#keldae

Now, I’ve seen the word performative in relation to activism and being an ally in that if your activism doesn’t include everyone then it’s a performative act. So I’m looking at my offensive matcha latte both profoundly confused and extremely concerned that my beverage choice (which, keep in mind, I am trying for the first time in my entire life) has inadvertently angered someone and am high key panicking that I’ve let my students down.

And then that same student who clocked the matcha, immediately, with fiendish glee on his face, sprints outside my door yelling to all the kids walking up:

“Yo, you’re not gonna believe this—she’s got a matcha latte.”

So now they’re all pushing each other out of the way to get into my room to see said latte. Six (or maybe seven) subsequent kids walk into my room shaking their heads, clocking the latte with death glares saying, “look at her outfit, look at her matcha, she’s so performative.”

By this point, I’m chugging the latte just to get rid of the evidence before more kids walk in. So finally, when I can’t take it anymore, I corner a kid I can trust and say: ‘I know the dictionary definition of performative, but what does that word mean to your generation? Because eight months ago six and seven were just numbers.’

Long story short, it’s a meme about buying into the Instagram lifestyle and wearing wired headphones while you drink a matcha latte but you’re just doing it for the aesthetic because it’s trendy and not because you like it or believe in it. If you already knew that: congratulations! If you didn’t, learn from my mistakes. Drink your matcha lattes as far way from the youth as you possibly can.

Being a teacher is like being a candle. Except the fire being lit is not from their enriching educational experience in your classroom. Gentle reader—the burning fire is from your students roasting you alive for drinking a matcha latte. And that is something new I learned this week!

“Then we’d better start rigging up a shelter, or we won’t last long enough to have the chance. I don’t think this storm-” her mask prickles against her face, the heat of her breath not enough to thaw the frost as she does a few quick calculations in her head. In this cold and wind they’ve got half an hour, probably, before they risk losing toes. Maybe less than that.

Theron nods. “Might have something better. Hold on.” He tilts his head. “You up for a hike?”

“Define hike.” She’s already off the speeder, though, pulling the camouflage covers out from beneath the seat. Storm or not, she’ll be damned if those pirates steal the power cells back (they were Imperial property to begin with, technically speaking, so really she’s just taking them back, right?), and the skiff’s far too heavy to haul behind them to shelter. “Tatooine, or Belsavis?”

“I’m pretty sure I apologized for Belsavis.”

“The swamp was particularly scenic the third time around.” She throws the far end of the tarp at him and he hooks it down against the skiff. “Although their MaxSec is a joke. I could have broken out of there with a shoelace and a sharp stick.”

That was a grin, she thinks. It’s hard to tell beneath mask and scarf and hood and goggles. “I bet. And think Tatooine- I’m picking up a bolthole a half-klick east. We picked a good place to break down.”

“Next time, shoot for a sauna.”

Theron takes point with the emergency pack slung over one shoulder, breaking a rough trail insofar as it’s possible with ice stinging through their coats and snow drifting in heaps and piles waist-high in places, filling in his footprints almost before she can step into them. But he keeps moving forward and she pushes hard to keep pace- his strides are longer and she could have run this distance twenty times over without a thought but running’s one thing; slogging on half-numb feet with a headwind faster than they’re moving’s something else entirely. After two hundred meters he signs back at her, glancing over his shoulder. Okay?

She returns the sign and points forward- keep going.

Void, she hates Hoth.

Another hundred meters and then another hundred. They must be nearly on top of it by now but she still can’t see it, doesn’t even really know what they’re looking for but clearly Theron does; he stops abruptly and crouches down beside a snowbank, digging with both hands until he strikes something solid. Even then he keeps going, clearing off a flat surface- after a minute she grabs the pack off his shoulder and pulls out the little folding shovel and sets in beside him- until a small metallic hatch with a ring-shaped handle sits exposed.

A very small hatch.

She thinks she knows what’s beyond it. (For a brief regretful moment she recalls a dugout trench on Alderaan, up to her hips in rubble and mud in the middle of a warzone and fighting a Sith for the one dry foxhole until he threw her half the length of the trench and slammed the entrance shut before she could move again. That ended up working in her favor; an artillery barrage took out the whole damned emplacement ten minutes later.) It’ll be tight quarters, but better than nothing. Better than freezing to death. 

She and Theron both reach for the ring, pulling backward together until the door hinges open with a squeal of protest. “After you.” Theron gestures into the darkness beyond the hatch.

“If a wampa eats me-” she reaches into the pack again, pulling out a chemlight and cracking it between her hands- “I will haunt you forever. Fair warning.”

Crouching, one hand on her knife and the chemlight in the other, she makes her way slowly down the entrance tunnel into the main room of the shelter. It’s empty, at least- probably an old Republic hideout if Theron had it in his own maps, and this stretch of terrain’s still nominally White Maw territory- but scarcely large enough for one person, let alone two: a padded mat and sleepsack, a few hooks for hanging wet gear, a little camp-style ‘fresher in one corner. But it’s dry, and warmer than outside. It’s something. She calls back to Theron.

“Wampa-free. Latch the door behind you.”

There ought to be a lantern in their kit somewhere, she thinks, and she crouches down to look for it just as he clears the entrance and almost trips over her. “Well,” he says, bracing himself against the wall, “this is cozy. Sorry. If I’d known-”

“It’s not so bad. ” Lantern lit, she hands it up to him. “Hang this up there?”

“I could go find a tauntaun. Had a buddy who claims he sheltered through a storm inside a dead one once.”

The light bounces off the walls, casting shadows into the corners; she pulls off her goggles, hat and mask and ah, that’s better and- wait. “You can’t be serious.”

Theron shrugs. “Cross my heart. Gutted it with a-”

“Force, imagine the smell. I’d rather freeze to death.” She wrinkles her nose. “Help me get my jacket off.”

Gloves off next, half-sodden and studded with ice- that’s what she gets for wearing combat gloves in this weather. Her fingers shriek protest but start to pink up quickly; flexing her hands for a minute until she can almost feel them, she manages to get all her coat fastenings undone and holds up her arms. Theron reaches for her sleeves, tugging the heavy jacket off over her head. “I don’t think this place actually has heat, speaking of freezing to death. Are you sure you want to kit down?”

“Better than wet gear, and it’s warm enough to sleep- we’ll barely fit in the sleepsack as it is, let alone in all that extra padding. This storm’s supposed to last all night, so we may as well get some rest.”

“You should sleep. I can-”

She wiggles one foot free of her boot and kicks it at him. “Warmer with two. Unless you’ve gotten tired of sleeping with me?”

“That isn’t-” Seeing her grin, Theron stops answering just long enough to drop a chunk of snow onto the back of her neck and as she yelps and swats at him he finally starts to undress himself, coat and insulated trousers and scarf and hat and boots all put up carefully to dry until he’s standing in just his woven undersuit and rolls his eyes at her when she whistles appreciatively. “You know what I meant. Now take off your pants.”

“Rather forward of you,” she says, unhooking her belt as she tries to get up again; in the little space she has to stand on the padded mat. “Considering.”

He dabs at a water droplet on the mat with one sock-clad foot; the snow’s been melting as she sat. “It’s that or you get the wet spot. Your choice.”

“I’ve changed my mind. Have fun with your tauntaun.” The effect’s entirely ruined by her giggling- he’s not nearly so serious as he likes to pretend but in all their time together she’s pretty sure he’s joked about sex exactly twice (that being the second time) and given the circumstances she can’t help but laugh as she wriggles out of her own trousers. “As for me, I’m going to sleep.”

Theron knows she’s teasing, of course. She can tell by the way he kisses her.

It’s a close fit as they both settle into the sleepsack, doing up the fastening to keep as much heat in as possible. But moving’s overrated, anyway, with his arms around her waist and breath on the back of her neck, and before long her eyelids flicker with the lamplight.

“See?” she murmurs. “Warmer with two.”

Causal outfits:

Armor:

Jedi looks:

Can there ever be too many versions of this classic look? I dont think so:

Negotiating a price far below market value, Mairen returned back to the small apartment with not one, but two containers of the flowering vines. She’d been thankful that her fiance had vacated to Coruscant for the day, attending to some debrief or other at headquarters. He’d have given her endless hell for the mess. As she stood there, looking at them sprawled over the wooden decking, she wondered, too, if she’d made a mistake. But no, there were reasons -- as yet unclear -- she ended up with the plants. It was up to her to make it work.

Armed with gloves, snips, and allowing the Force to guide her, she took a deep breath and plunged ahead. A few hours disappeared in the blink of an eye; potting soil, weeds, dead branches, and other detritus scattered around her like a halo, along with the old planters. She saw to it that all had been disposed of before she went to hang the vines in their new home. They now adorned each side of the balcony exit, seated securely against the ledges. It was only as she stood there, admiring her handywork, that time seemed to re-engage.

“Mai?”

A warm smile curved her lips, affection radiating through her. “On the balcony!”

She watched as Reanden Taerich padded through the living room, his expression an echo of hers. As he neared the doorway, however, a furrow flickered over his brow. It was still creased as he leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. “What are you doing out here?”

“A little decorating.” Mairen nodded, indicating the vines that now draped over the stucco walls. “They’re a cousin to the candlewick flower, I think. Genetically altered, of course, because, well, Corellia and we couldn’t just leave something so Alderaanian.”

The silver-haired agent turned, gaze falling onto the vines. He swallowed visibly. “I… thought I smelled them, as I came through,” he said. His voice was thick, heavy with emotion, as was his Force signature. “Wh --” He paused, clearing his throat. “Where did you find them?”

“A little stall in the market. They just… called to me. I remember Mum and Da had them all over the walls, at home in Coronet.” Mairen reached out, smoothing her hand over the nape of his neck. “Are you all right, love?”

“Airna grew them on Lavisar -- on the back of the house.” He offered her a lopsided, bittersweet smile curving his lips, eyes somewhat glassy. “They reminded her of home.”

Mairen felt again the slightest nudge from the Force. “I’m sorry, love,” she said. “I can take them down --” She moved toward the ladder.

He shook his head, reaching to catch her hand as she made to step away. “No… I mean, unless you want to. I know we’re trying to make a new start, and…” He sighed. “I could see how it might be awkward.”

“Oh, love.” Mai closed the distance between them. “She was your wife, Reanden; the mother of your kids. She will always be part of you and part of them.” Reaching up, she curled her free arm around his neck. “Hells, love, she’s family. I’ll never ask you to forget her. Yes, we’re here, getting on with our lives -- trying to enjoy retirement in the warmth and the sunshine. But if these will upset you…”

Again, he shook his head, releasing her hand and bringing both to rest against her hips. “As long as you’re comfortable with it, I think they should stay,” he said. “I think the kids will like them, too.”

Mairen pursed her lips as she regarded him. Along their bond, she could feel the bittersweet sting of the memories, swirling with warmth and affection. “If you’re sure.” She gave a lopsided grin. “Maybe I won’t kill them.”

“They’re a lot heartier than you think.” Reanden gave a chuckle, dropping a kiss to her forehead. “Something about Corellians.”

“We’re a stubborn lot.” She smoothed her hands over his shoulders, chest, and then back around his neck, interlacing her fingers. “Not exactly known for my green thumb, though.”

“Only if you’re still wearing your green gloves,” he teased. His expression sobered and he leaned forward, kissing her slowly, almost reverently. He drew back. “Thank you, Mai.”