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A’Sharad breathed through the twinge of nerves in his arm, trying to keep still as Maul reconnected severed synthetic nerves and soldered broken struts. He watched as Maul frowned into his arm’s mechanical workings with a steady, focused gaze. It looked too severe an expression for the task at hand, considering they’d just come out of a fight where Maul didn’t look half as stern.
They were set upon by Inquisitors, ambushed in an alley within a nearly abandoned city. No one liked wandering at night here, with the Storm Troopers picking out more “suspicious” looking people off the streets and questioning them. It was safer to be within your home, avoiding any possible interaction at all. Maul and A’Sharad normally would have followed the same habits, but they were coming back late from a job and it could not be helped. One of the Storm Troopers must have caught a glimpse of one of their defining features, and called it in to the Inquisitors who quickly set upon them like locusts in a field.
In truth though, while the fight lasted a long while, neither A’Sharad nor Maul felt too worried. The Inquisitors may be skilled, but the two of them had far more experience; it was simply a matter of holding out long enough for their young enemies to make a mistake. Maul looked focused and determined, and a part of A’Sharad laughed inside when the Inquisitors “spun” their blades and Maul’s face became distinctly annoyed. Another part of him felt bitter rage, because Maul had ranted to him before about how he struggled for every scrap of power he ever had while these “children” were given everything he ever wanted for no reason at all.
And so, in a moment of foolish, uncontrolled passion (that Maul had been trying to teach him to control), A’Sharad rushed forward to cut through one of those spinning sabers, a small quiet hope of giving Maul some form of amusement. He did cut the saber in two, and that Inquisitor was thus promptly killed, but another came and nearly severed A’Sharad’s prosthetic arm from his body. A’Sharad moved quick enough however, for the enemy saber to burn an inch or two into the middle of his prosthetic. It still hurt immensely though, and he staggered back to try and regain his footing.
It turned out to be unnecessary, as in the very next moment he felt so much rage from Maul that both he and the Inquisitor froze, and Maul pushed the Inquisitor back with so much Force that they crashed into the wall hard enough to fall unconscious. A’Sharad blinked, and looked over to Maul, who was standing over the body of that last Inquisitor, who would never get up again. Maul growled and strode over to A’Sharad and grabbed his arm, observing the damage and feeling around the prosthetic. A’Sharad could only stare at him with baited breath, as Maul maneuvered his fingers with such gentle care. Those hands were just used to kill someone, and now they were checking over his own well being.
Maul had frowned and sneered and dragged A’Sharad to their home base on this planet, all while never letting go of his hand. He sat him at the table and took a tool pouch from his belt, opened up the synth-skin covering of the prosthetic, and began to work. A’Sharad supposed it would only make sense for Maul to carry a tool pouch; the man was half cyborg, he’d be a fool to not carry tools with him everywhere he goes.
So here they were, an hour into the repairs, with A’Sharad having been staring at Maul’s angry face, watching how the dining table light caused the hills and valleys of his face to stand out in striking contrast. Staring those bold and sharp tattoos that were as much a part of Maul as A’Sharad’s own tattoos were a part of him. Staring at Maul’s deft, nimble fingers moving with such fine control to repair the delicate mechanisms of his arm that A’Sharad felt something like awe. The work was not rushed, no matter how impatient Maul’s low growls made him seem, and he clearly was an expert in what he was doing.
A’Sharad breathed a shuddering breath. “I never knew, that hands capable of so much destruction could be so gentle, could fix . . .” he spoke softly into the quiet air.
Maul paused for just a second, and glanced up at A’Sharad, something unreadable in his eyes. He cast his gaze back down, and continued to work. He seemed to mull something over before saying, “I always thought I would create something great, once I rose to power. A vast, powerful empire to be admired . . .” His eyes grew sad for a moment, before they hardened into a frown yet again. “But those were dreams beaten into me, for a purpose I would never see.” He soldered yet another strut. Connected another wire.
A’Sharad held his tongue; he knew Maul had more to say. He always did.
Maul glanced back up again, almost shyly, before in a soft voice he said, “My only company as I grew up were the droids my master trained me with. The only resources I had were the ones I could acquire myself. I would find droids abandoned on my missions, left behind by other travelers. I would . . . fix them, because I had nothing else to do. Then I would destroy them, because I couldn’t destroy the droids that tortured me.”
A’Sharad knew it wasn’t because Maul didn’t have the skill; he was certain Maul had always been a ferocious fighter from a young age. A’Sharad felt certain that Maul couldn’t destroy the droids because for as much pain they caused him, they were also the only family he had.
Maul repaired the last wire, and held his tools gently in his hands. “. . . I would fix them, because it felt good to do so, the satisfaction of working at something and having my success be so plain to see, so clear. No words of praise needed, because my accomplishment was obvious in the proper functioning of the droid . . .”
He stared off into the distance for a moment, gaze far away. A’Sharad wondered and feared what he was seeing. He covets that terrible knowledge, of what Maul went through. He wants to know, and hold it in his heart . . .
Maul closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting all his tension go. He set his usual glare at the hand again. “Move it, tell me if anything feels off.”
A’Sharad lifted his hand slowly and turned his wrist this way and that. He flexed his fingers and formed a fist, before letting go in a gentle curl. The cybernetics sung smoothly. A’Sharad stared Maul directly in the eye. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”
Maul’s eyes widened and seemed to shine a bit, his mouth dropping slightly open. He nodded sternly, and prepared to move.
A’Sharad hesitated for a moment, and then reached for Maul’s hand. Maul froze, and looked down at their joined hands, then looked at A’Sharad. He wasn’t quite sure what to say. The Temple taught him to avoid attachments, taught him to avoid such things as they would lead to the Dark side. But the Order had fallen, and A’Sharad himself already fell to the Dark some time ago; to his rage, his grief, his fear. What else could pursuing this attachment cost him? If he ever lost Maul he would feel that pain regardless. At least if he tries, he might have something precious to keep in his heart . . .
A’Sharad breathes in deeply, and stands with Maul. He brings a frozen, wary Maul’s hand up towards himself, traces that tattoos on it with his eyes, and then with his newly repaired hand. He traces them so gently, like the brush of a feather, and he can see goosebumps rise on Maul’s skin as he subtly shivers. A’Sharad is so focused on Maul’s tattoos that he doesn’t notice Maul reaching up as well, and he stills when Maul’s hand traces the tattoos on his cheek, just as gentle, just as light. A’Sharad shivers and thinks, So that’s what it feels like. He casts his wide-eyed gaze up at Maul, who’s staring at him intently. Maul cups his face, and A’Sharad leans into it with a heavy, heavy weight. He closes his eyes in pained grief, because those who should have accepted him never truly did, and because he had to leave the only family he had left due to being dishonored in such a way-
He presses the hand on his face closer to himself, focuses on the callused warm skin, the thumb rubbing gently over his cheek, the fingers curling slightly into his skin. These hands have never hurt him, have never forced him to reveal his face, one way or another. These hands have only ever fixed and healed him, touched him with such care that he hadn’t experienced since his father died. These hands belong to Maul, and he loves them, loves him-
A’Sharad opens his and finds Maul staring at him with a knowing gaze. He knows his story, knows all the pains that fueled A’Sharad’s Fall to the Dark. There’s a burning fire in Maul’s eyes that seeks to gain vengeance; before, it was always for himself, but now it was for A’Sharad too.
A’Sharad melts into Maul, who holds him tightly, desperately. A’Sharad clutches back just as much. They’ve both lost so much to the same people, and now they only have each other to find refuge in.
They will make their way, one way or another. They’ll both get all that they desire. And right now, they desire each other.