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Nights in Koboh were quiet, maybe the calmest he had seen in a while —even Jeddha’s vastness had something restless in its landscape of perpetually moving dunes and sleep deprived anchorites that walked down the corridors at the weirdest hours. But not even the familiar silhouette of the mountains, the faintly lit courtyard of the farm with the occasional moo of the nekkos or the wetness of the garden keeping at bay the stifling warmness the sun had rubbed into everything were helping Cal Kestis sleep.
Instead, if anyone were to be awake at that time and looked to the general direction where Pyloon Saloon stood, they would see a blue glimmer dancing around the rooftop terrace, figure it was none of their business —as people usually do in edge-of-civilization settlements such as that one was— and go back to bed.
Cal couldn’t. He had had a long day and his mind was too much of a whirlwind, so he had tried to meditate for a while downstairs, he had really tried. But Greez’s steps over the cracking floor of the canteen as he was cleaning, lightly humming off-tune melodies to himself; and the secret door hinges that slightly creaked because of the flow of air between that one and the entrance to the basement were making him clench his teeth; plus the lights from the ceiling were slipping under his closed eyelids and that fried food smell in the air…Force, even the fabric of the new shirt he had recently found during one of his adventures was rubbing his back in all of the wrong ways. In short, all of the things that normally made of the subterranean room a shelter were making him want to scream.
Resorting to lightsaber routines was the logical outcome to keep him from overthinking any longer. With BD sitting silently on his shoulder, he sneaked upstairs easily so as to not worry Greez, painfully aware of how much time had passed since he used to do that whenever they stayed in some nowhere little village in the middle of a mission and he needed to stop feeling so much.
Cal danced more than anything else in the garden, among the plants that were thriving there thanks to Pili’s attentions, the noise inside his head turning physical as he pictured invisible targets in front of him, solid strides becoming sequences of steps, and those evolving into feats of anti-gravitational jumps and spins, drawing lines of bright blue light all around the jedi, as if he was writing all of his problems in the night air for the moon to witness.
Focused as he was, it took him a while to notice the broad figure that was observing everything, arms crossed over his chest and leaning with a shoulder against the door frame.
“Bode.” He panted, turning around to see him, a smile gracing the corners of his mouth even before the man was in his field of vision. BD chirped and jumped down his arm to greet the newcomer.
“’Had a bit too much caf to sleep now.” Bode shrugged and smiled back, bowing down to pet the little droid. After seeing him chug much worse beverages in the little time they spent undercover in Coruscant, somehow he doubted caf was the thing that was keeping the big man awake. But he hadn’t asked for his reasons, so why should he? It seemed like an unspoken agreement: problems could wait until daylight. “Wanna practice?” He pointed with his head at the trooper armor that sat in a corner, almost identical —if not a little more beaten up— to the one where Cal tried firing the other man’s old blaster for the first time a couple days back.
His mannerisms seemed a little more relaxed than most times, almost carefree as he stood back on both feet and advanced towards Cal, probably courtesy of the round of drinks on the house Greez and his droid friend had offered everybody after they came back from their latest mission, bringing a new addition to the crew of the Saloon. He wasn’t drunk, of course, just a little happy. He wasn’t that reckless, no matter how quiet the nights in Koboh seemed to be.
Without any more ado, Bode dragged the armor to the center of the terrace, as far as he could get it without stepping on the spline fluffs that the gardener from Jedha had put so much care into.
It had two targets painted on the white surface of the plastoid, Cal realized, one in the forehead of the helmet, and one on the left side of the chest plate. When Bode turned to look at him, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, crooked, proud smile fluttering in the corners of his mouth, the jedi couldn’t help the thought: he knew exactly how it felt to be struck right on the heart.
“Bet I can still give the star pupil a run for his money.” The mercenary teased, giving a friendly pat on the other man’s back as he passed by his side. “Ten credits say I can hit the bucket from there.”
Bode’s enthusiasm rubbed easily into Cal, who let himself be pointed to the door as a start line and looked closely at the other man as he unsheathed his gun with a flourish, making it roll between his fingers barely looking at the target.
The ginger wasn’t an artist —not in the traditional sense of the word at least, because his master used to say there was something artistic in lightsaber fighting, an element of the discipline of dance to knowing when to strike and how to use your own movement the best way possible—. He wasn’t an artist but for the fraction of a second the other man’s shooting stance lasted, he wished he was so he could draw the line that started right after his jaw and continued down his neck and back in a solid, yet relaxed silhouette that seemed to come so naturally to him.
To no one's surprise, the helmet fell back from the mannequin that was holding it with a hollow bang.
Bode turned to look at him, smile easy and cocky, and crooked, and proud.
Cal, on the other hand…the blaster shot tore through the quietness of the night. Then a second one, but it wasn’t until the third that one reached the target.
The jedi lowered the weapon, that felt heavy in his hand, but didn’t look away from the white plastoid of the armor. It seemed to him that it was making fun of his situation by just standing there, not moving and remaining —mostly— unscratched. By his side, his robotic number one supporter excitedly tapped the floor with his little legs, as if trying to cheer him up.
He reached for his pocket to get the ten credits he should have been wise enough not to bet, taking into account his abilities (or lack of thereof), and held them up so Bode could take them.
He didn’t, and by the time Cal was done feeling embarrassed for himself, the taller man’s eyes were waiting. Unlike he expected, his smile was not judgmental, and a little soft in the edges. Fond, even if Cal couldn’t hit the target to save his life.
“Your grip is terrible.” He pointed, holding out his hand towards him. “Can I…?”
Cal swallowed thickly, and nodded. The other man’s skin was warm as he wrapped the Jedi’s left hand with his own. The metal still felt cold underneath, but not for long. “You gotta cover all of the back so it doesn’t move when it recoils, see?” As delicately as firmly, as if he was handling a glass bottle he didn’t want to drop, Bode took the ginger’s right hand with his and raised it along with the other one until both men’s arms were at the perfect height in front of them, slightly bent.
The taller man’s breath was steady, and Cal could feel it warm in his hair, as a light pressure in his back as they were mere inches apart, and deep within his gut. Everything around him seemed to be Bode, as his broader frame enveloped all around him. He smelled like dust and leather and caf and sweat.
He wanted to look back. He wanted to look back at his friend so bad, but he kept his gaze fixed in the white armor ahead of them, frown lightly creasing his face in concentration and jaw set because he knew if he allowed himself to do so he would see him close enough that he could count the moles in his face, and he would feel the little scars and marks on his skin, and Bode would look down at him and smile easy and crooked and proud…and he didn’t know what he would do if that happened. He would be helpless.
Bode hit the trigger with a gentle squeeze on Cal’s fingers. It hit right in the heart, the noise of it bringing the jedi back to the present. To the clouds that occasionally slipped in front of the full moon, casting shadows on the silver-lit surface of the terrace. To the laugh that expanded through his lungs without his permission. Even with the other man’s help, he wasn’t quite expecting to strike true.
“See? So much better.” A grin was biting on the taller man’s tone, that was but a low purr. He didn’t need more for the Jedi to hear him, close as he was. “Now, pro tip, shooting comes from the core, here.” He let his right hand drop to Cal’s waist, and dragged it to the front absent-mindedly. The jedi felt it like a ripple, like a tidal wave all over the rest of his body, and swallowed, hoping darkness helped conceal the red on his cheeks.
Cal noded with a short hum as an answer, and closed his eyes for a little more than a heartbeat, grounding himself. Wishing the freshness of the vegetation, the moonlight, the way in which his limbs were tired in the most satisfying of ways after a long day and… and Bode’ hand on his waist, of course, and his voice, and the warmth of his body on his back. Wishing he could trap all of that into a Holocron and live in it forever.
He breathed in, clear eyes focused on the target, and as he released the air he pressed the trigger.
Bang.
Followed by Bode’s triumphant laugh, breaking the silence, and a strong pat on his back, followed by a half hug. Adrenaline pumping in his veins, Cal was smiling so much his cheeks hurt and for a moment the thought crossed his mind. He could kiss him. He could grab his face and pull that man down and he could tangle his fingers in his hair and-
“Now we are talking!” The mercenary cried, his face bright. “Come on, I bet you back those ten credits.”
He couldn’t live in that night forever, but he could be content with just a little more and that, he had.