annoyance that rose in his throat.
“You can’t seriously think Davik could do it?” He challenged, setting his jaw.
Tamora rolled her eyes. “He could, but he’s not like Dameron. Davik tries too hard — Poe goes out there and practically makes love to the speeder to get it to move like that.” She paused, the words sinking in before she crinkled her nose. “You’ve heard him talk about his ships. It’s obscene.”
At this Ros coughed, choking back a laugh, and Ben ducked his head down, avoiding eye contact with either of them. His ears already felt hot, and if he blushed, they were bound to notice. Hunching over his vidscreen was the safest option.
“If that’s true,” Ros said, still laughing, “Then it looks like he’s primed to give us a spectacular finish.”
Tamora hummed in agreement, “He’s showy.” she said, before gasping as she saw the holo of the Shrike suddenly barrel roll, hovering directly above Davik’s speeder in second place. “—and insane, Ben—!”
“He did that this morning,” Ben explained quickly, at once annoyed and strangely proud that Poe was maintaining a lead even upside-down. “The Shrike can handle it.”
And it was handling it, although Ben watched in dismay as a third speeder gained on them, threatening to bump Poe. The Starseed collided with Davik’s speeder and Ben tensed as the scratching of metal resounded over the vidscreens. Poe righted the Shrike, and then, as if to prove he’d merely been toying with his competitors, jammed his thrusters and swooped past in a blur. The thrumming in Ben’s ears grew louder, and he dimly it was his own heart was racing as the speeders made their way to the second round of the track.
“He’s going to overextend the engines if he keeps doing that,” Tamora complained, frowning as Ros swapped screens to raise his bet.
“He won’t,” it was possible, of course, but Ben knew that Poe would stop before it affected his flight capabilities. He’d practically promised, and Ben had to trust that Poe wouldn’t do anything stupid. Or stupider than usual, anyways. “He told me he can handle it. The test run this morning was much more — it was more aerial dives and loops. We were testing agility, stability, the whole spread.”
And Poe, Poe had told him not to worry. Poe usually told him not to worry about how he handled himself in the air, and deep down, Ben knew this was hardly a difficult flight. But wanting to see Poe land safely was just as much a draw as wanting to watch the way Poe moved with ease in flight. He couldn’t enjoy one without the promise of the other.
Further back in the race, another pair of speeders jammed against each other, and Ben cringed as the smaller of the two repulsorcrafts spun out of control and crashed hard against a cliff wall. Gasps filled the crowd as the speeder’s collision system buffered the worst of the damage, and the pilot struggled to roll away safely.
Back on the main course, the third and final round’s buzzer sounded and Ben bit his bottom lip, in the same place Poe seemed to gnaw on his own. Whether he could feel it directly or not, Ben leaned forwards, imagining the sharp, insatiable hunger Poe usually felt when flying. Whether it was a yearning for speed or thrill, Ben could never entirely decide, but it was intoxicating, and almost as addicting to simply watch.
It was a rush.
The closer the racers got to the finish line, the louder the announcer shouted from the stands, and the more deafening the roar in Ben’s ears grew. He didn’t wait for the first speeder to completely cross the finish line before he thrust the vidscreen at Tamora, racing down the steps of the stands to beeline towards the track. He’d win. Ben knew it even before it was true.
Another roar from the crowd rose up, and Ben sensed a warm flood of victory crash over him before the Shrike even slowed to a full stop. Poe hadn’t even taken his helmet off before Ben reached him at the sidelines, both of them grinning breathlessly.
“So maybe you have a little talent,” Ben greeted, the corners of his mouth threatening a smile. Without ceremony, Poe dumped his helmet to the ground, face flush and hair spilling out over his eyes. He panted, chest rising and falling heavily as sweat matted his jumpsuit to his frame.
“Shut up,” Poe said, pushing Ben onwards as he strode past him with a distinct strut in his step. For a moment, Ben briefly wondered if the other boy was even able to walk normally, or if that sway was always there —
— But when he realized he was staring, he quickly followed, confusion writing itself across his face. Even for a victory, Poe would normally wait for the awards to be handed out to everyone before leaving the track. He was a cocky winner, but not a poor sport.
“Walk faster,” Poe insisted, as he began to unzip the top of his jumpsuit, peeling off the outer layer to reveal a thin white shirt that had moulded itself to his body underneath.
“Where are you going?” Ben asked, meeting the shorter boy’s pace with ease as he began to take longer strides. “You just won you addlebrained—,” He broke off as Poe moved towards the jungle’s edge, forcing him to nimbly step over a large tree root to avoid tripping. A sweet floral scent rose through the forest, and Ben ducked to avoid branches as Poe rounded an impossibly large Massassi tree.
Seemingly pleased Ben had followed, Poe stopped short, palm pressed against the bark of the tree to steady himself for a moment.
“What in Yavin’s name are you doing?” Ben demanded, the announcer’s voice still carrying over the trees as yet another speeder crossed the finish line.
“Getting us out of play-by-play view on vidscreens,” Poe said, before he pushed himself back upright. “Alone.” He emphasized.
“I’m aware we’re alone,” that much was obvious, Ben thought, “But why? — Are you feeling alright? You look—,” Ben began, before he fell short. Poe looked… Poe looked suddenly dangerous. His warm, sleepy gaze shone with something Ben couldn’t name, and Poe moved with a fluidity that had Ben taking a step backwards, his back against the Massassi tree. Poe looked like a ravenous loth-cat.
…Nearly purred like one, too.
“Did you hit your head?” Ben tried again, as Poe closed the gap between them, his flight suit rumpled at his waist.
“Benji,” Poe said lightly.
“Because if you have a concussion, we should treat it immediately—,” Ben continued, leaning down just enough to find himself looking to see if Poe’s pupils had blown out, or if he looked dazed. They did seem deeper than usual, a hot chocolate which simmered around darker than black pupils.
“—Ben,” Poe repeated, this time more loudly, cutting off his train of thought. Startled, Ben fell silent. “Kriffing hell,” Poe said in amusement. “I thought you could read minds. Or had clued in by now.”
“Not all the time, or at-will, or without actively trying to—,” Ben began to protest, before Poe placed a warm palm against his neck, his thumb brushing Ben’s jaw. Poe nimbly threaded his fingers around Ben’s padawan braid, hidden under a stray wave of dark brown hair.
“What about seeing the future?” Poe pressed, tugging Ben’s braid lightly. Standing as close as he was, Ben watched in fascination as Poe’s mouth curved into a smile, eyes hooded as he gave Ben a pleased look.
“I-,” Ben said thickly, before he took in an uncertain breath. “Seeing the future is - is - it’s abstruse—,” he managed, Poe’s huff of exasperation tickling his cheek. Poe rolled his eyes, and rocked to his toes, nearly nose to nose with Ben.
“You’re abstruse,” he murmured, brushing back Ben’s bangs as they fell into his eyes.
“That doesn’t—,” Ben tried, the rest of his half-formed rejoinder lost as Poe kissed him fiercely. Sense. It didn’t make sense, his mind whispered, before Ben silently reminded himself to kindly shut up and kiss back. Dimly aware that he was now cornered against the tree’s purple trunk, Ben brought his hands up uncertainly reaching out for Poe’s waist. When he found purchase, Poe wrapped his other hand around his neck, lips hot against his mouth. It was dizzying — worse than Poe sending them spiraling upside-down, and just as unfamiliar. But good. Amazing. Bumping against him, Poe’s teeth slipped against his bottom lip, and Ben opened his mouth in slight surprise.
“Oh,” he whispered, voice tinged with wonder. Poe kept going, his tongue brushing lightly over Ben’s in a way that sent a full body shiver down his spine.
Force alive, but Poe Dameron was kissing him and it felt like he should explode or die — or both, like a magnificent Jedi supernova. Insistent fingers pulled at his hair and Ben’s breath hitched. He pulled Poe closer, wrapping his arms around him with sudden ease as Poe continued to annex as much of his space as he could manage. Ben tilted his head, tentatively nipping at Poe’s bottom lip as the pilot — his pilot, something possessive in him declared — let out a soft sigh.
Relief relaxed the knot in his stomach that had tightened in panic — Poe seemed to know what he was doing, but Ben — Ben was grateful for Poe. Poe who was kissing him. Fervently. Wonderfully. With skill and deliberation that made Ben gasp, and would have made him anxious at his own lack of skill if he could've formed the thought.
When Poe finally stopped it was slow, the kiss tapering off by fractions until Ben felt nothing more than a smile against his mouth, and Poe tracing light circles over his neck. For a moment, Ben considered opening his mouth again to say something, but then thought better of it. Logically, Ben was fairly certain someone couldn’t be kissed stupid, but illogically — well. Ben didn’t trust his coherency. The world had narrowed itself completely to the warm tips of Poe’s calloused, golden-brown fingers slipping over his exposed skin, and under his collar.
After a long moment, Ben still dazed, Poe took a half step back. Sudden anxiety flared in Ben’s chest, panicking at having already screwed up, before Poe brushed his hands over his chest, lightly tugging his tunic. He stilled, staring at Poe as the pilot did a quick peripheral sweep of their surroundings.
“Benji,” Poe said, a laugh bubbling in his voice. “You should put the leaves back.”
“I — what?” Ben asked, feeling his face heat. It was a code, obviously. Something Ben didn’t know — Ben knew things, of course, but he hadn’t — he wasn’t — He was a Jedi padawan. He hadn’t had time to learn the sorts of things Poe Dameron knew, or to practice doing anything with his tongue like Poe seemed to do with ease. That was beginning to look like a grave error on the part of his Jedi training.
“Look,” Poe said, nudging him lightly. “The leaves. You should put them back.” Poe repeated, as Ben turned to look in the direction Poe was gesturing towards, over their shoulders. Tree bark dug into Ben’s back as he craned his head, his hands still at Poe’s hips.
He blinked, startled at the scene around them. There were, in fact, leaves. And they were everywhere. Like outstretched palms they hovered in the air, beckoning delicately. The jungle floor’s topmost layer had been pulled up, and frozen in place, all with an entirely subconscious exercise of the Force. Ben marveled for a moment, the hush of immobile flora crowning Poe’s thick brown curls in a halo and highlighting his silhouette. Blue fronds and fallen nebula orchids dabbled in the mix like fractures of the blue sky and stars above them.
If he’d done it on purpose, Ben thought, he would have been pleased with the finesse of it.
“Oh,” he said finally, biting his lip. “Right.” He agreed, flexing his will as he withdrew his hands from Poe. With a dull rustle, the whole thing - leaves, fronds, petals - fell back against the jungle floor.
Without so much as a beat, Poe leaned in again, quickly pressing a kiss to Ben’s cheek. “C’mon,” he said, reaching for Ben's hand, “...I think I need to go brag about winning the race.”