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Poe Dameron is born face-up, a star-gazer baby in every sense of the word. One day, he’ll be a savior, a general, a lover and an obnoxious pretty-boy pilot.. For now, though, he starts the same as the rest-- chubby, wrinkled face turned upward and tiny hands grabbing for the stars that he’d spend the rest of his life chasing.
One minute he’s a babe in his grandfather’s arms, listening intently to the stories of each of the glowing clusters- each star system, each constellation, each place his mother had flown. And she’ll be there next, and over there is- and one day the memories will start to blur but he’ll carry the names in his heart, and go numb with each message that another one is gone, and then this one, and that one-
Poe Dameron is on his mother's lap in the cockpit of her A-Wing for the first time. He watches the ground fall away in slow motion; the controls blink and beep and whir like a lullaby. It’s intoxicating. Everything is so small from up here, but the world is so big. The planet reflects in his saucer-wide eyes. His mother smiles, kisses his temple and whispers-
He’s fourteen, and that weird tree in his parents’ yard is blossoming. The flowers are huge, and purple, and the air around them is sweetly scented. Fireflies hover lightly, flickering like the stars above. His first kiss, his first boyfriend, the first twist in his gut of this is what my parents fought for, this is what I’ll fight for, all underneath the canopy of blossoms . Young love never lasts, especially in a galaxy with loss flowing through it like the blood in his veins. The spirit lasts, though, with every thumping heartbeat, like-
Streaks of light are speeding by, and the blinding smile of a Stormtrooper friend is burning a hole through any logic he has left. Safe, for the moment, he can fake cool and confident. He must have cracked a joke. Finn is laughing and Poe’s head is spinning. Finn claps solidly on his shoulder and the controls jerk in Poe’s hands. The world tilts-
It’s dark and they’re fumbling against each other. Maybe the war is over, maybe it isn’t, maybe it never ends for soldiers, but Finn’s lips are on his and that’s enough. They’re alive, hearts drumming a staccato beat to the tune of their own blood rushing. Later, Poe will decide the opposite of war isn’t peace; it’s intertwined hands and bodies. Later, Rey will see them both stumble out of his quarters and raise an eyebrow. But that’s later. For now, Finn will bury his face in Poe’s shoulder, hot breath cooling the sweat pooled there. Poe lets himself smile, and sleep.