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“Don’t you ever get bored?” Greez, famous AroAce, asks Cal one night over a glass of whisky. “It’s going on, what, five years now with old Jetpack? You ever feel the urge to… I dunno, look elsewhere, spice things up?”
“Honestly?” Cal takes a sip of the drink, swirling it inside his mouth before swallowing. The pleasant buzz that had begun with his first sip inches up a notch, loosening his muscles as though they were having this conversation beside a roaring woodfire instead of Pyloon’s. In all honesty, the low-lit and mostly empty cantina has a similar atmosphere; murmured conversations, the clack of gaming pieces and the whoosh of the winter wind outside only add to the cosy ambience. “No. Never.”
“That’s good to hear.” Greez says, topping up their glasses. “You won’t believe the stuff some people have confessed to me when they’ve got a glass or three of this stuff in them. And you can’t always guess who it’ll be either - I’ve seen the most loved-up people you’d imagine go cold and sour over time.”
Cal hums, thoughts drifting, warmed with the whisky. Bode drifts into his mind’s eye; all sun-browned skin and affectionate rumbles. He thinks of Bode’s soft breaths into his hair in bed at night (and the wicked glint that always appears in his eye just before dragging Cal to bed during the day ) and starts to smile.
A memory surfaces, tugging his lips further up as it forms.
******
It’s a few days ago; nothing special; a moment in their kitchen towards the end of a lazy rest day. Cal and Bode are prepping for an early dinner, their bodies moving around each other in a comfortable, familiar rhythm.
A sound from above draws their attention; Kata, singing something to Mookie in her room directly overhead. Her voice is sweet and strong, and they both share a smile as she makes Mookie ‘sing back’ in a much lower and rougher register.
“She’s got a good voice,” Cal murmurs, eyes warm and bright as they watch Bode. It’s so hard to coax softness out of the man’s brawny shell, but Kata does it effortlessly. Seeing it makes Cal melt, every time.
“She has,” Bode agrees. “Sweet as summer rain.” He turns to Cal and looks like he is about to say something else, but then a dark cloud rises in him as if from nowhere. He turns away, grabbing a cloth to mop up a non-existent spill on the kitchen side, muttering something that’s meant to be a change of subject. Cal doesn’t buy that for a second. Instead, he crosses the small room in a single step and wraps his arms around Bode’s waist from behind, resting his head in between those broad shoulder blades. Bode resists for a second, rigid, then breathes out long and low. There’s a shudder in it that makes Cal’s pulse tick up in concern. He doesn’t ask, though; he has learned better. Instead, he tightens his grip the smallest amount, and his thumbs caress the warm expanse of Bode’s sides.
Bode takes another breath, and the rest of the story thaws slowly free.
“Her mother used to sing,” he murmurs. “Like that. When she was little. Lullabies mostly, stuff her own parents taught her. I was back late, or busy, a lot back then, so I’d come in and hear them sometimes. It would fill the house, like…” He shudders again and Cal continues his slow strokes, riding it out with him. “Not much was good, back then. But that was. It was the best thing.” He lifts an arm to wipe his face, still looking down at the now-still rag in his other hand. “When Tay died she… I guess neither of us felt like singing for a while. I tried a bit, when Kata got nightmares - she was so small, you know, and there wasn’t much left to remind her of… Anyway. We tried, but we were on base then and, well, there were guards outside so… so we couldn’t fill the house anymore. We had to be quiet.”
Bode’s shoulders quiver again. His breaths come tenderly, as though taken around broken ribs. Silence stretches, and Cal continues his slow, soothing strokes, rocking Bode back and forth just slightly until a little of the tension seeps out of his back.
“They’re not here now,” he says at last. It’s barely a murmur, but he still suppresses a wince, worried he’s been too blunt, that he’s rushed things. Instead, Bode turns, not breaking his hold, and smiles down at him with a little of his usual spark.
“You’re right, Scrapper,” he says, soft, but getting louder. “You know what? You’re absolutely karkin’ right .”
And then he flings his arms wide and bursts into song.
And he’s….
He’s…
Okay, honestly? He’s terrible. Cal’s pretty sure most of the nekkos in the pen outside could hold a tune more adeptly. But also? Even more honestly? That’s an essential part of what makes Cal’s whole being dissolve, blissful, in the moment.
The other part is Bode. Just… Bode. Standing there in the kitchen, in his socks, and singing with his whole chest , head back, a grin so wide that his eyes disappear into laughing crinkles.
Cal has never been more in love with this man before this moment. It’s as though the whole golden Abyss of Tanalorr is shimmering beneath his ribcage. The tune Bode’s picked is jaunty, danceable, and seconds later he sweeps Cal into an off-beat, knee-knocking jig around the room, then the house. Kata thunders down the stairs, her questions turning into laughter, and then a shriek as Bode scoops her up too.
They dance and sing, and dance and sing until none of them have the breath to do either anymore, collapsing in a heap of mussed hair and big grins and astounding, messy, miraculous love. Cal, head on Bode’s shoulder, looks up, only to find Bode already looking at him, eyes shining bright ( so bright) with-
******
“...lright over there?” Greez’s voice pulls Cal out of his reverie. Too late, he realises he’s been smiling into the distance like a moonstruck shaak.
“I-” he blurts, but can’t think of an excuse. He flushes crimson when he sees that Greez has absolutely noticed.
“Don’t mind me, kid,” Greez says, grinning, but with a softness in his expression that Cal rarely sees. “Love is a lucky thing, when it’s the real deal. And stars know you two have fought hard enough to get it. Now, get back to that curmudgeon before he comes looking for you and ruins the vibe in here with his glowering.”
Cal, still flushed and smiling, stands and bids him farewell. Greez settles back into his chair, finishing off the last of the whisky in his glass… then in Cal’s (hey, waste not, want not). His smile takes on a slight smugness, thinking of all the times he pushed those two idiots towards each other, until they finally figured out their crap long enough to take the steps themselves. Pride, fondness and exasperation mingle pleasantly with the whisky.
We did good , he says, to no one and to everyone. We all did good.