Chapter Text
I.
Once upon a time on the Southshore of Yeox Island some thirty-nine miles from Coruscant there lived a small boy on a large estate.
The estate was very large indeed and had many servants. Many servants. There were gardeners to take care of the gardens, a tree surgeon on a retainer. A full nine hundred acres of forest for Jaster Sol’ autumnal sparring regiments with kinsmen far beyond the young boy’s peripheral.
Also on the estate there was a chauffeur by the name of Ruus; who’ve been imported from Concord Dawn years ago with a fine land speeder. Ruus was a fine chauffeur of considerable polish like the twelve speeders in his care.
It was the eve of the annual six-meter yacht races as been tradition on Yeox Island for the past thirty-five years; the Ti Sols were giving a party.
Two discerning eyes of amber brown looked upon the Ti Sols party full of apprehension.
It never rained on the night of the Ti Sol party for the Ti Sol’s wouldn’t have stood for it.
For the causal nature of these hostings it never occured to the Ti Sols they'd hadn't sent a invitation to one of their own, strange given he lives on the estate. Sitting high on his leafy camouflage tree, the chauffeur's son sat observing the party, invisible from the aglow of all finer social gaieties.
The curved T-shaped silhouettes of Mandalorian beskar’gam and their ensigmas he knew, the fine emerald regalia of Ithorian dressmakers and lily hue Sarees from Dekien he's noted were worn only for special occasions. Light shuttered jewels and wealth unreachable, immersed in their troughs of excess. So much inclusive glamour all for a party which barely started at large four hours prior and extravagantly over dramatic he thinks.
The Ti Sols wouldn’t allow heither syllable or chord of rancor to be spoken in the follow up of their yacht parties.
Tree bark resting under his palms held indents from his high perch above the party, invisible, this house mouse.
There were four Ti Sols in all, mother, father and two sons. Their mother Shakk Ti, their father Jastor Sol were married in 22 BBY and among their many, many wedding presents, their townhouse in the heart of Coruscant and this estate was gifted to them. They had two sons by the names of Rayshe'a and Enyayh Ti Sol. That evening in the eyes of the chauffeur's son, Rayshe'a was magnificent.
Rayshe’a Ti Sol, better called Fives how he likes, were the only one worth spotting among those dozens of party guests. His ivory clad jacket shoulders tucked around another; another pedigree child, a high riser. He’ served his time living how any golden child might, going through several checkpoints of life with even shorter marriages. Now he fills his days as a successful bolo player and is listed on Enyayh tax return as a sixty thousand credits deduction.
Crosshair eyes grew misty watching another high cladder arms wrap around his shoulders, smiling like Fives gave them the secret to immortality. If he closed his eyes he could imagine how they'd laugh so, unfiltered poise happy how he weren't.
“Cos, come down from there won't you?”
“Their someone else in his arms, I don’t recognize them buir.” Crosshair eyes found his fathers by the tree’s base, undoubtingly brewing. "Ever."
“Young Rayshe’a beau? That’s Tup Grand Callomai, son of Galactic National Trusts. Which isn’t our business.” Colt answered from the tree base, ghosting over the lapels of his formal uniform showing tell signs of daily labor.
“So he likes giggly ones and curly hair. I hate giggling busy bodies and curly hair.”
“You hate everyone Fives looks at ade.” Colt tongue clicked how Crosshair mouth curled involuntarily vaulting down the tree branches. “Have you finished packing for tomorrow. Good to hear.” Colt gave his son’s responsive nod. “Getting away from here will be good for you,”
“I doubt it.” Watching Colt adjust his black uniform hat for good measure. “Getting me out the picture to code chocolates and souffles.”
“This is your passion ade, not." Crosshair saw how his father eyed the crowd himself, cutting the imposing figure though sighted by one. "Not your feelings for the young master deciding how you live. You don't have this to yourself my child."
The warmth of his voice made Crosshair throat swelled ten times too much; finding the sound of his breathing then failing to comfort him. “I’m not wrong.” The laughter from the party peeled back his ears, helpless at the swarm of emotions bearing its face at times like this. “I know you think that, but I don’t. I can’t!”
“I swear I didn’t raise you like this.” Colt gave slacking off into that sigh which prickle Crosshair skin more than he’d wanted. “Just make sure you’re ready to leave for Theed no later than seven alright."
Those fine gray hairs Crosshair' knows grew in the length of Colts investment into this family seemed a farce of exhaustion lines around his eyes. Just enough earnesty, polished for the Ti Sols. Never that crooked smile he would showing his golden upper molars. He wonder where things went irate on his end. “Yes sir.”
"Now do your old man a favor and rest alright." Colt hands made to rub his shoulders encouragingly, keeping his gaze leveled though his son's nudged back to the party. "You'll need to start on the right foot tomorrow."
"I'll be up shortly promise." Crosshair told his father, feeling his hand press stamp warmth atop his clothes. Once more Crosshair were left alone as his buir retired for the evening; his steady gait going home- right above the family's garage. Nearly twenty-five footsteps away; one flight of stairs through a round stairwell. He’s lost count for memories swinging around the railings unbothered to the world.
He’d wondered if that feeling would ever come back. It wasn’t his fault things played out how they did, an small crush turned around his own shortcomings. His hands worked in unison holding his face,stemming the bubble of shame trying to leave him. “Karking hell.”
And their Fives appeared rounding the corner from the party like it were nothing, whistling. He still had on that egg white dinner jacket holding a bottle of Domaine del le Maison with two champagne flutes clinking away in his coat pockets because Crosshair knew the formula to his game each time he finds a pretty face. He'd invited them for dancing before switching gears, giving a private encore in the tennis courts with Domaine to finish it off.
The flash of that tear drop tattoo he recalled framed in Fives arms cross his mind. he was going to see that Tup person right? The fairer one Fives couldn't peel his eyes from.
Unwanted shivers made him jittery from the idea right as Fives walked past whistling with the music tempo playing across the way. “Having fun?”
“Oh Crosshair hey! Yeah, I thought I heard somebody.” Fives paused in cheer, his smile pinning Crosshair nerves in place under his gaze. He wasn't trying to be anything save cheerful and charismatic, something Crosshair felt he'd missed in spades. "Ah well what can you do huh? Go have fun tonight alright?" Fives were already setting off, half turning to give him and appreciative hand wave. "See ya!"
He stood in the aftermath of their sided conversation appalled with himself. Again it turned out like this.
“No, it’s nobody.” Crosshair tried sounding pissed. Rather the words slide back down his tongue with futile resistance; still useless to his feelings.
The ugliest give of emotions course over him and before he could check it, he pivoted on the give of his shoes, leaving his humiliation right where he’ knows to find it again. Before his line of thought couldn’t grow any worse he found himself within the hinged door-frame leading to the garage, peering at what were moderates of the Ti Sol guest speeders line by rank and file by his buir.
Past his initial beat of embarrassment to familiar aches he stood among wealth, shrunk under the waxing moon’s light.
Dejected in a box,
like any house mouse.
Violent hued thoughts crossed his thoughts staring down twelve speeder grilled chromes, thinking.
It would've been sufficient enough to call quits,
take the slow burn of carbon monoxide and exist a flighty spectrum released of his burden. To not exist how he has for ten years scalding from unrequited attention. Wasn't he a burden, an trivial imposter only allowed to grow in height and volume, never his feelings. It weren't sensible for a Russ to be sentimental for employer' approval beyond protocol.
Fives were different, a soaring phoenix of life only a selected few were allow to sight up close. In the vastness column of attention, natural selection made him the far off observer with binoculars.
Again the proposal crossed his mind stranded mentally how his physical self lingered. At minimum he’ll be free of this boulder framing his shoulders in oblivion, free from jagged slab wedges to the heart concrete hoping one day he’d be acknowledged. He’d wish he'd rip out where in his chest cavity did his long-term pinning turn yucky and distasteful right then.
For what might be the last time of his young life Crosshair weighed the option over, his hand skimming the lights handle.
It wouldn’t take long for someone to find him, just they wouldn't even make it for out him would they? Buir had gone to bed but those guests hadn't.
They would seek out his buir, and not a nudge for Fives. Fives wouldn’t.
The thought made him hunch over, pressing his fists to his mouth. Uselessly victim to his feelings and the motion of Fives kindness hunched above buir in sympathy because the chauffer son couldn’t stash his feelings how his chauffeur does daily.
Shab.
Shabshabshabshabshab he can’t. No amount of pining over Rayshe’a could fix it.
His already dimmed eyesight stranded him in the garage way darkness, etching words he’d never say aloud to Fives until he ran himself hoarse.
“Shut up.” His voice cracked at the three-fourths music signature melody coming through the half-cracked garage door. “Shut up.”
In the end the shifty yet unable to claim what he desired; the young man choose not to take that route, no indeed. Rather the Yeox estate house-mouse semi squatted into silent upheaving breaths. This end resulted in the mouse drawing for bed sooner than not.
A quick scurry to the bathroom, washing off faster.
Crosshair closed his eyes under the burrow of hand stitched warmth and hope the grey noise of the party will launch him to rest. And awake the next morning on que with sunrise, openily raw and ready to hand stitch his leaky burden back into his frame.
As early as five thirty that morning, inside the kitchens of the Ti Sol residency their resident staff partook in last minute goodbyes with the young Russ child. Panaka hug of encouragement washed into his spirit how Kit’ last minute peels of advise overly emphasized crudely made him laugh more than not; all which Nacosta tsk! tsk! tsk! over.
“Now I won't wait around to die a bland death if you came back a fully appointed chef of Coruscant; I want a baking challenge."
"You'll get it in two years." Crosshair gave stifling another yawn seated between Colt and Ninety-Nine. "I don't want the advantage in case you get weird ideas."
"I'll have my best casters oiled for when you get back, I'll let you use my lucky one even." She clapped joyfully from her spot beside Hera, her clunky miniature to-do's notebook face down on the the table.
"Barely awake and gambling the odds in his favor. It's never boring around here." Panaka added from his seated spot. "The boy hasn't even left the table yet."
"Then I best start meal prepping while I can huh." Ninety nine winked at Crosshair shy head nod. "Colt our boy is going to make jams can you believe it?" He felt Ninety-nine hand squeezing his own, awaken how he wasn’t then. “We're so proud Cross’ika, always going where we couldn’t. You’ll find you heart in Theed I’m sure.”
Under the excuse of leaving his safety net of people, their in the back kitchen Crosshair equally squeezed the older sir’s arm while Ninety-nine sipped his second cup of turmeric tea that morning.
“He’ll be fine, Cross'ika only going to school.” Colt grumbled seated aside the two, though Crosshair wouldn't bring up his constant throat clearing. “He’s my son, and one thing I know about my son is once he puts his mind to it his drive is intense. You give one hundred percent in everything you do. Everything in full." Colt far hand shoved on his own cup of coffee. "Your bull headed like me, a little younger, little scrawnier yet fully capable. Your gonna upshow those rich floozies and show them what us Russ kin do best. Tayli'bac."
“You gotten softer over the years Colt. It looks good on you.” Ninety-nine gave sharing a look with his buir. Sitting between them as the youngest Crosshair heart seized, quietly drinking his own tea not to break the mood.
"If we're sending our boy away only for jam making he's better off with the Bralor's farmstead, which reminds me- Kit you rgoing in that direction today?" Hera peered his way as the Nautolan shared a knowing look with Ninety Nine. "Madame Shakk mention something about her annual solstice harvest so keep her theme on deck."
"Got it." His mellow voice for the sake of quiet thrummed across the breakfast table still.
“Well.” Colt gave for a moment, unable to say more before getting up. “I’m going to make sure everything’s ready for our departure. At the felt of weight on his leg Colt found his hand squeezed tightly by Crosshair', smiling brightly through the mist fogging Crosshairs eyes.
“Now kid I made up my mind this morning I wasn't going to cry, which I won't!" Hera said quickly. "Best you don’t mighty on me all because your school uniform matches your hair.” Hera encouraged from her table spot.
"Aunty its too early to fight right now." Crosshair manage before ducking from the curve table napkin launched at him, erupting into muffled laughter behind Ninety-nine back. It shield off the felt warmth coloring his face he could guess.
"In two years time we'll settle this here so preserve your energy Hera. Our child must earn his keep to call the shots here just yet." Kit offered into the kitchen convo.
"No don't side with her! I'm telling buir on you." Crosshair squinted his way in some try to match Kit' razored smile right across his own. "I'm titling it treason."
"I'll file it away for immunity when you get back." Hera poked around her eyes not wet how his own.
Before more ears or eyes might decipher what more were said, the young house mouse left for Theed in the finest land-speeder leaving Yeox Island.
The Yeox Islander started his apprenticeship with a jolt, decking his classmate in the jaw the day before orientation. It were an accidental interaction in public, with lesser patience on Crosshair end.
To sight said man in Chef Windu class hours afterwards startled Crosshair to no end, the glacial blue of his eyes keeping to beat with their instructors welcoming speech. He learned the man had a acute interest in phytochemistry, not something he particularly care for. At least by the hesitant handshake they endured under Windu's discretion, it seem Hemlock were less likely to talk puesdo bullshit to his face.
Elsewise Theed were a conundrum of cultures and people the Russ child hadn't experienced before. Gigantic bounds of city, too fancy museums, extravagant disdain of what duo's hot chocolate better for the famous café of mead sweets, all bubbled wrap together with his off-putting classmate to check off his list.
On his good days the Yeox house mouse have his bi-weekly calls for home. Sue him though in his eyes, Colt deserve good news, not reminders of the obvious.
Of the nine in total attending plus him, two people were exemplary allies. A girl with two tone hair like gelato sherbet named Sabine, the size of his kneecaps. Their friendship were beneficiary for them both through ribbed talk about their classmates or synced reaction times to something Hemlock brought up, such were these things. He thinks it bothersome and still he held close to her like she does. In hindsight, she had a terrible sense of humor and likes ube. A lot of it actually!
Then there were Edmon, someone Crosshair deemed incompetent with creative direction. He'll dislike talking to him beyond the basics, so on occasion he recalls Nacosta token reminders about men with big foreheads and holds his reactionary smile by a margin of self-betrayal.
It helped the impulse urge to fray the man only slightly. A domicile fraction.
Then there were nights when things build atop another and that blatant heartache weighed him down to his feet. Those nights felt how hiding under the floorboards, still hoping to stash his leaking heart away.
Sabine in those sparse moments of doubt would come knocking with the weight of twenty rancors, spooking him into answering. "Its ten at night and I can feel your depression soaking up my floorboards. I'm coming in." Her moto quota as he opened the door hazardly. "I brought Murley she really likes your pillows."
"Uhm." Crosshair had rubbed his eyes by then, watching her audacity trying to shuffle past his frame at the front door. Her arms were full of her mottled brown tooka purring like a freight car in the hallway, noticeably fluffier. "You live on the opposite side of me, you need something."
"Move twiggy." She grunted squeezing past his initial guard into his flat. "Think this my voluntary services as your certified commis pal."
"Your not making sense and why put the baby between us? Sabine your shameless," Crosshair tsked at her, notioning at Murley laxed hold over her shoulders. "All neglecting your baby for this lost cause,"
"Oh fuck you." Sabine scoff and their Crosshair silent heaved with laughter, stepping back at last to let her in. "I'm going to need financial compensation for my charity work, hey I don't even fold my jacket like that." Pointing at his pressed commis jacket hung in his small closet.
"Think buir stickler for functionality rubbed off me." He mentioned, off waving at her tooka now on the floor happily examining his room.
"Yeah. If you want to sit in silence or something, I don't really know what you do when your down?" Sabine gesture his overall room, sparsely decorated save some plants pots.
Crosshair shrugged, distasteful over his ability to make a fib. "We can sit. I'll grab us something." Sabine might've said something, it were muffled over his thoughts pressing him into motion at the idea of telling her anything.
Normally her pivot introspection would make him tell her to cut to the chase but that night was a hard one. That whole day were grating his nerves and right now he needed silence. Pressing what he might need to improvise in his head, wariness making his fingers ache.
They sat together a moment, listening to his neighbors music playing across the way. "You keep your windows open more." She started, giving him a chance to opt out saying more. "I've talked to them, said he's a trumpeter in a club somewhere. Name's Dogma. Kinda awkward but you know, hes' chill."
Crosshair locked eyes with her so she trailed off, knocking her feet together nervous like. "It's not someone here is it? Whose giving you a hard time." She finally got out. "I can tell somethings bothering you, but hey I can be completely wrong. So either you tell me, or lie to me."
Crosshair thumb rather pressed to the corner of his mouth, failing to make himself smile at her demand. It felt pointless trying to lie anymore. Months of hushing his feelings were wearing on him. "And you want to know why."
"I care." Sabine said. "That's about it."
Those fives words struck his lifeline, and his thumb dug deeper to the side of his mouth. "Well for one he's my bosses son."
“Oooh babe that suck." Sabine gave Crosshair unexpectant stare at his wall. "That's a lot on you."
Crosshair shrugged, the meat of his thumb caught between his teeth. "I'm dealing."
"Your gonna say he doesn't know this?" Sabine asked, another shrug making for her mug.
"He doesn't."
"Wouldn't that's makes it worse since he doesn't? H's one of those fuckboys aren't he? Gross."
“Fives isn't though he’s more,” Crosshair interrupted himself blowing his nose into spare handkerchiefs he couldn't stop hoarding around his room.
“No simple answer then? Yeah a fuckboy.”
“Kyash ibic mav runi.” A lazed shove to her side for his favorited chipped mug beside her own. A quick sip and back on his night stand, flailing backwards to lie down. "He's just filled with briikasar, it's hard not to get caught up in him. He could probably convince a deadset sleemo to grow a pair, he's just. Much." Heavily swallowing the nova forming in his throat. "I'm not important enough to be in his circle."
"Then forge a invitation and corece your way in." Sabine gave him, folding up cross leg. "It shouldn't be that hard can it?"
He hadn't a answer for her question then so for the look on her face before squeezing his knee in support she might've guess the answer. “You’re the engineer to your problem Cross."
"It's okay to admit you suck doing the comfort thing ." Crosshair snorted aloud, staring up at the ceiling to her stunted remarks, but his familiar ache welcomed itself to their conversation. "I feel so stupid somedays catching feelings for phantoms."
Sabine joined him in silence afterwards within his room's distinctive fresh earthy smell. Murley' distinctive purring from across the room tether him through the rest.
Otherwise the young man eight months into commis training filtered through granulated sugar, cups versus measuring spoons, failing to save his emotions when he could.
Until another checkpoint made entryway into his life.
“Your mind has been distracted.”
“Repeat that?” Crosshair started, ignoring Chef’ Sinube glance over their way. That day were the conclusion after a week of souffle baking. “Frankly it's none of your business.”
“As your sous neighbor I’ve watched your skills. There's nothing extraordinary about a burdened mind trying to create art. I mean no ill will when I say this.”
Crosshair gave into his distinctive snip and giving the older man this knowing look. “Your comments are appreciated... Yan.”
“A man in love with his share in life will make a way to burn his souffles.”
Crosshair stared at him, taking the moment to gauge what he wanted. It wasn't often Yan spoke beyond simple pleasantries, he converse more often with Chef Windu. "It's not like that Yan."
“In the case of a house of starving guests, anyone can create paux magic with the right tools and eyes. A true chef masters all component's to their beck and call to charm their patrons. Accepting that to love your crafts means to prepare for the times you'll get burned.”
Crosshair couldn't spot any visible scars on him, the man were notorious for his imposing stature. "Why would you intentionally let yourself get hurt?"
"Why endure medical treatment to sit and bemoan miniature incidents? You recover, strategize a new layout to avoid hazardous freak incidents. Upon doing all in some module of order, you try again.
“Listen I know I can cook.” Crosshair said. “I can make a souffle and camberats. Five tier cake of poppy flowers if you want to go there. I can do that fine." Staring Yan down as level headed as he could.
"I hadn't doubt that otherwise. What I'm saying is your source of distraction is straining your potential. Whether it be a friend, a love one. All hindering your skills from becoming better,"
“Who cares? He doesn’t even know I exist.” Yan' lack of response relieved him from suspected pity. Talking about Rayshe'a weren't part of his plans. “I might as well be reaching through the cosmos to send a transmission signal.”
“You young people and your quotas of doom. Enriching." Dooku then look of contempt turned reflective. "Are you aware we are building shuttles to do precisely that? In your case, it might impress you to do something about it. No cosmic explorer ever returned home how they left.
“Impress him with what?" Weirded out how he were it was a relief Yan hadn't responded negatively. "Cosmetics aren’t my thing.”
“Ponder what's essential to your work quotas. It takes one decision to live by the act or for it.” He gave Crosshair workstation this glance over, withdrawing his hands from view. “Rest well Crosshair. Have a pleasant evening.”
He left Crosshair at his station to focus on his own, the string of conversation dissolved into reactionary work to clean his own. In no time at all the house mouse left his classroom, the evening rushing past him in blurs.
‘Live for the act, die by the act.’
That’s the worst advice he’s ever heard, still sitting on it taking the scenic route back to his residency. The scenic hues of Theed nightlife pressed their statuesque corners guiding him home.
Something hearth and scoopable like poached eggs cracked well over a mixture of tomatoes, bell peppers, onions and gifted spices was simple enough for dinner. A shower in turn, another grab of the made soap he’d found in the market with Sabine ten kilometers west of his flat. The smell reminded him of Kit's brewery, unlike the fresher smell of eculatypus hinted leaves just down the hall.
His work boots lied by the foot of his bed while at its front Crosshair nose dived into his bed, entangled in coarse wool.
“Shuttles to reach the cosmos. .....Someone shoulda made it easier for me to board. ........I want in too.”
The house mouse fell asleep before the stream of Yan' advice fluccated.
Another eight months past, minus one week break from Chef’ Windu’s pressing emergency until long last the time arrived for the young man to graduate. Crosshair wasn’t sure he’d change enough to be noticable back home though Sabine and Yan debated elsewise.
Upon the final calls of champagne and sparklers, a through handshake with everyone and no longer holding back his animosity with Edmon, he decided to write home. His suitcase was packed and ready by his flats door, all of Sabine ube’ recipes were crammed in messy scribble notes tucked in his suitcase because she stashed them herself for self-clarity.
It was past three before Crosshair made for bed, wanting nothing more than the morning to greet him. Tomorrow he's heading home after two long years, back to Yeox Island to see everyone for the better. He fell asleep before his brain could press him for answers.
Hey buir,
If you saw what time it was you’d fussed at me to go to bed, you can guess it's late-far too late at night and someone is playing oyay o’r pink across from me. That's not the full reason why I'm writing you kinda, I just couldn't sleep so better I get this all in one go. Thank you for enduring my everything when I was at my lowest, it wasn't fair when you'd already done beyond enough for me. Anyways! That song oyay o'r pink, its means something to people here. Its their way of saying one looks at the world through rose colored glasses. It’s not delusion or a cult saying, the locals go by it like some cheat code to live their best lives. I think I learned how to live like that.
I’m taking the flight shuttle home on Centaxday, don't pick me up at the station. I’ll take the Yeox Railroad so meet me their close to four. If you have a problem recognizing me know I'll be the most sophisticated one at Adrie Dall Station.
I'm going to make room for my life now, just you watch.
xxx, Cross