#lukecest

The roar of the crowd deafens him, the loudest thing Luke has ever heard. He forces himself to stay stoic, relying on his training, his studies. He is The Last Jedi, Padawan to Obi-Wan Kenobi, son of the greatest Jedi who ever lived. It is only a crowd. He will not cower, despite the insidious compulsion to do so.

It's only a body.

I am a luminous being, he tells himself, though it does nothing to erase the blush darkening his face. The "robe" he's wearing — more of a long shirt, really, that opens in the middle and barely falls to the tops of his thighs — is sheer enough that the people filling the Empress's courtroom can see everything, the modest slip of cloth holding his junk doing next to nothing to conceal him.

Beside him, the man Luke refuses to think of as his twin is wearing an identical garment, though black, while Luke's is white. He releases the swell of jealousy he feels to the Force, tearing his gaze away from his Sith-self's posed form. Black had been his signature color since Bespin, it feels wrong to wear anything else.

The darker robe also hides more of his other self's body, to his annoyance, despite being equally as sheer as his own. The tone of Luke's skin stands out starkly beneath the white fabric, a contrast to the man sharing his seat, who appears merely sensuous, almost regal. It highlights his vulnerability, adds an air of helplessness the citizens of the Empire seem to flock to en masse. Though maybe that's the point.

"As you all know, our son Lukas has been our pride and joy, the greatest gift the Force had ever given us," the Empress, his not-mother, says to her adoring court, the holocams hovering at the base of the stairs leading to her and Vader's thrones.

"I am overjoyed to announce the return of Prince Lukas's younger twin, His Imperial Highness, Prince Luke Skywalker," her smile turns a little playful, girlish, almost. Luke feels his stomach sink to the balls of his feet. "Or little Lu, as his big brother is fond of calling him."

The crowd erupts into cheers, echoed by the throng of people outside the Palace walls, filling the streets, all of Imperial Center congregated to see his publicized humiliation.

Lukas takes his hand, squeezes it tight, the way Leia always used to, and pulls him to his feet, standing side by side in front of their shared throne. He loses his grip on his composure and curls away, his near nudity made so much worse by the simple act of standing. His ears burn hot enough to hurt when the people staring at him burst into adoring coos, aww's and oh's and look how sweet's.

"The Empire has long adored its Beguiling Prince, our firstborn son," Vader says, taking Padmé's hand the same way Lukas had taken his, threading their fingers together. "I trust all of you will welcome our youngest with the same depth of love and loyalty, as he tends to be a fair bit shyer than his older brother."

"The Shy Prince," the Empress decrees, smiling at the cheerful celebration that overtakes the courtroom, the moniker unanimously accepted. "He will serve you well, as I trust all of you will serve him."

"To the Shy Prince!" a Moff cries, raising a goblet of sweet smelling wine, igniting the people around him to do the same. Lukas chuckles at the display, taking the opportunity to reclaim their seat, sprawled a little less demurely, his robe sliding open all the way to his collarbones.

"Sit with me," he says, and pulls Luke down into his lap, disguising his thrashing as a quick fumble to comfortably arrange themselves. "You don't need to be scared, little Lu. They love you, you know."

Luke closes his eyes, turning to hide his face in his other self's throat, uncaring that he's mooning the Imperial Court and the holonet beyond — at this rate, they'll all see it, probably sooner than later. What does it matter?