#*nathuur

- Specific content warnings -

Violence: grievous facial injury from the firsthand perspective, with secondhand, traumatized-military-person perspective of other soldiers' nearby deaths (and the bad-brain time of ensuing, unmanaged survivor's guilt). It’s not that gory, but again: the mood is Dark.

Shipping intimacy: yes, the kissing & mush does take over. On to a 'fade to black' at the end, with explicit follow-up 100% implied—but nothing more. (Giving them -some- privacy. Lol)

ANYWAY...!

What a life he had, barely 30 yrs old (if even. My timelines are indistinct; he might be under 30).

---

It’d been three weeks since the ambush that had him sent home from the front.

Three weeks since a separatist grenade had been lobbed into that small, grey building the Republic used as a watchpost. The spray of plasma and superheated shrapnel in an enclosed space was more than a match for the standard, light-duty armor of three guards.

His colleagues who took the brunt of the blast hadn’t survived: neither the woman at the door, who tried to call for them to take cover, nor the man in the chair next to his. He, like Zahied, had removed his helmet for their meal break.

Zahied was the lucky one.

His ears still rang sometimes, and occasionally his right eye showed strobing spots in his vision. White pulses and persistent shadows. His reflex to raise his arm may have helped him keep from being blinded altogether. The body of the other soldier at the table had also sheltered him from some of the heat and debris of the blast.

At the time, he had only known the panic of liquid fire coating the side of his face. His arm was smoking—burning. The soldiers with him: both were burning. One moving along the floor, the other collapsed—barely twitching. Bleeding out. The floor was burning.

Blasters fired from the street. Body halfway out the door, the crawling soldier finally lay still. Zahied didn’t recall his own escape as clearly as he remembered her bolt-scorched helmet and the outline of that doorway. 

He knew he had staggered to the back room; he shut the door between him and the flames. Already they had faded from piercing blue to molten yellow. Every surface fuel had touched, the sizzling and sparking tested for something to feed on. The smoke had the smell of a battlefield: chemical fumes and charred flesh.

He had put out the fire on his arm with his bare hand, apparently. His palm was blistered and bloodied. He didn’t chance the back door (in his mind’s eye was a helmet, and the echo of a gunshot).

It wasn’t long—it hadn’t felt like enough time to think of what else to do—before he heard the sounds of a skirmish flowing in the other direction, replaced by voices shouting in concern. He answered. Geared-up troopers rushed inside, getting him clear of the building before they brought in fire extinguishers.

He had walked himself to medical. There was nothing wrong with his legs. Nothing badly wrong with him, overall—though the injuries had looked messy, on the... face... of it.

It didn’t feel fair to feel sorry for himself, when he’d survived. But he remembered thinking about the photos from his wedding. It was good they made time to get married before this happened.

Half his face still looked like it’d been turned inside-out; the color and texture of someone’s guts, much pinker and paler than his cheek should be. It was healing fine. The bandages were mostly gone. That was why he, and everyone else, could have a good look at the raw, ragged patches that were still too glossy and surrounded by uncomfortable swelling.

He’d started taking less painkillers. That’s why he was awake now. 

Lying on the pullout bed in the living room, reflecting on all that led here. Wondering, again, what the rest of his unit had been dealing with while he had been in the care of med droids and his anxious husband.

He smiled a little to think of Nathuur, who had heard the news ahead yet still turned weepy-eyed the instant he caught sight of him swathed in bandages at the hospital. They had both cried, of course. It was a grim cause for a reunion, and there’d been a lot of emotions to process.

Those kept him awake, too.

He was full of relief to be home: to be with his husband, to be safe, to be alive and (relatively) healthy. He was guilty to be home. To be safe. 

Alive and well—far from the dangers that had marked him.

This didn’t feel like the place he should be. He wasn’t badly injured. It was fortunate, but it made a bad excuse for three weeks of rest. 

The separatist attacks had been growing more frequent and aggressive before the one he was caught up in. What about now? No one could offer much of an update. He had a holo-call or a note here and there, wishing him well—(there was a potted plant from the gunner girlfriends sitting on the windowsill; they’d been guests at the wedding, not so long ago)—but of course security concerns limited the details. 

Besides: no one wanted to see him preoccupied about work. Not-knowing might not do much to stop him from worrying, but they must have hoped it would help. He didn’t fault them for trying.

“You’re awake, Lover-guy?” A familiar voice, muffled-sounding, with a bit of a rasp and a distinctive squeaky pitch, spoke quietly out of the dark. 

Nathuur.

It was impressive that he hadn’t heard his selkath husband coming down the hall. His feet were huge, his legs weren’t long, and the massive, fluffy slippers he wore around the house never did much to make him quieter. 

Either being hit by an explosive did more damage to his hearing than he knew, or Zahied must have been very lost in his thoughts.

He could hardly make out the shape of his husband’s silhouette (the pattern of glow-in-the-dark spaceships and planet designs on his pyjamas gave a hint), but he knew Nath’s vision was better. He’d see the in-house patient sit up against the back of the couch, adjusting in his bedcovers. 

He might be able to see Zahied’s half-smile. “I’m awake. Why are /you/ up?”

“Snacks.” The shuffle of comfy slippers approached his bedside first, instead of carrying on to their kitchen. “I get hungry with a baby on the way.”

Zahied laughed readily, no matter how many times Nathuur made fun of stereotypes of ‘the human experience’. “You’re going to miss messing with people about that when it hatches.”

“I really am...” He sounded like he was smiling, too, as he sat himself on the edge of the mattress, then left his slippers behind to pull his feet up. “The faces people make when they’re thinking really hard about questions they know they shouldn’t ask—Ha.”

As Nathuur shifted closer to him, Zahied made space for them to be side-by-side, moving carefully into position to put an arm around his shoulders and pull him into an embrace. “You’ll find something else to short-circuit them.”

Nath, conspiratorial in his chuckling, gently bumped Zahied’s chin with the dome of his head. “Can you believe we could turn into parents any day now?”

Short, thick arms wrapped around his torso, but the pressure in Zahied’s chest felt like it was coming from something else.

He hated the idea of crying again, just now. To avoid it, he’d have to start thinking of something other than his emotions about being reunited like this: holding his favourite person in this galaxy again. Being held.

Thinking of the near arrival of their firstborn wasn’t /less/ likely to make him well-up in tears, but at least there was elation and excitement he could focus on. Some nervousness.

Instead of turning his face to Nathuur in the dark, he stared towards the window to his right, where light from the street filtered in as soft yellow lines at the edges of the frame and between the shutters. “I can’t believe it.” He patted his hand on Nath’s shoulder. “No one else will, either, when they see me taking a baby selkath on a walk.”

“That would be close-minded of them.” Nathuur laughed again.

Zahied smiled again, making his beard and mustache feel crooked while he was avoiding too much movement on the scabby, pock-marked side of his face.

They could feel each other breathing. He got the impression Nathuur might be listening to the beat of his heart. And then his husband drew away enough to look him over again.

“Zahied—”

He heard the start of a question, but it was too much to resist kissing him on the flat of his nose, amid the patches and flecks of color that became a larger, bolder pattern further up his forehead.

Nathuur’s nose wrinkled (...which was also adorable), but the twitching of his whiskers suggested he was still smiling.

“—ah. You know that tickles.”

“I’m sure it does.”

He couldn’t help but laugh longer when his husband’s reprisal was to nose under his ear, taking nibbling bites at the side of his neck. It was a successful tactic to make Zahied squirm. “What were you going to ask—?”

Nathuur set his chin to rest on his human spouse’s shoulder, stuck with a face full of his loose, long hair. Not bothered by it, apparently.

“Do you really want to go back?”

They both knew the answer. They’d been over the question many times—though he never resented that Nathuur would ask again. There had been times his dedication wavered. This was one of them.

“Yes,” he said, nonetheless.

“OK.”

Nathuur never resented the cause he’d chosen. When they met, he was already a soldier of the Senate: trying to protect the peace and the people of the Republic. 

Zahied had never needed enthusiasm or support for his career from the kind and gentle-hearted man he loved—the acknowledgement of the choice was enough. 

And his acceptance: Nathuur didn’t look for an apology when the answer hadn’t changed.

What he DID look for was a nuzzle against Zahied’s face (thankfully there was still one side safe to rub against), which was accompanied by the quiet, trilling sound of Nathuur consoling him (or himself...).

Those kind of noises always sounded not-quite-right out of water. It was usually the selkath who had to make accommodations in their inter-species partnership, favoring the one who couldn’t survive an airless environment.  Zahied just had to compromise with humid conditions in shared accommodations—which was why he had to sleep on the guest bed while his skin was healing: it was too damp in their room.

“I’ll miss you,” the soldier admitted, which was something they also knew.

“It’ll freak me out if you get hurt again.” Nathuur met his hand to hold it, looking him in the eye again. His attitude had the sadness, and the relief, of seeing him go through something bad which could’ve been much worse. “—I love you.”

“Same here.” Zahied squeezed the hand in his. For the sake of stroking the top of Nathuur’s glossy-soft head, he lifted his right arm. The motion still brought twinges of pain where he felt thin skin and new scar tissue stretched too tight—but with Nath smiling at him like that, it was easy to tune out anything else. 

Zahied mirrored the warmth in his expression, returning a softer smile.

Those were his truths: he loved him—he’d miss him—he needed to go back.

If he couldn’t always be with him, at least they had each other now.

He kissed Nathuur again lightly—this time on the ridge of his brow. One finger of his right hand followed the same line above his eye, then skimmed down to the tendril twitching again on the left side of that teal-toned face.

“Are you still hungry—?”

Nathuur raised his eyes again, which had just started to get sleepy-looking a moment ago. He caught Zahied’s slow tone, and he recognized the coaxing of the finger and thumb teasing his whisker.

“I’ll put it off.”

Nathuur palmed his chest, with Zahied laughing faintly. He made the hasty motions to unbutton his own baggy, well-worn sleep shirt, welcoming familiar hands: long-fingered and extremely strong; unfailingly gentle.

He could immediately get lost in having Nathuur’s hands move over his skin, but before he did he wanted to stroke his own fingers against the bony ridge at the back of his husband’s head, watching him slowly close his eyes. He drew the touch forward after that, running fingertips toward the front of Nathuur’s throat, then underneath his jaw while he kissed him on the mouth. “—This is the medicine I needed: cute face to kiss.”

“I’m here to help.” Nathuur struck a coy pose with a tilt of his head, then re-examined Zahied while he copied the gesture of petting at his neck. “YOUR face is a mess, but it's still sexy. Maybe more sexy. You look like you fought a huge, ferocious squid or something.”

“Hell—is that what they’re into on Manaan? I need to read more selkath romance novels.”

“Who ISN’T kinda weak for the brave warrior type?”

“Oh?”

“—haha, I got you blushing.”

Nathuur was right, whether he could actually /see/ the flush of Zahied’s face or if he was only guessing. “I’m personally more attracted to the friendly, charismatic kind of guy,” he argued, “And great Dad material, you know? The ones who take care of people.”

The subject of his flattery was probably not blushing, though he enjoyed it. Nathuur started playing with Zahied’s hair between his fingers, chuckling at his comeback—and at the way he shivered. “A homebody? Sounds boring.”

“Not when they take you to bed,” Zahied sighed, letting his eyes fall closed. “They really know how to—Mm!”

Nathuur, with another laugh—more like a giggle—had begun to drag him insistently down the bed. When he had him flat on his back again, his chosen ‘homebody’ descended to more nibbling and teasing, flicking licks of his tongue up and across Zahied’s neck and throat, then at his upper lip.

A little breathless, his next plea came as a soft moan. Wordless anticipation. The awareness of everything he had missed about being back in loving arms, and how desperate his desire was now that they finally had a chance to engage in long-delayed intimacy.

Nathuur found his left hand and nipped gently at his fingertips, then brought Zahied’s inner wrist to his mouth for kissing, cupping the human’s shorter, five-fingered hand between his palms: big and smooth.

In turn, Zahied kissed the knuckle of Nathuur’s middle finger (the only one between thumb and 'pinky'). He smiled again, flush-faced. “Lick anything except the side of my face or this other arm, along here, and I think we’re good.”

“Anything and everything?” Nathuur teased, eyes raised to his face before skimming over the rest of him.

Zahied stretched out playfully, making another breathless sound as they exchanged a grin. “Whatever you want. All yours.”

He felt Nath’s hand move to lay on the top of his head, and felt as the tip of his tongue delicately touched to the bridge of his nose. A very light, slightly clumsy kiss found approximately the same spot.

There was a bandage there, but Zahied didn’t feel the cut underneath it enough to flinch, not even with selkath mouth-shape-related awkwardness as a hazard. He was too full of warmth, preoccupied with Nathuur’s presence: his husband’s hip warm against his side, his chest over Zahied’s. Those goofy, soft-feeling pyjamas meeting his bare skin where Nath leaned close. He snuck his fingers to the edge of the shirt and started to unbutton from the bottom up.

Nathuur sat back to let him, beaming down at him. 

Zahied lowered his eyes, shyly dodging his gaze. “How’d I get lucky enough to have you,” he murmured, unavoidably aware of how close they had come to never having had this moment—to him never making it back to the family they would have together, soon.

“Haha. Yeah, the love lottery.”

He cracked a grin that did hurt the still-healing side of his face.

Nathuur stroked fingertips at his forehead, feeling through the hair at the edges of his hairline, looking proud of himself.

“That’s one way to make it sound cheesy as hell.” Zahied finished freeing the last button, petting down the loose fabric at Nathuur’s chest once more before letting him wiggle his shoulders free.

“OK—“ Holding the shirt over an arm, Nathuur climbed down from Zahied’s temporary bed. “If you’re thinking like I’m thinking, you should probably come with me.”

“But I was so warm here, and so /dry/,” he protested insincerely, teasing Nathuur while eagerly moving to follow him at the same time.

“You’re gonna need a whole shower anyway, with what I’ve got in mind.”

“Oh—the licking.”

Nath’s laughter led toward the hall, where he flicked the light switch to help them both find their way. “Well, yeah. And lube. You’ve got nothing below the waist that’s bandaged-up, so...”

Excitement hit like a buzz at the base of his neck, flooding warmth to his face. Now he was sure that Nathuur could have seen him blush, even if his complexion camouflaged it, and—as he realized in a passing thought—even if his right cheek was going to be red all over for a while, until it fully healed.

He finished taking his own shirt off carefully: the unhurt side first, then the patched one.

When they reached the door of the bedroom Nathuur turned and opened his arms to Zahied, who leaned into them and met his shorter husband for a hug that would let him rest his head against his heart again. 

Nathuur tilted his face up to bump his nose softly at Zahied’s bearded chin like a prompt.

Zahied answered with a small, fond laugh, and by running his hand along Nathuur’s shoulder to the central ridge along the back of his neck. 

In the area beneath the base of his skull and his jaw, the skin of a selkath was a texture unlike a human’s: it was finely wrinkled, loose and thin—and sensitive to being stroked gently.

His husband—short, stout, with skin a bold and beautiful shade of turquoise, set apart from the blue of the sky or the dark, bottle-green of the deep ocean—was here with him. Nathuur stood leaning on the railing of the second-floor patio, his arms folded, bowed forward to look down on rippling waves.

That was right.

That— (the knowledge left an ache in his heart which he couldn’t quite fathom...) —was how Zahied remembered him.

The problem was the other man, nearer to Zahied: circling from his other side to approach the selkath.

Taller than either of them, this one was a human like him. A broad-framed, imposing man with short, dull brown hair, dressed in dark clothing. A Sith.

In the first moment the tall man had come to his attention— (and he didn’t know why he was so sure) —he expected to see him wearing a lightsaber on his belt. Knew it would be there before he saw it. 

He didn’t know why he recognized this person at all.

But of course he did.

He knew who had come to him in his nihilistic despair, wedging a foot in the door of his emptiness with an offer he hadn’t had the nobility to decline. 

Tarskal. 

A threat to the Republic he defended. An enemy. 

They met together for sex. It had become a pattern.

That recognition resolved itself slowly, fueling the confusion in his mind as recent events collided in conflict with the setting. The memories. 

Long ago.

If Nathuur was here, Tarskal couldn’t be. By the time he had met the Sith—

His husband had been dead for many, many years.

Zahied knew it already, even as he remembered in pieces of fragmented facts. He had shared his life once, he had loved someone—but not since he was young. He was getting old. He hadn’t been back to this place since he was newly wed. A long, broken lifetime ago.

Nath was here, because—

He was dreaming?

In the haze of disjointed emotions, he thought he was angry. The feeling wasn’t arriving when it should, but he knew it was the response he wanted to have to what he saw.

Tarskal was approaching the man at the railing. He was examining Zahied’s precious and wonderful husband like a specimen in a jar.

Nathuur didn’t seem to recognize the attention. He didn’t react at all, as if he couldn’t see the menacing stranger who he would never meet. 

When the Sith raised his red eyes to Zahied again, his gaze lingered only long enough to make it obvious that the whole scene was clear to him.

That affronted feeling Zahied was looking for did arrive, eventually, but only after he watched a figure of himself—separating from his first-person perspective—step forward to join his husband.

The body of him, outside of his mind, walked to Nathuur’s side and leaned toward him. Shoulder-to-shoulder, they shared the view in the way of lovers: melding to each other; their touch, their warmth and their thoughts extending toward the person who they offered it all, without reserve.

This was how he remembered them.

Dreams like this didn’t come to him very often—not anymore. Time passed, and the haze grew denser around the parts of his life that were too painful to recall.

Still, every now and then: light would strike just right to illuminate the reflection of long-gone emotions in perfect, crystal clarity. 

A dream so real, he’d wake in the lingering sense of peace and contentment—feelings a part of his mind still retained, somehow, so vividly—

—Feelings that would wither in the next breath, sucking his soul from his chest again when reality crushed him, like all the weight of all the endless oceans of his spouse’s distant homeworld. 

All the vastness of empty space in the galaxy poured in again. 

Sometimes he wept. Alone in his bed—remembering too well. Sometimes he found that he still could.

Nathuur is gone.

On Manaan—anywhere else—there’ll never be another day by his side. 

There’ll never be another morning of waking up—even once—when he won’t be gone.

It’s better to remember that, instead of letting a dream convince him things might be some other way.

“Maybe you should give him a kiss.” 

Tarskal’s voice, unwelcome and foreign to the scenario, interrupts Zahied’s meditation on the nature of his loss and his responses to it. The Sith has moved closer, extending one finger to press to the top of Nathuur’s head.

The anger rises again. It’s almost palpable in the voice that extends from Zahied’s disembodied position of observer. 

“/Don’t touch him/.”

A startled Nathuur has turned over his shoulder, finally looking in Tarskal’s direction, then abruptly looking for the voice behind him. “How’d you get over— Who—?”

He can’t see himself beside his husband; he’s no longer standing with him. 

Tarskal is on the other side of Nathuur, and Zahied is walking toward both of them, pushing between the two, feeling dizzy as he separates them with the body that suddenly belongs to him again.

He’s fighting vertigo and nausea simply for existing in this space. Something is so purely, deeply wrong.

“Sorry.” Tarskal smiles. He looks like himself. Normal and real. “I’ve interrupted.”

Nathuur’s voice behind him is quiet. Vague and inconsistent. “Zahied—? Babe— Who’s this guy?”

A hand lights on his shoulder. Zahied feels the form of its touch, familiar but insubstantial. The ghost of what he remembers.

Stricken, frustrated, he clenches his hand to his own forehead, concealing his eyes and the tears that he expects will blur his vision soon. 

He answers automatically, but does not turn around. “Just— Some asshole.”

He doesn’t see Tarskal’s face change, only hears the stifled sound of the asshole in question. Trying not to laugh. Pretending to try.

“Not even worth introducing us?” the Sith questions him, falsifying a flimsy veneer of indignation over the tone of obvious mockery. 

Goading him. Taunting them both. Watching Zahied lose his grip on his emotions. 

“You must be Mr. Anwar of the non-miltary persuasion,” Tarskal goes on, “Wrath of his Majesty, the Emperor, and Lord of the Sith—”

The ‘Wrath’ has posed himself hand-to-chest, bowing shallowly in Nathuur’s direction.

“—Referred to also as ‘Nghh, fuck; Tarskal—Harder. Please; Oh /fuck/—’, et-cetera.”

Red eyes skim Zahied’s face as the Sith straightens his posture, met by a stare of unveiled fury. “No—? Maybe just Tarskal, today. Take a deep breath, ‘Babe’; you’re losing it. The little gentleman is looking worried for you.”

He freezes not quite halfway to throttling Tarskal—gathered to spring, with tension ringing through him—and Zahied can’t help but confirm what the Sith has claimed: the face of his selkath husband is drawn in lines of concern and bewilderment. It drains the force from his indignation. He sags into a bitter, defanged humiliation. 

None of this is real. It won’t matter in the morning. It doesn’t matter now.

Turning from Zahied to stare in turn at Tarskal, his husband speaks: “Hey, Asshole.” 

Nath’s arm slides behind his waist. A supportive gesture. 

It would’ve been meant to reassure him. It feels like being kicked in the chest. 

He’s the one left choked at the throat.

“And what do they call you?” Tarskal’s expression has never faltered, his delight still clear to see in the flash of his grin and the crinkle of his eyes.

It occurs to Zahied that there are less wrinkles around those eyes. No grey in the flat, honeyed brown of his hair. He’s never seen him this way. Tarskal is some years older than him, and they have always looked roughly the same age.

Nathuur’s narrowed eyes stay on the Sith. His face shows disapproval, a warning, and distrust.

“You can ignore him,” Zahied speaks quietly to the man glued to his side, recognizing how it sounds like a pathetic attempt to hide from shameful truths.

His husband, of course, is as old as he ever would be: so young—as they both had been.

The last time they had come to Manaan was after their honeymoon. 

Not long after that, Nathuur’s parents had refused to discuss the subject of their son’s desire for children. They nearly stopped talking to him altogether.

When his and Zahied’s daughter had been alive, her selkath grandparents had known her through holo-calls and letters—Nath was adamant in his intent to never return to their home again.

He never would.

Less than five years after leaving this place for the last time, he was dead.

His face would never age: it appeared in dreams and memories the same as in pictures of him. Fixed in time. Unchanging.

Zahied can hardly look directly at it.

Nath is fidgety, the way he would get when something had made him nervous.

“What was his name, Zahied?”

“Nathuur.” The selkath finally answers Tarskal for himself, quiet and tired-sounding. His hand has a grip of Zahied’s jacket, and it’s started to feel like he’s leaning more heavily. “—Why’s he asking you what it ‘was’?”

“Stop...” Zahied finds himself directing this plea toward Tarskal. 

Begging him not to ask more questions. Begging him to leave the time capsule of Manaan—to restore and respect the separation of what is gone and what remains.

“Really? You could have such an opportunity here, Anwar.”

His vision goes dark.

He remembers what he’s done: ways he has allowed Tarskal close. Remembers the feel of his muscles, weight of his body—and the searing of desire.

“...stop—”

Tarskal’s hands are on his face, fingers trailing in his beard. A kiss is pressed to his lips, and he wants to tear himself in half. To burn the scraps: vaporize it all to scattered ash.

“/Stop/.” He claws through the space in front of him, heaving a sob in his chest, and he falls, off-balance, into a hollow, starless reflection of the dark sky.

He awakes in his field tent, sweating and sticky in the humid air of an unfamiliar planet.

It’s quiet.

He’s alone.

The dream fades at the edges and washes into a blur, painted over by the reality of his steady breathing and aching back.