#lakshay

Lakshay licked his lips, “I think we’re short on time is all.” 

“And whose fault is that?”

Lakshay frowned. They had both overslept. Lakshay lifted his eyes, watched where the blacks of his faded behind his eyelids, shrinking away from Lakshay, moving to the opposite end of the room to appraise a rack of training implements. He seemed to fill this empty space with smoke, a violent indignation that poisoned Lakshay through the Force. Lakshay cleared his throat of it, mastered himself, and said, “You're right. Without sound footing, the lessons won't stick. We should consider the young ones’ retention. Their…focus.” 

He kept his hands busy with a bokken saber, but showed himself to Lakshay in profile. “Very pragmatic,” he spoke in perfect Core articulation, not brusque, not brutal like Lakshay. And he thought once more of the younglings, how they tethered to the soft string melodies of his partner’s instruction, how they stiffened and shivered by his. It was a diurnal cycle that seemed to bisect his confidence. By night, his brutality was adored. By day—

“Master,” he started, tossing Lakshay the saber, “show me your retention.” 

Lakshay sighed. “You're right I said—” 

“I may be. Maybe not,” but his tone suggested it was all to be a lesson he was imparting on Lakshay. He, of all people, to be schooled. It was a juvenile, frankly unattractive side of him. He was over a century Lakshay's senior, but at times behaved no different than a youngling, capricious and unkind. 

Or, Lakshay mused, to him I am still in my infancy. No different than a youngling. 

Lakshay flattened his mouth to a thin line, dropped his knees and fell into ‘ready position’. Lakshay felt with his orbit came his assessment of him, and ostensibly, an invitation to push where he pulled. 

“Is this necessary?” 

“Is this necessary, Master.” 

Lakshay let out a half-hearted laugh, shaking his head. Master. A Knight’s idea of a joke (...a Knight’s idea of a barb). “I’m far too old for this—” Lakshay started. 

“Form one.” Lakshay moved on instinct. “One, two,” Lakshay obeyed, spinning his saber overhead in a tight arc left, then right, then down in a sharp strike, “three, four,” and he promptly slipped. He felt his heel make contact with the white leather toe of his would-be instructor’s boot. Lakshay tensed, riled by the interruption. 

“You slipped,” the words spilled sibilant from between his fangs, brushing against Lakshay’s ear, skimming his pebbled skin.  Had he slipped? Had he been made to? He wasn’t here to ascertain the truth of this scene; he was back in his quarters, admiring the droning skyline, the weight of his hips, his long fingers curled in Lakshay’s hair, plaiting a slapdash style to keep his rowdy curls in line. These were soft, heavenly moments isolated from the rhythm of the Temple. These were swift, dangerous moments. He fanned the fire for too long, invited its advance, swallowing smoke until he choked. There was heaven, here in instruction, with the children, with him. Lakshay pried himself free, untangled their limbs, managing a smile, fond and forgiving.