Work Text:
Living is odd, Caleb thinks.
It’s such a subjective thing, defined by such an objective outline. “If you’re still breathing, you’re still alive,” Styles had told him once.
Styles is dead, now.
Caleb had watched it happen, too. Had watched, as if from another body, as he hit the airlock controls and held on as Styles had been dragged out into the vacuum of space before the seal had formed.
He’d watched himself find a supply closet and curl up into a ball, sobbing himself into a half-sleep, too.
If he had to assign a meaning to the word, he would call it the opposite of whatever he had been since Depa’s death and the nightmare of that ship.
Instead, he would call it what he let Dev and Gavi and all the other younglings have when he helped them escape from the Temple the day that nightmare extended there.
(Kanan would call it what he had found with Hera and Chopper, later Zeb and Sabine, and finally with the boy he had thought he’d lost to oblivion.)