There’s a grit under Luke’s nails that won’t go away.
He picks at it with his teeth sometimes. He sticks his fingers in his mouth like a child and drags the undersides of his fingernails along the pointed edges of his incisors, flooding his mouth with the stale taste of dirt and dust and the salty tang of sweat. He does it hurriedly, gagging on the feel of it, his head ducked low so that if Aunt Beru walks in he can pull his fingers from his lips and plead his innocence.
It never works. She always catches him, somehow. Always knows what he’s been doing no matter how fast he rips his hands from his face. He can see it in her eyes. In the way that they catch and linger on the spit that clings to his fingertips. Shiny and still caked in that odious, branding grime.
Luke will curl his hands into the hem of his shirt. Trying to hide the evidence of what he’s been doing, squirming under her burning gaze. She won't say anything. She never does. Just watches Luke with eyes that are far too kind, far too seeing, until she retreats from the kitchen or the bedroom or whatever else she stumbles upon him amidst his frantic scraping of nails against teeth. It’s only when she leaves that he’ll unclench, tacky fingers splayed across his lap and the corners of his mouth red and tight and raw. Only then he will release the breath pushing outwards against his breastbone and relax enough that the wild beating of his heart will slow, leaving his insides stone-fruit bruised.
Beru never tells Uncle Owen. He’s not sure why. But Luke knows she doesn’t because once he manages to wash the taste of earth, salt and bile from his lips and drag his lead-laden feet to wherever his parents are waiting for him, Owen still meets his eyes. Still looks at Luke and sees something other than the soiled mess of saliva and desperation that Aunt Beru has the misfortune of knowing. It makes him feel sick. Like he’s lying to Uncle Owen by sitting in front of him and pretending nothing is wrong. That he should shove his hands in Owen's face, demand that he look at the filth there and beg him to help Luke clean it off.
He doesn’t. Partially because he’s not sure Owen will say yes, and partially because Luke’s not even sure he deserves the help.
Instead, Luke will join them quietly. His body will bend to fit into whatever chair or bench has been reserved for him and he will plaster on a smile and play his role of dutiful nephew. He lets himself fall into it, whining and complaining and laughing about whatever has been going on around the homestead that week. He will hide away the vast, empty thing that has scooped out his insides and left nothing but an aching, hungry pit. He buries it inside his chest. Not too deep that it won’t be able to claw its way out later, he’s not strong enough for that, but deep enough to make it through their meal.
If his hands shake as he picks up his fork, it’s only Aunt Beru that notices.
The grit remains.
–
“Luke,” Uncle Owen says, leaning against the archway that leads into his room. “I need you to go into Anchorhead for me.”
Luke keeps his face buried in the guts of the pit droid he’s working on, shoulders hunched up to his ears. There’s a busted coolant valve in its chest cavity, nothing too serious, but the spillover has left the rest of the droids’ insides coated in a thick, viscous blue film. Luke can feel it drying on his skin as he works his way through the wires and tubing within the droid, watching as the staining on his hands shifts into a darker blue hue as it settles.
“Luke,” Owen says again. “Are you listening to me?”
“Anchorhead, yeah. I got it,” Luke nods, glancing up at his uncle with a smile for a quick moment before returning to his task. He winds his fingers tight around the bit of trouble tubing causing the valve leak and yanks on it.
“I’ve already called the general store and asked them to set aside what we need, so all you have to do is go and get it, okay?” Owen tells him, sounding equal parts tired and resigned.
Luke yanks on the tube again and a bubbling glop of backed-up coolant oozes out over his hands. His nose wrinkles at the smell that comes with it, a mix of burning rubber and sulphur wafting up into his face. From his spot in the archway, Uncle Owen sighs.
“Luke.”
“General store,” he repeats, trying not to let the annoyance that is growing like a supernova in his chest seep into his voice. He holds up the length of old, cracked tubing, waggling it around as he looks up into Owen's tired eyes. “Might need to make a stop off at Tosche Station, too.”
Owen shakes his head. “Not enough credits this month for that, Luke. Until those parts for the vaporator come in, we’re on a tight budget.”
Luke’s stomach sours. He knew that. He’s the one who noticed the power inputs were too low. That the cisterns weren’t as full as they should have been. He doesn’t know how he forgot.
He looks down at the cracked-open husk of the droid in front of him, muck pooling in its chest. It’s going to collect dust now, shoved aside and left in the corner of his room without the proper part to make it whole. Part of him wants to scrap the thing, but Luke knows he’ll keep it. He’s the one who has condemned it to this state, after all. It’s a good droid. Worth fixing.
The coolant drying on his fingers burns, tingling bites of pain that trail up his arms like hot sparks from a dying fire.
“Right,” he says with a nod. “Sorry.”
He hears Uncle Owen shift, shuffling into his room. There’s a soft clatter, things on his desk being moved about, and then a bundle of rags hits him in the center of his chest.
“Clean your hands,” Owen orders. “Credits are on the kitchen table. If you think you’re going to be late, ask Shull if you can park behind his place and sleep in the speeder there. I don’t want anyone stripping it for parts.”
Luke nods again, biting his tongue. He wants to say that no one in their right mind would waste the time trying to filch anything off their hunk of junk they call a landspeeder, but he doesn’t. He wants to say too that he hasn’t been able to curl up comfortably in the backseat of the speeder since he was thirteen and hit his first big growth spurt, but he doesn’t think Owen would care much to hear that either.
There is an appeal to it, though. Because, while the thought of sleeping behind Shull’s isn’t what he’d call desirable, spending the night outside of the homestead is. Luke could do with a night under the stars. A night away. Even if it is at the expense of his back. He likes that idea.
Dragging the rag over his hands, Luke trails out of his room after his uncle. He doesn’t look back at the droid that’s still carved open on his workbench and tries to ignore the thread of guilt that twists around his throat.
He’ll fix it when they have the credits. He will.
Luke digs the rag in along the skin of his thumbnail. Pushes until his skin is white and he can feel bone. The dried coolant isn’t coming off. He knows the best thing now would be to go outside and scrub his hands clean in the sand. He’s not going to waste water to wash them. Not on a mess he made for no good reason at all.
Still, Luke thinks he’d rather bite his fingers off than let any more of this planet get under his skin than it already has.
He watches the back of Uncle Owen's head as they walk. There’s a slight limp in his step, his joints worn and weak from decades of hard work in blistering heat. Luke can already feel it in himself, too. The weariness. The pain that lives between his shoulder blades like a pair of phantom wings, heavy and wax-burdened, melting under the twin Tatooine suns and doing their damned best to drag him down into an early grave with them.
Luke swallows.
“Hey, Uncle Owen? Where did you say those credits were again?”
–
The drive into Anchorhead is both far too short and far too long.
Tatooine doesn’t have much to offer when it comes to scenic views, not like in the holos he’s seen of Alderaan or Naboo, and he’s had the dunes that shepard the way between the homestead and Anchorhead memorized since he was four. But, Luke enjoys getting to drive. Likes how when he’s by himself he can push the old speeder to its limit and go faster than he’d ever dare to with his aunt or uncle in the passenger seat. Luke goes fast enough that he can shut his eyes and pretend for just a moment that he’s on a ship big and strong enough to carry him away from the sinkhole he’s stuck in. It’s an act of rebellious freedom and damning pain all at once, delaying the inevitable where he has to open his eyes and face the bland, itching reality before him.
Luke’s goggles are thick with dust by the time he pulls to a stop outside the general store and when he lifts them from his eyes, the world goes from a dark, hazy beige to a lighter, marginally less hazy beige. The stinging of his wind-chafed cheeks tells him he probably went too fast this time around, and that the strange looks he’s bound to get won't be because he’s the strange Lars’ weird nephew, but because his hair looks more like he’s been hit by a speeder than riding in one.
He doesn’t mind. It’s nice to change things up.
He absently brings his hand to his lips and lets the nail of his ring finger glide against the pointed edge of his lower canine. Granules of dislodged sand grind roughly against his enamel, rolling around on his tongue. He chokes down the urge to shove another two, three, four of his fingers in his mouth. Clean them of the dirt gathered under his skin. He hastily drops his hand, letting it fall into his lap and leans over the side of the speeder to spit out the sand in his mouth.
A glance at his surroundings tells him that no one saw the little show he just put on, and some of the rising anxiety that had been building in Luke’s gut dissipates. He takes a deep breath, chucking his goggles haphazardly into the backseat and boosting himself up and out of the speeder. His legs feel a bit weak when he hits the ground, wobbling slightly, but he walks it off, smoothing out the front of his poncho and combing a hand through his hair.
Sand shifts under his boots as he treks into the general store and pushes back the cloth sheet that acts as the shop door, stepping into the blessedly cool space. A sigh falls from Luke’s lips as he looks around.
There’s only one other patron inside the store, a tall man with his back to the door, rummaging through one of the various oversized and overstuffed bins of products that take up most of the store. Luke doesn’t recognize him, but that’s not too unusual considering the number of people that come and go through Anchorhead on the transport shuttles. What is unusual, however, is the large, red hexagonal patch stitched into the back of his coat. The coat by itself would be odd enough, it’s thick and heavy-looking, the material out of place amid the sweltering Tatooine heat. But, Luke’s eyes lock onto the thin lines of silver that crisscross through the red of the patch. Something about them sets off alarm bells in the back of Luke’s mind. Like he’s seen them before, but can’t recall where. They almost remind him of a map, or what he thinks the gridlines of a planet would look like from above.
It’s then that the man moves, maybe feeling Luke’s curious stare carving into his back, and looks back over his shoulder. Luke averts his gaze quickly, shuffling further into the store, face heating with mottled embarrassment.
“Heya, Luke,” says the store clerk, drawing his attention. She’s a short woman, one he’s seen nearly every month since he was a boy, yet he still doesn’t know her name. She smiles at him, familiar and kind and Luke smiles back.
“Hi,” he says. “Uncle Owen told me he already called in our order?”
The woman hums, reaching under the counter and pulling out a neat, brown package. “Two fridge belts, a GX-8 sensor chip and one pack of new solar panel wipes.”
Luke presses his lips together, the stranger already forgotten as he tries to do some quick math in his head. “How many credits for all of that?”
“Two gold and six silver,” the woman says, resting a hand on her hip and levelling him with a rather unimpressed look. “Why?”
Luke’s hand drifts to the small leather pouch on his side where the credits Uncle Owen left out for him sit. Two gold and six silver exactly.
“How much for just one fridge belt?”
The woman blows out a breath, scratching the back of her head. “I’d probably be able to knock off a gold and a silver each. What, your uncle change his mind or something?”
“Or something,” Luke mutters.
The one gold would be enough to get him the tubing he needs for his droid and more. Maybe even enough to get something that Luke can use to help whip their vaporators into a semi-working state until the replacement pieces they need arrive. The silver could buy him a room at The Weary Traveller for a night, save him the pain of having to bug Shull and camp in the back of the speeder. He can always go out and look at the stars another night.
All of it, a traitorous part of his mind thinks, could buy a ticket off this planet. Get him far away from here and into the academy.
His hand tightens around the credit pouch and despite the neverending heat, the sweat that breaks out on the back of Luke’s neck feels cold and nauseous.
Shakily, Luke hands all two gold and six silver over to the clerk.
The fevered emptiness inside of him howls as she counts the credits out on the counter. Rattling at his ribs like the bars of a cage and crying like a child lost in the Jundland Wastes. Luke closes his eyes, feeling his jaw click with how tightly he’s been holding it. His mouth pulses with a bruising throb. He hadn’t noticed how his teeth had been clenched together. His jaw feels wired shut. Impossible to move. Maybe it’s for the best - this way he can’t say anything stupid, like ask for the credits back. He sways a little as the store's battered air conditioning unit turns its fan on him, blasting him with cold air and giving him an excuse to shiver.
“Here you go!” the clerk says, chipper and grinning, holding out the bundle of parts that could have been his ticket off-world. Luke takes it, hands crinkling the pristine paper. “Say hello to Owen for me.”
“Will do,” Luke nods, voice strained. He doesn’t bother trying to smile back at her again, knowing that any attempt he makes will be more awkward and unsettling than kind.
The arid warmth outside is almost a comfort as Luke hauls ass out of the general store, away from the nameless woman and mysterious, jacketed man and the temptation of what he wants facing down the obligation of what he needs to do. It makes his gut twist. Luke has never been good at battling this side of himself. The selfish, needy part of him that screams for more. The part of him that debates taking his uncle's credits and running away. He’s always pushed the boundaries of it, vocal in his disdain and discontent. But it’s never been like this before. Festering so close to the surface, making him feel volatile and boundless. Waking up with him each morning and going to bed with him each night. Simmering there, like a forgotten pot, waiting to boil over and burn whatever unlucky soul decides to mop it up.
He chucks the package into the backseat of the speeder, watching it bounce and come to rest next to his goggles before crawling back in behind the wheel. It’s the high part of the afternoon, where the two suns are close enough together in the sky that they might as well be one, and the seat of the speeder burns against his back as he settles in. He presses into it, biting back a wince as his body adjusts to the overheated leather, and tilts his head upwards, taking a deep inhale.
Luke lets the sun's heat and rays wash over him, heady and habitual and he opens his mouth as if the daylight will slip past his lips and cleanse away the grit inside of him. Set fire to the dark hollow in him, destroy all the sand and dirt he’s devoured from his nailbeds and fill it with something brighter and easier for him to carry.
Nothing happens.
He didn’t expect anything to, but hope is a fickle thing like that. Lingering even when it feels pointless to have any at all. Sometimes Luke thinks that hope is just as much stuck under his fingers as the grit is, impossible to remove completely. Saccharine in the way it clings to the tips of his fingers and gets lodged in the fatty parts of his heart when he scrapes it down his throat.
Letting his breath out through his nose, Luke blinks his eyes open. They waver under the harsh brightness of the sun, so he takes a minute longer to sit.
Out of the corner of his eye, the movement of the cloth to the general store getting pushed aside disrupts the stillness of Anchorheads sleepy streets. Luke keeps his head forward, focusing ahead on where his hands grip the steering wheel, but he can see the shape of the stranger from inside move towards him.
Something ragged catches in Luke’s next breath. It hovers right in the center of his chest, delving into the soft parts of his sternum as unsolicited visions fill his head - as prickling thoughts of the man walking up to Luke’s side of the speeder and jabbing a finger at him. Calling Luke out for staring at him in the store, reaching over to grab the collar of Luke’s shirt and pulling him out of the speeder. The bite of iron and salt goading him into a fight. Letting the pot boil over.
A flush climbs up the back of Luke’s neck and the skin of his knuckles goes white. His eyes can’t seem to choose a place to rest, bouncing from the abandoned quarkdriver in the well of the passenger seat to the brown-paper bundle in the back. Anywhere but on the man coming up beside his speeder. Luke wonders if he has time to turn over the engine and get out of here - if maybe he should have done that in the first place instead of sitting here wallowing in the grief of his being. He wonders if the thrum under his skin is anticipation or dread. If the itch of his hands, the aching need to curl them into fists and let his nails kiss his palms is a normal reaction to have to a stranger walking by.
He wonders how far removed from normal he has to be to even have to consider that in the first place.
His mind is so stuck on that thought that Luke nearly misses it when the man walks harmlessly past the passenger side of the speeder. He looks over briefly, his eyes meeting Luke’s for no longer than a moment, just long enough for Luke to see the scar trailing down his cheek, and then he’s gone.
Just like that.
Luke drops his head, digging his hands into his eyes and pushing until spots show up. The ragged, shaky, angry thing in his chest breaks free, leaving Luke’s body in the form of a hiccuping, retch of a gasp.
It takes him a long time to feel well enough to move.
–
Shull lets him park out back for the night.
The old water vendor claps a hand down on his shoulder, jostling Luke around as he says something about having Owen and Beru over for dinner sometime soon.
Luke thinks he smiles. Thinks he says thank you and politely declines a glass of milk. He thinks he goes through the motions before bringing the speeder around to the quiet patch of dirt that makes up Shull’s backyard. There are houses on either side, but if Luke turns his head to look behind him, there’s nothing but stretching wastes of desert.
He stares out at it, lying contorted in the back of the speeder, eyes going dry as he tracks the line where the sky meets the sand, the speckling of stars disappearing behind dips and knolls. His fingers drift to his lips and Luke runs the pads of his fingers over the flats of his teeth, feeling the bumps and grooves as he goes. The sudden weight of the longing and desperation that hits him at that moment is enough to make him shove his hand back as far as he dares. His nails scratch against his molars and crooked wisdom teeth, the noise they make echoing in the cave of his mouth. Luke imagines the sound carrying all the way over to the dunes. The cracking thunder of his teeth sifting through the sand, finding its way into Beggar’s Canyon, cutting through the sandstone until a new gulch is made in the image of his mouth. A part of himself left here by his choosing. His hands.
Luke pulls his fingers back with a cough, his stomach roiling - tight with hunger and loss and shame, all so thick he can hardly breathe, mixing with the keening heartache that enshrouds his body. He swipes them on his shirt and then tugs the fabric up to scrub at his tongue, grimacing, and moves his face away from the skyline and pointing his nose up towards the night sky proper.
The stars wink at him as if to rub salt into an already bleeding wound, daring him to try and reach up and take. To scoop the stars into his hands and sip from them in a way he knows he’ll never get to. Not here. Not when his hands, as always, feel filthier than before. Marred with sand and the marked hills of his dentition, everything he hates about his life and himself settled in the whorls.
Sinking low into his seat, Luke tosses his legs over the side of the speeder to give himself some space, telling himself that it’s cozy to sleep this way rather than cramped and turns his face into the worn leather. It smells the same as it did when he was a child and he would sneakily climb in so he could nap while Uncle Owen worked.
His hands twist into his shirt, and Luke ignores the wetness that spills from the corners of his eyes. He tells himself it's just sweat and lets the hazy warm exhale of the night wick any evidence of it away.
–
Luke has never been one to drink.
By all accounts, he’s the perfect candidate; a farmboy growing up in a small town, with nothing to do for miles around other than work or shoot at womp rats with a scrapped-together blaster. His life is practically begging him to go out and destroy his liver. But on the odd occasion that he lets himself be dragged to one of Anchorheads two taverns, be it by Biggs or one of his other old schoolmates, Luke nurses the same drink for the entire night - raising his glass in measured intervals and watching as those around him become increasingly blush-pink and giddy and loose.
Happy.
He doesn’t mind. He’s fine to laugh and keep the good times rolling. He’s good at faking smiles. Things only get awkward when he has to push away a free round, refuse the offer of more and watch his friend's eyes turn from carefree to scrutinizing.
Biggs had told him once that he thought Luke was afraid of losing control.
Luke thinks he may be right.
He thinks it may have to do with the fuzzy, dying ember feeling of the alcohol as it sits on his tongue. Warming his mouth and making him feel flush. Coalescing with the grit stuck to his teeth, coating his lips and tongue and washing it all away. How for a moment, even if his hands aren’t, his mouth is clean and the air passing through to his lungs is not yet made foul by his fears.
It is addicting and Luke knows that if he lets himself, he would lose all his control to it. Maybe not in the way Biggs meant when he laughed his hypothesis into Luke’s ear, buzzed and hot and free of the slow-burning fire in Luke’s chest, but it would be a loss of control all the same. He would dive into the swirling promise of the drink and never rise to the surface. He would do it freely. Easily. Like slipping into a well-worn coat or falling into the arms of an old friend.
It scares him.
So one drink it is. Sparse and saved only for special events. Savoured and clung to until he has to do his unofficial duty as the only one sober and usher home his crowing, jelly-limbed friends - at ease in a way Luke only dreams of being.
One drink.
He’s never felt clean with less.
–
He can’t recall how he ended up here; hunched over the bartop of one of Anchorheads two taverns. It’s the slightly nicer one, at least. Not the one where Biggs had almost got stabbed with a vibroblade the last time they’d all gone out. He just knows that he’d been sitting in the speeder, having said his goodbyes to Shull and ready to head home, when he blinked and suddenly he was outside the bar.
Luke scratches at the counter in front of him. It’s chipping a little and made of old wood, not something you see too often on Tattooine, not with how brittle the heat makes everything, but the tavern seems to have it coated with some kind of smooth and glossy lacquer. It reminds Luke of the feeling of oil under his fingertips and he presses a pointed chip of the lacquer into the flesh of his thumb.
“What’re you having?”
The gruff voice of the man behind the bar draws Luke’s gaze up. His eyes are set in a narrow glare and Luke quickly jerks his hands back from the counter, hiding them in his lap. His thumb burns.
“Junipera,” he requests, throat dry. “Please.”
The bartender raises an eyebrow and Luke knows that, despite his put-upon annoyance, this man knows who he is. Recognizes him well enough to know that Luke’s drink of choice is usually something softer.
“Please,” Luke repeats.
He sees the moment when the man decides not to care - the flicker in his eyes that says that whatever heartbreak or drama Luke is trying to drink away is not his problem. Luke is thankful for it. The last thing he needs is a chatty bartender trying to get him to spill his soul or whatever they do on those holo-dramas Aunt Beru watches sometimes. Luke thinks that if he even tried to verbalize any of the feelings inside him right now, he’d just wind up screaming.
The drink set in front of him is rich and red like blood. Something shimmery floats inside it, lazily circling his glass. It’s pretentious, sticking out in the way imports from Chandrila often do, but Luke can’t bring himself to care when the bitter, cloying scent of it hits him. It scratches at the back of Luke’s brain, stinging his nose, dark and thick and tinged with the distinct bite that liquor carries and he knows that when he drinks it the taste will overpower anything else on his tongue.
“That’ll be two gold,” the bartender says.
Luke wraps a hand around the glass, pulling it towards his chest. “Put it on my tab?”
Luke doesn’t have a tab. Both he and the bartender know it, but the man mercifully doesn’t press, simply grunts and moves to wipe at a spot further down on the bar. Besides, Luke's good for it. It's not like he's going anywhere.
A relieved sigh falls from somewhere in Luke’s chest. His temples throb, the meals he missed yesterday and lack of water beginning to catch up to him in the form of a migraine and he raises his glass to his lips.
That’s when Luke sees him.
The bar is nearly empty, too early in the day for the big crowds, but Luke thinks that even then he would have spotted this man immediately. His armour is rough and worn, dark paint flaking off the breastplate to reveal shining silver underneath. A leather bandolier is strapped across his broad chest, filled with more flavours of ammo than Luke has ever seen before. Gloved hands rest on the bartop, too casual to not be deliberate - ready to move and strike at a moment's notice. He sits near motionless, save for the slight tilt of his head as he tracks the bartender, the helmet covering his face sleek and polished and chrome. A predator in a bar full of prey.
A Mandalorian.
Luke feels himself waver, drink sloshing in his glass as he holds it to unsteady lips. The liquor licks at the seam of his mouth, but Luke just lets it sit there.
He’s never seen a Mandalorian before. He’s heard tales about them. Warriors from a planet that was levelled into glass during the war. How, despite everything, they’re still some of the most fearsome fighters in the galaxy - taking on jobs as bounty hunters and fire-tamers and the like.
The man across the bar from him looks like all of that and more. There’s something about the hard line of his shoulders, pointed towards the only entrance in the bar, while his back is firmly to the wall. Tense and waiting.
Luke swallows hard, letting his lips part and the burn of the junipera he ordered warm him from the inside out. He sucks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, clenching his teeth and biting back a cough at the burn. It blossoms throughout his chest, pooling in the dips of his collarbones and tracing down toward his navel, hooking there and tugging. He takes another greedy sip, unable to pry his eyes off the armoured figure across from him.
The Mandalorian shifts, his helmet moving only by a hair’s breadth, but Luke is suddenly sure that the armoured man is looking back at him.
His face feels flush, but Luke isn’t going to attribute it to anything other than the alcohol. He tips his head back, letting the last of his drink slide down the back of his throat. His head spins a little, but as he sets his glass back down, Luke feels the refreshing emptiness of his mouth. Aseptic and void of any crunching sand or dirt in the crevices of his molars. Free from the dust that layers itself onto the inner skin of his cheeks.
He feels a weight lift somewhere deep inside him, enough to bolster him to stand, and just like with his arrival at the bar to begin with, Luke can’t name what it is that pushes him to round the weird, wooden curve of the bar. Can’t name any feeling other than drifting thoughts of want and touch as his eyes rake over the Mandalorian and his battered armour. He’s not drunk, not that much of a lightweight that his one hastily downed drink could do him in, but he is warm and full of rising liquid courage. Maybe he’s still a little shaken from what happened outside the general store yesterday too, lungs rattling with the leftover dredges of his anger and wanting to replace it with something else. Or maybe it’s the lonely hollow from last night, the emptiness that still inhabits the space where his guts should be, echoing out through Beggars Canyon like a ghost. Maybe it’s just his attraction to strong, capable-looking men. In any case, combined with the full, freshness of his mouth and a penchant for shiny things, there’s something in Luke that has him closing the distance between himself and the Mandalorian rapidly.
There’s no reaction from the Mandalorian as Luke walks up to his side of the bar. No reaction when he takes the seat beside him, either. Luke’s heart is doing cartwheels in his chest, pulse in his throat as he tries to lean back in his seat as casually as possible. He lets his eyes drift over the man next to him, taking in what he couldn’t see before in the hazy lights of the bar.
Up close, Luke can see the scratches on his pauldrons. The thick, welded patches on his bracers speak of years of steady use and repair. He can see the thin layer of dirt on the man this close, too. The wear that comes from constant travel on unforgiving planets. It makes some base, animal part of himself want to lean in and shove his face into the crook of the man's elbow where it rests on the bartop. Breathe in and mix it with the junipera that still coats the back of his throat. He wants it so badly that Luke feels himself leaning forward unconsciously, any attempt of playing it cool lost to the smothering Tatooine heat that lives within him and rends Luke from any higher thought.
“Hi,” he says gracelessly, finding that he’s unperturbed by the lack of acknowledgment he’s gotten from the Mandalorian so far. It’s a risky game he’s playing here, Luke knows it, knows these parts aren’t always kind to those who share his brand of affection, but he finds he doesn’t care. There’s a scattering, electric feeling that dances across his skin and through his bones that tells him it will be alright.
The Mandalorian says nothing, but Luke sees one of his fingers tap against the bar.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” Luke continues, aware he sounds like a flitting, mindless flirt. He’s not that much of a lightweight to be blitzed from his one allotted drink, but perhaps he could have paced himself better. His head feels a little floaty, weightless from the slam of hard liquor hitting his system, but he knows that it fades fast and that he better make the best of his buzz while it lasts. “What brings you to town?”
“Work.”
Raspy and modulated, Luke has to bite back a shiver at the sound of the Mandalorian voice. It’s a single word but more than Luke’s gotten so far. It sounds like water crashing into rocks, cold and unforgiving and beautiful all at once. Something that Luke has only ever heard in holos and never thought he’d experience in real life.
“All business, huh?” Luke’s leaning so far forward now that his elbows are resting on his knees, an awkward position when sitting at a bar, but it puts him just in line with the gap in the Mandalorian’s armour between his shoulder plate and wrist gear. He can look up at his helmet more clearly at this angle too, and see the front of it fully rather than just the side. “No pleasure?”
The question falls from his lips unbidden and Luke only has a moment where he feels his eyes widen, brain finally catching up to his bubbling mouth, before the Mandalorian is moving. He turns on his seat to face Luke head-on, and Luke has to lurch back so his face won't be buried in the man's stomach, snapping his head up so fast he thinks he may throw up. He sways as a firm, gloved hand reaches out to steady him, wrapping around Luke’s bicep.
“Are you even old enough to be in here, kid?” the Mandalorian asks, a hint of irritation in his voice.
Something hot spikes in Luke’s blood.
“If you haven’t noticed, this isn’t the kind of place that checks cards,” Luke says, sweeping his arms out wide. “But, yes, to answer your question. I am.”
The Mandalorian hums and Luke tries to ignore the way he can feel it run down his spine. His hand is still wrapped around Luke’s bicep, tightening slightly before relaxing, burning a hole through Luke’s shirt. Luke doesn’t let himself entertain the hopeful notions in the back of his mind on why he hasn’t let go, but an overwhelming part of him relishes in the decision he’d made to shuck off his poncho before coming into the bar.
“What kind of work do you do?” Luke asks, a strange breathiness to his voice that he tries to swallow down.
“I hunt,” the Mandalorian answers, something dangerous seeping into his voice. Prideful. The brusque exasperation that had laced his tone previously wilting away as he tilts his head to the other side, studying Luke.
“Animals?”
“People.”
The sharp breath that Luke sucks in only feeds the fire that’s building in his gut. It’s no surprise to him that this man is a bounty hunter. It fits with the scuffed armour and tactical gear and everything else about him that has Luke’s mouth watering. But there’s something about the way the Mandalorian says it, so sure and to the point. People. Luke can still feel those eyes on him, drinking him in. It makes Luke think he’s just talking about more than just a bounty. That the designation of ‘people’ might just include him.
Luke can feel the blotchy red of his blush inch down his neck, warming his chest. He wonders if the Mandalorian notices. He tries to lean back a bit more, suddenly self-conscious of the heat colouring his face, but the Mandalorian’s hand on his arm stops him.
“Are you hunting anyone right now?” Luke asks, feeling bold and aided by the buzzing feeling of the junipera leftover in his mouth.
The Mandalorian huffs and for one, horrible moment Luke thinks that he’s messed up by asking, because the other man’s hand falls away from his arm, leaving a brand on Luke’s bicep that stings with loss. But he doesn’t get up like Luke fears he’s going to. Instead, the hand that had been keeping Luke upright reaches down, digging through an ammo bag holstered to the Mandalorian's thick, neck-breaking thighs and pulls out a small, circular object. The Mandalorian sets it on the bartop, taps the top of it once, and then sits back as a flickering blue holo of a man appears before Luke’s eyes.
“Oh!” Luke exclaims, watching as the holo-image rotates lazily. “I’ve never seen a bounty puck in person before! It’s connected to your Guild’s database, right? And that’s how you can get the image and information to display itself out here without having to link up to Empire servers?”
Looking back over at the Mandalorian, Luke smiles when he sees how the other man has frozen. One hand is still hovering next to the puck, like he was planning to take it back before Luke started talking, and the other is gripping the unarmoured spot on his knee tightly like he’s holding himself back from something. Luke imagines putting his own hand there, feeling the heat of the Mandalorian's skin through the rough fabric.
“Yeah,” the Mandalorian rasps. “That’s exactly how it works.”
“Wizard,” Luke hums, pleased that it feels like he’s finally gotten a point on the board in whatever back-and-forth game is going on between the two of them. Glancing back over at the holo, it spins around again and as it does a familiar criss-cross pattern on the tiny image's back catches his eye. “Hey, I know that guy!”
“What?” The Mandalorian asks, sharp and crackling like a bolt of electricity.
The languid, coquettish thing that had been building between them snaps, scattering its heat all over the floor like broken glass, and Luke feels like the chair he’s sitting on has been pulled out from under him. Suddenly, the warmth of the air is stifling, thick with bar smoke and the chatter of too many mundane and well-known faces. The shot of junipera sits uneasily in his stomach.
“I mean, I recognize him,” Luke stumbles over himself to explain, tongue feeling dumb. He can’t decide if he should look at the holo or at the Mandalorian, whose intense, helmeted stare does not feel as good as it did a minute ago. “He was at the general store yesterday. That jacket is pretty unique. The scar too.”
“Did you talk to him?”
Luke shakes his head. Tries to ignore the memory biting at the back of his mind, the flash of anger and the taste of dirt that has begun creeping along his tongue again.
“Did you see where he went?” the Mandalorian presses.
“No,” Luke chokes out, wishing he had another drink. “It was only for a minute. I think he bought something though.”
The Mandalorian curses under his breath and pushes back from his seat. He sticks his hand into his ammo pouch again and drags out a handful of credits, slapping them down on the bartop and grabbing the bounty puck in one swift movement.
“Wait,” Luke says, panic seizing at his chest as he twists around on the barstool, but the Mandalorian is already striding towards the exit. His heart beats wildly, desperate and needy and he can’t explain it, but it only takes Luke a split-second to decide to hop off his stool and jog to catch up. “Wait!”
He doesn’t look back. He can hear the bartender mumbling something, but Luke’s feet carry him on a one-track path toward the door that the Mandalorian just left through. The few seconds of hesitation that it took before he decided to follow were enough to give the Mandalorian a decent head start, and Luke is sure that he looks like a state when he steps outside; flushed and wide-eyed and damn near tripping over himself as he whips his head around in search of the armoured man.
The midday fever makes him wince, a shock from the dim lights of the bar, and he brings a hand up to shield them. Warbling lines of heat vapours dance along the ground like waterless waves, the relentless suns battering the already barren sands. Luke’s eyes skim across them, searching for a glint of beskar among the colourless landscape.
Dismay builds in his chest as Luke looks up and down the street. Aside from a few puttering speeders and a small family out for a stroll with their droid, the road is empty. Something like rejection nips at his heart and Luke bites down on the inside of his cheek, the blooming pain of it enough to distract him from the itch behind his eyes.
Luke knows he’s being stupid. He does. A stranger he met in a bar and exchanged a handful of words with is nothing to be upset over, just because he imagined a spark or whatever else his lonely mind conjured up at the moment. He’s better than this. Has dealt with worse pain for longer. He should just go home. He’s already been gone too long and Owen and Beru had been expecting him back by morning. He can’t imagine they’ll be impressed to hear he was wasting his time drinking and embarrassing himself by getting his fragile ego stomped to bits by a bounty hunter.
Dragging his hand down his face, Luke sighs and is abruptly all too aware of how tired he is. His back aches from sleeping in the speeder and there’s the tell-tale squirm of hunger in the empty pit of his stomach.
Turning on his heel, Luke trudges over to the side of the bar where he’d parked his speeder, digging around in his pocket for his keys. His hair keeps falling into his eyes while he walks, head down as to keep the sun out of his face, and he’s thinking about how he’s going to have to ask Aunt Beru to cut it for him again soon when a hand shoots out from the shadows, grabs his arm, and yanks.
The breath is ripped from his lungs in a started gasp as Luke is pulled into the alleyway and shoved against the outside wall of the bar. His head smacks against the stone and he hisses as his vision spirals.
“Hey! What the fu- ” he starts to shout, but is stopped by a gloved hand clamping down over his mouth.
“Don’t you ever stop talking?” the Mandalorian’s husky voice floats through his ears.
That, Luke thinks deliriously, is an unfair assessment. It’s not his fault that the other man had spoken so little that it made Luke seem like a chatterbox by comparison. The junipera might have helped with that a little as well, but certainly not enough to warrant that much snip from a man who hardly knew anything about him. So, instead of dignifying the Mandalorian with a response, Luke leans back further into the wall and away from the glove, bringing his foot up into the newly created space to land a swift kick to the small unarmoured spot on his knee between his cuisse plates and greave gauntlets. It’s not exactly the kind of touching he’d been thinking about when he’d first taken notice of the vulnerable point in the Mandalorian's armour earlier, but he can’t deny the swell of satisfaction he feels when his foot makes contact with the other man’s kneecap.
The Mandalorian yelps, dropping his hand from Luke’s mouth and jumping back, favouring his uninjured leg. “Dank farrik,” he spits. “What the hell was that for?”
“What was that for?” Luke repeats, his voice pitching with an incredulous sort of hysteria as he watches the Mandalorian rub his knee. “You’re the one who grabbed me!”
“You asked me to wait!”
“So?” Luke scoffs, feeling faintly like he must be dreaming. Must have passed out at the bar and is breathing in whatever fumes that chipped lacquer was giving off because he has no idea what’s happening. “That wasn’t an invitation to snatch me off the street!”
The Mandalorian pauses and the tension around them bleeds away, the last bite of Luke’s turning as stale as the heat around them as they take a moment to look at each other. Sunlight hits the Mandalorian’s armour, bouncing off the beskar and casting a glowing halo around him. Luke hates how he looks even better out here than in the bar.
“You don’t have any more information about the Carpo syndicate, do you?” the Mandalorian sighs, his shoulders slumping.
Luke shakes his head, not so clueless that he can’t put context clues together. This is about the bounty puck. “I have no idea what that is. Honest.”
“Then why did you ask me to wait?”
“I don’t know,” there’s a lump in Luke’s throat, but the words tumble out anyway, too honest and too real and Luke wishes he could take them back. Keep them on his tongue with the rest of the dirt and debris and let them be one more thing to choke on, but he doesn’t. Can’t. Not when the Mandalorian takes a step back into his space. “I just didn’t want you to go.”
He can hear the Mandalorian breathing, heavy behind his helmet, and each soft inhale fills Luke’s chest with a new breath of his own. The other man takes another step closer and it strikes Luke right then - flattened against the outside wall of Anchorheads least dingy bar, in the middle of the day, face-to-face with a Mandalorian he doesn’t even know the name of - that he’s not scared. Not even a bit. He should be, he thinks. This man just grabbed him and rang his bell against the wall hard enough that Luke’s head was still swimming a little, after all. But there’s only that shimmering, taut line of want that feeds from his gut to his heart to his brain, colliding together to form a path that keeps dragging his eyes back to the man in front of him.
“Why?” the Mandalorian asks, gravelly.
Maybe not entirely about the bounty puck, then.
“I don’t know,” Luke says again, unsure of how he can explain that it feels like there's a force pulling them together without sounding like he’s lost his mind.
“What’s your name?”
“Luke.”
“Come with me,” the Mandalorian says, less a question and more a plea. His hand reaches out, wrapping around Luke’s wrist, fingers resting on his pulse. It’s light enough that he could pull away and break free if he wanted to, but against all better judgment, Luke takes a step forward.
“Okay,” he nods.
That’s all it takes, the word is barely past his lips before the Mandalorian is pulling him along, leading Luke down deeper into the alleyway, past his parked speeder and into the twisting backroads of Anchorhead. Luke lets him, content with the strange sensation in his chest that whispers promises that he won’t get hurt, that wherever the Mandalorian is taking him is someplace safe, and that he’s not doing something reckless and stupid.
He keeps his eyes on the Mandalorian’s back, keeping step a few paces behind as they walk so he can trace the line of his cape and the way it hugs his shoulders. He watches their hands, where the Mandalorian’s fingers ensnare his wrist. Luke flexes his hand just for the fun of it, observing with a slight thrill how the other man’s grip tightens in response, a gentle squeeze as if to promise they’ll be at their destination soon.
A promise of more, Luke hopes.
The prospect makes his stomach swoop.
He’s gone home with men from bars before; once or twice when no one needed a ride home and the desire and alcohol and lighting struck just right. It had always been enjoyable enough. He knew what they wanted and they knew what he did. This, however, isn’t picking up a stranger for a quick roll in the sheets. This is something nameless that has Luke’s head spinning in ways that have nothing to do with getting tossed against a wall. He doesn’t know what the Mandalorian wants. He has no idea how they went from his fumbling attempts at small talk to here. It’s exciting and new, yet there’s something familiar about it. Something right in the way the Mandalorian touches the fluttering, thin skin of his wrist, feeling the rapidness of Luke’s heart.
He looks down at their hands again. The Mandalorian is wearing his gloves, but Luke’s hands are as naked and flawed as ever. His gut turns, the swooping desire replaced with something sick. The grit under his nails is dark and the grooves of his knuckles are lined with sand. Scars from working on droids little his fingers, mixed with the pinprick marks from where he’s pressed too sharply against his teeth.
Luke shuts his eyes and takes a breath in through his nose, trying to steal back the feeling of how effortless everything was before he started thinking too hard. Steal back the warm-pink glow of want and the promise of more. A heavy, tired weight pushes at his chest, aching as he fights the urge to scream, wishing not for the first time that he could be anyone other than himself. Be normal. That, if just for a day, he could turn his mind off. Wash his hands of the feral dog running laps in his brain and find time to enjoy things without worry of ripping them to shreds. Staining them.
“Luke,” the Mandalorian’s voice interrupts his thoughts, and Luke can’t tell if he’s imagining the softness in his tone or not. What he’s not imagining, though, is the way that the other man’s thumb runs gently across the back of his hand, sending a shuddering caress of hope through Luke’s nervous system. “We’re here.”
Eyes lifting open, Luke takes in where they have stopped.
They’re in front of a ship. It’s a bulky thing. Pre-Empire, judging by the engines. Old. Luke’s never seen anything like it around Tatooine before, even when the esports get busy during the holidays.
“She’s beautiful,” Luke breathes. “Yours?”
The Mandalorian nods, letting go of Luke’s wrist to walk over to the hull of the ship and flip open a hatch Luke hadn’t even noticed. He pokes at a few buttons and with a hiss of hydraulic steam, a gangway starts to smoothly lower down.
Luke whistles, low and impressed, “Nice.”
He thinks that if he could see the Mandalorian’s face, the other man would be smiling. Instead, he just offers his hand out to Luke, the gangway touching down behind him.
“Want to come in?”
It feels a bit funny for him to be asking again now, but Luke thinks that it may mean a bit more than he first thought that the Mandalorian brought him here so easily. He smiles, ignoring the itch he has to clean his nails off, and reaches out to slot his hand into the Mandalorians. It’s different from just having the other man’s hand around his wrist. It’s better. Luke’s fingers lock between the Mandalorian’s, a bit uncomfortable because of his gloves, but more secure, too.
“Show me around?” he asks.
The Mandalorian nods again and Luke walks beside him this time as they go up the gangway. The inside of the ship is much like the outside, industrial, but with warm yellow lights that make the harsh lines and edges look almost inviting. It smells of recycled air, crisp and cooler than any of the shops or bars on Tattooine and Luke savours it in his lungs. They stop in the center of what Luke thinks must be the cargo bay.
“Wait here,” the Mandalorian says, untangling their fingers as he turns and begins to climb up a ladder that’s mounted into the wall.
“Wait,” Luke blurts before he can stop himself, grateful when the Mandalorian stops, only a few rungs up, and turns to look back at him. “What’s your name?”
It’s a question he really should have asked before, but in the face of everything else going on it hadn’t seemed important until now. He only feels a bit bad for not having asked when the Mandalorian had asked for his earlier.
“Din,” the other man says, a hint of a smirk in his voice that makes Luke grow hot under his collar. Like he knows exactly what Luke was thinking. “My name is Din.”
“Nice to meet you, Din.”
A laugh falls from under the helmet, quiet and the best thing Luke has ever heard, and Din turns back around, continuing his climb up the ladder. Luke stares at where the other man had been for a moment. Anticipation is caught in his throat, moving his lips as he mouths Din’s name to himself over and over again. Something stirs in him, real and eager and Luke has half a mind to follow up the ladder and see what’s taking so long. He doesn’t even think it’s been a minute, but it’s still too long. Too long after all he’s felt has been sun and grit and sand. Too long when Din is everything that has ever made Luke go wild; competent, strong and free.
Everything Luke’s not.
Before he can move, race up the rungs of the ladder and make a madman of himself, Din is there. Climbing back down with something dark clutched tightly in one hand.
“What’s that?” he asks.
Din rocks on his feet, seeming to hesitate for a moment before he walks back over to Luke. He opens his palm, the dark bundle revealing itself to be a long strip of cloth.
“If we do this,” Din starts, thumb running over the cloth much like he’d done when holding Luke’s hand. “You can’t see my face. So, either the helmet stays on, or…”
He trails off but Luke can hear the rest of the sentence clear as day. Eithet the helmet stays on, or you cover your eyes. Luke considers it. Looks down at the cloth in Din’s hand and sees the makeshift blindfold it is. He pictures it on his face. Over his eyes. He considers the unquestioning trust Din is asking him to give.
Slowly, Luke reaches out and lets his hands float above the fabric before plucking it from Din’s hands. He hears the other man gasp, stuttered and short, as he folds the cloth over itself until it will fit over his eyes easily. The material is soft and worn and he brings it up to his face, burying his nose in it first, breathing in deeply. The scent that clings to it is spicy and rich, but clean. It fills Luke’s senses and washes over him just like that first sip of junipera, clotting his head up with a fuzzy sort of feeling he wishes he could float around in forever.
“Luke,” Din whispers, heated and low and stoking the fire in Luke’s belly. It makes him dizzy as he hums, dragging the cloth up his face so it rests against his eyes. There’s no indecision to speak of as he wraps the rest of it snugly around his head, just pure exhilaration as the yellow glow of the lights disappears.
He turns around, shuffling until his back is to Din, the ends of the blindfold in his hands. “Tie it for me?”
There’s a moment’s pause and Luke feels like his very soul is trapped on his tongue, waiting for Din to move. To put this final piece into place. There’s the sound of rustling, of two quick thuds as something is dropped on the floor, and then there are hands sliding over his. Calloused fingers trace along the bumps of Luke’s knuckles, leaving trails of heat as they nimbly take the ends of the cloth from Luke’s hands and work them together into a knot. Luke feels Din give the blindfold an experimental tug, making sure it’s secure before his hands ghost downwards, dipping to brush along his neck.
“Okay?” Din asks into his ear, his body stepping in closer, nearly pressing along Luke’s back.
Luke nods, keeping his mouth shut. He doesn’t trust that a moan won't be the only thing to come out if he opens it.
“If it gets too much and you need to take it off just tell me, okay?” Din says, moving back a bit. Luke tries to follow, stepping back and trying to chase the heat of the other man, but is stopped by Din’s arms on his elbows. “Tell me and we’ll stop, okay Luke?”
“Okay,” Luke agrees, feeling more confident than he thought he would. There’s something to it, not being able to see, that hides away the fetid thoughts that linger in the back of his mind and the corners of his vision. There’s just Din and the presence of him at Luke’s back. Stalwart and hot even as his hands drift away.
There’s a sharp click and a low hiss as something else is removed and set aside with much more care than the dropped gloves. Luke’s breath catches, toes curling in his boots. There’s an inhale from behind him, unmuffled and loud like someone took a blaster and shot it right next to his head.
Din’s taken his helmet off.
Luke doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know if he should try and make the first move, turn and try to feel around until he finds Din’s face. He wants to touch it. Feel the lines of it and draw out a picture in his head. He knows that Din will be nothing but beautiful.
There’s a touch at his waist, exploratory and uncertain, as Din pulls him backwards. Luke goes with it, falling back until his back is pressed along the armoured plates of Dins' chest. It’s an odd sensation, the metal is cool despite their time spent outside and it sends shivers down Luke’s spine, eating through the thin linen fabric of his shirt. The contrast sparks something in him, hot and cold flashes stirring pleasantly in his gut and Luke sighs, finally giving in to the heat that has been toiling away within him since he first set eyes on Din across the bar.
Din hums, deep and honeyed, and the warm puff of breath against Luke’s neck is the only warning he gets before there’s the tell-tale feeling of lips upon his skin. A shaky, startled noise bursts past Luke’s lips, trailing off into a moan as Din presses hot, open-mouthed kisses along his throat, the grip on his waist tightening. His knees threaten to give out when he feels the first rough scrape of a beard along his jaw, Din’s teeth dragging across his skin as he alternates between kisses and small bites, sucking on the skin to soothe it whenever Luke hisses. He tips his head to the side, giving Din better access to his neck, smiling at the breathy groan Din lets out in response. His lips press against the soft spot behind Luke’s ear, sweet and insistent as he leaves behind what’s sure to be an impressive hickey.
Luke sighs again, feeling sluggish and flushed as he reaches down to cover Din’s hands with his. He pries them from his waist, chuckling at the noise of dissent Din makes. “Din,” he says. “Wanna kiss you.”
The attack on his throat pauses long enough for Luke to take the opportunity to step out of Din’s arms, away from the press of his lips, and turn around. His hands are still holding Din’s and he lets that be his guide as he moves his hands up Din’s arms, feeling the bumps and dents in his vambraces and the curve of his pauldron. He only falters slightly when he reaches Din’s neck, but lets his fingers touch their fill there too. Din’s skin is warm and stubbly as he brings his hands up to cup the other man’s face and Luke feels something inside of him snap a little as he combs his fingers back through Din’s hair, because he’s dirty. Luke doesn’t need to see it to know. Din is dirty. He can feel the dirt on him. The sweat. The grit. But it’s not like the grit that clings to Luke. Din’s is different. He can feel it as he drags his fingers over Din’s face. Can feel it in the rasp of his beard. Hell, Luke can smell it on him. It’s the same richness that had covered the blindfold and imagines it coating his tongue, better than any drink or shot from the bar. Intoxicating and heavy and light all at the same time. It’s the kind of dirt that reminds you that you’re still alive. So unlike Luke’s own clinging, sandy grit that the need to taste it and compare is almost overwhelming. He needs to have it on his tongue and see if it tastes like he suspects it will; like space dust and travel and hard work and something wholly Din.
A rapturous, needy sound like he’s never heard before is ripped from Luke’s lips as he links his hands behind Din’s neck and hauls him in for a kiss, crashing their mouths together in a messy, uncoordinated kiss. Din’s hands scramble against his hips, his waist and his face, touching Luke all over like he doesn’t know or can’t decide where he wants to put them. He tips his mouth against Luke’s, nudging their noses together until Luke relents and he can steer them into something that is more than just a clash of teeth.
“Luke,” Din moans as he nips at his bottom lip, delighting in the shudder that moves through Din’s body. He presses forward, grinding his hips against Din’s, groaning when he feels the hard line of Din’s arousal rub against his.
Din’s hands finally settle on his face, cupping Luke’s jaw like he’s something precious as he slots one thick, armoured thigh between Luke’s legs. The mixture of cool armour and the burning heat of his skin once again makes Luke squirm, sending a spike of pleasure right through him as he gasps into their kiss, licking into Din’s mouth and sucking on the other man’s tongue just to hear him moan again.
Rolling his hips against Luke’s, Din sets a languid pace. Luke bucks against him as he pulls back from Luke’s lips to bite at his throat again, working his way down Luke’s neck until he’s sucking at the harsh jut of Luke’s collarbone. His hands stay cupping Luke’s face, keeping him in place as his thumb runs back and forth along his cheek, trying to comfort the frantic gasps and groans that are falling from his lips.
It’s not enough, or maybe it’s too much, Luke can’t tell with the distracting bitekisslick of Din’s mouth against his throat and hand on his face. He’s thinking about pushing Din away, manhandling him back until Luke can climb on top of him and set his own pace, when Din’s thumb moves across his cheek again. He follows his usual path, curving along Luke’s jaw and stopping at the corner of his mouth, but this time Din keeps going. Pushes his thumb along Luke’s bottom lip and into his open, panting mouth.
Luke’s brain short-circuits.
His mouth is flooded with the taste of Din and he closes his mouth around the digit quickly, lest Din decides to take it away. His tongue curls up automatically, sucking on Din’s thumb reverently, swallowing around the taste of salt and earth and something vaguely metallic. It makes him shake, a broken sound, warped by the finger in his mouth, rumbling throughout his chest. He bites down lightly and lets his teeth simply rest, caressing the pad of Din’s thumb.
“Luke,” Din gasps wetly, pulling his face away from Luke’s neck and oh, how he wishes he could see the Mandalorian’s face. See if he looks as wrecked as he sounds, calling Luke’s name like it means something.
Running his tongue along the tip of Din’s thumb again, Luke hums. He’s never had any fingers other than his own in his mouth before, but he’s surprised at how different it feels. Din’s thumb is pulsing and thick and calloused, his nail is flat and he twitches when Luke puts pressure on it with his top teeth. It feels good in his mouth, something to be praised and savoured rather than the shameful, ache he finds under his own hand. He sucks on it again and Din groans, moving his thumb to press down on Luke’s tongue. The slight pressure makes saliva pool in his mouth, eyes rolling back into his head under the blindfold. This time, his weak knees give in, and buckle underneath him as Din’s gentle hand on his jaw, in his mouth, guides Luke down to the floor of the ship.
“You like that, huh?” Din asks, running his free hand through Luke’s hair. He tugs on it a little, pulling Luke’s head back. “Open your mouth.”
Stifling a disappointed groan, Luke reluctantly opens his mouth. Din’s thumb falls away, smearing a line of spit across Luke’s face as he moves to cup his jaw once more. And before he can get too worried that maybe Din hasn’t been enjoying himself, the hand in his hair slowly disentangles, gently running down the side of his face until Din’s hand is at his lips. His mouth is still open, so Din’s middle and pointer fingers push past his lips easily, settling over his tongue.
“Close,” Din says, tapping the bottom of Luke’s jaw with the spit-slick thumb of his other hand.
Luke obeys, closing around the two fingers. The taste of him makes Luke feel weightless, the warmth of his fingers in Luke’s mouth a beacon. He is benediction and faithlessness combined and Luke drinks him in like a dying man, gasping his prayers against Din’s skin. Din’s fingers press against his tongue again, pressing into the dirt and sand left there and as Luke swallows around them, he could swear the grit feels less. That the press of Din’s skin and the whorls of his fingers and the sweat of his skin have done what Luke’s clawing, seeking self could never. Done more than a hundred thousand drinks. Purifying him of everything that has clung to the grooves of his teeth like cavities. Dousing the fevered, howling, empty thing inside him and filling him up with the saltsweatmetalgood taste of Din instead. He wishes he could scrape his teeth along Din’s nails. Collect the dirt under his nails and swallow that down inside of himself too.
“Luke,” Din sighs, wobbly and perfect.
Luke sucks on his fingers, laving his tongue over the soft lines of his knuckles. He drags them against his teeth, pushing them around with his tongue to press them against the sharp points of his molars. If he’s lucky, they’ll leave marks on Din’s skin. Small, pointed dots that will sting and prove that he is as alive as Din makes him feel. Real, tangible marks of Luke’s person on Din’s skin. So that maybe, maybe, Din will look at them and think of Luke once they’ve parted ways. Luke hopes he’ll be a good memory.
“Luke,” Din says again, a confusing note to his voice, one that Luke can’t place, not with his mouth full and the feel of Din’s skin clouding all his senses.
He wonders how long he’ll be able to keep the sensation of Din in his mouth. How long the impression of his fingerprints will live on Luke’s tongue. The scent of him in Luke’s nose and throat and chest. He feels some spit drip down his chin as he tries to suck Din’s fingers deeper, feeling them brush the roof of his mouth. The sensation to gag is there, but he muscles past it and Din gasps when Luke pulls back, letting his fingers glide across his tongue, memorizing the feel of them moving in and out of his mouth before sucking just the tips of them back in. A kiss to the pads of his fingers.
“Luke,” Din says once more, a noticeable edge to his tone this time. “Luke. Stop.”
It takes a second for his words to catch up with Luke’s suck-happy brain, his thoughts twirling like a downed plane, out of control and on fire, but the stop rings loud and clear. He lets his mouth fall open, Din’s fingers pulling back from hip lips like they’ve been burned. Something awful twists in his gut, fear and bile threatening to rise.
“Did I do something wrong?”
Din’s hand is still on his face and his thumb, now tacky with Luke’s dried spit, rubs gently at his cheekbone. The air shifts around him, the sound of metal on metal filling his ears, and Din’s other hand comes to cup the other side of Luke’s head. He must have dropped to his knees as well and a choking, foolhardy hope cuts through the churning sick in Luke’s stomach. He reaches out until he feels Din’s arms, twisting his fingers into the first bits of fabric he can find and then nearly collapses into them, overcome with relief when Din doesn’t push him away.
“Luke,” Din says softly, both thumbs brushing over his cheeks now. “You’re crying.”
He is? He releases one hand from the death grip he has on Din’s arm and brings it toward his face. He fumbles for a moment, bumping his hand against his nose at first before he touches the skin just under the blindfold and is surprised to find it wet.
“Oh,” he says, suddenly feeling a lot more shaky than he had before.
“It’s alright,” Din says and Luke lets the resonant baritone of his unfiltered voice wash over him. Steady and warm. Luke wants to curl up in it forever. “I’m gonna put my helmet back on and then we’ll take the blindfold off you, okay?”
He nods, but as Din shifts to move away, Luke tightens his grip on Din’s shirt. “Kiss me one more time?” he asks, and the need for one last kiss, one more touch before Din’s lost to him, feels as vital to Luke as air. “Please?”
Din’s lips are soft and full and the moustache on his lip is scratchy and rough and as he exhales into the kiss, Luke breathes in, taking one more greedy gulp of Din into his lungs. He curls himself around Din, sliding his hands up and over the other man’s broad shoulders and pulling his armoured chest close, hoping he can’t feel the way Luke’s body jumps and shudders. The fiery pulse of arousal is gone, replaced with a quiet, longing thing that keens as Din’s arms wrap around him as well.
They part with a whisper, lips lingering atop one another like they’re afraid to be parted. He can feel Din’s panting breaths puffing across his cheek, a breathless staccato. His hands paw at Din, touching everywhere on his face he can; tracing the slope of Din’s strong nose, the deep set of his eyes, the steel-cut line of his jaw. He could spend days mapping it when he only has seconds. Din’s hands run up and down his back and shoulders, swirling patterns that Luke will never remember, pausing ever so often at the small of his back. Din leans in and pecks at his lips again with, small, smacking kisses that Luke could eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner. His hands smooth down Luke’s sides, down his legs. He squeezes Luke’s knees. An apology.
Time’s up.
Din shifts back and this time Luke lets him. The phantom weight of Din’s fingers in his mouth is a cold consolation as he swallows, feeling not quite empty, but certainly not full. He feels like someone has ripped open his chest. Much like, he thinks ruefully, a droid whose been opened up and left behind with a vital piece removed.
He listens as Din shuffles around. Hears a soft click and a soft grunt and then something that he can only describe as a lock being set into place. A beat passes and then there are hands at the back of his head, making quick work at the knot holding the blindfold together.
It slips from his eyes slowly, the dim yellow of Din’s ship lights unobtrusive to his eyes as he blinks and orientates himself. They hadn’t moved from the cargo bay, so all Luke has to focus on are a couple of stacked boxes, and Din.
Din’s standing in front of him, folding the blindfold over in his hands and treating the fabric with such care that it makes Luke's heart lurch as he eventually tucks it into a pouch at his side. He holds a hand out for Luke next, offering to help him to his feet, but Luke’s mind stalls, staring at Din’s hands.
He bites down hard on his tongue.
Din’s hand feels nice in his. Nice without the gloves. Nice knowing his fingers had been in Luke’s mouth. He stands, sways, and then plants his feet. He doesn’t let go of Din’s hand, but Din doesn't make to shake him off, either. Din is watching him, though. Head co*cked to the side. Luke doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what to offer, if he should be apologizing or not. He doesn’t want to open his mouth and lose the taste of Din’s lips. His fingers.
Din’s hand squeezes his.
“Can I stay with you tonight?” Luke croaks out even though he knows it can’t be much later than noon. They’d left the bar around midday, and Luke didn’t think they spent that long grinding on Din’s floor. Owen and Beru will be worried, but Luke can’t bring himself to care. They’re not going anywhere. “You do have a bed hidden somewhere in here, right?”
“I have a bed,” Din confirms, warmth in his voice. He tugs on their joined hands, pulling Luke closer. “But I have to be gone by morning.”
Luke nods, that he already knows. He knew the second he saw Din that he didn’t belong on Tatooine for more than a day. And as much as Luke’s fond, sentimental heart is already aching, he knows he needs to take every second of Din he can get, no matter the cost. Seal Din into his body and soul and mouth and pray that when he leaves he doesn’t take too much of Luke with him.
“So, can I?” he asks again.
Din doesn’t say anything, just tugs on Luke’s hand again until they crash together. Din’s arms wind around him, holding Luke close, and Luke smiles. He buries his hands in the tattered flow of Din’s cape, toe-to-toe as they stand in the hull of Din’s ship. He wonders if this means Din can feel it too. The connection between them. The pull. The floating, ethereal thing that’s been pushing Luke to him all day long. He wonders if it means Din will be able to look past the grit and soot that mar his hands. If he will be able to see Luke for the tarnished thing he is and then still hold him close like this afterwards. If he will let Luke take his fingers again and offer supplication. If he will run his hands over Luke’s body and across his teeth and pluck the death-sentence sand and grit from his pores. He wonders if Din would let him do the same, be a crutch, hold him up when he needs it, and let Luke do what he can to help him.
The thought of it makes him burn. In another time, maybe. Another world.
Because, in this world, Din leaves in the morning and the arms that lead Luke to his bed now are going to guide him to the door again when the suns break. In this world, he’ll say goodbye to Din and watch him take off, racing to the stars where Luke cannot follow. He’ll go home to Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru and his half-dead droids and work through another harvest, build up a new layer of grit untouched by Din’s hands and wander around restless and dreaming of an armoured man with calloused hands.
But, that’s for the morning.
For now, Luke lets himself fall into the cushion of Din’s bed. Far too small for two grown men, but neither seems to care as Luke lifts their clasped hands to his mouth and kisses each one of Din’s knuckles over and over again. He lets Din brush a strand of hair behind his ear, fingers lingering on Luke’s temple.
Luke thinks that maybe, if he’s lucky, Din will come back and visit him one day. The force that lives and whispers in the back of his mind sparks at that, yowling with a certainty that this won't be the last time he sees Din. It makes him smile against Din’s fingers.
It’s a hopeful thought, but hope, Luke’s found, is a lot like grit that way.
It remains.
