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“Hold still, vod’ika.”
“Stop stabbing me with the pins, ori’vod,” Din retorted. But he stopped squirming to let Paz tackle the hem of his pant leg again. “Remind me why we can’t just wear our normal gear and boots?”
Paz’s helmet looked up from where he was on the floor pinning the hem of Din’s dress pants. “Because Alor wants us to be at our best to impress the visiting covert, of course,” Paz answered, before clumsily stabbing Din’s ankle with another pin. Din bore the pain without flinching this time. “Besides, surely you don’t think you can attract a dance partner in your usual mud-stained get-up, do you?”
Din fidgeted, pulling at the seams of his jacket, which he’d already gotten fitted over his half chestplate, its long sleeves tailored to hang at his wrists just over his vambrace. Soon, he’d earn his second vambrace. “I’m not interested in dancing,” he scoffed.
Paz laughed. “Going straight for the dark corners then, are you?”
“What?! No! Paz!” Din smacked the top of Paz’s helmet. Din didn’t care about some visiting covert. He wasn’t planning on mingling—in a dark corner or otherwise. Wasn’t the point of being in a covert to keep secret? Why were they hosting a bunch of strange Mando’ade from another planet anyway? He voiced the thought aloud. “Why are they even here?”
Two pats to Din’s leg signaled him to shake it out, and Paz eyed his work critically. “Duh, di’kut. They’re on the run. Their old base got smoked out by nasty Imps. Alor offered them sanctuary. This is the Way.”
“This is the Way,” Din echoed softly, his unkind thoughts chastened. As a foundling, he knew all about seeking sanctuary.
And then Din lost his balance as Paz punched the back of his knee. He fell forward, trying to catch himself on Paz’s helmet or shoulders. But Paz ducked out the way, laughing, and they both tumbled to the ground.
“Who’s the di’kut now?!” Din cried, grabbing at Paz and punching him in the side. The strike was harmless. Paz was huge. It was like punching a mountain. And the mountain was rumbling with laughter.
“Don’t hit me!” Paz protested faintly. “You’ll mess up your hems and then I’ll have to start all over!”
“And whose fault will that be?” Din challenged again, not excited about their afternoon sparring session being canceled in favor of everyone getting ready for the welcome party.
Paz shoved him aside. “Just go sew those up. You can thank me later when you’re not tripping over your own feet when a vod with a cool helmet asks you to dance.”
Din gave up and leaned back on his elbows. He groused, “I don’t even know how to dance.”
Paz climbed to his feet and offered Din a hand. Din let himself be pulled up, but Paz didn’t let go of his hand. Paz’s other hand wound around Din’s neck, draping over his shoulder. “You just sway like this. Yeah?”
Din felt stupid just swaying side to side, chest-to-chest with Paz. “This is dumb. Why do people like to do this?”
“With the right person, it’s...I don’t know, nice? I can’t explain it. You’ll know it when you feel it.”
“I doubt it,” Din said. He wiggled free of Paz’s hold and stepped back.
Paz’s hands dropped to his sides. “Maybe the elders will teach us some of the old dances.”
“There are specific dances?” Din asked wonderingly. His own experience with Mandalorian culture was limited to hiding and fighting. And the Creed. He knew that back on Mandalore things were different. But it was hard to imagine members of his covert linking hands and jumping around in circle dances like the adults in his hazy memories of Aq Vetina. But Paz knew of such things. Paz was a Vizsla, one of the old clans. He had roots in Mandalorian culture going back generations. He was full of interesting tidbits from before the Purge, even if a lot of it was garbled or questionable as the stories got transformed over numerous retellings. But even though Paz was a wellspring of information, sometimes trying to get that info out of him was like trying to tap water from a stone.
At Din’s question, Paz just shrugged and turned away. “Yeah. Doesn’t matter now though, does it?”
Din bit his lip behind his helmet. “I think it matters. Isn’t Alor always saying we must preserve the old ways?”
“I guess so,” Paz said, but then brightened. “You’re right, vod’ika. And you’ll see tonight. Maybe some of the visiting covert members will have some dances to share with us.”
“If they do, I bet you’ll be the first one asked to join in,” Din told him.
“Is that your way of saying I look good, too?” Paz preened, smoothing down his deep blue jacket, which highlighted the iron heart of his chestplate underneath. “Now go on and finish getting ready!”
Din gave him a mock salute then jogged to the supply room to grab a sewing kit. The room was full of other Mando’ade getting ready for the occasion. It wasn’t every day they interacted with another covert. And although the reason for it this time might be rather sad, as Paz had reminded him, it was still always a good thing when their numbers grew. It was good that the other covert had escaped. And soon they’d be on their way towards setting up a new base. Din should enjoy the chance to converse with them while he still could. Maybe he’d even meet another foundling like himself.
Din grabbed a needle and dark thread. He sat down in the throng of fellow vode and pulled a knife from his belt. He carefully threaded the needle (on the second try) and started trying to follow the messy line of Paz’s pins to shorten his pants. “Kriff!” he exclaimed, unable to figure out how to sew all the way around with his pants still on. He needed to take them off. But everywhere he looked, there were other people, and he didn’t relish the idea of sitting around in his undershorts in front of so many others even for a few minutes.
He got up and went to his bunk, but the sleeping quarters were bustling, too.
He tried the kitchens (di’kut Din, so many mouths to feed tonight). And he tried the sparring rooms (full of Mando’ade he didn’t recognize, presumably from the other covert). Everywhere he went there were people.
Surely there was a quiet place he could find before the party was in full swing.
A shape of bright light drew Din’s attention to a locked door down a lonely, out-of-the-way corridor. Din considered it with narrowed eyes behind his visor. That door led outside the covert. He wasn’t supposed to go out without permission. None of them were. But unless he was prepared to sew his pants while perched on a toilet, he was going to have to get creative. And it would only be for a short while. He’d be back before anyone knew.
Din entered the code and unlocked the door. He pushed it open and peered out.
The antechamber was well-lit by the setting sun streaming through the stone-cut windows. And it was blessedly empty. Surely all of the others were inside the covert tonight, not wanting to miss the chance to hang out with the visiting Mando’ade. And Din’s pants were almost done.
Quickly, Din undid his belt and shoved his pants down. He kicked them off over his small-boots, trying to do so without messing up the pins again. He leaned against the stone wall and took up his needle and thread again.
The end of the thread was a stubby mess, and Din couldn’t get it through the eye of the needle. Not even in three tries. “Kriffin’ thread,” he grumbled. He retrieved his knife and cut it fresh again. But even though his knife was properly sharpened (he’d never let it get dull), each cut of the thread seemed to make the strands even more frayed and harder to push through the eye. Din cursed again. If he could lick the thread, it’d be usable. Just a fast dab of his tongue.
Din opened and closed his fist. He wasn’t supposed to take off his helmet. Not ever. He’d sworn the Creed.
But no one was around.
And he wasn’t going to take it off off. Just...lift it up a smidge. He’d do it fast. He practiced the idea mentally: Lift helmet. Hold thread to mouth. Lick it. Push helmet back down. That was it. No big deal.
Din sucked in a breath and nudged his helmet up. He stuck out his tongue.
“Hey there!”
Din gasped in embarrassment. His helmet was half up, exposing the lower half of his face. And he wasn’t wearing any pants.
With his helmet positioned where it was, Din couldn’t even see who’d caught him in such a compromising situation. As quickly as he possibly could, Din shoved his helmet back down. But he was stuck holding his pants red-handed as he took in the view of his unwanted company.
It was a Mandalorian.
Din couldn’t quite decide if that made it better or worse.
In the brightness of the antechamber, Din waited for his visor to adjust to be able to make out the stranger’s helmet design. Din didn’t recognize it. The Mando’ad must be from the visiting covert. But what was he doing outside? Because Din had definitely not heard the door creek open on its rusty hinges.
Din fisted the fabric of his pants in his hands and resisted the urge to grab his knife. “Um, olarom? Welcome to our covert? Please don’t tell anyone about this. I…”
The stranger in the green and red armor had his hands on his hips, stance wide. But then his helmet tilted to the side, and he shrugged, relaxing his posture. “Seems like I caught you with your, uh, guard down.”
Din could feel himself blushing.
“I wasn’t actually sure I had the right place,” the stranger said. “But I saw a lot of commotion around here earlier. And a lot of flashes of beskar. And I got curious.”
“Well, be curious somewhere else. The party has probably started, and I’ve got to hem these pants before I go back.”
“Is that what you’re doing out here alone, helmet up, tongue out, pants down? Sewing?”
Din flushed even more than before. “It’s this stupid thread. I’ve mangled it, and I don’t have any more, and I just--”
“Say no more,” the stranger held his hand up. And then he turned his palm up. “I’m good at sewing. Pass them over. And you can tell me more about this party.”
Din relented. He tossed his pants at the new vod and then passed him the needle and thread. He slumped against the wall. “What’s there to tell? Your covert is passing through. We’re offering sanctuary. We’re just being good hosts. A little music and light-heartedness, you know?”
Din watched as the other Mando’ad expertly threaded the needle on the first try, then promptly got to work sewing a small perfect row of stitches on Din’s pants. Din was torn between being jealous and being impressed.
“And so not all the Mandalorians here tonight know each other?” the Mando’ad prompted. “Any Mandalorian is welcome?”
Din was puzzled but shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Hmm.”
Din knew he should elaborate or say something, anything, to make small talk. But it was kind of distracting with his pants in the other Mando’ad’s hands, and having just been walked in on unexpectedly. Din was still reeling from it. “So you really promise not to tell anyone about what you saw?”
“Saw what? I didn’t see anything.”
Din let out the air he’d been holding in his lungs. “Vor entye,” he breathed.
“Definitely didn’t see you with your pants down,” the other Mando’ad continued, making Din’s eyebrow twitch as he switched to sewing up Din’s other pant leg with dexterous skill. “And I definitely didn’t see that you have a pink tongue.”
Din groaned and buried his helmet in his hands. “Don’t even joke about it. I only just swore the Creed. I’m not ready to lose it yet.”
“I’ve got your back, vod. And your pants. Here.”
The other Mando’ad pushed the pants back at Din. Din tugged them on over his small-boots, hopping around to yank them all the way up. He felt self-conscious in front of the other Mando’ad, who was watching him intently, but there was no help for it. Besides, help was help, after all. “Okay,” he said. Pants right again, he held out his hand. “I’m Din, by the way.”
“Teff,” the other Mando’ad introduced himself after a brief hesitation. No one in the coverts used full names, but short, simple designations were necessary among one another. Din figured that's why Teff hesitated. They shook hands.
Din moved to the door and punched in the code. “Let’s get back before we miss the dancing.”
“Dancing? Mandalo--I mean, we dance?”
“Well, not me. Yet. But my ori’vod taught me how. Do, um…” Din paused, twisting around in the narrow doorway to face the other Mando’ad— Teff. Din suddenly realized how close they were standing to one another. They were nearly touching. It occurred to Din that they were of similar heights, and Teff’s voice didn’t sound terribly old behind his vocoder. And his hands had been so skilled working the needle and thread...the vod was surely skilled at many things. And he’d already seen Din with his pants down and didn’t make a big deal of it. Din was intrigued. “Would you like to dance? With me?”
“Sure.” The green buy’ce tilted to the side. “If you show me how, I can mimic anything. It can’t be much different than fighting, right?”
Din had to laugh at that. “It’s not like fighting. You don’t look for each other’s weaknesses.”
“What do you look for then?”
“I don’t think you look for anything. You just look at each other.”
“Oh,” and Teff’s voice sounded as disappointed as Din’s had earlier when Paz had explained it to him. “Sounds boring.”
Din said, “I’m told it’s not boring if you’re doing it with the right person.”
“And how do you know if it’s the right person?”
“You ask a lot of questions, vod,” Din pointed out with some exasperation, even though nothing Teff was saying was any different than what Din said before. “You’ll just know. So try it with me? I can already hear the music.”
Teff’s green helmet bobbed up and down. Din pushed the door the rest of the way open and led him by the hand through the winding corridors of the covert towards the source of the music. Din knew the dark tunnels like the back of his own hand. He felt the other Mando’ad hesitate around a few corners, but Din just squeezed his hand in encouragement.
Eventually, they found themselves in the middle of a throng of boisterous, celebrating Mando’ade. Shig was everywhere, straws letting Mandalorians slurp up the grog beneath their helmets. The buzz of the party was in full swing. And many Mando’ade were indeed dancing, holding each other and swaying side to side just like Paz had said.
Din pulled Teff into the fray and turned them so they were chest to chest. He maintained their handhold and put his other hand around Teff’s shoulders, whose own free hand settled on Din’s waist. Din shifted his weight back and forth and stared into the reflective transparisteel of Teff’s visor. If he squinted enough, Din could just make out two eyes looking back at him.
Din didn’t have a chance to decide if dancing with Teff felt “nice” like Paz had said because Teff had immediately frozen up. As pliable as he’d been as Din had led him through the covert, now he seemed stiff and unyielding. He wasn’t swaying along. “Are you okay?” Din asked, concerned. “Do you not want to dance with me?”
“It’s not you. It’s...there’s too many people.” The whisper was feather-soft, barely picked up by the vocoder.
“Come on, then,” Din said, instantly understanding the sentiment. Din wasn’t used to this either. And even though he wanted to stay and see what it was all about, since it happened so rarely and he was finally old enough to appreciate it, he wanted to stick with his new friend more. Not just because Teff had caught Din in a vulnerable moment and been kind about it, but something else, too. Something about Teff was interesting. Compelling. Din felt both more and less sure of himself around him. And welcoming and getting to know the other covert was what the Alor had asked of them. So that’s what Din would do.
Teff followed readily as Din led him someplace he figured no one else would be at this time: the forge. The fires were always lit, and it kept the room very warm, nearly too hot. But they could still hear the music that wafted down the empty covert halls.
Din held out his arms in invitation, and Teff approached him cautiously. “Try again?” Din suggested.
“Alright,” Teff agreed.
They resumed their positions from the busy dance floor from before. But now it was just the two of them. Din’s arm looped around Teff’s neck, bringing them so close they nearly bumped helmets. Din chuckled as a hand came to settle again on his waist. Their other hands tangled together. This time, when Din started swaying to the beat of the drums, Teff swayed in tandem with him.
Moments passed with only the sound of the drums pounding, a much slower beat than the racing of Din’s heart behind his chestplate. Din couldn’t explain it, but being this close with someone else while not fighting was...strange. In a good way. But strange. They were basically hugging to rhythm. The more Din thought about it, the more intimate it felt. He started counting all the places his and Teff’s bodies were in contact. He felt every time Teff’s thumb shifted over his hand. They were sharing the same air between their helmets. Between the heat of their bodies and the heat of the forge behind them, it was...a lot. But like Paz said, it was nice.
Din didn’t realize his hand had slid down until he found himself wondering at the dip in Teff’s spine, where it curved in then out again along his backside. Din wanted to cup it and see how firm or soft it would be under his palm, but he knew that would be crossing a line. Instead, he swallowed and moved his helmet in preparation to ask something to break up the increasingly charged silence.
But at the same time, Teff moved too.
Their helmets clinked together. The singing of beskar on beskar rang loudly, even over the booming of the drums.
The ringing in Din’s ears slowly ebbed as they both laughed, but neither stepped back, still clinging to one another. Still warmed by the forge’s fire. Still hanging onto the moment. Din’s knees felt slightly weak, like he wanted to curl up like a loth cat in Teff’s embrace. He shook it off and asked, “So what do you think of dancing?”
“With you?” Teff asked. “I could get used to it.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
They continued to sway back and forth. Din couldn’t stop trying to seek out Teff’s eyes, which was incredibly rude of him, so instead he rested his helmet on Teff’s shoulder pauldron, which had a cool mythosaur imprint. Even clad in beskar and layers of his dress clothes, Din could feel Teff’s breaths, which came and went faster than the sedate pace of their slow dancing could account for, just like Din’s.
Din closed his eyes, letting himself be lulled by the moment, which was partly peaceful and partly heart-racing. Because of the forge and Teff’s closeness, he was starting to sweat under his buy’ce and kute, making him glad his hands were in gloves. But what if they weren’t? What if neither of them had gloves on and did this?
Din’s wandering thoughts were cut off when Teff said, “Hey, the music’s stopped.”
“It has?” Din hadn’t even noticed. Some beroya he’d make. Scowling at how much practice he still needed in recognizing changes in his environment, Din started to step back, but Teff kept a hand on his waist.
“We don’t have to stop dancing,” Teff said. He sounded hopeful.
“It’d be pretty stupid dancing without music.”
“I think we could figure it out.” But Teff did retreat, putting space between them. He stalked around the room, taking it in. “So this is where they make new armor? Can anyone use the forge?”
Din laughed. “Of course not! Only the Armorer can practice the art of forging beskar.”
“That’s a shame,” Teff said, walking around and touching everything in the room from the Armorer’s tools to the handle of the main forge itself. He picked up a pair of heavy iron tongs. “Are you sure we can’t make a pauldron or something? Maybe just a knee plate? I’ve always wanted whistling ravens.”
“Whistling birds,” Din corrected, still shocked at Teff’s audacity. “I don’t know how things are done in your covert, but here we can’t just use the forge whenever we want. We have to earn our armor.”
Teff stalked behind him, and Din found having Teff at his back with the iron in his hands vaguely intimidating despite their earlier dancing. The tongs could absolutely be used as a weapon—Din had seen the Armorer use them to take down Stormtroopers. “Oh, believe me. I earned mine plenty.”
The boast made Din extremely curious, but he moved so that his front was to Teff and his back was to the room’s exit—just in case. Din had been among Mandalorians long enough to know that the line between flirting and threatening was a fine one, and difficult to navigate. He should probably suggest they rejoin the group.
Without prompting, Teff laid the iron clampers down and walked towards Din, brushing by him deliberately as he left the forge chamber. “We should get back, I guess.”
Din nodded. He was relieved. Or was he disappointed? Maybe both.
Teff was suddenly close again, and a hand slipped around Din’s waist. “Thanks for dance, Din.”
“Uh,” DIn cleared his throat, staring into the familiar yet unfamiliar curves of Teff’s helmet. “You too.”
And then Teff disappeared, probably back to the party. Except that when Din looked for him again later in between sips of shig and bouts of arguing with Paz, he couldn’t find Teff’s green and red helmet anywhere. Part of Din wondered if he'd passed out and made the whole encounter up in his head. But he knew Teff was real. And he was somewhere out there, earning his armor and, just maybe, taking a moment to dance.