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The Sith make work for idle youngling hands.
It’s an old maxim, but it’s stuck. Bode can still hear his old master repeating it to him one morning, greying brows aquiver (no doubt when he had snuck off, shirking some responsibility or other; one of the rare times he had been caught). Bode hadn’t been impressed then, and he wouldn’t be caught dead saying something like that to Kata.
And yet…
And yet those are the words ringing in his head as he stares down at the slim oblong box, a recent arrival in Tanalorr’s first (and only… this one’s existence was improbable enough) pawn shop. The shop itself is a treasure trove of junk, an amount that should be impossible considering how recently the place had been established. Piles of junk almost reach the ceiling of the barn-like structure, and Bode likes to imagine the tiny Sullustan proprietor burrowing in and out of the chaos like a Tatooine sandworm.
Bode helps them, now and again, with moving and stacking some of the heavier stuff. This is from the latest shipment, one of the ‘wild cards’ from an auction at who-knows-where. He’d asked about it, curious at the weight and shape, and they’d told him to open it.
And there…
Well. There it was.
“Yeah I don’t know what it is either.” Esta, the proprietor, peers round Bode’s hip and sniffs. “Some kind of proto-dashboard? A souped up sand-surfer? But then the sand would get all up in those little black and white keys-”
“Piano,” Bode says. “It’s a piano.”
“Pee-ya-no.” Esta sounds it out, their pouty mouth making a passable go of the syllables, then blowing out a frustrated raspberry. “Still no clue. You know what it’s for?”
“Music.” Bode, never one for words, is quieter than ever, staring down at it whilst trying to parse all the emotions swirling in his chest. His fingers are warm, tingling. He doesn’t realise he’s raised his hand until the pads of his fingers brush along the keys, barely enough to compress them, the synth-ivories worn but familiar under his touch.
“Ah ha.” Esta stares up at him, yellow-eyed and assessing. What they see there isn’t Bode’s concern, he’s too busy with the piano. His other hand settles beside the first, forming the arch-palmed starting pose from pure muscle memory.
“Try it then.” Esta’s voice makes him start and - Force what is wrong with him? - sends a flush of heat to his face.
Turning away (more to hide his cheeks than anything else) Bode leans down and carefully compresses the keys…
Nothing. Just a soft-ish thunk, more sensation than sound.
Esta waits for a beat, then blows another raspberry. “Pah. Broken.”
“Looks like it.”
“You can have it if you want.”
“What?” Bode flinches and stares at them.
“I’m serious.” Esta shrugs. “You help me out enough. Call it a nameday present.”
“But mine isn’t until-”
“Bode. Big guy.” Esta lays a hand on his arm, clawed fingers giving him a little pat. “Just take the damn gift and stop fussing. I’ve got customers.”
Bode still isn't great at reading Sullustan expressions, but if he didn’t know better, he’d say the look in Esta’s eyes is almost tender.
***********
The piano lives in the shed at the back of their dwelling for almost a month, but not because it’s gathering dust.
No. It’s become a project.
Bode knew it would be an undertaking, right from the get-go. First, there are several bits missing; internal wire, one or two keys, some of the specially shaped hammers. These bits alone would take weeks to reconstruct, not to mention some very creative repurposing of other scraps and knickknacks (imports to Tanalorr are rare at best, and there definitely isn't room for anything this non-essential; it was hard enough to source fabric to replace Mookie’s arm after an incident with the caf pot.)
Second; he’s working off his own memories, and most of them are thirty years old or more. Stubbornness only gets him so far, and after a few days he sends out a few special, and covert, requests to some contacts. This eventually produces a holo on ancient Earth-age instruments, including the pianoforte and its varying descendants. It gives him, at least, a couple of reference pictures for what this baby is supposed to look like under the hood. Still, the illustrations are of slightly different models and the hand drawing them had erred on the… stylised… side in all the wrong places. Perhaps the detail bored them.
Bode’s hands itch to wring their long-dead neck.
Third; not all of those memories are helpful, and most are anything but. Truth is, he’s been fighting the past off at every turn. The past has rarely ever been Bode’s friend; therein lies regret, mourning and frustration at his past self’s void-damned idiocy. Now though, the memories are tender as well as painful, and inviting in a way he is not used to.
There isn’t much that made it through the turmoil of losing his family, of becoming a youngling, of swearing himself into the Jedi Order and forsaking all attachments to who he had once been. Most of it has the strange distortions and sensory blur of infancy; ceilings, shadows, furniture viewed from low down, sunlight on an unfamiliar floor, the sound of prayer bells, the smell of a spice he cannot name.
The piano is a central point, limned with surprising clarity. A battered, upright thing, made of synth wood with metallic inlay. It had been his mother’s, he thinks. Or perhaps even belonged to her mother. Either way it had been beautiful, and precious, and far, far too rare for their simple hovel of a home. His mother had played every morning - or at least in the mornings, at some point. He can picture her sitting on the stool in her faded indoor robe, her long braid soft down her back. She had let Bode hold onto it while she played; he can still feel the silk of it between his chubby fingers. The sense-memory blurs with another; of sitting on her lap, the warmth of her at his back, her hands guiding his down to rest on the keys.
Bode blinks back to reality as the string he was tightening twangs in warning. Suddenly he can feel the blisters on his fingertips, the ache of a cricked neck, the thrum of exhaustion behind his sore eyes.
He sits back on his haunches, breathes out a long, eloquent curse, and heads back into the house.
The piano doesn’t leave his mind though, not at dinner, not as he undresses and slips into bed. He tries to hide it. He fails, of course.
“You’re distracted,” Cal tells him once they’re in bed, lithe arms wrapped around his back, lips brushing his nape. The words come out as delicious little gusts that make Bode’s skin tingle.
“Mmnph,” he says, non-committal, though the stirring in his trousers is anything but.
“Want something to take the edge off?” He feels Cal’s lips curl, wicked. “Me for example?”
Bode turns in his arms, a laugh rumbling out of him, and loses himself in his lover for the night.
***********
He thought it would take a month. In the end, it takes a season. The air is starting to grow cold (well, as cold as Tanalorr can get anyhow, which is never more than a sprinkling of frost) by the time he sets aside his tuning tools and thinks maybe it’s time.
He’s tuned the thing, but he hasn’t played it. And he’s never allowed himself to make any sound unless everyone is out of the house. Cal’s out right now, collecting Kata, but they could be back any second. It’s a gamble.
The sensible (or sneaky?) part of him considers waiting for another day. A lighter and younger voice, revived beneath Tanalorr’s golden skies, whispers something else: try it, take the risk.
Bode sits on the stool, straightens his spine (feeling his mother’s hands on his shoulders, her words of encouragement murmured in his ear), and sets his hands in the once-familiar position. His throat catches. He clears it. He tries again.
The first chord is jarring; not because it’s ugly, but because it’s too beautiful. The notes sing through the air, and the colours of the room seem to blur and brighten. He can smell spices, and desert air, and hear - just for a moment - his forgotten mother-dialect, just a few steps away.
His fingers flow into another chord, then his left hand picks up a melody, his right finding a flow that isn’t masterful, but has a harmony he hadn’t dreamed of achieving. The notes just… make sense. The sound is pondering, graceful, a little tentative.
It’s beautiful.
He doesn’t hear the door open, the voices calling for him, the rapid patter of Kata’s feet on the stair, her frantic hiss for Cal to come see.
He only feels the moment she appears at his elbow, her small face rapt with wonder, her brows creasing along the exact same line as his do. He softens his fingers, as though about to stop, but she widens her eyes at him and gestures for him to continue.
He senses Cal in the Force, a soft fire on the periphery, a warm green gaze on his back. He plays on for a few more minutes, slow, savouring the notes.
But then Kata’s hand flashes out and plays a note.
It’s loud, and completely off key, and so harsh it makes her snatch back her hand, a laugh flying out of her, gleeful with mischief.
Bode catches her eye and finds himself grinning back. He switches the tempo, playing her note to start with, and turning it into a jaunty jig, nothing like the one before. His fingers scamper along the keys; taking risks, making mistakes, catching themselves, twiddling. It feels like a dance, and a little like chaos.
It’s the best he’s felt in forever.
“Papa! It’s amazing, Papa!” Kata darts in again giggling, and clonks another key before dancing away, arms wide, smile wider. Bode watches her go, and his eyes prickle as he sees the little girl she used to be, the one who scampered between him and Tayala without a care in the world. This is not the same girl, not quite, but she glows with the same, reshaped light.
Cal slides an arm across his shoulders, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.
“You dark horse,” he chuckles, low and warm. “You…” He pauses, and Bode senses the words before they come - it’s taken them a long time to get to this, and even now, it isn’t easy to say - the warning gives him a moment to open his own heart, to savour it, when Cal adds at last, “I love you, Bode Akuna. I love you so karkin’ much.”
Bode plays on, tipping his head so that it leans against Cal’s chest, against his heart. Memory and family, tears and joy, loss and love. All swirl around them, a technicolour tapestry.
All is not perfect in this fledgeling new world but, in that moment, it feels nothing but right.