#k4ssa

IT’S BEEN WEEKS SINCE THEY’VE SEEN EACH OTHER ALONE, LET ALONE IN TRISTAN’S MODEST ROOM. in all reality, weeks since @k4ssa has let them be alone, distracted as he’s been in the arms of another, sharing what they should be sharing, doing what they should be doing. it’s agonizing, in a way tristan thinks perhaps it shouldn’t be. it only makes matters worse that cassian has insisted on parading the situation around in front of his very eyes. even if that isn’t the intent, it’s the effect, an effect which has driven young tristan half mad since, such that he’s taken to avoiding the main ferrix streets altogether, sticking to rooftops and the alleyways he knows cass frequents least in an effort to avoid them as much as possible. it was either that or do something drastic to snatch cassian’s attention back, which seems likely humiliating, in the end. doesn’t he know how thoroughly it drives tris out of his mind? doesn’t he know how it kills him little by little? not that tris expected anything else but abandonment. he’s the little rat of ferrix, a creature that nobody really wants around, except for the moments in which cass has chosen not to ignore him. ( those became less frequent practically the moment they first shared exploratory kisses, touches, first shared a bed, swearing in an inch of shared breath that they could have a little fun and make each other feel good as friends and it would change nothing, even though it instantly changed everything. ) to think that anybody, let alone ferrix’s golden boy, would want him for keeps would be ridiculous. cassian andor, the one everyone loves no matter how much he fucks up. it doesn’t matter that they are so much the same, that whatever souls live within them are forged almost indistinguishably ; tristan will never receive the same grace as his companion. it is as much a reliable pattern as the rising of the sun.

and now he’s truly alone. seneca certainly wasn’t much for company or comfort or family, and tris is certain he won’t actually miss the man. in fact, there’s a chance his life will be much improved by his absence — and an equally potent possibility that he isn’t nearly as dead as the reports claim. but he had been something, someone who at least spoke to him, who provided some semblance to tris of being human even though tris had always been aware he didn’t fully think of him that way. the news of the criminal’s death has surely spread throughout ferrix and is likely being quietly celebrated by many ; he expects that rumor mill is why cassian’s here at all. perhaps tris should feel grateful that at least one person in the galaxy has bothered to make sure he’s all right, but it turns to sickness in his gut to know this is what it took to bring him back.

the lamp at tris’s bedside hums and glows, the light catching on the planes of their faces, although tristan only spares a glance for his friend who lingers in the middle of the room, determined to mostly keep his back turned as he stands beside his own cot, uncertain how to proceed. you need someone right now, cassian says, and tristan wants to scream. I don’t need anybody! his instincts howl furiously. not anybody, not him, and certainly not you! but he says nothing, not even as he hears the other man’s footsteps grow closer behind him. and I’m the one that’s here, he continues as he hovers over tris’s shoulder, bending his head near to his ear, two hands tentatively lifting to trace careful fingers over his waist. tristan wants to lash out, to remind him that he hadn’t been, that he’d avoided him, that he’d rejected him again and has no right to say this to him now. it’s a sharp, cruel reminder that tristan has no one else, not really. unless cassian’s whims bring him here instead of to some new distraction, he is alone. let me be what you need. it is these last words whispered against the shell of tristan’s ear that cut like a knife, pressing into some part of him reserved solely for the other man, some part of him that is already all agony.

“ cassian, ” he protests weakly, shaking his head and lifting his hands to cover his own face, even as his head tilts back to meet cass’s solid shoulder. the other man’s mouth finds his neck, kissing a sensuous line from the hinge of his jaw downward, pulling a frustrated yet keening groan from him. resentment. desire. yearning. hated. so many ravenous emotions spring against the bars of their cages in his chest at his lover’s touch. cassian’s hands explore the familiar angles of his hips and torso, slipping beneath his shirt to trace over his abdomen, prompting a shiver that travels to the base of tristan’s spine. “ you have someone waiting on you. ” equal parts stubborn and breathless, although for all he knows, cassian’s most recent tryst is over with already as they often are, which would have eventually led him to tristan’s doorstep anyway. it is more confirmation of what tris knows than actual fact, the subtext clear as day — I know you left me to chase greener pastures again, I know you’ve been warming another bed, I know these hands have most recently brought another to wordless pleasure, I know you took away what I need only to bring it back at my lowest moment as though you are somehow benevolent. he hates him for it. he hates himself for it more.

tristan feels the other man pull him back against him fully, one hand spread on his abdomen just under his sternum while his other arm holds him shoulder to shoulder, his forearm firm and warm against tristan’s collarbone. he pretends to struggle, enough to make clear he’s still upset about what happened, yet certainly not enough to convince his lover he actually wants to be let go. his hands fall from his face, hooking on the arm restraining his shoulders. the bitter truth lies in the overwhelming relief he feels, the one emotion louder than all the others, although his shame for it runs a close second. he knows his expression must be mutilated with distress as he closes his eyes, pulls a breath through his teeth, lets cassian suck hungry marks into the skin of his neck as he guides him closer to the cot. I want to hate him, tris thinks bitterly, achingly. everything would be easier if I could just hate him. but he doesn’t, he couldn’t, not this man who he’d grown up with, who knows and understands the bitter beating heart of him. he wears that weakness like the brand of a curse, the outline of cassian andor’s fingertips burned into his skin, into the very core of him, in a way he’s beginning to think he’ll never escape.

it's been three years since she left the dry deserts of tatooine, nothing but the clothes on her back, three days of rations, and a fake id card that reads the name of her losses. padmé amidala had died on polis massa, the massive funeral procession on her home planet broadcasted for billions across the galaxy to view. another tragic headline among the vile hatred spewed for the traitorous jedi order. the headlines had been fascinated with her death, fueled malevolence with its lines of questions: who had murdered her? what jedi? why? tragedy had marred it all, suffocated her with the usual speculation that had haunted her career as a senator: who was the father of her children? someone back home at naboo or another senator, perhaps? padmé amidala had always been a feast for the public eye, nothing short of an absolute spectacle, and her death had offered no room for privacy or mercy around that.

nothing had existed on tatooine for a long time, a shell of a body and hollowed out eyes. when something inside of her had burned again, it had been taken out on obi-wan ben in many ways: volatile disagreements fueled by rage and grief for the both of them. no peace had come from watching her son at a distance, knowing the larses were doing their best with him. helplessness threatened to drown her and she wanted nothing more than to add fuel to the fire. cordé had been reborn then, something familiar enough that she could engrain it so deep inside of her that no one else threatened to come to the service. she'd been a master of masks and disguises since her early teens, knew exactly how to be someone else when the time came for it - and the time had come again. padmé amidala needed to stay dead, but her heart was still beating against all odds. so cordé lived instead. gone too soon, sacrificed. a chance to finally offer a legacy other than the shroud of amidala.

her most recent meeting with mon mothma had come with a recommendation: make contact with one of their allies within the fulcrum network. there's a bigger picture behind it, she knows that much, but does not ask for the details yet - it would be relieved when it was safer. padmé or cordé, whoever she is, trusts mon beyond a shred of a doubt. it is the only sense of consistency that she has now.

jyn doesn't trust cassian -- doesn't trust anyone, let alone someone who's trained as a spy ( trained to lie ) for nearly his entire life. but sometime between her release from wobani and nearly dying on the beach, her opinion on him changed -- stark hatred to an unfamiliar feeling she'd rather not think too much about. best to lock it up in the cave in her mind, where everything else of that nature goes, so she doesn't have to think about it. it's startling, how, over the course of less than a week, she'd started to let walls down. upon this realization, she'd immediately built them back up, but it'd been so long that she hadn't even realized that it'd been happening. ( that, in itself, is the scariest part of this. how he'd been able to disarm her so easily -- are all alliance spies like him ? )

there's a part of her that feels like she . . . knows him, recognizes portions of herself staring back from his gaze when he looks at her. realistically, logically, she has no reason for this feeling -- hell, she doesn't even know how old he is or where he's from, yet there's no denying the ( inevitably one-sided ) connection that tethers a small part of her to him. she'd be lying if it hadn't factored into her joining the alliance after scarif -- it hadn't been her only motivation, but it's been so long since someone had come back for her and he'd done it more than once.

her hands clench tight around her weapon, knuckles white as they curl over the blaster. the steady anticipation of a fight thrums through her veins. the pair ofthem haven't been running missions together long –– it hadn't worked out at first -- but even the council can't deny the results now. despite how often they butt heads, they're an effective team on the battlefield, playing to each other's strengths and covering the other's weaknesses. her brain doesn't trust him. . .but in moments like these, her body does -- when she's acting solely on instinct, she trusts that he'll have her back without a second thought.

" you talkin' to me or yourself ? " she retorts, the corner of her mouth quirking up despite herself. the adrenaline coursing through her veins makes her feel lighter than usual, though she's not fool enough to let it distract her from their surroundings ; just because the last fight had been in their favor doesn't mean the next one will, and there's always a possibility that a rogue imp will be hiding around the next corner. but it's enough to make everything else in the world outside of her narrow focus a little farther away. it's just her, cassian, and the mission on hand -- nothing else.

Selah looks at him across the wooden expanse of the dining table before dipping her spoon in the broth. Selah enjoys silence, but this isn't like the silence she's grown accustomed to. Without sharing words, he makes noise with clank of his spoon against the bowl and creaking his chair when he moves.

The storm outside muffles it some.

She lowers her gaze to her bowl and hesitates before eating more.

"I am sure you're tired." She fidgets with the spoon, a nervousness overcoming her now that she's decided to speak. "Once we are done eating, I can bring blankets to the prayer room so you have somewhere to sleep." Selah offers him a small smile. "It's peaceful in there."

And it doesn't feel so wrong for him to be there. It isn't like the table, meant to be for her Sisters and her Sisters alone. Men visited the prayer rooms in the time before, when people still came and the monastery wasn't filled with ghosts.

She looks down. "I am sorry that we do not have the parts for your ship." She can't help but say we. "A boat will come in four days. They come every five days to go to the main islands, but you just missed the last one."

HE IS DRAWN NOW TO CASSIAN AS THOUGH HE WERE THE SHADOW ATTACHED TO HIS VERY HEELS. in a way, tristan considers himself so, making darker what was already dark by nature, a reflection in a glassy pool by midnight. the viper has become half legend, nearly a cautionary folktale, spoken of only in whispers, the humans in their filthy cities straddling the boundary between treating those whispers with genuine terror or as a bedtime story to frighten their children into behaving. as occurs with all such tales, he knows his details have been greatly exaggerated. the black eyes of a demon, the fangs of a beast stained with the blood of the humans he's eaten, great claws sharp enough to easily slit a sleeping throat. in reality, he appears an innocuous member of his kind, an elf shorter than average, lithe and almost delicate in figure, with wide and pleading eyes too large for his angular face. but his demure aspect makes him no less deadly, no less the nightmare they fear, just as @k4ssa's charm makes him no less a vengeful equalizer of elfkind.

together, they form a consummate whole, born of the same star split in two, a beast of many mouths prepared to feast upon their pound of flesh, a merciless right hand of justice against their oppressors where no other has proved effective. and where cassian may be little more than a wisp of smoke to most, he cannot escape tristan's watch, drawn as the snake is to the other half of himself, as though from the moment he had snatched that first kill from his counterpart's fingertips, the moment he set pen to paper in the blood of their mutual victim, some long forgotten bond had snapped in place, taut between them, pulling and pulling and pulling against his chest until he satisfies the urge to haunt his reflection once more. for some time, he remained but a whisper in cassian's thoughts, a different sort of myth to him than to the rest of the world, an illusive presence proven only through letters and the intentional remnants of his acts. he has since revealed himself, coming and going with the night when he chooses to appear, as though he were little more than a dream.

he knows cassian senses him in the room now and watches him pause at the table by the window as he sets down his things, clearly noting the loosened lock, the intentional shift of the curtain. though he cannot see the other's expression, tris imagines a knowing curl of his lips, an anticipatory spark in his clever eyes as what should feel like a trap settles warmly on his shoulders like the comfort of a homespun quilt. a hunger wells within him. he knows not for what – only that it begins with cassian's voice, an acknowledgement of his uninvited presence in the rafters above his room, concealed in shadow.

" I missed you. " the words sate the snake more than he had expected, momentarily robbing him of breath, wrapping their warm fingers around the beating heart in his chest and squeezing, affectionate, violent. he shifts on the beam upon which he's perched, noiseless, dark eyes glinting as he watches his companion, the subtle shift of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin. his hunger deepens. silent as smoke, he moves from one beam to the next, then drops behind him without sound, crouched on the wooden floor like a wildcat stalking its prey.

TRISTAN CAN HARDLY BELIEVE AT THIS POINT THE NUMBER OF YEARS HE'S BEEN HERE. here in this context, of course, meaning the rebellion, wherever it may be at the time. early 2 bby marked the beginning of his involvement, when chance ( or perhaps something more powerful ) had brought him and @k4ssa back together after years apart. now, almost four years later, they're nearly to the end of 1 aby, and still to his surprise, tristan finds himself on a rebel cruiser between missions, with a goddamned lieutenant's rank pin attached to his jacket no less. he is no devotee, no martyr, no champion for the rebel cause even now. he has, as ever, one thing alone to fight for, one cause he holds tightly and jealously to his chest, that he refuses to let go, no matter how many times the galaxy tries to wrench them apart.

that cause sits across from him on their cot now, cross-legged like tristan, frowning at the cards he holds in one hand, a steaming cup of tea occupying the other. for his part, tris nearly forgets to look at his own cards, momentarily distracted as he is by cassian's look of concentration - the very same one he makes when one of his droid projects gets difficult, when some document on his datapad isn't quite right, whenever there is a problem for his analytical mind to solve. like all of his looks, tristan has memorized it : the way that deep crease forms between his brows, his eyes intensify and focus, the corners of his mouth pull downward. once, it would have concerned him to see it ; now, it signals a good day, a sharp day, a day in which cassian is in complete command of his mind. since the battle of scarif, what once was taken entirely for granted is now a journey taken a day at a time.

while it has never been said aloud, tristan suspects cass knows perfectly well that's where the tradition of playing cards began, among other habits. he has never seen the captain as deficient, weaker, broken - could never, for that matter, not cassian, never cassian - but it would have been impossible to miss the changes in him following the scarif incident. strange blanks in his memory, trailing off mid-sentence, the way his hands shake sometimes, his aim suddenly poor ... tris didn't need to study his ( mysteriously sanitized ) medical records to know where the symptoms came from. like a loyal mongrel, he'd stood between cass and anybody who dared even insinuate any question about his suitability for his post, insulated the captain by distracting others when his train of thought briefly left him or some other symptom rose visibly to the surface. all throughout, he steadfastly refused to capitulate to any suggestion that the other man isn't on top of his game – even while accepting a rank pin he'd never wanted from a frazzled high command with the agreement that tris report to and act as support for cassian only.

privately, however, he grasped at ways to help, to half-trick cass into some form of recovery, however paltry. but tris is no natural caretaker, and anyway, his lover balks and bites at even the slightest hint that somebody's trying to do so. activities like this work best, when it's easy to act as though their only goal is to spend time together - especially because, perhaps now more than ever somehow, they do want to spend that time together, openly. so several times a week, they play sakresh just like this, and on particularly cheeky nights like tonight, they make bets strictly based on which items of clothing they'll remove if they lose the hand.

this early in the evening, they're tied for points, both now lacking shoes, socks, gloves, and jacket. eventually, they will reach a point when the state of undress distracts them too much, and one thing will lead to another and they'll find themselves tangled in the sheets and each other with their cards scattered over the floor and bedspread. but for now, they play in earnest, individually determined as always to at least be wearing more clothes than their companion when that inevitable distraction occurs.

“ all those nights you kept me goin’, ” cassian says half distractedly and tris hums in question before realizing that it’s a belated response to the conversation they’d been having before they dealt the new hand. he blinks, again looking away from his cards at cass and his mask of concentration across the mattress. he knows he must look momentarily dumbfounded, such that he's grateful cass isn't actually looking at him, giving him the opportunity to scrub his expression, to look back at his cards, even if he can't resist one final glance at his lover's concentrated expression. it's strange to hear him verbally acknowledge that there'd been a struggle at all, given how determined he's been to behave as though nothing at all has changed since scarif, even in tristan's presence. tris knows it isn't a matter of trust, rather than cass's own anxiety surrounding his own perception that he's become useless, a burden. pure absurdity, as far as tris is concerned, but nonetheless a fear he could have predicted from the person he knows best in this galaxy.

“ it wasn't difficult, ” he answers, casual as anything, as he rearranges his cards in his hand, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. that's an enormous simplification of the situation's reality, of course ; things had been remarkably difficult to start, with cass's condition stacked on top of a variable emotional cacophony of fury and grief that howled between them. but that was a long time ago now and their wounds had begun to scar, at least, if not heal completely. the mere act of being there for cassian, of defending him, of standing between him and everyone else, however, is – and has always been, to tristan – quite simple, natural, almost subconscious. they have never failed protect one another from all other perils, even if they cannot shield each other against themselves.

he hums thoughtfully again as he pretends to study his cards a little more closely, sliding his pointer finger slowly along their faces, taking stock of his hand. only briefly does he glance at his lover, a bare flicker of his dark eyes, their momentary lingering brimming with all the words he'll never quite say. the world around them seems to hold its breath and tristan inhales the peace of it, punctuated by the comfortingly familiar scent of cass's ( their ) quarters – mud and musk and something of them overlaid in blaster oil and the distant sting of sterile cleaning products from cass's last irritated tirade about tristan's habits. for all the galaxy alienates him, and he alienates himself from it in turn, this place – what has become their home – cradles him in a comfort he's known nowhere else.

a recklessness, a desire to do good, some lost values the man had been holding tight to. a boy at the time, like din was, no matter how beskar covered he was. but din had been trained, MADE TO SURVIVE, the same could not be said to the kid he used to know.

TRISTAN KNOWS HE LOOKS FAR FROM HAPPY, DESPITE THE FACT THAT — IN THEORY — HE SHOULD BE ELATED. he is, after all, recently wed, and to quite the coveted catch, apparently, especially for one as unpleasant as he, or so say the whispers as he understands them. cassian jeron andor, darling of the coruscanti elite, the last remaining bastion of his wealthy family with all of their money and holdings to his name, all good looks and charm wrapped in an impeccably dressed package. apparently many others vied for his hand before the arrangement was made between andor and the young corellian senator by their individually trusted advisors. a smart match politically and socially, it’s said, even if the senator is a bit harsh and less than beloved, even if they’d all expected something a bit different for cassian. still, they make a terribly handsome pair, as remarked in detail upon by the gossip rag permitted to cover the event of their wedding some weeks ago, a number of pages devoted to the photographs, their wedding attire, the colors, the linens, the venue, the guests, the cake. seneca had even arranged to incorporate an exchange of vows in olys corellisi, or old corellian, which had made the assembled guests gasp in delight and which the reporter praised in her coverage ; tris knew quite well it was only meant to signal that andor belongs to the corellians now. he’s fairly certain he doesn’t quite agree.

in any case, it appears common knowledge that the match had not been one of love, but it seems a fact easily overlooked by the majority of coruscanti society who had simply coveted an invitation. who really cared if the senator and the socialite were actually in love, as long as they could throw an event that lavish? even as he stands here, frowning against the rim of his drink as he observes the guests at this particular mixer hosted by the senate, he hopes they don’t get used to such hospitality from him. he hadn’t wanted a marriage in the first place, only accepting it on the insistence of his advisors. he has significant assets holdings, they said, and no apparent political ambitions of his own. apparently, that made him a perfect candidate to serve their intentions for corellia and the rest of their system. at the end of the day, there seemed no good reason to resist it, other than his own distaste. it’s the publicity that spawns regret in him. he has never been one for the spotlight, senator or not, and the pedantic fascination of coruscanti society with the spectacle of his marriage makes his gut twist unpleasantly. all is for the good of corellia, but he wonders if this particular good could have been avoided.

tristan feels his new husband’s presence at his shoulder the instant he appears, but does not turn immediately, resistant as he remains in the face of this charade. he can be married in name. he can share a penthouse in the federal district with a man he barely knows and certainly does not trust. he can even put on his finest clothing and bring cassian on his arm to events just like this for all of coruscant society to see and delightedly whisper about. but he does not feel the need to play pretend at every moment, to flawlessly maintain a pretense that neither convinces, nor truly matters to their peers. for all he cares, the political nature of their marriage can remain blatantly apparent to all. cassian maintains a slightly different opinion, he knows, believing that leaning into some fantasy of romance will prove useful and strategic ; he is already well adored, which is bound to bolster tris’s likability by proxy — and the bored and wealthy are just giddy for a love story, aren’t they? for his part, tristan hardly sees the point, which is why he’s barely able to bite back a grimace when cassian coaxes him for “ just one dance, darling, ” with a doting patience in his voice that tris notices does not quite reach his eyes, when he finally turns to look at the other man.

“ I don’t suppose you’ll let it alone until I agree, ” he mutters somewhat bitterly under his breath, only loud enough for his spouse ( derogatory ) to hear. with some purpose, he tips back the remainder of his cocktail before setting the glass aside on the table beside him, finally allowing his gaze to flicker to the outstretched hand. a frustrated huff escapes him, impatient already with cassian’s sparkling, practiced manners, such a contrast to his own dark demeanor which hasn’t gained him much popularity amongst other politicians in his young career.

finally, he takes that hand and rises, unable to keep from scowling slightly at the wolfish smirk of victory that curls cassian’s mouth when he does. one of tristan's earliest lessons had been that everything on the political stage amounts to a game, to strategy. he hadn't expected marriage to fall into that same category – even if it wasn't something he had ever actively considered for himself at all. to hold the defensive when in public is one thing ; to live his whole life that way, now that he shares a flat, is something else entirely.