Chapter Text
The first time Poe ever flies, he’s seven years old and very excited. He sits on his mother’s lap and she puts her helmet on his head. It’s a little bit too big for him and it clearly hasn’t been used for a while but the comforting weight of it sends a shiver of excitement through him.
“Don’t be scared,” she says, tying her hair up into a ponytail that cascades down her back.
“I don’t ever get scared,” Poe declares boldly, blindly putting his hands on the controls that appeal to him the most. That is to say, they’re brightly colored and close enough for his short arms to reach.
“Alright, my brave boy,” his mom replies, laughter ringing in her voice as she reaches out across the control panel. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“What are you doing right now?”
“Just disabling the firepower,” she says, smiling down at him. “We don’t want you accidentally blowing anything up, right?”
“No, we don’t,” Poe says obediently, ‘cause that would probably be bad. Mama’s ponytail is falling over her right shoulder again as she leans forward, sharp eyes darting swiftly around the A-wing control board, hands moving even faster. God, his mom is so cool.
“Mama,” he says. “You’re the best mom ever.”
She looks down at Poe with bright eyes, warm smile spreading across her face. She kisses his temple tenderly. Her hands are warm and slightly rough when she puts them on his, gently guiding him to the right controls. “You ready?”
“I’m ready!” Poe replies, excitement crashing over him like a tidal wave as Mama flicks a lever and pushes the joysticks forward. The A-wing rumbles to life and begins to cruise forward, gradually picking up pace. Poe’s stomach drops as the gentle hands guiding his pull the joysticks back and slowly, steadily, the Starfighter begins its ascent.
They soar, up, up, and up. Poe can’t help but whoop as Mama takes them higher, coursing through the atmosphere, cutting through the clouds. The sky blurs into a mix of of blue, white, black, as they race forward. Poe screws his eyes shut, the sheer velocity of their ascent making his stomach lurch. Then, suddenly, the whooshing stops as Mama flicks another lever. The A-wing stops, floating aimlessly what feels like nothingness, and Poe opens his eyes again to see what’s happened.
Around them, he sees inky blackness punctuated by stars, and his lips part slightly as his eyes widen in wonder. They smile back at him: bright, twinkling, and so much more alive than they ever seem from the surface of Yavin 4.
“Oh,” Poe whispers, awestruck, leaning forward to press his hands and face to the glass of the cockpit, desperately seeking out any and all fragments of light among the darkness. “Mama, look!”
“I’m looking,” Mama replies from behind him, and he can feel her smile as she tousles his hair.
Pretty soon, Poe decides that he’d like to see more stars. Mama takes his hands and helps him navigate them elsewhere, soaring over the moon they call home. Poe looks up at the stars and tries to memorize every one of them, one by one by sparkling one, until they all blur together into one bright haze. Mama lets him go around Yavin 4 once before she places her chin on his head and says: “We need to go back now, Poe.”
“Ay, no,” Poe protests, not ready to leave the stars just yet, lest he forget them, and they him. “Ten more minutes?”
“Lo siento, mi amor, Papa is waiting,” comes the reply as Mama takes over, pinpointing their landing point on the map above the dashboard. Poe settles back down on her lap, feeling safe here, trusting in his mother’s experienced eye.
Mama never tells stories about her time in the Rebel Alliance, says that her service wasn’t important enough for her to tell stories about, but he knows better: Papa has told him about it before, how he and Mama saved the galaxy. Poe remembers only one thing, a hazy memory from the first two years of his life: sitting in Abuelo’s lap as he watched choppy holovids of A-wings diving, over and over again, spitting blaster fire that crackled and flashed like lightning.
“Papa,” Poe asks that evening when Papa tucks him into bed, peeking out from under his blankets. “Why does Mama never talk about the war?”
“War is not beautiful,” Papa tells him, absentmindedly stroking Poe’s hair. “Mama and I fought the Empire but a lot of beautiful things got lost along the way. You’re too young to know about it.”
“Mama is beautiful,” Poe points out.
“Yes,” Papa replies quietly, brushing a stray curl out of Poe’s face.
“You didn’t lose her.”
“We didn’t lose you, either,” Papa says, and kisses Poe’s forehead. “When you find something beautiful, you hold onto it, even if it doesn’t last long.”
“Like flying,” Poe murmurs as Papa stands up. “Or stars.”
“Or stars,” Papa echoes, turning the light off. “Goodnight, mijo.”
“Goodnight, Papa.”
Poe closes his eyes and dreams of flying, of tumbling and turning, of laughing wildly, of Mama, of Papa, of stars.
The medallion on Mama’s bedside table has been untouched since she came to Yavin 4. Poe holds it in his hands for the first time when he is eight years old, brushing away the dust to see her name, emblazoned proudly in gold and silver.
He holds it gently, the way she used to hold his hand, tracing the carved symbol of the Rebel Alliance over and over until he can memorize the way it feels under his finger.
Papa pats his shoulder. He’s been very quiet.
Even though she’s surrounded by her favorite pink flowers, Mama looks sad. She’s not laughing or smiling and her hair isn’t windswept. Her arms are by her sides, limp and loose. Poe reaches down and gently places the medallion on her lapel, lump in his throat.
“Mama,” Poe says, voice breaking on the second syllable, and puts his hand in hers. It’s cold.
“Mama,” he repeats, trying not to cry. But Mama isn’t stroking his hair anymore, or telling him that he’ll be okay, or brushing away his tears.
“Poe,” Papa whispers, and his voice is thick.
“Mama,” Poe says again, pleading, and now there are tears on his face.
“Mijo.”
Poe reluctantly takes his hand out of Mama’s, feeling her limp fingers slip through his. Papa picks him up, envelops him in his arms, solid and warm even if his shoulders shake with labored breaths. Poe buries his face in the crook of Papa’s neck and screws his eyes shut, not wanting to see Mama the way she is now as they walk away.
The stars outside the window of the starship are exactly the same as he remembers. Poe stands by the window, one hand lightly resting on the glass. His eyes seek out the same patterns that he found during that first flight in his mother’s A-wing, a little over twenty-three years ago. There’s a medal on his own lapel, not as bright and proud as the one he placed over his mother’s still heart, and it’s not the Rebel Alliance’s symbol, but it belongs to him.
There’s a presence beside him. He tears his gaze from the stars to look over at Iolo Arana, who is munching corn chips and looking out the window, too. Poe wonders if the galaxy looks different to Iolo – if stars are brighter to Keshians than they are to humans, and wishes (not for the first time) that he could see what Iolo sees.
“Pretty lights,” Iolo remarks.
“Yeah,” Poe says. “Are you excited?”
“Excited to see where you were born and raised? Hell yeah,” Iolo replies, tossing a sideways grin at him. “I want to see if they make ‘em all like you on Yavin 4 or if you’re the only one who’s like this.”
“We’re all the same,” Poe says lightly, smiling despite himself. “Must be something in the water.”
“Oh, well,” Iolo mumbles through a mouthful of chips. “At least it’s a change from Mirrin Prime.”
“I miss BB-8,” Poe says mournfully.
“Lame,” Iolo replies cheerfully. He looks over at Poe, round eyes a deep green. “Hey, Karé says it’s your turn to tag in. You and Muran, chilling in the cockpit.”
“Shut up,” Poe mumbles as Iolo cackles and nudges his shoulder.
They land on Yavin 4 at 1634 hours. A light breeze ruffles Poe’s hair as he steps out of the starship and walks down the ramp, breathing in the familiar scent of Yavin 4 for the first time in a long time. He’s barely stepped onto the ground when he spots a familiar face: a girl, just a little bit shorter than him, running towards him with a grin on her face.
“Poe!” she says, and punches him in the shoulder when she gets to his side. “What’s up, man?”
“Bianca,” Poe replies with a smile. “How ‘bout a hug?”
“If you insist,” she replies, and hugs him, smelling of sunshine and raindrops at the same time. Behind them, Karé whistles, bag over her shoulder.
“Who’s this?” she asks, features sharp in the crisp afternoon sun.
“Bianca Bey,” Poe says, letting go of her. “My cousin.”
“Nice to meet you, Bianca,” Karé says with a lopsided grin, and holds out a hand. “I’m Karé.”
Iolo alights next, looking awkward.
“This is Iolo,” Poe says. “He baked a pie for you.”
“Dude,” Bianca says, eyes lighting up immediately at the mention of pie and pushing past Karé, who looks slightly offended. “Really?”
“Uh, yeah,” Iolo replies, and it takes him a little while to fish the pie out of his bag. “It’s, um, butterscotch with a little bit of cinnamon. Poe said it was your favorite.”
“Second favorite, but thanks,” Bianca says, eyes gleaming and gaze intense. Poe bites back a laugh at the flustered look on Iolo’s face as Bianca takes the pie out of his hands.
“Poe,” Muran calls from the ship, and Poe’s head turns so quickly that Karé snorts and Iolo rolls his eyes. “Come get your shit. I’m not going to do it for you.”
“Sorry,” Poe calls out sheepishly, to which Karé mutters: “Whipped.”
“You be quiet,” Poe says.
He takes them all to Bianca’s apartment, where she’s said they’re allowed to stay for the week. In the very next hour, Poe loses both Karé and Iolo: Karé because she says she wants to experience Yavin nightlife, and Iolo because he mentions he can make cupcakes too, prompting Bianca to take him to the kitchen for a live demonstration. That leaves him with Muran, who is currently putting the tiny plant he’s been nurturing for several weeks on the windowsill.
“Hey,” Poe says from the door of the room that he and Muran are sharing for the coming week. Iolo prefers to sleep on the ship and Karé is rooming with Bianca, although Poe has a feeling that Karé won’t be in the room very often. “It’s just us. What do you wanna do?”
“See what embarrassing posters you had on your wall as a child,” Muran deadpans immediately, carefully watering his plant, and Poe laughs.
“I only had one, and it wasn’t a poster,” Poe replies, still smiling. “It was a picture of Leia Organa I took from library records and blew up.”
Muran laughs too at this, and Poe’s chest floods with warmth at the rare but beautiful sight. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe in an attempt to look cool and suave. “Hey, are you hungry?”
“I guess I could eat,” Muran replies, standing up and dusting off his shirt. Here on Yavin 4, where the roofs are low and the windows are wide, he towers, dark head only a few inches away from brushing against the ceiling.
“Great,” Poe says with a beam, and takes Muran to his favorite restaurant for dinner. Muran looks uncomfortable and a little out of place, but Poe grins at him from across the table and recommends his favorite dishes, trying his hardest to make one of his favorite people in the world feel at ease.
That week, Karé spends a lot of time with Poe’s old friends, which is not ideal. Iolo teaches Bianca how to bake her favorite confectioneries. So Poe spends most of his time with Muran, who looks more and more relaxed every day as the week goes on. His eyes are still dark and icy but he smiles more now, more than he ever did holed up in Mirrin Prime. None of them like it there: it’s stuffy and grim, with the threat of the First Order constantly hanging over them.
Poe takes Muran to all his favorite spots on Yavin 4, talking endlessly about his experiences and what he loves about his home planet. Muran just listens, matching Poe’s stride and looking around, taking everything in. They walk around all day, stopping at places Poe used to frequent while he was growing up.
One night, when things are very quiet, Poe sneaks up to the roof of the building with a bottle of beer. Feet dangling lazily off the edge of the building, he pops it open and drinks. Up here, everything is calm.
Someone clears their throat behind him and Poe turns around to see Muran standing there, arms crossed, faintly amused expression on his face.
“Muran,” Poe says, smile instantaneous.
“Commander,” Muran replies.
“Come on,” Poe says, patting the spot next to him. Muran hesitates for only a moment before walking over, purposefully leaving some space between them when he sits down. Poe rolls his eyes a little bit before shifting over until their shoulders are touching.
“How’d you know I was up here?”
“I have exceptional hearing even when I’m asleep,” Muran says. “Or maybe I wasn’t actually asleep and heard you get up.”
“I can’t imagine which one it could be,” Poe says, and laughs. “You want some?”
“No, thanks,” Muran replies, gazing out. From here, it seems like the entire moon is stretched out in front of them. The lights of the city that are still on twinkle below their feet, scattered out across the dark landscape. Above their heads, stars gleam in the night sky.
It’s like a mirror image. Above them, light. Below them, light. Around them, everywhere: light.
Poe looks over at Muran and the gleam in Muran’s dark eyes is bright, too.
“I’m, um, enjoying it here,” Muran says.
“Aw, you like my home planet,” Poe says teasingly, nudging Muran’s shoulder with his own. Muran’s eyes flicker down to him for a split second before returning to the landscape, faint smile on his face.
“Any place that produces people like you is alright in my book.”
Poe’s breath hitches in his throat, fingers tightening around the neck of the beer bottle. He takes a swig – something, anything, to distract him from the fact that the smile on Muran’s face lit by the dim light of the faraway stars is suddenly the brightest and most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life.
It doesn’t help. His eyes are constantly drawn to the soft angles of Muran’s face and fixate on small details: the slight curve of his mouth, the stubble on his sharp jaw, the tuft of hair tucked behind his ear.
Poe’s heart is pounding so loudly that he’s very grateful Muran doesn’t actually have superhuman hearing. Muran’s shoulder shifts against his.
“That’s really nice of you to say,” is the only thing Poe can think of to say in response. “Are you going to take us to your home planet anytime soon?”
“Probably not, ‘cause it’s not like anyone’s going to be there to greet me anyway,” Muran says, and looks down at his knees.
His expression doesn’t change but his knuckles, gripping onto the edge of the rooftop, turn white. Poe’s heart sinks. Muran never talks about his past, only giving vague tips, like the fact that he’s from the Outer Rim.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Poe says.
Finally, Muran looks over at him and manages a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s okay.”
“What, um – what happened?”
“You don’t really want to hear that story,” Muran chuckles humorlessly.
“I’m not going to make you tell it,” Poe replies, voice low. “But if that’d make you feel better... I’m here.”
Muran seems to consider it for a while, staring down at his legs as they dangle over the city. Finally, he clears his throat. “Well, um, my parents were both soldiers. They died fighting for the Rebel Alliance.”
“That’s,” Poe starts, but can’t quite finish.
“I guess I thought joining the Republic’s starfleet would maybe – I don’t know. But we’re doing fuck-all to combat the First Order, so.” The forced smile seems to become a grimace.
“Muran,” is all Poe can think of to say.
“I know,” Muran mumbles.
He stops, seems to struggle with something. Poe barely breathes, lost for words.
“You know what’s shitty? When they died, I was one. I barely even knew them. I had to find out their names from the Republic archives. But I still feel like I should do something to – fuck, I don’t know. Avenge them.”
Poe looks out at the horizon as the silence thickens. The stars above their heads stretch out endlessly.
War isn’t beautiful. A lot of beautiful things get lost along the way. But Muran is still here.
“You’ve done enough,” Poe says, and places a hand on Muran’s. “Hey, buddy, really. We could never do half the stuff we do without you. And I bet they’d say that, too.”
Muran looks over at him and Poe is suddenly hyper-aware of the lack of distance between them. He holds Muran’s gaze, and if he thought his heart was beating loudly before, it’s almost deafening now. Muran’s lips purse slightly and Poe’s eyes are immediately drawn to them, breath hitching.
Then Muran turns away, drawing his hand away, and it’s over. The heat in the air dissipates and Poe is left, mouth dry and breathing uneven, to watch the stars.
On the last day of their trip, Poe wakes up early in the morning, before Muran does. He throws on his brown flying jacket, which still smells a little bit like Muran (impressive, considering Muran gave it to him half a year ago), and slips out of the room.
The streets are quiet. The sun is still watery and weak, casting a faint light over everything. Poe walks without having to look, so familiar with the streets that he navigates them automatically, thoughts drifting away: thoughts of dark hair, of icy black eyes, of lips slightly parted in sleep.
These thoughts are driven away when he makes a turn and finds it, a small house at the edge of one of Yavin 4’s forests. Poe pushes open the gate he used to swing on as a child, walks over the grass his mother cut every day, knocks on the door that his father carved when their old one was ruined in a storm.
The door opens and Kes Dameron stands, a cup of caf in his hand. He almost drops it in surprise.
“Poe?”
“Papa,” Poe says, and smiles.
“Poe,” Kes repeats, smiling back, eyes crinkling more than they used to. He opens his arms for a hug and Poe immediately flies forward, face in the crook of his father’s neck.
“I have missed you,” Kes says into Poe’s ear. “Nice jacket.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” Poe mumbles back. “And thanks.”
When Poe gets back to the house two hours later, Muran is sitting on his bed, writing something down and eating one of the many cupcakes that Bianca has gleefully made under Iolo’s tutelage.
“Hey, Muran,” Poe says from the doorway, and something about his voice must be different because Muran looks up, swallowing a mouthful of cupcake.
“Poe,” he replies. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, of course,” Poe says, although his heart is aching just a little bit. Muran looks concerned, standing up and walking over to Poe.
“Really?”
Poe looks up at Muran and that warmth floods through his chest again. Muran’s eyes are sharp but gentle. Poe looks into them and finds it slightly harder to breathe, chest tightening.
“Can I show you something?”
“Of course,” Muran says.
Poe takes Muran back to the house where he grew up but they don’t go inside. Muran casts a look over at the house, at the sign on the fence that says BEY/DAMERON, and doesn’t comment.
Poe leads Muran to the forest next to the house, heart beating in his ears. The last time he was here –
Pink flowers line the path as they finally emerge in a clearing. Poe stops near the edge, physically unable to get any further: he feels paralyzed, limbs refusing to listen to him. Muran stands next to him.
In the middle of the clearing sits an A-wing. It’s polished and well-maintained even though it’s obviously been through quite a bit. Poe feels tears pricking at his eyes at the sight, remembering the way the stars looked from the cockpit, twinkling beams of hope in the pitch blackness. His fingernails are digging into his palms as he blinks rapidly, trying not to let the memories overwhelm him.
Then, a gentle hand on his shoulder. Muran moves closer and Poe looks over at him.
Muran gets it. Muran remembers the stories Poe tells about his mother, the daring pilot. His father, the brave soldier. How they saved the galaxy. Muran understands.
Poe feels a surge of something strong in his chest, wants to wrap his arms around Muran, to thank him for understanding without him having to say anything. But Muran doesn’t hug anyone. Poe’s certainly never hugged him. He’s afraid he’ll ruin the moment if he starts now. So Poe stays frozen to the spot, Muran’s warm hand on his shoulder.
He smiles a little bit, and Muran looks down at him and smiles back.
After Yavin 4, things are different. Poe returns to Mirrin Prime a little sadder than he was before. Karé returns with much more information about Poe than he would have liked. Iolo returns with an entire bag of confectioneries that Bianca has baked for his departure.
Muran becomes stressed, annoyed Muran again, but now his eyes soften when he looks at Poe and he smiles more when Poe is around. It’s a change that is sudden but wholly unsurprising – to Karé and Iolo, anyway.
In the next month, Poe’s heartrate is perpetually in flux, speeding up automatically every time Muran walks into the room. He goes to sleep thinking about jet black hair he wants to run his fingers through and intense gazes he wishes would be directed at him.
“Poe, you fuck,” Karé says one day after Muran goes to bed for the evening and shoots a quick smile at Poe as he leaves. “Are you ever going to do something about that?”
Poe and Muran are both working on their X-wings in the hangar and wearing their flight suits, when the distress signal from the Yissira Zyde comes in. Karé and Iolo come bursting through the doors when the call for Rapier Squadron is broadcast, droids rolling along behind them, beeping rapidly to each other. BB-8 chirps loudly at them to shut up and listen.
“There’s been a distress signal broadcast from the Yissira Zyde,” Major Deso says, looking at the information on his tablet. “It says that it’s been hijacked by the First Order. The information is being sent to the maps in your X-wings. You depart in T-minus ten minutes.”
“Copy that, Lonno,” Poe says. Deso shoots him an annoyed glance and leaves.
“Ten minutes?” Iolo exclaims in annoyance. “I gotta run back to get my shit. Fuck.”
“Me too,” Karé says, saluting Poe and Muran as she turns. “See you guys in five.”
The two of them take off, leaving Poe with the man he’s been thinking about for the past thirty-five days. The air is charged somehow, pre-mission anticipation combined with festering tension: Poe bites his lip as Muran turns away. BB-8 nudges Poe’s leg.
“Not now, Beebee-Ate,” he mutters. It gets very offended and scampers off, presumably to talk shit about Poe to Muran’s droid, who scuttles away from Muran’s X-wing on its four spindly legs. Muran is hunched over his X-wing and tinkering with something, laser-focused.
“Muran,” Poe starts, walking up.
Muran turns around, tinkering immediately forgotten, and smiles a tiny smile. “Yeah?”
“What’re you doing?”
“Just repairing my sensor systems,” Muran says, sounding cheerful – or as cheerful as he can sound, anyway. “I’ve been putting it off for a little while.”
“Good idea,” Poe says, hating the utter blandness of his replies. “I should probably check mine, too.”
“Yeah, you should.”
Poe bites his lip as Muran waits for another response. He wants desperately to keep Muran’s attention but he is completely drawing a blank. Poe Dameron: conversationalist extraordinaire, defeated by a man with a sharp jaw and endearingly tousled hair.
The only thing he can think of one the spot is: “Are you, uh, excited?”
Muran looks at him in mild disbelief, then shakes his head and chuckles a little. “As excited as I could ever be to shoot down First Order ships, I guess.”
“So, like, pissing-your-pants excited?”
Muran full out laughs then, a ringing sound in the quietude of the dimly lit hangar. Poe’s eyes snag onto the corners of his lips, delightfully upturned, and the heat in his chest turns into a burning flame. The straps on Muran’s flight suit are clutched in his fingers before either of them knows it and he presses forward, colliding with Muran. Muran, surprised, stumbles back until he hits the side of his X-wing.
Poe’s breathing is already uneven and the heat of this proximity is overwhelming him. Muran looks like he’s about to say something so Poe does the only thing he can think of to do, rising to his tiptoes and tugging Muran down so he can press their lips together.
It is not at all as romantic as Poe has always imagined: it’s clumsy, messy, hurried. His hands are balled into fists on Muran’s chest, clutching at the front of his flight suit. Muran’s arms are on his shoulders and it feels like he’s trying to push him away as well as pull him in closer.
Poe breathes Muran in, reveling in Muran’s warm and familiar smell, feeling Muran’s heartbeat pulse beneath his hand. He breaks away briefly and Muran’s breathing is uneven, too, hands tightening on his shoulders. His dark eyes are even darker now, sharp and intense and focused on Poe.
Poe takes a second to let them both catch their breath before Muran’s pulling him back in, lips colliding with his with a sense of intense urgency. Poe’s heart soars as one of his hands rises into Muran’s dark hair.
The kiss seems to last fifty lifetimes but it’s still over much sooner than Poe would have liked. They break apart and both of them are breathing heavily. Poe lets go of Muran and takes an unsteady step back, heart in his throat.
“Sorry,” he blurts out, terrified.
Muran wets his lips slightly, looking down at Poe, a little bit dazed. “You want to put a pin in this right now and talk about it over a drink later?”
Then, a tentative smile. This small gesture, despite how tiny it is, fills Poe’s heart with giddy amazement and hope.
“Yeah,” he says quickly, slightly breathless and grinning. “Yeah, yes. Definitely.”
Karé and Iolo choose this extremely opportune time to burst back in together, clad in all their gear and clamoring about how they’re going to totally kick the First Order’s butts. Poe grins at Muran, already walking away, and Muran smiles bashfully back.
They all clamber into their X-wings and Poe raises the signal for departure, still beaming to himself as the X-wings begin to trundle down the runway. He can’t wait for this mission to be over.
It seems pretty standard – as soon as they come out of hyperspace above Suraz 4, Poe assesses the situation and Rapier Squadron breaks into two teams: him with Karé, Muran with Iolo. The exhilaration of the fight catches up to him pretty quickly as he spirals through the air, flanked by Karé. He doesn’t have time to look at what Muran and Iolo are doing but trusts in them enough to know that they’re doing a good job.
Finally, a lull: the last of the TIE fighters are gunned down. Poe turns his X-wing around, BB-8 beeping congratulations to him, searching for more targets.
Something catches his eye: a glow in the rear of the Yissira Zyde. His heart lurches when he recognizes Rapiers Three and Four hovering near it.
“Muran! Iolo! Break port!” he shouts into the comlink, grip on the joystick tightening.
Iolo’s reaction is instantaneous, soaring swiftly out of danger, but Muran lingers just a second too late before he moves away. Poe’s stomach flips in horror as he watches the wake of the freighter’s jump into hyperspace buffet Muran’s X-wing. It rockets through space, beginning to tear itself apart, struck by too much force for it to handle.
“Muran!” Karé shouts, frantic, and Poe’s never heard such genuine, heart-rending terror in her voice before. “Muran, eject!”
There’s a crackling on the comlink, a faint voice that belongs to Muran: “– Commander –”
The last Poe ever sees of the first great love of his life is flames.
Karé screams, long and loud and horribly grating. It seems to echo on forever. Iolo swears and Poe hears him hitting things in the cockpit.
Everything past here fades away as Poe stares down at his controls, hands shaking on the joystick.
“Muran,” he says, and he feels completely helpless, like he’s eight all over again, standing next to his mother’s casket and placing her medallion on her chest.
“Muran, oh, God,” he says, voice breaking, and tears slide down his cheeks in a rush. He doubles over, hands flying to his face as he shakes uncontrollably, lost and tired and oh, God, Muran.
His heart is viciously splitting in two as he sees it again, over and over and over, like a sick joke: Muran, bursting into flames, scattered across the galaxy. Muran, spiraling through the sky in pieces. Muran, becoming stardust. Muran.
“Muran,” Poe says again, and that’s all he can say.
They come back one X-wing short, feeling entirely hollow. Poe alights from his X-wing and stumbles, having to hold onto his ladder to keep himself steady. BB-8 helps prop him up as he leans against it, arms still shaking.
Karé and Iolo are there, too, and they’re putting his arms around their shoulders, solid and warm even if their shoulders shake with labored breaths and both of them have tear-stained cheeks.
Somehow, they manage to stumble back to their quarters and get Poe into his room. He thanks them in a haze, still seeing the flames behind his eyes. They leave him alone and go to their own bunks to grieve privately.
Poe takes his flight suit off, takes everything off, and steps into the shower. The water is cold but Poe doesn’t change the temperature, feeling like he might be burning up, too.
He scrubs himself until his skin is red and his fingers are wrinkled. When he comes back into his room he feels cleaner but not any better.
Then he spots it: the brown flight jacket that Muran gave him all that time ago. Lump in his throat, he picks it up. It seems heavier than it used to, if only because now it carries a lot more weight.
Poe slips it on and it hangs around his shoulders, as usual. Muran’s shoulders were always wider than his.
It still smells a little bit like Muran – like mint and motor oil.
The lump in his throat is there again as he hugs it closer to himself, closing his eyes to desperately seek out the last vestiges of that smell. If he concentrates very hard, it almost feels like Muran is still there.
Poe sinks to his knees, still weak, still unable to comprehend. It keeps flashing through his head, how if he’d been faster – if the Republic did anything to stop the First Order – maybe Muran –
There are tears running down his cheeks again as he brings a trembling hand up to his face, other hand still clutching at the flight jacket. They slip through his fingers and crash onto the floor, sparkling like stardust.