Work Text:
Once they are safely out of orbit of Narkina Five, the first thing Cassian does is go rummaging through the cabinets of the ‘fresher to find whatever medical supplies the Keredians might be carrying. A small stash of cloth and bacta strips later he is running his swollen and bloody fingertips under water in the ‘fresher basin, the sharp stinging soothing marginally as he applies the patches to his ruined skin.
Stumbling out of the cramped space Dewi calls out to Cassian that they are about to jump to hyperspace as he continues his way toward the back of the quadjumper. Melshi is perched on a bunk, partly and hastily cleared of debris upon their entry. His head is cradled in between his knees, palms pressed flush against forehead, a persistent twitch in raw and bruised fingers.
Cassian crouches in front of him just as the engines whine to the frequency of a hyperspace jump. If Melshi notices him he makes no move to acknowledge his companion, having not moved since they boarded the ship. Cassian clears his throat before lightly tapping the backs of Melshi’s hands.
“Let me take a look at them,” and peels his palms away. Melshi’s fingers are just as full of dirt and grit as Cassian’s had been a few minutes before. Using a dampened cloth to clear away the sand, dirt and blood, Melshi’s hand comes up cleaner, cradled between Cassian's own bacta tipped fingers. Droplets of murky brown-red splatter on the once white prison pants, no longer stiff and sterile. The tremor in Melshi‘s hands makes applying the bacta patches a challenge, only until Cassian drops one for a second time does Melshi press his palm firmly against his, leaving the fingers splayed and the shaking subdued.
It’s almost rhythmic. Clean a finger, strip open a patch, press palms, wrap and secure, start over.
As he does so, the adrenaline fueled energy that powered him across water, land and cliff begins to ebb. A slowly receding tide, seeping out of the edges of his skin, entropic dissipation to the air around him, and in its place, the terrible bone deep ache of reality creeps in.
“Keef,” Cassian raises his gaze to meet eyes that don’t meet his own, “Your feet.” Tracing the arc of Melshi’s unfocused gaze to the smears of brilliant red against dull durasteel, and down again to his own body from where they seem to lead.
It’s as though seeing it for the first time is what sends a spike of pain through his soles. Crimson gashes ooze between dirt and debris, a sight Cassian can scarce connect to as his own if not for the persistent throbbing that seems only to have just begun. He pushes it away.
“Oh,” and this time their eyes meet when he raises his head once more, “what about yours?” Melshi just shrugs but Cassian checks anyway, gently lifting one foot to inspect it. Dirt and a few scrapes, but not so damaged as his own. He brushes a thumb to a thick ridge of callus along the pad, then the same to the heel, each toe rough and hardened, to every pressure point of contact where floor meets flesh. In the back of his mind Cassian can smell the singeing of his own skin from a week of last table placement. How many last table placements to build up toughened skin like Melshi’s?
Overwhelming lightheadedness, from the adrenaline comedown, from the weight of suffering of thousands of men, from the weight of suffering of one, sends nausea creeping up his throat. He sways, pressing his head to Melshi’s knee with jaw clenched, breathing hard through his nose. The terrible feeling contracts tight about his chest, peripheries fading to a blur.
A shaking hand grips one shoulder and another cups his jaw, the lightest brush of a thumb across his cheek.
“It’s okay,” Melshi whispers, “we’re out,” the sweep of the thumb back and forth continues steadily, “we made it.”
A wounded sound escapes his lips, “It isn’t fair,” and the chasm in his chest threatens to split him in two. A swirling mass of names and faces, Xaul, Ham, Birnok, Jemboc, Taga, Ulaf, Kino…
“Keef, look at me,” Melshi’s voice is low and firm, pulling Cassian back to the surface, “Not now,” he says, “not yet.” Cassian knows it’s not an unkindness with which Melshi asks him to save his breakdown for later, yet still he struggles to meet those deep brown eyes as he leans in closer. “I need you to hold out a little longer,” the thumb stills on his face, “I need you,” he repeats, “We get somewhere clear on Niamos, then we figure out the rest.” The faintest edge of desperation creeping into Melshi’s voice is what hardens his resolve.
Cassian takes a moment for several long deep breaths, swallowing the bile in his throat along with his grief and guilt and panic and everything . Storing it away in the depths of him for a later that he never seems to reach.
Then he nods against Melshi’s hand and reality comes back into sharp focus.
His feet sting.
“First,” Melshi sighs, drawing his hand back from Cassian's face, “let's get you patched up. No good for outrunning the empire like that,” his trembling hand gestures vaguely. Perhaps Cassian would laugh if he didn’t feel so hollow.
With some difficulty they manoeuvre Cassian onto the bunk, with the amplified awareness of each stabbing step that has him white knuckled and jaw clenched. It was beyond lucky that Cassian had been too preoccupied to notice his torn up feet any sooner, now that each movement felt like agony.
Melshi stays on the bunk next to him, bringing one foot into his lap at a time to work away the damage. Cassian can only press his back to the cool durasteel wall and hiss as Melshi takes a fresh cloth and water pack from the medkit and begins to methodically clear away dirt and grit and blood from the wounds. The pain is persistent, but present, and Cassian clings to it. One real thing to focus on that isn’t the terrible looming darkness at the back of his mind. The pain, and the gentle hand on his calf holding him steady when he involuntarily jerks away.
When the final bacta patch has been applied, there's nothing but the receding dull ache, pulsing as nerves and flesh knit back together. The hollow in his chest leaks exhaustion. Those thoughts locked deep in the recesses of his mind brush against his certainty that he should not be the one unravelling like this. His own months are nothing compared to the time served by every other man on the floor. Nothing compared to…
And yet it's Melshi that curls his fingers loosely about Cassian's wrist. He looks exhausted too, the deep purple a colourful reflection of his own tired face.
“We should try and rest,” Melshi mutters. Cassian nods, knowing neither of them will.
Melshi is about to go out of his mind when Keef finally returns to the ship an hour later, heading off his protests of ‘needing to retrieve some personal items first’. Keef has changed out of their dogged prison attire and is wearing shorts and shirt in tones of earthy red and orange. A satchel hangs heavy stapped across his chest. He gives off the distinct feel of a bored tourist, hair tousled by the coastal breeze.
He mutters in low tones to one of the Keredians, and Melshi can hear the distinctive clink of credits passed from one hand to another. Inclining his head toward the cockpit when Keef returns he asks,
“What was that about?”
Keef just shrugs, “Our bounty,” like it's the most obvious thing in the world. The amount should shock him, he supposes, because what kind of trouble was Keef mixed up in, not only to have such quick access to two thousand credits, but part with them so easily.
He pulls the poncho over his head that Keef hands him as they exit the quadjumper and make their way out of the back lot of the space port. Eyes fixated on the back of Keef’s head as he winds between the sparse crowd of milling tourists and down toward the shoreline. A semi-secluded cove where the ocean slaps against the beach.
Sand slips between his toes, and the sensation sends a prickle up his spine. Salt spray dances on his cheeks and the distant sounds of pleasant chatter mingle with the rush of waves. Even with eyes closed, the warm glow of sunset presses against his eyelids, heat caressing yearning skin.
A bundle of clothes is pushed into his hands as his companion leans close.
“We’ve just been for a swim, now we are changing back into our normal clothes to walk back to our hotel. Okay?” he instructs, before stepping away to the shoreline where the water laps at his feet, sitting to remove the spent bacta patches.
The material is irregular between his fingers, somehow too soft and too rough as he discards the stiff prison garments and pulls up loose shorts dragging against the skin of his thighs. Melshi resists the urge to itch the places where the frayed shirt collar brushes on his neck. In just the short time spent changing, the tide has crept higher on the beach, sending cool water to slide over his skin. White bubbles foam stark against blue as the water rises, then recedes to golden brown as it pulls back, sending his heels sinking into the sand.
Then he looks up.
The vast horizon seems to spread out forever, an endless sky populated with scale dappled clouds painted pink and purple and blue and red and orange and orange and orange and orange. The sweeping brine tinged breeze tugs at the fabric fluttering against his body, pulling him up and out and towards that great empty everything. So much greater and wider and unknowable than he can remember from before. And there is no air in his lungs as the huge sky crushes down and Melshi falls up into it, darkening as the atmosphere thins and the pitch of empty space rushes to take its place, distant white stars blooming in his vision.
Then the sky is gone, replaced by sun soaked skin and dancing hair and deep, tired, brown eyes.
Melshi, suddenly aware of how violently his body is shaking, hands clenching and unclenching to fists beside him, chest constricted and unable to suck oxygen into his lungs, chokes out,
“It's so open.”
“I know,” Keef says quietly, stepping closer still, “I can get us both inside soon, okay?” but the trembling of his body wont stop, and his eyes can’t help but slide back to the wide open sky behind him.
“Melshi look at me,” he insists, chasing Melshi’s gaze, “look at me.” more firmly this time and Melshi forces them closed, taking great shuddering breaths that don’t feel nearly enough.
“Keef,” the name whines out of his throat and past his stuttering lips.
Hands, somehow too rough and too soft, cradle either side of his face drawing him downwards.
“Cassian ,” he breathes, “my name is Cassian,” and then Cassian's forehead is pressed to his own. “Just stay with me a little longer Melshi, we’re almost there” so close they share the same air, air suddenly able to flutter in and out to the beat of the tide.
“Cassian, ” saying the name is easier than breathing, and when his eyes open there is the faintest hint of a smile playing on the man's lips. A thumb brushes against his cheekbone and his eyes fall closed again.
“You with me?” Cassian asks. Melshi nods.
I might just follow you anywhere.
The hotel is located in one of the rougher side streets, with a desk clerk willing to overlook one missing identification card in exchange for a pocketful of credits. The floor is taken up by one large bed and a scattering of shabby storage furniture, a low bench that sits flush to the wall below the wide oval window overlooking the ocean, though the blinds are drawn closed obscuring the view. What flickering light filters through from the lamps on the street casts harsh spots of brightness over the room, nothing but a dull cold glow.
Cassian doesn’t turn on the lights.
The sound of falling water whispers from the ‘freshers closed door for several long minutes as Cassian peers through the blinds to watch the street below. He remembers Niamos as a vibrant city, even at night, yet now the shop fronts are shuttered, and the only signs of movement are the patrolling troopers that make their rounds down the road at regular intervals. Engrossed as he is by the stark difference of only a few short months, Cassian doesn’t notice when the water shuts off until he hears the telltale hiss of the ‘fresher door sliding open.
Melshi exits, fresh pair of shorts and towel draped around his neck still brushing at his damp hair. His eyes sweep and linger on Cassian at his spot across the space, hunched by the window as the blind swings back into place once more.
“Are we safe to stay here?” Melshi asks, stepping over to sit at the foot of the bed, hands falling to his knees. Cassian shrugs.
“For a night, maybe two,” he says though he doesn’t believe it. Where there is the empire they may never be safe again. There is a reflection of light that draws his eye to the floor. Water has begun to pool at Melshi’s feet, still clad in sodden canvas slippers.
“Did you even take those off?” he asks without needing to, as Melshi’s gaze follows his own then shakes his head.
And perhaps it is that sudden ache that blooms within his hollow chest that pushes him to his feet to cover the distance between them, to kneel down before him once again and plead forgiveness in the only way he knows how.
His fingers brush against the wet canvas. Can I? Unspoken and feather light dancing around the terrible feelings he hopes he will never know.
“Can’t I keep them on?” chokes out Melshi’s pained, futile plea for relief as Cassian shakes his head, then reaches up and slowly pulls the towel from around his neck.
Carefully, Cassian cups the back of Melshi’s ankle, lifting it from the floor, his other hand sliding between fabric and flesh so that the slipper falls to the ground. Taking the towel between his barely healed fingers he dries first the ball of the foot, sweeping up to the softer skin in the arch, a gentle pressure along the sides, thumb pressed in behind the curl of toes then in between to blot away the moisture. With the first foot dry he gently replaces it back on the floor, then lifts the second to repeat the motions once again, one hand holding too warm skin as the other works away with the towel. Unhurried, he uses both hands to search across the too soft, too rough skin for any part he may have missed before returning it to the floor.
There is a hitching breath above him, and when Cassian looks up there are silent tears streaking Melshi’s face. Lingering one hand on his calf he reaches up to press fingertips to one damp cheek. Melshi’s brow furrows, eyes squeezing more tightly closed. So Cassian asks that terrible question, that one that sends horror and grief and anger to flood his stomach.
“How long were you in there?”
Melshi’s head shakes, leaning further against Cassian’s fingers, and draws in a stuttering breath.
“I don’t know. You’re in there long enough the numbers stop meaning anything. I stopped counting after two years,” it comes out thick and flat, and in equal parts anger and sadness swell inside his chest. Though he looms above him, Melshi seems suddenly small to Cassian, curled in upon himself, raw and exposed to sensations he hasn’t experienced in years. Rage burns hot the empty space inside himself, at the Empires callous cruelty, smothered by a wave of sorrow that threatens to bring forth tears from his own stinging eyes.
He strokes the hand on Melshi’s calf up and down in long smooth strokes, sending Melshi’s breath hitching to a half sob, half cry of relief. Taking away the hand from his face, Cassian brings both hands to work on massaging steady circles into the muscles, the warm swell of skin beneath his fingers yielding to his every move. Brushing thumbs over the sharp jut of the ankle bones, tracing around them once, twice, before trailing back up the leg to caress the soft divot behind the knee, then dance across the curve of the kneecap and finally running both thumbs along the length of the shin.
Melshi’s lean legs tremble beneath his touch as Cassian leaves one hand to linger, rubbing tender shapes into one calf as he starts on his other leg, repeating the same gentle motions and dragging nails across untouched skin to a chorus of stifled cries.
When he looks up once again there are yet more tears streaming down Melshi’s face, choking on great suffering breaths befitting of a drowning man.
Unbidden, the image leaps into his mind. A vast expanse of blue. Of bodies foaming in white as far as the eye can see. Hands grasping and thrashing and sinking. Of Kino Loy’s face, full of terror and defeat. I can’t swim.
That sickening guilt crawls its way into his throat as his hands go still and Melshi whines.
“If you need me to stop-”
“Don’t stop Cassian please don’t stop,” the words tumble from his lips before Cassian can even finish. That pained and desperate plea that draws him upwards, hands firmly planted against thighs and foreheads pressed together, bowed in gasping prayer.
“I’m here,” Cassian breathes and Melshi only shakes more violently, hands fisted white knuckled against the sheets.
His hands glide up firm thighs, then higher, pausing to sweep sensitive thumbs over exposed hip bones. Melshi cries out again only this time Cassian silences him with his lips, too smooth and too rough as sobs escape into his mouth and he loses track of where his own grief ends and Melshis begins.
They fall back slowly against the sheets, Cassian dragging his hands across the expanse of stomach and chest beneath him in reverence. A gentle caress brushes along each rib, shuddering and vibrant with life and tender torment. His lips trail down to mouth at the soft hollow that marks the junction between collarbone and throat. The curve of each defined pectoral muscle ripples to his touch, then splaying hands discover broad shoulders that give way to strong arms, tracing a raised scar that sweeps from bicep to crook of elbow.
As he pauses to savour the smooth dip in each arm with delicate strokes, running sensitive fingertips across sharp elbows, Cassian streams a series of kisses along Melshi’s jaw then captures his lips once more. Yielding and compliant he drinks him in, tasting shared breath equal in sorrow and desire.
When he sits back and draws languid lines along forearms, capturing his wrists and bringing them to press lips to palms and knuckles each, Melshi finally presses his own shaking hand to Cassian’s chest. His own breath is coming in too fast, ragged bursts as he does the same, laying his palm over Melshi’s heart that thunders in time to his own.
For a long moment they just breathe, heat seeping between two bodies, chests heaving as one.
After a time, Melshi’s body ceases its violent trembling and a steady hand reaches up to brush the hair from Cassian’s eyes. Only then, as Melshi sweeps a thumb across his cheek does Cassian realise he is crying.
“I’m here,” Melshi breathes, and as Cassian nods against his hand a broken sob forces its way out of his throat.
Melshi pulls him down against his chest, one hand rubbing soothing circles across his back, the other carding through the hair at the nape of Cassians neck, dropping soft kisses to his crown. That they live and breathe and ache and cry is a miracle. By all rights they should be dead and yet they are standing on the shore and Cassian does not recognise the bodies in the water.
“I’m sorry, ” he whispers as Melshi presses a kiss to the crease between his eyebrows.
“Don’t,” he says, “your pain is just as real as mine,” and Melshi captures him in a kiss once more, slow and tender. He knows it cannot last, this moment of safety and intimacy even as he falls further into its embrace. He knows that tomorrow will dawn a cold reality of the mistakes he has been running from all these years. But for one last night he can be held and hold like a man starved, and only when the sun rises again will reality have its due.
Finally, exhaustion tugs their shuddering aching bodies into sleep, limbs tangled and breathing as one, too soft and too rough, indistinguishable as two men or one.