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He gasps awake just as the shots ring out.
The taste of it coats his tongue; the thick, heavy rot of the swamps, the dampness of the air, the sharp sour bite of his own fear. He can’t breathe, can’t think. Jesse retches, hefting himself up to sitting, and curls himself over his knees, knuckling at his eyes until they starburst in the black. It doesn’t help, doesn’t wash away the whites of Kix’s eyes in the gloom, staring at him down the sight of a rifle.
The barracks are quiet, punctuated by mumbling breaths and soft snores; there is no drone of fighters overheard, no horrified, frozen silence. It doesn’t do anything to slow the terrified gallop of his own heart, or the way his breath shudders in his lungs. He can’t control the tremors that settle in his hands, or the way his fingers reach up to touch the spot between his eyes. He’s seen Kix make that shot thousands of times, obliterating the range in a series of pop pop pop.
In his nightmares, his brother doesn’t miss.
After a moment he swings his feet over the side of the bunk, uncaring at the sting of cold metal against his soles. The mattress creaks as he bends down and palms the back of his neck, and a moment later there is an answering groan in the frame, before another hand settles on his shoulder.
“Jess?” Kix croaks, still half-asleep and pliant. Jesse can’t help the way he recoils from the touch, and the hand stills, then retreats.
The silence lingers just a moment too long before he hears the rustle of Kix’s blanket.
“You alright?” Kix asks, somewhere between wary and hopeful.
Jesse hates disappointing him, but if he looks up he thinks he’ll vomit.
He stands instead, the movement too jerky to be casual, and feels his brother shrink back into his bunk, the air between them suddenly going cold. Jesse grits his teeth so hard they ache, balling his hands at his sides. The anticipation sinks in knife-sharp, and he finds he can’t cope with that anymore either, can’t stand the way it makes his skin crawl.
He nods, stiffly, lying with every bone in his body.
Kix has never run from a fight in his life, but he lets Jesse run from this.
“Okay, vod,” he whispers instead, his voice all small and fractured and wrong. “You know I’m here if you need me.”
They haven’t talked about the dreams, but Jesse suspects Kix knows what he sees. He’s always been good like that, always just one step ahead, but it hasn’t helped them breach this chasm, can’t stop them from staring at each other from opposite ends of a gun.
It doesn’t matter, in the end, that his brothers never took the shot. They thought about it. Somehow, that shapes up to near enough the same thing.
He leaves the barracks, and doesn’t look back.
Fives is already by the window when he reaches the refectory, a lone solid figure in the pooling dark. He’s dragged a bench up to the glass and tucked his knees up to his chest, the lights of passing Coruscanti traffic lighting up his hollow eyes. He doesn’t look like he’s slept - maybe that was the right idea.
He doesn’t say anything when Jesse sits, just swings his legs down and lifts one arm, a question and an answer all at once. Yes, Jesse answers with his touch. He leans in, slinging his own arm around Fives’ waist. You too?
He doesn’t really have to ask. After Umbara, he knows they’re both trapped in the same moment.
They fidget for a moment, then settle.
The night drags on.