Work Text:
Anakin Skywalker was fuming.
He knew he really ought to be schmoozing with potential buyers. These gallery owner types were no better than a Hutt cartel, and he wouldn’t be welcome on Coruscant in the future if none of his pieces sold. He’d burned too many bridges already; he couldn’t afford to be precious if he cared about his advancing his career. He could also use the extra credits.
But. But.
He just couldn’t get past what he’d overheard that snobby schutta of a woman saying. “These pieces aren’t fit for my incinerator!” she’d sneered to her companion. “Skywalker should go back to the junkyard where he belongs — and he should take this pile of rubbish home to the Outer Rim with him!”
That’d hurt, and most of the reason it’d hurt so badly was because a part of him suspected that it might be true. Repurposing worthless scrap from Watto’s junkyard was how he’d gotten his start as an artist, after all, and his share of the proceeds had eventually been enough to buy both himself and his mother out of slavery. They lived comfortably nowadays, and Anakin was a minor celebrity on Tatooine.
To the peoples of the Core Worlds, however, that meant less than nothing.
“A remarkable achievement. The artist must be proud.”
“Eh?” Anakin blinked. He’d been staring at his own artwork, so lost in his own spiraling mind that he hadn’t noticed the man standing beside him:
A very handsome man with the characteristic blue skin of a Pantoran and intelligent, glowing red eyes which were decidedly not Pantoran.
“Look at the subtle line between the hyperdrive circuit emitter here and the podracer fan belt there, and how it intersects at the precise center of the respulsorlift spanner,” the man continued. His Basic was erudite but oddly accented. “The elegant yet utilitarian form speaks simultaneously to conflicts both resolved and enduring, and of an individual both proud of his victories and afraid of future failure.”
Anakin blinked again. Did this man not recognize him as the artist? “This one’s called ‘The Tusken Raid.’ It’s about, well,” he shrugged, “it’s about a Tusken raid on a moisture farm. It’s a common occurrence on Tatooine.”
“A remarkable culture, Tatooine, poised on the fulcrum between barbarity and civilization. I must confess that, as a connoisseur, I am utterly fascinated.” The man turned to look at Anakin. His gaze was so penetrating and intent; Anakin had to force himself not to squirm. “I already own six bespoke Skywalker pieces, but this is the most exquisite I’ve seen yet. I intend to make ‘The Tusken Raid’ my seventh acquisition.”
“Oh. Um. That’s great.” Anakin forgot to blink. “The Tusken Raid” was the most expensive piece on display — over a hundred-thousand credits. It’d only been included in the exhibition to give gallery visitors something large and impressive to look at; no one expected it to actually sell. The gallery owner would be over the moons of Iego! What was the protocol here? Should he say thank you? Somehow, that didn’t quite seem like enough. “I, uhhhh — ”
“I also intend to ask the artist out on a date. How does the day after tomorrow sound?”
“I — what?!” Anakin didn’t even know this man’s name!
The man leaned in close, and his eyes seemed to engulf Anakin’s entire galaxy. His hand reached out to cup Anakin’s chin. “I’ve recently come to learn that artist himself is even more exquisitely beautiful than his artwork…wouldn’t you agree?”
Anakin wasn’t sure whether he did or not, truthfully, but he leaned in the rest of the way and kissed the man anyway. “I’m free later tonight,” he said, voice low and sultry, “and I’m not in the mood to wait.”
Thrawn wasn’t either, as it turned out.