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“You could at least try dancing,” Zeb says.
He’s watching the crowds down below with a wry expression, arms looped casually over the railing. To anyone else he would appear relaxed, almost bored, but Kallus knows better: those soft ears are pricked, and his nose, usually so stiff, is twitching erratically. Soldiers don’t relax, even when off duty. Garazeb is no different.
“I’m not going to do that,” Kallus replies tersely from the doorway. “I didn’t win this war just to spend it gallivanting around a fire. I did it for-
“-for peace, justice, yeah yeah yeah.” Zeb’s voice is light. “Honestly Kal, you’re like a damn pullstring toy. You got three phrases, and none of them are any good.”
Kallus sniffs. The Lasat is ribbing because he’s nervous, because he’s always on edge these days. Zeb will be nervous till the day he dies, Kallus thinks, and knows that the same is true for him. Decades of imperial training can’t prepare you for the reality of war. And the reality of winning a war? There’s no handbook, to say the least.
It’s alright, Zeb , he could say. Take a breath, relax. Just for tonight . Instead, he wanders out onto the wooden balcony, boots creaking on the mismatched panels. Kallus has never been up this high, not without a seatbelt, and he’d be lying if his stomach didn’t drop at the sight of balconies in other trees, balanced precariously among the foliage. It’s a long drop, and every taut vine is just a reminder of how fragile the Endor camps really are. Kallus doesn’t want to go out like this , not after everything. He can see the hologram now: Famed Rebel Spy, Head Splicer of the Decoding Division for five years running, felled by an untied shoelace.
Kallus shakes his head at his own foolishness. Clearly he’s been spending too much time with Zeb; the damned Lasat’s humor has snaked its way into Kallus’ mind, despite his best efforts..
Carefully, he takes the last few steps to reach Zeb. He puts out his hands and grips the railing, probably too tightly for his own good. Zeb looks down at Kallus’ hands, then back up at his face. He raises an eyebrow.
Kallus pointedly ignores him, focusing instead on the flickering lights down below. Shouts and squeals of laughter waft up from the celebrations, pierced by occasional whoops; if Kallus was younger, he might be among them, drinking and dancing like his knees weren’t absolutely destroyed, his nerves shot to pieces. To a certain extent, he envies them; envies their optimism, the ease with which they revel in victory. Tomorrow hasn’t come yet -to these youths, it’s a foggy concept at best. There’s no reason to think that they could fail now; why worry about the next steps when this scrappy rebellion made it this far ? If he wasn’t so tired, Kallus would be impressed.
Below them, one person dips another too far, and they tumble to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. The following shrieks of laughter are loud and unapologetic, and Kallus finds himself smiling, in spite of himself. Maybe there’s something to that optimism. Maybe he’s just seen too much.
“They’re happy,” Zeb says softly. Kallus looks at him, surprised at the tenderness leaking into the Lasat’s voice.
“Yes,” he replies after a moment. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this big a celebration, to be honest.”
I didn’t think I would make it this far, he doesn’t say.
“They’ve lost so much, but they’re still hopeful,” continues Zeb, “it’s impressive, you know?” He leans forward on the balcony, and Kallus hears the wood groan as it begins to buckle under those gigantic forearms. He is tempted, for a moment, to reach out and pull Garazeb away from the railing, say don’t be so foolish, these balconies aren’t made for Lasats. You’re going to fall-
“Kal?”
Kallus realizes belatedly that his right hand has left the railing, is hovering between him and Zeb. The Lasat is observing the outstretched palm with interest. Shit . Kallus feels his neck prickle with embarrassment, and he drops the hand immediately. He squeezes the barrier as if that will undo the movement, but a spike of pain shoots up his arm, and Kallus reflexively whips his hand back with a hiss.
When he unclenches his hand, there is a small sliver of wood buried in his palm. Karabast, he squeezed the railing hard enough to put it through his glove ? He’d be shocked, if he wasn’t so embarrassed. The ricochet of the act has only brought Kallus attention; Zeb is watching him with curious, bright eyes. Pinprick irises follow his curled hand, up to his shoulder, and Kallus can feel them searing through his downturned face.
“You alright?” Zeb asks carefully. “Ye seem real jumpy tonight.”
Kallus scowls, plucks the splinter from his hand. “I could say the same about you, Garazeb. You haven’t so much as inhaled all day.”
“Ha ha,” says Zeb, his smile tight. “The Empire’s been on our tail for so long now, guess I forgot how to breathe properly.” He glances down at his feet, and Kallus is reminded, for a moment, of a nervous child.
There is a pause, then. Zeb has turned fully to face him, leaned the slender curve of his hips against the balcony instead of angling his entire top half off the edge. Kallus notes quietly that while the sun has set, the last dregs of warm light still cast a ring of lavender round the soft fur of Zeb’s form. He looks regal, certainly even lovely , if Kallus had an eye for these things.
(But he doesn’t.)
Somewhere below comes the tinny notes of a flute, followed quickly by some kind of stringed instrument attempting a drunken harmony. After a few enthusiastic measures a drumbeat joins in, offbeat and just as eager. It sounds, quite frankly, dreadful.
“I love this song,” Zeb says with a grin.
“You don’t know this song.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t love it, right?” He reaches for Kallus. The glow behind Zeb’s form has muted in the twilight, the soft pulse of lanterns growing in strength and rocking that massive silhouette. The halo of light has blurred to a soft glow, and he’s mostly shadow now. Intimidating to anyone else; but Kallus doesn’t miss the waver in the Lasat’s voice when he speaks, though the words are heavy with bravado.
“Ah, kriff it. May as well show the kids how it’s done, eh?”
Kallus freezes, just for a second. Because this song is absolutely horrible , if you could even call it a song. And Zeb is reaching out his hand. He looks so focused, his fingers are curved so deftly in invitation, it has to be a joke.
And yet.
Yes, Kallus wants to say, humor be damned. Yes, yes, yes.
“Very funny, Garazeb,” he says instead. He eyes the proffered hand warily. “You know as well as I do, dancing has never been my strong suit.”
Zeb rolls his eyes. “Yea, as if I’m a right genius at it myself. Come on Kal, it’s a party. We’re not that old -least not yet.”
The smile on his faces widens as he beckons Kallus forward, though there’s not much distance between them. And Kallus, kriff it all to hell, almost takes that step.
“I’m not going to make a fool of myself just so you can have a laugh, Zeb,” he manages around the sudden lump in his throat. As if on cue, a twinge of pain smarts in Kallus’ palm, and that’s as good an excuse as any, so he raises the sore hand.
“Besides, I’m hurt.” He halfheartedly shakes his hand at Zeb, but there’s no energy in it. In the back of his mind Kallus wonders if this is because they both know the game, whatever game it was, is over. Generally, in any kind of combat, Kallus prefers to win.
But then Zeb’s face melts into an expression that is simultaneously unimpressed and incredibly tender, and Kallus forfeits everything. All at once, without pause.
Yes , he wants to say. Yes. All he manages, after an awkward moment, is a stiff nod. Garazeb absolutely beams , though he immediately tries to smother the expression in informality. Feigning detachment, the Lasat closes one colossal hand around Kallus’ and pulls him forward.
“Don’t fret, Agent. I’ll be careful of your mortal wound,” Zeb promises drily, closing the distance. He places his right hand at Kallus’ waist, cups their hands together in an awkward waltz form. Kallus doesn’t know what to do with his left hand, and he settles upon resting it, clenched in a fist, on Zeb’s upper shoulder. He is vaguely aware that they make an odd sight, but thank the stars there’s no one here to see it. And that’s definitely for the best.
There’s no rhythm to this song, and there certainly isn’t a tempo. Zeb takes a step to the right, and Kallus does his best to follow. The movement is accompanied by an awkward shuffle of arms and legs, and Kallus would be embarrassed if Zeb wasn’t laughing so hard, his shoulders shaking like this is the best joke in the entire galaxy. Perhaps it is. Kallus tries not to smile.
In a heartbeat Zeb twists his wrist, and Kallus spins in spite of himself. It’s ridiculous and clunky, but Kallus is surprised by how easily he follows through on the turn; how quickly he returns to Zeb’s arms. He feels a flush creep up the back of his neck, and he stiffens his posture, tightens his fist.
(Because this is a joke, it has to be.)
“Not bad,” Zeb says with a chuckle, and it’s Kallus’ turn to roll his eyes.
“It’s a waltz, Garazeb,” he says. “It’s not beyond my understanding.”
“Really?” Zeb’s eyes are bright. “Could’ve fooled me.”
And Kallus should be annoyed, he really should, but he’s immediately trapped into following Zeb’s awkward steps backwards. If this were a test at keeping time, they’ve failed it. Kallus notes with discomfort that really must be getting old, because the quick pace abates within a few minutes, although the heavy breaths take longer to follow suit. They settle into a slow step, eventually swaying, eventually just rocking. They are tired, after all. Just a couple of soldiers, on leave.
By the time the song has petered out, swallowed by more howls of laughter as the celebration gets its second wind, Kallus has become very keenly aware of just how heavy the air is between them. That they’re closer now than maybe they’ve ever been; that the lanterns have lost focus compared to the crown of shadowy foliage at Zeb’s head. A howl of laughter echoes up from the forest floor. But Kallus isn’t paying attention any more. He’s too focused on the feel of Zeb’s hand at his waist, the other gently cradling his palm. Because in spite of everything, Garazeb is careful with it. With him.
Kallus considers a snide remark. I’m not fragile, Zeb , he wants to say. I’ve taken more blasters to the gut than you, easy. Certainly more to my ego.
Instead he focuses on the metal paneling on Zeb’s chest, the nicks and cuts much more obvious in the lantern light. There are smudged hints of Sabine’s drawings still present on the upper shoulder. Kallus wonders if the Mandalorian is off somewhere, leaving sharp toothed lothcats on the buildings of some other city; he wonders if Zeb will wait to polish his armor till she returns.
Distracted by the thought, it takes a moment to sink in that Kallus has softened his hand on Zeb’s shoulder, that he’s begun rubbing slow, easy circles along the ridge of the clasps. The music has picked up again, a heated line dance judging by the yells and pounding of feet in harmony. If this was just a dance, the two of them should be following suit; Kallus should tighten his fist, square his shoulders. Make this all funny again, a respite from war, nothing else. He shouldn’t waver, he can’t -
Then there’s a finger under his chin, tilting his head up. And Kallus forgets to exhale, because Garazeb is very, very close.
(And suddenly it’s not a joke, anymore.)
They kiss very carefully, slow and melancholy, as if the moment is made of glass. Kallus supposes that it is, in a way.
Oh , he wants to say. So that's what this is. What it’s always been.
His heart is hammering in his chest.
“See?” He says instead, his voice cracking. “I tried dancing.”
Zeb smirks.
“You’re horrible at it,” the Lasat returns quietly. His eyes are as bright as the lanterns dotting the trees, and they flicker with something akin to apprehension as he runs them over Kallus’ face. “You need practice.”
You’re the one that needs practice , Kallus doesn’t shoot back. After all, you suggested this.
He blinks up at Zeb, hazy in the dark save those eyes, the halo of warmth. And Kallus is suddenly struck by the realization that the Lasat looks, in spite of everything, hopeful .
“Teach me,” he says.
And Zeb does.