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Luke always tentatively brushes his fingers against Din’s when they walk together in markets because he can never bring himself to fully grasp Din’s hand. He thinks he’s not allowed to, that Din will brush him off after the next touch of fingertips, but he doesn’t.
So, Luke continues, pretending that it’s just accidental when they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder in a crowded place. When like this, Luke will drink up what he can, because he’s greedy when it comes to Din. It’s a trait no Jedi should acknowledge, yet Luke clearly knows it’s deeply rooted in him for he wants Din all the time. He wants to touch him freely, without the armor and gloves. He wants to stare at Din unrestricted, with no visor between them so Luke can get his fill of the handsome man that he saw once and never again after that.
Luke wants to run his fingers through Din’s curls. Kiss his nose. His cheeks. His lips. Feel the hair of his mustache and beard rub against his face where his skin will bloom red under Din’s touch, catching the affection between every atom shared in their space. Luke wants so much from Din just within the few months they've been co-training Grogu that it scares him, this all-consuming fire that may burn him from the inside out.
Luke wants what he knows he can’t have, so instead of acting on his desires, he feigns ignorance and hopes that Din will push him away—that his hand won’t be there for Luke to fleetingly caress in a half millisecond of contact. So that he can take his rejection in stride.
Din never does push Luke away, though.
Instead, after the fifth or sixth time Luke's knuckles graze across the back of Din's glove, Din releases a huff that crackles through his modulator, sounding just as tired as he does when Grogu escapes his room and goes frog hunting before dawn.
“If you want to hold my hand, Luke,” Din says, startling something fierce behind Luke’s ribs at being caught, “then you don’t need my permission.”
Luke, ever the level-headed Jedi he’s been trained to be, doesn’t sputter a half-assed excuse of forced proximity via milling market patrons. He doesn’t, no matter what R2 may have caught on holocam. Din sighs, this one a tell Luke is intimately familiar with.
Then, as if it’s the easiest thing in the galaxy for him to do, graced with what feels like decades of practice despite only knowing each other for less than a year’s worth, Din captures Luke’s hand and laces their fingers together. Tight. Unyielding. Locked in.
Din slots their fingers into the spaces between each other’s and tugs, pulling Luke away from the fruit stand he’s so intelligently frozen in front of. With his mouth open, no less. R2 thrills, amused, and says something about sending that photo to Leia.
Luke ignores him because it’s easy to let his mind go blank and be weightlessly pulled through the crowd, following Din like a puppet on a string. What he can’t ignore is the heat between their palms, warming Luke’s flesh hand to the bone. The heat travels up his arm, his chest, and his neck. Until it feels like a magma explosion that rivals Mustafar breaks the surface of his skin and spills across his face, heating his cheeks to a scorching degree.
‘Din’s holding my hand,’ Luke thinks, his inner voice so doped up on Din’s touch that he sounds stupid even to himself. ‘Din’s actually holding my hand. He wants to hold my hand.’
“I’ve wanted to for a while now.”
Oh.
Oh, Force. Luke hopes R2 didn’t catch his blunder or else Han is going to get wind of this too and Luke is not mentally prepared for that.
“I always want to hold your hand,” Din says simply as if it’s obvious. “I just never know when it's the right time. You get jumpy.”
“I do not,” Luke protests. R2 beeps an agreement the same time Grogu flashes an image of Luke, skittish and flustered and—oh. He is jumpy around Din. Okay. Well. That’s not embarrassing. Hopefully, Leia and Han will enjoy this prime-time disaster because Luke is a mess.
“It’s alright, Luke,” Din reassures, rubbing soothing circles over Luke's thumb and, wow. Isn’t that something? “I like when you’re nervous.”
Before Luke can jump to defend himself because—uh, rude. Din finds enjoyment in Luke’s gay panic? That’s mean—Din is tugging Luke close to his side, pressed against his arm where Grogu can latch onto Luke as well from his buir’s shoulder bag.
“It makes me feel like I have nothing to be scared of.”
“You’re scared of something?” Luke asks, incredulous. Din’s not scared of much, so this must be terrifying. “What are you scared of?”
Din’s quiet for a moment, but in the deafening, ever-boisterous ruckus of the market, Luke can feel the frantic thrum of his heart in his palm. And it’s the loudest thing Luke’s ever heard.
“That my desire for more than what I’m allowed to have when it comes to you,” Din says, “will one day consume me entirely.”
Stars. Luke didn’t know his body could feel like this. Happiness. Surprise. Disbelief. Emotions that he can’t even name let alone register how he’s experiencing them all at once. Luke didn’t know it was possible for Din to feel them too either, and yet. It’s as clear in the Force as if Luke’s looking right at them. Dripping from Din like a cracked dam that’s moments away from bursting.
Din’s small, heartfelt confession is soon lost in the noise of the market, but its effect lingers.
Din wants more. He wants more than what he thinks he’s allowed to have. How much more, exactly? And is it as much as Luke wants? R2 ramming into Luke’s calf breaks him out of his fleeting stupor and, eventually, Luke voices the first thing that comes to mind.
“Then I guess it will consume us both.”
The sharp crackle of Din’s modulator is as big an indicator as ever when Luke absolutely refuses to face him with his cheeks as red as R2 says. He just stares ahead, focused on the crack of a flag flying high above a drink stand, and hopes that Din doesn’t notice the tremble in his hand. He does, of course, because Din notices everything about Luke just as much as Luke notices everything about him.
Din releases Luke's hand and slides the broad of his palm across Luke's waist, settling on his hip quick enough so Luke doesn’t miss the warmth of his touch. And Din stays there. Flexing his fingers over Luke’s robes and burning a mark through three layers of clothing. His grip is tight. Unyielding. Locked on. It’s the most secure Luke's felt in a long time.
“Yes,” Din agrees, stepping closer so they can walk in sync with not an inch of space between them. “I guess it will.”
And Luke, the ever-level-headed Jedi he’s been trained to be, is alright with that.