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Luke grins and settles into a defensive stance that Ezra only vaguely recognizes, a form he remembers Kanan showing him, once, but which neither had favored for their styles. Luke brushes long, sun-bleached blond hair － a few early streaks of gray peaking through it － out of his face. He takes his time, breath slow and deep and looking for all the world like the Jedi master he’s supposed to be instead of the sleep-mussed mess Ezra had dragged out of bed that morning. Luke’s mouth pulls into a grin of his own, a wry, cocky twist to his lips like he’s already won as he says:

“Never.”

Ezra lunges. Digging the toes of his shoes into the soft, green grass underfoot, he rockets forward, fast and impulsive as he ever was in his youth. Luke moves to counter his offensive, taking a half step back to widen his stance in preparation for the heavy blow he expects. Wild, giddy anticipation bubbles up his throat, a laugh nearly slipping past his lips, but Ezra holds. He waits. And when he comes in range of Luke’s block, he disengages his saber. Luke’s eyes widen, realization thrusting him into motion, but too late.

Heat sears his back as Ezra ducks under Luke’s hasty swing and spins not-quite-neatly on too-soft earth to redirect his momentum. He reignites his saber and thrusts it into Luke’s blind spot as Luke pivots on his heel. The tip of his saber cuts a line into Luke’s tunic, and Ezra can taste sweet victory on his tongue already.

Something shifts in the air, then, solid but wild, snapping at him like a Loth-wolf at his neck. It holds him in place for a second that might as well be an eternity before it suddenly punches the air from his chest. Throws him back with all the force of a speeder. The world lurches around him, a messy dizzying blur of color, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep the wave of nausea it brings at bay. He hits the ground shoulder first with a hiss, and rolls.

His head pounds a roaring drumbeat in his ears and his nostrils flare as he tries to force air back into his lungs. His shoulder throbs in time with his pulse and he thinks he feels a twinge in his ankle when he shifts. It’s only the knowledge that this is a friendly spar － and the sickening curl in his gut － that keeps him down and recovering rather than back up on his feet and ready to fight. He curls his fingers into the grass, still damp from the morning’s light rain shower, sucks in a breath, and gets ready to push himself back up, but the familiar hum of a saber at his throat keeps him in place.

Ezra blinks a few times to clear the residual vertigo and finds his eyes drawn to the painfully bright saber point below his chin. The heat stings his skin, and in any other situation he’d feel panic’s icy claws tearing through his chest. At the moment, however, all he feels is peace. Well, that and the bruises he’ll no doubt be sporting by tomorrow.

“I yield,” he sighs, and Luke disengages his lightsaber. Ezra watches him clip it to his belt, blue eyes bright with mirth even as the rest of him looks a mess, and mutters a petulant “I’m still winning.”

Luke laughs and it pulls an insufferably soft smile out of Ezra, every inch of him warmed by the sight. Ezra pushes himself up with a hiss, the movement jarring his shoulder, and sits, the back of his shirt damp and clinging uncomfortably.

“Did I hurt you?” A little furrow forms between Luke’s brows as he squats by Ezra’s side, reaching out with his flesh hand. “Sorry,” he says, and there’s a weight to it that Ezra knows means he’s talking about more than just the shoulder.

It’s an old insecurity. A pain dulled by years, almost but not entirely forgotten, but one he isn’t inclined to let Luke wallow in. Not when he has so much to weigh him down already － the galaxy’s hero, even after the Empire’s fall and the New Republic’s rise. Ezra grabs Luke’s hand in one of his own, lets Luke’s warmth seep through his skin for a moment before pulling. Luke follows, sinking to his knees and bracing himself on his gloved prosthetic as he leans forward and Ezra shifts. For one long, still moment, they face each other.

Ezra moves first, leans his head into Luke’s, breathing softly as he slowly brings his other hand up to settle on Luke’s neck, forefinger and thumb brushing the sliver of bare skin above his shirt’s high collar.

“You could never,” he breathes, soft and achingly gentle just before he moves to press a gentle kiss to Luke’s lips.

The river was black in the fog before dawn, a dark line snaking through the mist.

I had walked a long distance to reach its edge, prevailed through adversity, yet here and now, I felt my courage falter.  My heart pounded in my chest, my breath ran short, my teeth chattered.

I had thought I would find rest here, that here, that in this place, at this river, after my perilous journey through fire and woe and stinging hatred that I would lay down my burdens and fall into a gentle and peaceful sleep.

And yet with mere footsteps ahead of me, I could not step forward, I could not kneel down, I could not drink.