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A ship flies overhead, towards the square.
A soft breeze raises from the ocean, wafting briny droplets his way. Even after all this time, the way he feels about the sea is divided. It tastes like home, like freedom, like peace. But it also tastes like loneliness, dread; like losing his mind. Perhaps, him and the sea are forever intertwined. Somehow, he’s always belonged to it.
Right now, it’s none of those things.
Right now, it’s nothing but a hiding place.
It’s not like he’s scared. That would be ridiculous; there’s nothing to be afraid of. And he has never run from anything, not even the direst things, not even when it would have been smarter to.
Everything is fine.
There is no reason why he’s on the seashore, among jagged, blackened rocks, instead of up in the square, where everyone else is. Well, officially the reason is that he needed to meditate.
It’s nothing odd, after all. His brothers will never let him hear the end of it, because it goes against the abrasiveness of his character to do something so, quiet and introspective, but it actually works when he has too much on his mind. That morning though, it had taken Omega a single glance to tell he was lying. She was graceful enough not to say a thing, but he could tell she just knew. How much, he cannot tell. Though that little girl is more perceptive than she has any right to be.
A ship coming in merely means that Echo has come back home. And that’s fine. Even now, he’d rather die than admit that, but he misses him when he’s not there. He is glad that he can still spare some time to visit them while he’s busy saving lives. But Echo coming back means that—
Sometimes, his brother takes some of the clones in the underground network with him. Be it because it’s handier (no, the irony is not lost on him), or because someone wants to have a sliver of peace in their hectic lives, he never says no. That’s also fine.
It’s just that—well, months ago he came back with a ghost. A ghost from Crosshair’s past. Or, at least, someone he’d thought was nothing more than a ghost.
Someone who had walked down from the ramp, warm eyes hopeful and kind and relieved, and entirely happier to see him than he should have been.
Mayday.
Mayday, who never died on Barton IV. No, that’s not exactly true. Because his heart did cease beating. He knows it. He’s felt it.
But they brought him back, after he collapsed. Shipped him off someplace distant, where he wouldn’t cause trouble. It turns out, Mayday thought he was dead, as well. He’d found out that he’d killed the Lieutenant, and thought they’d shot him on sight.
Needless to say, seeing each other again was something he cannot place into words. Devastating, in some measure. Mayday hasn’t told him how it was for him, other than he was glad to see him, to know he was alright. That he’d worried for months he’d brought him to his death. It’s nearly funny, how wrong that statement is. Because it’s true that Mayday changed his life; but certainly not for the worst. He was the salvation he never deserved. And he’s been ever since he came back, in more ways than he can speak. Crosshair still has to fight through the guilt, every time he’s here, to bear being in his presence.
Mayday has been to Pabu many times before. For some odd reason, instead of taking his time to rest, he prefers to spend it with him. They talk about everything and nothing. About their old lives, about their lives as they are now. Most of the time, they avoid ever speaking about what happened after Barton IV. Well, Crosshair does, at the very least (though he’s quite sure Echo has already told Mayday much of what he needs to know).
They’ve even wondered if they’d ever crossed path while on Kamino, in their youth. Mayday is adamant that it can’t be, because he’s sure he’d remember a face like his. He never elaborated what he means by it and Crosshair isn’t certain he wants to know. Though it’s easy to imagine, he’s saying that he would have stood out, when he’s so different.
He knows they have grown closer, that they know each other in more a thousand different ways (even though Crosshair felt known and seen by him from the very first moment). They have grown closer. Still, that doesn’t mean—he shakes his head.
Don’t go there. Please, don’t go there.
Don’t go thinking about things you don’t deserve. You already have so much of that.
He’s ripped away from his thoughts when he hears a voice calling him from a distance.
He looks up so fast he feels a little pathetic. As anticipated, he catches sight of Mayday making his way down towards him (avoiding him would have nearly been impossible, after all). Omega must have told him where he was, the sneak.
He heaves out a sigh, kicking a stray rock back into the azure water. He hates the way seeing Mayday makes him feel. The way his heart misses a beat at his windswept hair. The way he finds it harder to breathe at his smile.
Stars, he’s a fool.
It wasn’t like this, in the beginning. He could talk to him freely, like he never could with anyone else. He felt safe in his presence. That safety has slowly faded away; not because something changed about Mayday, because he’s a constant in his life. He’s the one who changed. He’s the one who started wanting so much more.
Those feelings he’d carried since the first time he’d met him, feelings without a name, have taken a clearer shape. One he can’t allow himself to think about. But no matter how much he tries to avoid Mayday, he never can; one way or another, they’re always running back to each other.
He merely waits, as Mayday catches up with him. Seeing him so healthy and glad to be there, with him, shatters something within him; he bites down on his bottom lip. Mayday jogs up to him, patting him on the shoulder in greeting, snatching a smile from him.
They fall back into their usual ways, talking about what they’ve been doing. Mayday talks about the different ways they’re growing the underground networks, the planets they’ve been on and the clones they have met.
Crosshair talks about how he’s been teaching Omega how to shoot a rifle; but only because she’d turned her big, round eyes on him and he could never tell her no. At that, Mayday laughs at him, with fondness, telling him he’s truly stepped into his big (little) brother person. Well, yeah, he’s not embarrassed by it. Not that much, at least.
Eventually, they fall into a subject Crosshair always runs away from, because he hates remembering it. Mostly because it’s terrible to speak about. But also because he can’t help but think that he’s glad it’s happened, for how selfish it is. He would have never met Mayday, had it not.
Barton IV. The things that brought him there. The things he did. The months he spent thinking he couldn’t save Mayday. Thinking Mayday had died because of him.
It’s still a bruise too soft to touch.
Mayday turns to him; bottom lip caught between his teeth. It’s been clear for a while that he wants to talk about, and for more than a mere mention. Crosshair shrugs, with one shoulder.
“A mission’s a mission.” And he’s just repeating himself.
“You were alone,” Mayday says with a shake of his head. “I was always close to my brothers, but—” he trails off, eyes distant for a moment, staring emptily at the horizon. Then, carefully, he turns to him. “But I didn’t realise how close you actually were with your squad,” very few people can understand how it was, for them. He doesn’t give him an answer.
He knows Mayday isn’t truly following a train of thought. Crosshair has told him many things he never thought he would speak about with anyone, but the older clone has always been good at seeing him. It’s easy for him to see the hurt that still lingers. That is more difficult to speak about that merely recounting the things that have happened.
In Mayday’s dark eyes, he catches glimpse of everything he’s too afraid to ask. About the way he felt, back then (numb). What he’d been willing to do for the Empire (everything). What he’d gotten for it (nothing).
One question, he does ask. It must have been bothering him ever since he’s learned about his (past) antipathy towards regs, spoken as a joke by someone who can’t keep their mouth shut (Wrecker; who was teasing him because, like Omega, is more perceptive than he has any right to be).
“Sometimes, I wonder why you tried so desperately to save me, when you didn’t even know me.” There’s a small smile on his face, but it feels fake, stretched thin. Crosshair certainly can’t tell the truth.
Because you saw me when no one else did.
Because you saved me in more ways than I can tell you.
Because you’re kind and brave and you deserved so much better than to die for nothing.
“Because I didn’t want to owe you anything,” he answers instead, like a jerk. He’s learned a long time ago that it’s easier to be a bastard than honest. It hurts less.
He chuckles, his voice terribly devoid of humour. He wants nothing more than to distract them from talking about what happened. It’d mean falling too deeply into what Mayday means to him. And he can’t bring himself to look at Mayday as it is.
“I still wonder what you must have thought, when I took off my helmet and you realised I wasn’t like you.” After all, though his voice is also distinctly different from other clones, he had no way of knowing. Something cruel in his mind tells him that he would have not been so kind. But it’s unfair on Mayday, to think something like that.
He sends a careful glance towards him: Mayday is frowning, everything he’s said before forgotten. He reaches out, his hand lingering in midair between them; like he’s not quite sure how much he can dare. Oh, he could dare anything he likes.
“You are like me, Crosshair,” it’s a whisper, so honest and raw it nearly hurts. Crosshair fights against the urge to step back, move away. He’s not like him. Mayday is brave and gentle and sympathetic and so many things in between that he will never be. He swallows around the emotions tangled in his throat.
“A clone?” he asks, voice brittle. That must be what he means. And there’s something about it that hurts, because if he sees him as a clone, he sees him as a brother and he can’t deal with the thought, right now. Mayday shakes his head.
“Human.”
A living, breathing, bleeding thing.
Taking him stupidly off guard, Mayday shatters the distance between them, his calloused fingers colliding with his cheek with such softness he could break.
He bites the inside of his cheek; it’s the only way he has to stop himself from leaning into the touch. “Someone with haunted eyes, whose life has not been kind to.” How pathetic to know that, back then, he was trying his best to appear perfectly alright with his own life, and he’d failed miserably at that. Then again, Mayday could always see so much more than he.
But it’s not fair, he thinks; and says as much, with a rather self-deprecating hum:
“I made my own life hell for a long time.” It’s true, though it’s taken him a long time to admit that. “You didn’t have a choice.” It’d been near suffocating to realise how selfish and foolish he’d been. Crying over his own fate when he’d written it out of bitterness and resentment. He’d chosen to be miserable. And meeting Mayday had made it so painfully clear. The commander was abandoned, forgotten and left to die; still, he’d been kind.
He meets his gaze once more, and realises that Mayday is looking at him with something severe in his eyes. He knows what he’s trying to tell him: that he didn’t have a choice, either; that he was manipulated and coerced into that life. That pain cannot be quantified. That there’s not a right way, or a right reason to suffer. He doesn’t speak, like he realises this conversation is falling down places neither of them wants to find themselves in, yet.
Instead, Mayday brushes his thumb against his cheekbone and Crosshair foolishly tells himself he’d be happy, if he died here, right now. Mayday’s voice is even softer, when he speaks again; he sounds hesitant. And he’s the one avoiding his eyes, this time.
“Do you want to know what else I thought when I first saw you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, and it’s clear he doesn’t want one. His hand shifts, curling loosely against the side of his neck. Can he feel his frantic pulse?
Mayday looks at him again, dark eyes drawing him in like a supernova. “That you were beautiful.”
Oh.
Oh.
There’s no way he can’t feel the way his heart misses a beat, before collapsing into a frenzy, now. He doesn’t mean that. He can’t mean that.
Because it’s not the truth (and even if he were good looking, that would never make up for the unbridled darkness swirling in his soul, biting and consuming).
Because those words make him crave things he can’t have. Flood his heart with a longing he can’t choke back down his throat.
This must be nothing more than Mayday being kind, once again, even though he doesn’t need to be. Even though he shouldn’t be.
“But I’m not,” he breathes out, without meaning to, struggling against the words. He sounds needy and desperate and he hates it. He hates being honest, he hates giving anyone an opening on his brittle heart.
Mayday frowns, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing; there’s a hint of surprise on his features. He looks at him, searching his face, for a long moment.
“You’re blind in so many ways when you want to.” He can’t argue with that because, for someone with an enhanced sight, there have been many things he couldn’t (or refused) to see. He still wonders what Mayday means, when he says in so many ways: what else has he been blind to, that he would know of?
A small, private laugh escapes Mayday’s lips, and Crosshair wonders how it would be, to feel the rumbling of his chest against his own. Then, the older clone runs his fingertips against his cheek, over the line of his tattoo. He’s so, so close. Crosshair finds it difficult to breathe right.
“Your eyes—” Mayday begins, but Crosshair stops him before he can say anything more. There’s a trembling to his own body he doesn’t like. He doesn’t think he can stand here, listening to Mayday speak about how beautiful he is, when he knows they’re all lies, when he knows it means nothing. He runs back to his old ways, to sharp, bitter words that are meant to cut. He fails miserably.
“We have the same eyes,” he sounds uncertain, words tripping over each other. He might as well disappear in a puddle on the ground, for the fool of himself he’s making. “What’s so special about eyes, anyway?” He refuses to stand down, even though he can feel a blush climbing its way up his cheekbones, burning beneath Mayday’s fingers.
Mayday laughs once more, in a way that makes it clear he thinks he’s the most endearing thing he’s ever seen. This is so embarrassing. He once was the most proficient, merciless sniper of the Grand Army of the Republic, bitter and unyielding, sarcastic to a fault and never soft. Now, look at him (damn you, Omega).
“Will you shut up and let me speak?” Mayday chides him, effectively shutting him up; it’s better if he doesn’t say anything for a while.
Satisfied, Mayday continues, hand still against his cheek. He seems unwilling to ever let him go. “You have the most intense eyes I have ever seen.” It’s an odd word to use: he’s always felt that his gaze is too harsh, too unforgiving. Then again, Mayday is dangerously good at seeing past his defences. He wonders what he could read in his eyes, back then. And he fears what he can read right now; all his darkest desires and the things he can’t have.
“From the very first moment, I wanted to know everything they hid.” He’d wanted to know him even when he didn’t want to be known. He’d wanted to know him even when he didn’t feel human, but the scattered pieces of a weapon. Had he not known Mayday, perhaps he would have never been anything else. He has saved him in more ways than he can speak.
Crosshair chokes down the emotions threatening to spill out, drowning the both of them. He doesn’t know what to say, but he doubts Mayday wants him to speak again.
The older clone’s hand shifts once more, fingers tapping softly against his cheekbone, with a sort of reverential awe he must be imagining. There is no way in the universe Mayday wants him like he does, no matter the words he’s speaking. Thinking that he’s beautiful means nothing.
“And you have cheekbones so sharp I wondered if it would hurt to touch them.” He has to be teasing him. Trying to elicit a reaction from him. Well, it’s working. He sinks his teeth against his bottom lip, holding back a pathetic sigh of yearning.
Does it hurt, to touch me?
Do I hurt everyone I love?
Mayday moves even closer, ripping him away from his own cruel thoughts. He can feel the warmth of his body, the quiet wisps of his breath against his neck. He curls his hand into a fist, broken nails digging into his palm.
“And perfect long limbs and—” he trails off, eyes glazed like he can barely keep a thought.
Mayday reaches over before Crosshair can even realise he’s moving, his unoccupied hand looping around his wrist, the touch so tender. His fingers fall lower, brushing against the back of his hand, until he relents and uncurls his own fingers. With a fond chuckle, Mayday takes his hand, brings it up in the little, so little space between them. Presses their palms together.
“Beautiful slender fingers,” Crosshair can barely hear him, having to hold himself back from intertwining their fingers; wishing in such desperate measure to know how anchoring it would feel, to hold onto him. It seems foolish, but Mayday—everything he’s saying is starting to melt his doubt away. Just like he melted the ice around his heart, back on Barton IV, even while everything around them was freezing, “to hold me in a soft way I had never known.”
This man. This odd, splendid man. Nothing about Crosshair is soft, nothing about him is tender. Everything is jagged lines and biting words and walls to hide behind. He will never understand how he can bathe him in such a drowning light and give him names he is not. Mayday’s voice has collapsed into a whisper, eyes dark and flooded with so many things he can’t read but craves.
He sounds uncertain, breathless when he continues, his fingers tracing a path from his cheekbone, over his eyebrow, down his nose, to skim over his lips. His heart seems ready to take flight. And Mayday isn’t looking at him, anymore. He’s looking at his lips, openly.
He can’t cease doubting, because he’s just like that. He can’t bring himself to believe he deserves this much. He doesn’t. He once was blind to himself, much like Mayday said; he knows this. He was blind to how he felt, to who he was, for the longest time. He doesn’t deserve love in any shape or form. He doesn’t deserve a quiet life and tenderness, not after all he’s done. Even so, he cannot deny what he sees in Mayday’s eyes. It’s not merely a reflection of his own yearning. Mayday wouldn’t be here, speaking those words, touching him so, if he didn’t mean it. He means everything he does, deeply.
“And a pretty, upset mouth that I—I—” he seems entirely too captivated to speak his mind, leaning ever so slightly closer. And Crosshair is tired of waiting. He might not deserve this, but he’s always been the selfish kind.
He grabs onto Mayday’s hand, tugs him towards him so unexpectedly the older clone all but collapses against his chest. Crosshair licks his lips, fighting against his dry throat, and careful eyes trace the movement. Here goes nothing. Here goes everything.
“Are you going to kiss me, Mayday?” it sounds more like a growl than anything else. Mayday’s eyes flit back to his, with a hint of panicked surprise. Leaning his head to the side, Crosshair nearly annihilates the distance between them, ignoring his frenzied heart. “Or gotta I do it myself?”
A gasp leaves Mayday’s lips, soft, filled with so many things. Astonishment, blended with something fearful. Like he can’t believe what he’s just told him. Can’t believe he’s wanted the same way he wants (he hopes so, he hopes he hasn’t severely misinterpreted the situation; he hopes he doesn’t lose something he can never have). There’s also something painfully similar to longing in the sound, the same longing he feels. It’s a moment, a second of hesitation before the jump.
And then, Mayday finally, finally kisses him.
It’s nothing tentative, the softness he’s felt in his touch completely gone. It’s desperate. It’s hungry. Perhaps, it’s been a long time coming, but Crosshair pretended not to see. Because knowing you can have something means you can lose it.
His mind, his cruel mind which won’t stop whispering that he doesn’t deserve any of it, is quiet. Every self-loathing thought is flooded away by Mayday.
Mayday.
Mayday, who cradles his face in his hands, to hold him closer, to hold him there.
Mayday, who kisses like the world is ending (and it has been, for a long time).
Mayday, who places a rough, yet still tender hand, on his chest, pushes him down, against the sand between jagged rocks, his lips never leaving Crosshair’s.
Mayday, who is warm and real.
Mayday, who only break away from him when neither of them can breathe. And he looks at him, eyes wide, dark and scared, questioning what this is, what this means.
Chest heaving, searching for the air he has misplaced in Mayday’s mouth, Crosshair at him, at the night sky around him, like a halo. During their kiss, without realising it, Crosshair’s hand has found its way into Mayday’s hair, fingers tightening around the strands. He never wants to let him go, he realises. His yearning is drowning him, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. He’s never allowed himself to imagine he could have this, because he knows he doesn’t deserve it, he deserves none of it. But now, it’s in reach of his fingertips. He could have everything.
Emotions tangled in his throat, he loosens his fingers, moves his hand lower, over Mayday’s heart. It beats as fast as a frightened bird. Crosshair has always hated being vulnerable in front of others, but there’s little he can do about it, now. Not when Mayday is so close he can read every line of his face, when he’s straddling his hips and can feel every shift of his body.
He can’t lie about it: he’s scared; he’s fucking terrified. Because he doesn’t want to ruin this like he’s almost ruined everything else in his life. Mayday could see him from the beginning. He doesn’t want him to ever look at him and find a different person. He has to be honest.
“What about the darkness in my soul?” he whispers, knowing that Mayday will understand; that even now, he will see him.
Mayday frowns. He leans down, leaves a kiss at the corner of his mouth, so gentle it hurts.
Could you ever find every part of me beautiful?
Could you ever love everything about me?
“You are not the monster you believe yourself to be,” he begins, and Crosshair can’t fight the urge to shake his head. To look at his hand, to see if the blood he can’t wash away still stains. Mayday reads his intention and grabs onto his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “You never were.” But he has done horrible things: all the light he’s been given could never save him. “You were used, you were made into a weapon. You’ve already paid for the mistakes you have done, you have made up for it. Stop punishing yourself.”
Sometimes, he doesn’t think he can. He can’t chase away the memory of everyone he has hurt, wondering what would have happened, had he made better choices. But he’s been told before, that the past is the past, and he cannot change it. He can only move forward. Be better.
But he cannot help thinking he should be alone for it.
He doesn’t deserve his brothers’ forgiveness.
He doesn’t deserve Omega’s light.
He doesn’t deserve Mayday’s love.
And yet, he has all of it.
“You deserve softer things,” Mayday continues, voice a breath against his lips. “And I will continue saying this until you believe it.”
For a heartbeat, Crosshair does believe it. He believes that he won’t feel like this forever. That he’ll learn to be kind to himself, like he’s never been. His mind wants to fight against it, convince him that he’s not worth a thing.
He bites back, because he’s always been good at it. Bites against the shadows attempting to overtake him. Thinks about the soft glances exchanged with Hunter, a newfound mutual understanding between them; all the signs that they’re healing. Thinks about the way Omega ran to him, threw herself into his arms on Tantiss, after everything was over. Thinks about the way Mayday has been looking at him for weeks.
He might not deserve it, but he’s loved. And he’ll try his best to deserve it. He knows it won’t be easy. But nothing worth it ever is.
He closes his eyes, with a sigh, before nodding. He trails his hand back to Mayday’s face, brushes his fingers over his beard. He’s never before allowed himself to admit how much he craves physical contact. It feels like breathing after hours underwater.
There’s such unabashed adoration painted on the older clone’s features it makes him forget every reservation.
“I love you,” Crosshair murmurs. And maybe he never meant to say it, but he still means it. Maybe it’s too soon, maybe it’s foolish, but it doesn’t matter. Mayday looks away, but he smiles, biting his bottom lip.
“You do?” he asks, after a moment, but there’s no surprise there. Just sheepishness, a blush climbing on his cheeks. Like he hoped for it, yet hearing it is a different thing. Crosshair nods. For once, he’s not the foolish one.
“I think I’ve loved you since the moment you gave me my name back.” It’s the rawest, most honest thing Crosshair’s ever said.
When he first stepped on Barton IV, there was so little left of him; he was nothing but a ghost, with no freedom and no name. After months of being alone, of forgetting himself, no one speaking his name, no one caring enough to learn it, Mayday had asked him for it. Sometimes, he fears he would have been CT-9904, a soldier of the Empire, for the rest of his life, had he not met Mayday. Without him, he would have never been Crosshair again.
He gave him back his freedom, gave him back light, gave him back his name. How could he not fall in love with him?
Mayday doesn’t say anything back, at first. He doesn’t expect him to; neither does he want him to. He wants him in whichever way he can have him. Time isn’t running out for either of them, not anymore. They have the rest of their lives.
Finally, the older clone leans closer, once again, kisses him on the lips, slowly. His fingers trace a path on the side of his head, until they find the grooves and valleys of his scar; there’s a silent question there, but he’s not prepared to tell him about it. He will, one day. There’s no rush.
“I fell in love with you slowly,” Mayday says, ripping him away from his thoughts. His breath catches, when he realises that he’s loved back. “I kept thinking about that brave, insane clone who endured a snowstorm for me, to bring me back to safety. Blaming myself for his death.
And then, Echo found me and he brought me here and there you were. Still beautiful and abrasive and stubborn. The more I got to know you, the more I realised that I couldn’t escape you. That I didn’t want to. That you were everything I thought you were and so, so much more. You’re charmingly sarcastic and reluctantly loving and a self-sacrificing idiot; I never stood a chance,” he chuckles, happiness so clear on his eyes it’s almost overwhelming.
It’s odd, to hear him describe him in a thousand ways he is not; but there must be some truth, because Mayday is no liar. He’s willing to be so many things for Mayday, but Mayday loves him for him. Every good and every bad part of him. Even the parts of himself he hates.
He drags him down, kisses him deeply.
“You have the rest of your life to know me,” he’s saying it against his lips, smiling like a lovesick fool. It might be a bold thing to say, but he feels it true.
“I do, Crosshair,” Mayday replies, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face into the crook of his neck. The way he says his name is devastating: with some sort of reverential awe, like it’s a precious thing he could break. With so much fondness it overflows, warming in ways he didn’t think possible. He loves hearing him speak his name. “We do.”
The rest of their lives for softer things. Falling asleep in each other’s arms, chasing the comfort they bring each other. Briny droplets, kisses on the beach under the stars. Healing from everything that has been done to them. Love and be loved.
For the life they deserve.