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If there’s one thing that never changes about Theron, it’s his stubbornness not to lose his independence, not even for a moment. Even if every step hurts, the sudden push of his own weight a throbbing ache in his leg. Even if the smallest movement is a sharp pain pulling at every nerve, from his head to his knees. He still says the same thing.
Enva has to follow him warily to the Commander’s quarters, alert to catch him if he falls, on his insistence that he doesn’t help him at all. The temptation is veritable, the way Theron clutches onto his waist and limps across the dim hallways.
Theron looks around for a medkit, and Enva closes the door behind him, tries to stop him from walking around. “You can stop that now. We’re alone. Let me help you.”
“Appreciate it,” Theron says, each word almost a strain to pronounce, “but I told you I can take care of myself.” Despite his insistence, there’s a knowing deep down that Enva won’t listen.
They went together, against Vaylin, fighting their way across the gaudy gold and the rich wash of art deco at the Grand Palace. From the start, Theron lamented the ill-fitting armour, and nothing went well for him from there. It wasn’t a surprise to find himself bruised all over from the tight clasp of metal all around his body. Him insisting on catching up with Enva as he chased Vaylin into the palace gardens only worsened his state further.
“I thought it fit you,” Enva says, feeling bad, finding a cold pack for him behind the liquor shelf after getting him to go to the bed.
“That thing doesn’t fit anyone with ribs,” Theron says wryly, taking off his shirt to assess himself in the mirror, and even the motion itself draws a sharp breath. Deep bruises of purple run across his side, around his arms like cuffs, blooming like dark shadows.
Enva lays him down, head against the pillow, swathing the cold pack in a small cloth. Once Theron finally relaxes, though hesitantly, Enva holds up his arm and looks at the bruises. He’s still hardened, firm, ready to get back up. Enva wishes breaking that shell, that near-impregnable defence could be easier; finding him beneath it all feels so impossible at times. Even with the way their heartbeats can sync, the way they can carve unstoppable paths across the galaxy, across space-time, to meet each other.
“Let me be strong for you,” Enva says, pressing the cold pack against his abdomen. Theron looks at it like it’s more than ice: something heavier, more dangerous. “Like we promised each other.”
Theron says nothing to this, gazing into Enva’s eyes, something about his defences letting up. Even after all this time, he’s still searching for meaning in the things Enva does.
When neither of them speak, the room falls into silence. Not sharp, not expecting, but tender. Patient. Enva sits in it like he knows how it feels, like he’s familiar with it. But Theron knows that they’re both strangers to that kind of comfort, still treading around it, still on edge to some extent. It’s not easy for him either.
“For the next two days I’m barring you from any field work,” Enva says, exerting his authority with a dulcet voice. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’ve had worse. You can throw me into a kolto tank and this’ll blow over within no time. The others’re gonna think you’re too soft on me.”
Enva smiles. “Maybe I am. You guys should’ve thought about that before putting me in charge.”
Theron has to admit amusement, to a restrained degree. “Okay, no complaints.”
They stay like this, then, Enva applying the cold pack on his bruises while Theron looks at him, looks at his face, the possibilities of it that outweigh the actuality of everything else. He lifts his arm experimentally, and through the ache of his forearm he reaches for Enva’s face, caresses it with a thumb. Enva leans into his palm, closing his eyes, of which no spell of time can let him fully admire the beauty, even when closed. The curl of his eyelashes, the faintly furrowed brows.
He thinks of it, really thinks of it. The idea of this, all the time, of him opening up and letting Enva in, is almost… terrifying, in this lightweight, angelic way, temptation leading into the pastel colours of a sun-kissed garden. There’s always the chance that he could ruin this again, and Enva wouldn’t like what he sees when the gates fly open, there’s always that. There’s always the little gap of distrust, this fear of abandonment, a desolate translation from his desperation to keep him. There is always a multitude of things, crowding the room he has for idle thoughts in his mind.
Eventually, something signals Theron, a notion in Enva’s eyes, that his mind is made up. He crawls up the bed, lies against Theron, the furnace of his body, snuggling up close, still pressing the cold pack against his bruises. Theron, wordless, runs a hand through Enva’s hair, it’s catharsis to hold him like this.
“I’m just scared to lose you,” Enva whispers, laying his head against Theron’s shoulder, inhaling his air. “If that’s okay.”
“It’s okay.” It’s nice sometimes, to have someone fear for your safety. Fear, a strong, stimulating word, nail-biting, adrenaline-inducing. It gives you an extra purpose to live, to stay alive, stay breathing just a moment more.
Slowly, the tension in his posture fades, and he finally settles here, in this position. He says in his mind that he wants this, he wants to let those walls down and bear his soul for Enva to see. It’s safe, it’s okay to be like this, bruised and aching and naked. But admitting he wants it, God, it feels so impossible, a last resort, an act of desperation still. It’s an admission of a crime he didn’t commit, a mistake he didn’t make. Enva is the only thing he’s ever done that can’t ever be called a mistake.
He says Enva’s name, finally, and Enva lifts himself up just enough to look at him, as if on command. He props himself up by a hand over Theron’s chest, waiting for a request, an order, anything.
The string of motions he’d like to take is simple and straightforward, but it’s different now. He doesn’t have the same leverage of providing security, a place to hide. There’s only one thing he knows how to do now, and it’s to question it, question everything, with all that silent curiosity condensed into the way he caresses Enva’s face, asking him if this is possible. Possible without some risk of condemnation or consequence.
—
Waking up certainly isn’t fun, not with your whole body chafed from an eventful night of stealth work. It takes a bit of mental preparation to even sit up in bed, and without Enva in bed with him it’s a lot easier to process the pain. Strange, though: he always wakes up earlier than Enva, even if he stays in bed to wait for him. But he’s long gone today, the other side of the bed empty and cold, the covers thrown to the side. When he sits up through a harsh ache in his abdomen and arm, he’s nowhere to be found.
The worst of the swelling has faded, thankfully, after a harsh two days of drifting about the Alliance Base, barred from doing anything more strenuous than standing up and sitting down. The bruises are darker now, ringed in green and violet. Ugly still, but healing. Better than yesterday, at least.
There’s a muted sound of running water coming from the refresher. He slides out of bed to see if Enva’s there, maybe still showering. But instead he sees him sitting on a stool by the bathtub, arms folded over the edge, quietly waiting for the water to fill.
“You’re up,” Enva acknowledges, standing.
“That for you?” Theron asks. Silly question: he’s already fully dressed, all fixed up.
He’s added a handful of salts to the bath: simple, clean, faintly herbal. No overpowering scents, the attack of strong smells makes him feel uneasy. Nothing that would make Theron feel like he’s being treated or pitied. But he lingers about the doorway anyway, crossing his arms, trying to act like he doesn’t need it.
Enva approaches him, and Theron has no other choice, nothing to get him out of here. He takes his hand, hesitant to accept his hold, and brings him over.
After Enva closes the door, Theron sheds his clothes and steps inside, testing the temperature. It’s warm enough. The process is awkward, stilted, an unknown aspect of it that neither of them can fix askew somehow. The water ebbs as he sits himself down. Enva closes the faucet once the bathtub is filled enough.
“Woke up earlier than me,” Theron says, leaning towards him.
Enva hums. “I did. I wanted to get this ready for you.” He looks at his bruises, studies the changed colour with a careful lift of his arm from the water, partially foamy with bubbling suds. “How are they?”
“Better than yesterday. Still hurts like a bitch to walk around, though.”
“Okay.” He nods, and the faintest smile peers through it.
Theron’s not ready to lean back just yet, losing himself in a well of his own thoughts as he stares beyond the bubbles in the water, the faint slosh as he stirs. But Enva gliding a hand over his hair, gently pulling him close to give him a kiss on the forehead, brings him right back. And despite the warmth of the bath, he shivers.
“The world changes when it’s just us,” Enva says, pouring water along Theron’s forearm, tracing the density of his muscles. “I know you act like you don’t want this, but I feel it. I hear it in your heartbeat.”
Theron finds his hand, takes it in his own, knotted at the fingers. His fingers are cold, the union is endothermic. “I’m just not… used to it, that’s all.”
“You’re a spy. You know how to adapt.”
“So many situations they’ve trained me for, and the one thing I never learnt was how to be taken care of and spoiled by a-” Theron sits back contemplatively. “-good-looking Jedi, who is also my Commander.”
“And your boyfriend,” Enva adds, earnestly, sweetly.
“My favourite part.” Theron meets his gaze. There’s little of a shield left in him; only the thrum of vulnerability, raw and open, held in Enva’s hands like it might not shatter this time. In this dim refresher light, there’s a faint sparkle in Enva’s eyes, like pearls.
Enva leans into him, the under-version, with the armour shedded the way a flower opens. He’d like for them to stay like this forever, away from their solitary cells; this symbiosis.
Theron leans too, letting his eyes close, trying to quell the hyperalertness in his senses. So much danger in the galaxy, the threat of his life just by being here on Odessen. But Enva being here is its own protection. Everything’s fine in heaven.
“Enva.” He adores the name, cherishing every chance to pronounce the two distinct syllables that ask for a soft sound. Enva.
“Yes?”
“Can we do this again? Maybe tomorrow if that’s okay?”
“Of course.”
“Every morning, until my bruises heal and I’m all right to go out into the sun again.”
Knowing where this is all headed, Enva smiles, nodding.
“And also after that,” Theron says. “But, you know, monthly. Wouldn’t wanna spend too much water.”
Enva doesn’t say anything, in anticipation.
Theron sighs. “Maybe every two weeks is good.”