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Day 16: Retail & Therapy
If you’d asked Bode how he’d like to spend his single day of shore leave alone with Cal Kestis, he would not have picked going shopping, much less in the heaving megamart on the edge of the bustling port city. Nevertheless, the Mantis crew had been forced onto the most boring place for a refuelling station and there really wasn’t much else to do.
Or so he told himself.
Cal’s doe eyes and heart-squeezing comment about having only a duffle bag of items to his name had nothing to do with it. Nope.
Cal spins a slow 360 turn as they enter the gleaming marbled atrium, warm gaze finding Bode’s, his smile bright as a sickle moon.
“You coming?” he asks, hand out with the kind of affection that Bode wishes he could display as easily. Bode takes the hand, forcing himself not to look around for anyone watching that gesture (his imperial instructor’s voice hisses, ever present, in his ear; ‘ never show affection to a companion, never reveal your real emotions. Might as well light your weak spots up in technicolour. ’). Cal’s palm is dry and warm, calluses slotting easily between Bode’s own. Their fingers lace together, familiar in a way that makes something glow deep in Bode’s abdomen.
Perhaps he can live with it after all.
His mood stays fairly upbeat as they peruse the shops in the outer market; sweeping their eye over the brightly-tented temporary stalls and the occasional larger brick-and-mortar ones behind.
They pick up little gifts for the rest of the Mantis crew; some rarely-exported Lateroan spices for Greez, a small metal bell whose chime tastes like morning dew for Merrin, a tiny toy lightsabre for Mookie (and Kata, by extension). Cal selects a vial of scented oil from a very particular stand, and sends Bode a wink so salacious it zips down to his soles like a lightning strike. Bode grins back, cheeks a little warmer, and rests his hand on the small of Cal’s back when they walk on, just so he can feel the lithe line of his waist as they move.
His smile, and his mood, falter somewhat when Cal guides him towards the permanent shopfronts, and one in particular.
Bode tugs him to a stop by the back of his shirt.
“This is a clothing shop.”
“And?” Cal leans back against him, all ease and affection. “We wear clothes.”
“Yeah but we don’t need new ones.” Bode glances over Cal’s shoulder at the shopfront; all those bright mannequins and stiff, shiny outfits (‘ you’d stick out like a rathtar in the Senate, Akuna. Better grub up like the rest of the crowd, blend in wherever you can .’). “And they’re… who even wears that?”
“I would.” Cal follows his gaze to a sea-blue Salwar that looks as though it would dissolve in a puff of wind. “And I’d look damn good in it too.” He leans back into Bode’s hand as he says this, and those devilish eyes dazzle Bode again. By the time he blinks back to the present, they’re well inside the shop and Cal is loading his arms with item after item.
And some of them are clearly not in his size.
“Scrapper…” Bode swallows, glancing around for shop attendants. They’re not paying any attention to them. (‘ They’re just being subtle about it. They can tell you shouldn’t be in here, Akuna. You’re not exactly the right clientele. Can’t escape your roots, not after all you’ve-’ ).
“Would you relax already?” Cal leans over and boops Bode’s forehead, right on his frown line. “I can practically hear you fretting.”
Bode bridles. “I’m not fretting. ”
“I believe you,” Cal deadpans, then unloads half of the obscene pile in his arms onto Bode. “So much so that I bet you’ll go try these on without a single objection. No twittering like a washerwoman, and no brooding glares.”
Bode’s face, which had been mid-way into forming that exact expression, crumples into a confused mess. Cal - the menace - sees it, laughs, and wriggles past him towards the changing rooms, a cocky little spring in his step.
Bode’s gonna kill him.
Well, after he’s mauled that delectable arse one last time, and-
Bode blinks again, and curses. The sashaying little shit has lured him into the changing rooms. He has just enough time to realise he’s standing in his own cubicle and that the massive pile in his arms is all for him , before Cal vanishes behind the next door cubicle’s curtain with a very conspicuous cackle.
“I am not trying all this on,” Bode says.
“What’s that I hear?” Cal’s voice floats over, already muffled under fabric “Not twittering !? From you ? Never. Impossible.”
Bode replies with something else that is decidedly not fit to print. Cal just snorts. Eventually Bode has no choice but to turn to the pile. He picks one thing out of it and hangs it up. It’s dark red at least, not dissimilar to his favourite shirt, so maybe he can work with that. The fabric is thicker, woven, and so soft that he wastes a good few seconds admiring the way the subtle weave feels against his fingertips.
The curtain on Cal’s cubicle flourishes back. Cal is wearing the Salwar from the window. It brings out the greenish glitter in his eyes, the creaminess of his skin and the sultry scattering of freckles all over (and they really are all over , as Bode has discovered for himself, many times now). Bode wants to say something snarky and clever, he really does; but the sight of his partner, glowing in every conceivable way and bedecked in soft finery just as he deserves… well, it takes his words away.
Eventually, he manages one: “Wow.”
“Right?” Cal does an exaggerated twirl, playing it for laughs, and beams when it earns him a smile from Bode. “Now your turn.”
Bode’s tentative smile fades fast. He gestures to the pile in his cubicle, shoulders drawing high with awkward tension. “I… I don't need any of that.”
“Oh?” Cal raises a skeptically auburn eyebrow “Exactly how many outfits do you own?”
“Enough,” Bode shoots back. He’s not
cross
exactly, more…uncertain? His training instructor is hissing words again, and none of them are kind. “It’s always been fine.”
“‘Fine’,” Cal repeats, not dismissive but definitely not approving. “‘Fine’ isn’t what you deserve, Bode. Neither of us do. We’ve been through enough.”
“It’s just clothes,” Bode says, gruffer than intended, unbalanced by whatever cocktail of emotions Cal’s words just shot through his veins.
“It is not.” Cal smooths the watery fabric over his lean torso, revelling in the rippling smoothness like a nekko in the sunshine. “Yep, I’m getting this one. Adding it to my collection. I’ve got one in grey, one in green, and then a couple of ones for when it’s colder…”
“What? I thought you said you only had a duffle bag to your name.”
“I did. And I lied.” Cal prowls up to him, doing that - that thing - that makes Bode very aware of the shape of his body, and the way the fabric hugs and swirls around it. “And aren’t you glad I did, hm?” He loops his lean arms around Bode’s neck and leans in, pert mouth tilted up for a kiss.
“Now, this I can get on board with.” Bode’s smile merges with Cal’s, his voice a deep purr that thrums through where their bodies touch. Cal presses in, savouring, then disconnects with a laugh and a smacking kiss on Bode’s cheek.
“Good, because I’ve got at least four more to try on before we can go get lunch.”
He ducks back behind the curtain, sharpish, laughing too loud to hear Bode’s exasperated reply.
As Cal scuffles into the next outfit, Bode’s eyes trail back to his own changing cubicle, and the dark red jumper therein. He takes a sharp, steady breath, and strips off his worn jacket and jersey, then slips the new item over his head. His first thought, before he dares look at himself, is that Cal has a good eye - it fits perfectly; comfortable despite his size and breadth, and doesn’t irritate his skin.
Another steadying breath. He turns to the mirror and-
Oh.
The man standing there is both him, and not him. He sees the sharp silhouette, the broadness of his shoulders, the power in his body that, for once, is being shown off rather than concealed. It’s still the same dark red, yes, but it… it brings something out of him.
Something that maybe, one day, he can learn to like.
And, for once, the training instructor’s voice in his head goes briefly, blissfully silent.
He takes it off again when Cal calls him out for another of his fashion shows, and Cal doesn’t press him about it. The smile on his face when Bode says he’s buying the jumper, however, is the sweetest of rewards.
In the end Cal buys two salwar sets, and Bode gets him the other two on the sly. The most exciting purchase, however, is the one Cal picked out for him. Back on the Mantis, Bode hangs the dark red ( burgundy , apparently) jumper in pride of place, fingers skimming the hem reverently. The voice of his instructor’s threatens to come back again; he can hear it starting, cold against the shell of his ear.
( Do you really think, Akuna, that someone like you can -)
“Just need an occasion to wear it now,” Cal says, wrapping his arms around Bode from behind and standing on tiptoes so he can put his head on Bode’s shoulder. “I’m looking forward to it. Aren’t you?”
Bode tilts his head so his temple meets Cals, a contented hum rumbling through them both as he says, “I’m learning to, Scrapper. I really, really am.”