#jessekix

“You have him?” 

“I have him.”

Kix crouches in front of Jesse, trying his best to not touch the disgusting floor of the alley. He didn’t have as much to drink as Jesse, but he’s had more than enough, and keeping his balance is harder than it should. 

He looks over his shoulder: Rex’s attempting to duck from under Jesse’s arm, but Jesse won’t let him go, his hand wrapped like a vice around Rex’s bicep. Rex is flushed and sweaty, his eyes bright, and when Jesse tugs him closer he rolls his eyes and allows it. Jesse smacks a kiss on his cheek, loud and wet and kind of gross, and Rex snorts. He smiles, big and wide and bright, and Kix feels something clench within his chest—it’s been a while since the last time he saw Rex smile like that.

He looks away, and when Jesse stumbles, Kix’s there to stop him from falling. He wraps his hands around his thighs, his fingers slipping slightly in the sleek fabric of Jesse’s dress greys, and then he stands up. Jesse’s arms wrap around his neck, and he rubs his unshaved jaw against Kix’s smooth one like a tooka. 

Kix starts the long, slow walk towards the barracks; Rex stays behind, cigarette already between his lips, his hands cupping the flame of his lighter. He paid for everyone’s drinks—Kix’s pretty sure the general gave him the money: Skywalker has known Jesse for a long, long time, almost as long as Kix and Jesse have known each other. Jesse’s chest is warm against Kix’s back, and Jesse’s lips are on his jaw, on his cheek, not quite kissing the skin.

“Are y’gonna stay tonight?” Jesse asks suddenly. Kix pauses in front of the turbolift, steps inside when the doors slide open. Jesse is heavy, but Kix’s carried heavier for longer, and—it’s fine.

“D’you want me to?”

Jesse sighs. They are alone in the lift—it’s so late it’s early, and anyway, lately most civvies avoid the area. Too many clones on leave, and too many shock troopers on duty.

“I always want you to stay,” Jesse says under his breath, his lips moving against Kix’s skin. He blinks away from his reflection, breaking his own gaze. 

Jesse’s very drunk. Kix knows he means it: that’s irrelevant. If Jesse were sober, he wouldn’t say it out loud. Kix clears his throat.

“You have a very early morning tomorrow,” Kix replies. And you’re very drunk. “Sure you want me to keep you up?”

Jesse says nothing, and after a while. The lift stops: Kix tugs Jesse higher over his hips and starts making his way towards the barracks. He can see them at the end of the street, huge and dark against Coruscant’s night sky. 

He’s beginning to think that Jesse’s fallen asleep when he shifts. “That’s not what I meant,” he grumbles. “And you know it.”

Kix presses his lips together. He nods at the boring troopers standing guard and steps inside. He blinks and makes a face when the lights come on, the sensors ticking as he walks towards the place where the 501st is billeted.

Jesse exhales. He starts shifting, trying to get off Kix’s back: Kix ignores him, ignores it, and doesn’t stop until they’re at Jesse’s cot. The long, dark room is quiet, mostly empty: most of the battalion is out in the city, making the best out of their leave. Kix unceremoniously dumps Jesse on top of his mattress, and then he kneels on the ground and starts unlacing Jesse’s boots. Jesse allows it, but Kix can feel the heat of his glare on the crown of his head.

After a beat, Kix sighs. He finishes tugging off Jesse’s boots and glances up at him: Jesse’s scowling, but he’s not actually angry.

“I’m sorry,” Kix says. He looks away, down at his own feet. He moves to sit down on the edge of Jesse’s cot, his thigh against Jesse’s hip. “I just—”

He trails off: he doesn’t even know how to explain it to himself.

“I know,” Jesse says. Kix blinks and glances up at him: Jesse’s shrugging out of his jacket, turning and shifting on the bed so that his head lies on the pillow. He’s looking at Kix with sad, liquid eyes: he’s already half-asleep.

Kix makes him drink some water, and then watches him until Jesse makes his sulking way through a stale civilian protein bar Kix finds in his locker.

And then it’s time to leave, to find his own bed, to sneak into someone else’s, and it wouldn’t be the first time but Kix finds he’s just not in the mood. It didn’t quite sink until that moment: Jesse really is leaving. Not forever, he’ll just be away for a few months, and then he’ll return, but he’s the only one left. Fives dead, Hardcase dead. Echo dead as well. Rex—well. Rex is Rex. 

“It’s only ARC training,” Jesse grumbles. He’s closed his eyes, and he’s lying on his side, his hands under his cheek like a child. There are chalky crumbs on his lips and on the pillow. “Don’t look so tragic.”

Kix huffs.

“Move over,” he says. Jesse blinks his eyes open.

Kix’s hair is longer than the regs say but not that long: it’s barely starting to curl. And, anyway, Jesse’s seen him take care his stupid, overly complicated hairstyle in sieges and with a broken wrist for more than two years.

“Yes. I am sure.”

Jesse hums. He clicks the razor on, clicks it off, and laughs when Kix groans and bends upon himself, resting his elbows on his knees. His matted, too-long curls catch the light of the fluorescents on the ceiling. There’s a line of grime high up on his neck, slashing the brown skin in half. Blood, dust, dry sweat. Tibanna residue and dirt. 

There’s also a bruise high up on his back. It half-disappears under one of his tattoos—a shoulder piece, blocky and harsh; it’s very pretty—but Jesse kind of wants to place his palm on the green-purple starburst. The skin will be warm and tacky and, most importantly, it’ll be Kix’s.

He opens his mouth, the questions heavy on his tongue—why him, why now—and then shrugs, hisses out a breath.

He clicks the razor on again and starts it on the uneven curls. It takes him minutes: it’s so much easier than shaving his own head.

Kix could be doing this himself. Even if he doesn’t want to keep his old hairstyle anymore, for whatever reason, he knows how to cut his own hair. Jesse bites at his cheek and keeps his eyes on his friend’s hair, the machine buzzing contentedly in his right hand, his left on Kix’s warm shoulder, the bare skin smooth under his touch, barely grazing his collarbone. He thinks he can feel Kix’s heartbeat on the pads of his fingers, and he swallows, because it’d be very easy to slide his hand lower and do it properly. He could lean closer, lean on Kix’s back, let it rest over Kix’s chest. He’s missed him: they don’t see each other as often since Jesse got sent to Kamino to become an ARC.

Jesse clears his throat and clicks off the razor. “Done,” he says. Kix blinks. He seems to shake himself. He rakes his fingers through his newly cut hair, tugs at the reg-length curls, sighs. Something flashes in his dark eyes and then he’s already turning on the bench to look at Jesse, small smile on his face, still gritty with dustside dirt and other people’s blood. There’s a tiny scratch on his cheekbone, already scabbed over, and when Jesse brushes it with his knuckles, he blinks and winces. 

“I got that on the way back to the ship,” he sighs. Jesse snorts. “Kriffing pilots.”

Kix hooks dirty fingers in the waistband of Jesse’s blacks and tugs; Jesse goes—can’t imagine ever not going—and then it’s his mouth on Jesse’s, lips dry.

“Thanks,” Kix says. He clears his throat and looks away. Jesse watches him, brow furrowed. He’s hiding something.

“No problem,” he replies instead. Kix smiles up at him, mouth tight around the corners, eyes fluttering all over Jesse’s face. “I’ll miss the hair, though.”

Kix snorts, rolling his eyes. He pushes Jesse away and stands up: something pops in his back and he winces.