#neyocs

Eya snorts at the very literal translation of what they assume is a Basic phrase they don’t know.

“It was… bad?” they inquire, cocking their head to taste the air. It turns sour and rancid when Fives shakes his head and sighs deeply, letting out all the air as if it was so heavy it could weigh him down.

“It was bad,” he agrees. “But… I would like to say it was worth it in the end. I’d like to say we were heroes, that we saved everyone and everybody thanked us on their knees for the help we provided… for the vode we sacrificed to make it.”

He pauses, takes a sip. Eya doesn’t press him. Fives rarely ever talks about the missions, like it’s an unspoken law. Maybe he likes remembering the crack of necks under his hands as little as Eya does.

“So… I would like to say it was worth it,” Fives eventually continues. “I- I just don’t know that it was. The mission itself was bad enough. Lost a lot of brothers down there, and it was- it was so stupid. Intel was bad, nothing was worth anything, and there was nobody worth saving. It was a ploy, it must’ve been, something to get our hopes up that it might turn the tides of war- something that let us think for a second that we could maybe win. But the worst part was that we were so… hated. From the second we touched down, everything went wrong and it wasn't even our fault. It wasn't even mistakes that could have been avoid, it was just- These people… osik, Eya, they didn’t even want to be saved. Not by us. They would rather have stayed Separatist slaves than look any of us in the face. Unnatural, one of them called me. A mistake of creation, an error of judgement, a lapse of reason. Would rather have died than be touched by me, said so himself.”

Fives downs his drink in one go, slams the glass down and signals the bartender for another. Eya doesn’t stop him, even if they don’t agree with the choice. They never have been one to drown their sorrows in alcohol, but thinking back, that might have been healthier than the alternative they picked.

“It doesn’t… please me that you were treated like this,” they offer, extending a hand to lay it on Fives’s warm forearm. He flinches, but then leans into the soft touch.

“You have an odd way of putting things sometimes, do you know that?” he mumbles. Eya’s hand seems so large on his small form. Slowly, they let their affection sink into his skin until the lines of rage are smoothed from Fives’s face.

“Mhhm, so I’ve been told. Not all of us grew up on Basic, vod’ika. Excuse me for having a family that stuck to the way,” Eya teases lightly.

“Believe me, if I had gotten to choose the language in which I was raised, it would not have been this one.” The words are tinged with anger, a bitterness seeping into Eya’s skin. “If I had gotten to choose the way I was raised, it would not have been this, if I had gotten to choose the man I wanted to become… I don’t think it would have been this.”

“Gar ori’jate verd, vod’ika,” Eya whispers, basking in the familiarity of their mother tongue saying words any Mando’ad should get to hear every day growing up. “Why would you-”

“It’s not about that.” Fives’s voice breaks even in those few syllables, and the deep lines of sorrow return to his face. “I never… Eya, cyare, this was never the way for me. I don’t think I would have ever chosen to become a soldier if I’d had a choice. Doesn’t matter I’m good at it. Doesn’t matter how many I kill, doesn’t matter that most of them aren’t even alive, are just droids, nothing more than violent machinery.”

He lowers his voice even more, speaking treasonous words that ring in Eya’s ears.

“I would never have chosen to fight in this pointless war. If I’d had a choice… some days I would have rather not been born. Not even born, Eya- Gods, I wasn't even born, was I? Decanted.” He spits the word out like it’s poisonous. “My creation was for one purpose only, do you understand that?”

“Gar sosol ti ni.” Eya’s words are meant to be consolation, but Fives’s eyes flare with anger at them.

“Nayc,” he disagrees passionately. “You had every option, Eya. You could have been whatever you wanted, you chose-”

Rage bubbles up in Eya’s chest, hot and bitter and ugly.

“Could I have?” they hiss, and notice that Fives leans back and away from their touch at the bitter words. They pull back their hand from him – they have no affection to give right now. “Really, vod? Go on- tell me what I could have been, since you seem to know so much about my life.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words sound strange off of Fives’s tongue. Maybe because Eya has rarely ever heard them before, not from anyone.

“You should be.” Eya’s kyram’edeem dig so hard into their lip that they taste blood, salty like the seas of their home. “You are important to me, Rayshe’e. But don’t ever assume that you know anything about my past.”

“Only because you never tell me anything,” Fives grumbles, but he doesn’t sound angry anymore. The air is filled with… frustration, yes, but also curiosity. He leans forward until his arm touches Eya’s again – a gesture of reconciliation.

Eya sighs heavily. Sometimes, fights with words are like this: Quick and sharp, and easily resolved. They prefer it to the quiet anger that smoulders and grows behind closed doors.

“It’s better this way, better that you know nothing,” they try to convince Fives, who has this expression on his face like he is about to ask a very dumb question. “It doesn’t… matter. I don’t want it to matter. It’s not important to who I am today.”

“Our past makes us everything we are,” Fives contradicts, and Eya has to hold their tongue.

“If that is true, then you should be running screaming,” they mumble, staring at the blank slate of the bar before them.

“Is that so?” There is a challenge in Fives’s voice, and it’s so stupid. It’s so, so stupid. Jare’la vod’ika.

Eya takes a deep breath and decides not to get mad at Fives. He doesn't know what he is asking.

“Elek, vod. That is so. Let’s leave it at that.” Eya knocks on the sealed wood of the bar with their mareve and revels in the sound of them, in the quiet warning that their weight carries. Fives, though, is seemingly resistant to that warning.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he drawls, drawing out each word like chewing gum. “Have you… have you ever lost a fight?”

Memories come crashing in, making Eya’s head spin: Someone whisked away from them, the sounds of explosions in the distance. More recent: black blood on their hands, the stench of their own blood in the air when they pick metal-covered bone splinters from the cut-up palm of their hand. Dead yellow eyes staring up at them.

They pull a small knife from the holster on their hip and start twirling it between their fingers, forcing themself to be grounded by the repetition.

“Naysol soletar.” Their answer is cold, detached, betrays nothing of the turmoil inside their head and hearts. Fives cocks his head.

“Too many to count, huh? You don’t seem like a person who likes to lose.”

Eya grits their teeth and clenches their fist, knife twirling faster in the other hand until it seems to blur between their fingers.

“Never said I liked it. I was a sore loser when I was younger… maybe I still am. Haven’t had many chances to find out.”

The only fights they have lost were the ones that really mattered. Not fights you leave as a sore loser, but fights where you lose a piece of yourself if you lose them. Fights of life and death, and destiny. One fight they have avenged already – not that they feel any better for it. It was never that one that really mattered in the end.

Fives stares for a moment, processing their words.

“Kyreya, cyare- tell me. When was the last time you lost a fight?”

Eya shrugs.

“Depends on what you count as losing. Or a fight for that matter.”

“A duel, preferably one on one, where you were beaten in fair battle and had to give up.” Fives’s answer comes to quickly. He shrugs at the expression on their face. “What? You asked for a definition.”

Eya shoves the memories down and down and down before they answer, twirling the knife between their fingers almost like they are bored.

“‘bout a year ago.”

“And before that?” Fives presses, eagerness dripping off of him like he is a puppy waiting for his treat.

“Few months before the last one.”

“And before that?” Fives asks impatiently.

Eya sighs and decides that it’s inevitable. Fives is pushy today, he is spoiling for a fight, eager for it, this has to be what this is about. They can feel it in their gills. He is leading them somewhere with his probing questions.

“When I was a tadpole. Just a wee one- I mean, I had legs and everything. But I was… young. A child, by your definition.”

Fives gawks, the expression on his face almost funny in its dumbfoundedness.

“Gev, utreekov,” Eya mumbles.

“You have lost… two… battles… in your entire lifetime?”

“Just told you I haven’t. Lost many more than that. Nobody is born a warrior, no matter what they tell you at that stupid army of yours. It’s a learned skill like anything else. For some people, the… learning curve is just steeper that for others.” In spite of everything, Eya can’t help the undertone of pride that sneaks into their voice.

Nobody is born a warrior, that’s true. Some ad’ike just take better to a fight than others. And they had been the best their créche had seen in ages.

“I’m talking about fights that matter,” Fives waves his hand impatiently. “Not training fights, not… not the fights that kids fight. I’m talking about the battles you have fought since you became the warrior you are today.”

“Those would be none,” Eya says coldly, surprised by how much his words hit the bullseye of their pain. “I am Mando’ad, but I am no longer Mando’verd. I don’t fight anymore, not like that. I swore an oath.”

“To whom?” Fives demands.

“To the only person who matters,” Eya retorts, feeling almost childish in their secrecy, but they are not ready to open that can of fish just yet.

“Will you elaborate?” Fives asks, the eagerness back in his voice.

“No.”

Silence envelops them for a moment. Fives hasn’t touched his second drink. His fingers tap quietly on his knees, like he is trying to hold something in… and failing spectacularly.

Eya braces themself for the next question he is bound to ask. When it comes, it’s not a question at all. It’s bait.

“I bet I could take you,” Fives murmurs, under his breath and almost so quiet that Eya can’t hear it. Almost.

“Mhhm.” They shrug noncommittally. 

“Do you not think so?” Fives asks, seeming genuinely curious. Gods, his eternal curiosity. One of these days it’ll get him killed.

Eya has to will their tendrils to calm down. They knew this was coming. They know Fives won’t give up, not unless they are very harsh about it. Thing is- they don’t want him to give up, not really. He is too cocky for his own good, too sure of himself. He could use a reminder that despite everything, despite all his training and teachings, he is not the best warrior this planet has ever seen. Not even the best warrior this rundown shithole of a bar has ever seen… not so long as Eya is here.

“Maybe you could,” Eya says slowly. “I’m… a bit out of practice.”

That’s a lie. The dojo they go to is very good, even if there is nobody that can really match them. Not even other Mando’ade; too many have forsaken the way, have grown soft and used to their gadgets. There are warriors more skilled with a sword, with a dagger; certainly more skilled with the graceless violence of a blaster than Eya. But nobody beats them at hand to hand, not ever.

Nobody except Brutus ever managed that, and Brutus is… well. Brutus is dead, Brutus bled out on the floor of a dirty arena with his throat ripped out and his horns crushed, the taste of his viscera on Eya’s tongue, the black of his blood eternally on their hands.

Fives pulls them from their sanguineous remembrance of the dead. His voice is the lifeline in the darkness that grips their hearts.

“I think I could,” he says confidently, sizing them up once again. This is what he has wanted from the start, Eya realises. This is what he came over to ask for, even before he talked about the war. He wants a distraction, and Eya is about to make his night a whole lot better… or worse, depending on how you look at it.

“Well, if you think so, I’m sure you could, verd’ika.” The nickname is intentional, just condescending enough to make Fives bristle from it.

“I don’t like to assume things,” he says, leaning over and looking at Eya with eager, shining eyes. “I’d like to put my theory to the test.”

“Would you now.”

Fives nods, and Eya bares their fangs in a beskar-coloured smile of death. To his credit, Fives barely shudders and his voice remains steady.

“I would, cyare. Would you do me the honours?”

“If you don’t stop calling me that, I most certainly will.”

Fives grins his sunniest grin.

“Oya, cyare. It’s a date.”

Eya shakes their head, but the promise of a fight between friends puts them in a good mood. While they are certain that Fives will be the loser in a fight against them, he will certainly be a challenge. They were not lying when they said he was a good soldier- they have seen him fight, they have been told many stories by him and his vode. Fives will not go down easy, and he won’t be too precious to cheat and use everything he knows to his advantage. Hopefully.

Eya’s tendrils dance at the thought.

By Nephto, this will be fun.

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» Part II: The Path of the Sword

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Mando'a:

Oya, vod. - Cheers, man. Su cuy'gar. - What's up? (Lit. You're alive) an ka'gaht - everything (went) south Gar ori'jate verd, vod'ika. - You are an excellent soldier, little brother. cyare - beloved Gar sosol ti ni. - You the same as I. Rayshe'e - 'Fives' Jare'la vod'ika - Stupid little brother. Elek, vod - Yes, brother. Naysol soletar. - Too many to count. Gev, utreekov. - Stop it, dumbass. Oya, cyare. - Come on (in this case in the sense of: alright)

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Taggies for all of youse who love Eya as much as I do. Huge shoutout for my eternal and beloved beta @baba-fett and to @ulchabhangorm who is the most wonderful reader of all times and has godlike inspiration abilities.

Fives’s teeth are clenched, his lips curled into an ugly snarl, and Eya realises this fight means something to him. He thinks he has something to prove – if not to himself then to them. This might have started as friendly sparring, might even be a way to get the tension out of Fives’s body, but it’s become more than that to him. Whether it is out of frustration or because their talk has stirred some ambition inside him – Fives wants to win this fight desperately.

Too bad he won’t.

“Udesii, vod!” they call out to him, dancing around the mat as they gauge his movements, trying to assess whether his rage runs deep enough to be dangerous. “This is a fight between friends, no? Doesn’t matter who wins in the end.”

The way Fives growls at that is almost enough to make them pity him. He will not come out of this a happy man, not with this… this need he has, this desperation to win. Eya even considers letting him win only for a split second, but – no. He asked for this, not for special treatment. Fives will bloody well learn what it means to fight Kyreya.

“Stop mocking me,” Fives grits out. Anger hangs in the air, sudden and acidic, so much so that Eya can taste it even though their tendrils remain safely knotted behind their head.

“I am not mocking you,” they say, their hands raised as if to calm a wild animal as they mirror Fives’s steps. “You want to… let it all out. You want to throw your anger at me, that’s fine. Do your worst, and I will take it. Vode ratiin, nayc? Get angry. Go loud. Just… don’t get angry at me. It was you who wanted to fight in the first place. Let yourself feel, and then use that anger. Don’t lose yourself in it.”

Fives crumples up his nose, then gives a sharp nod.

“Vode ratiin, Kyr’eya.”

“Jate.”

Eya relaxes their posture for a moment, shaking out their arms before they drop back into their fighting stance, fists raised in front of their face. Fives shifts on his feet, and Eya can feel it coming – that eruption of tension; they can see the lunge before he takes a step, see it in the way his muscles tense and how he ducks his head to go low. Still, he nearly gets them, missing only by an inch when they twirl out of the way.

Fives is fast – faster than they had anticipated. It was to be expected that he would be well-trained- he is not only a soldier, he is an ARC-Trooper and despite the army’s preference for meaningless chest candy, ARC does actually mean something among their ranks. And he is Mando’ad, trained in the ways of battle, even if the approach was… less traditional than Eya’s upbringing.

Eya grins at the obvious frustration pouring off of Fives in waves. Riling him up might not be the wisest thing to do in his current state… but gods, is it ever fun.

“Come on then, verd’ika, come at me. I thought you wanted to fight.”

Fives spits out a curse, but he doesn’t attack again, keeps his distance as they both prance around the other, sizing up their respective opponent. Eya is heavier, but that also makes them slower, no matter how hard they train, no matter how good their reflexes. Fives is lighter, less muscle which means less force. Even when – even if – he does hit, he will have to hit a lot harder than Eya to make them waiver. They don’t doubt for a second that he can, and that he will. They just need to make him angry enough to charge.

The taste of battle is familiar on their tongue, settling heavy over them. It’s the smell of sweat, of fear and anger, of blood and the dirty ground beneath their steady feet. Eya’s eye whirs in its socket as they regard Fives, the heaving of his chest, the flame of his eyes.

And Eya pounces.

A quick shift of weight, a mean left hook, aimed right at Fives’s chin- and they miss. He moves, faster than even their cybernetic can follow, a shadow slipping out of reach. Eya laughs.

“Ah, there we go!”

Their laughter turns a little mean as they follow Fives’s retreat with a giant leap, ducking out of his way the same moment they have solid ground beneath their feet and he throws his small fists at them in rapid succession. None of the blows land, but Fives nearly loses his balance from his own momentum, too sure he would hit solid muscle, and Eya uses that.

One of their feet hooks between Fives’s legs and he stumbles to the ground, reaching out to pull Eya with him, barely just managing to throw them off kilter enough for them to fall. They land in a pile, Eya rolling over quickly with Fives straddling their chest, his wrists in the death grip of their left hand, his foot on their right arm, pressing it to the ground.

“You fight dirty,” Fives grunts, but those are all the words he can get out before Eya lets go of his hands to land a brutal blow, punching the air from his lungs. He gasps like a fish out of water, but recovers quicker than should be possible, bending down without regard for his own safety and knocking his head against Eya’s, hard. The surprise is enough to give Fives time to twist out of their grasp and back away from them, spitting onto the ground as he stalks around the circle of the mat.

“Maybe you should fight dirty too,” Eya suggests, pushing themself up from the ground as casually as they can manage, just to stoke the fire of rage in Fives’s chest. “I thought you wanted to beat me.”

“In a fair match!” Fives exclaims, sounding equally out of breath and angry.

“Is it not fair if we both fight dirty?” Eya cocks their head. “I said, come on. Throw all you’ve got at me, be bitter and angry and unfair. Use every trick in the book, and then use those never written down. I am Mandalorian, I can take it. You won’t hurt me, ad’ika.”

“I. am not. little.” Fives spits the words out like bile, and Eya gurgles.

“To me, almost everyone is. So make good use of it. Be smart about it. Don’t just try to hit me, vod. Make it count, make it hurt.”

Fives’s face softens for a moment when he regards them with serious eyes.

“You sound almost like you want to be hit.”

“And what if I do?” Eya hums. “It’s been ages since I have felt the remnants of a truly good fight, and you… you have the makings of a worthy opponent. Try your hardest to make me bleed and see if you can manage.”

“I…” Fives shakes his head for a moment. “I don’t want to actually hurt you, Kyreya, cyare.”

“I know.” Eya shakes their head. “It’s not about that, not about me. Forget that it is me for a moment. Picture everything, picture everyone you have ever wanted to destroy. Think of them when you aim your blows, I promise I won’t break.”

Fives squares up his shoulders at their words, the flame in his eyes back with a vengeance. He sees a chance to win and he won’t back down. Which is exactly what Eya wanted. His voice, hesitant at first, is stronger now.

“If you say you are fine with it…”

“I am,” Eya confirms. They are itching for the fight now- for the taste of blood on their tongue, for the aches and scars and bruises that come with battle. It’s too late to turn back. They need this fight just as much as Fives did earlier. Maybe even more.

When a good soldier tastes blood, they don’t back away. They look for the source and then they apply pressure until the pain stops or death ends it all. Eya is a good soldier. Eya is the best soldier.

Fives shifts from one foot to another, contemplating where to best put his weight. Eya mirrors him as they watch, ready to counteract any attack thrown at them. The muscles in Fives’s calf contract, and just as Eya steps forward, so does Fives.

They collide in the middle, in a tangle of limbs and fists. A quick sequence of exchanged blows, barely any of them landing- the rattle of Fives’s laughter- the tight knot of Eya’s tendrils squirming in an attempt to taste like they usually do: The air smells like sweat and anticipation, and it makes Eya’s skin tingle.

Yes, they want to scream. Yes, this is battle. Give me all you have, make it hurt.

Their fist hits Fives’s side and he groans, stumbling backwards and gasping for air. Rough curses fall from his lips as he eyes Eya up and down, and they smile their gleaming beskar smile.

Fives’s fist hits them square in the mouth and they can feel their lip split, but the sharp pain only spurns them on. The taste of seaweed blood replaced the taste of beskar in their mouth when they wipe their face, smearing the blood all over.

The next hook Fives throws is easily countered, one of Eya’s taped knuckles crashing into his cheekbone with a sickening crack. Fives howls but doesn't retreat. His movements grow frantic, but Eya still meets him on equal footing, just as fast and with more force than before.

The soles Eya’s feet scrape against the ground, cold and hard and unforgiving, just as Fives’s fingers dig into their bicep, pulling at them. Eya stumbles for just a moment, and Fives’s knee is jammed into their crotch. They thank the heavens that they have no vital organs there - none that have deigned to show themselves today, anyways - and grin in the face of Fives’s confusion.

“Fuck’s sake, not fair,” he groans.

Eya doesn't respond. Fives is still beautifully distracted, and when they lean back and kick their foot against his chest with dangerous force, he tips over backwards.

Fives roars when his back meets the ground, his spine against violent duracrete. He curls in on himself like a child for just a second. Eya watches, panting from exertion. They have not enjoyed themself like this in ages.

Fives’s saliva is bloody, dripping down his chin when he stands up, anger distorting his usually so beautiful face.

The world goes quiet.

There is the soft exhale of air, and the thumping of their heartbeats in their ears. With one step, one move, the fire of battle crackles again. Fives throws himself at Eya, sinuous and so small compared to them. His foot kicks upward, aiming at the softness of their stomach this time, and while Eya is distracted deflecting the blow, a clenched fist connects with their jaw.

Eya’s kyram’edeem clack together audibly, metal biting into bone, their lip cracking at the force of the blow.

“Fuck, you hit harder than I would’ve given you credit for, verd’ika,” they spit, but there is a grin on their face. Finally, the taste of blood, the taste of a good fight, of a worthy opponent.

“You should know better,” Fives calls out. “Come on, you can hit me harder than that!” 

Fives is grinning at Eya with bloodied teeth. When he wipes his face with the back of his hand, their eyes focus on the way his knuckles are ripped open by the force of his blows against their unwavering chest.

“You don’t want me to, soldier,” they snarl through gritted fangs. “Don’t overdo it.”

“Careful is my middle name.” Fived chuckles.

“It really, really isn’t,” Eya growls. Fives only laughs in agreement, and starts circling them again, waiting for another opportunity to attack. Eya doesn’t give him much time.

They leap forward, their fists raised, pushing at Fives’s hasty defence in a craze, thrashing and pushing, pulling none of their punches. Fives ducks and counters. His fists are quick, and he lands one – two – three blows in rapid succession, sweet pain blooming in the wake of his hands. 

Eya curls their lip in disappointment. For a moment, they step back to gather themself. They need to be faster, they can’t keep underestimating Fives. He’s good – not good enough, but better than they had anticipated. His blows barely hurt, years of rigid training and practise have rid Eya of that pesky feeling, but still – if they let Fives get any more hits in, he’ll get cocky.

A deep breath. The stench of sweat stains Eya’s tongue, combined with the faintest whiff of blood – Fives’s metallic and red, Eya’s tangy and deep blue. And the fight starts again.

Fists and faces collide in an explosion of ecstatic violence. Eya’s breath is cold on Fives’s face, his hot in theirs. Their tendrils fight to unwind, to taste him, to help them, but Eya keeps them under control.

They block and attack, almost as if taking turns, as if both of them had agreed to draw the fight out as long as they can. Eya savours it, this perfect anger that rises in their chest.

They could end him in a heartbeat – the longer they fight, the more certain Eya becomes. Fives has weaknesses that are glaringly obvious: He leaves his left side wide open whenever he attacks. One good hit to his kidney, and he would be on the ground and at their mercy. His face is precious and he tries his best to protect it, so Eya makes it their mission to hit him as often as they can: A fist to his jaw, then his nose.

While the blows to his chest and sides make Fives stumble backwards, Eya puts less force into their assaults on his face. They would like to keep Fives intact and conscious for as long as they can. This is only just starting to become fun.

“You’re pulling your punches, Kyreya,” Fives snarls when they connect again, his fist crashing against Eya’s clavicle in a move that has them suck in a wheezing breath through their teeth.

That one hurt.

“Hmm, would you rather I break your pretty little face in half?” Eya hisses, their tone much meaner than their actual intention. They never want to hurt him, as much as they need to hurt someone.

“Don’t you worry about my pretty little face.” Fives laughs when he hooks his fingers into the waistband of Eya’s trousers and, in a move that seems almost erotic, pulls them closer. “I’d be more worried about your own nose, cyare. Seems that’s about the only part of your face that’s still intact.”

It’s a mean comment, and Eya shouldn’t let it get to them. They growl, one of their hands wrapping around Fives’s throat, moving so fast not even he can counter it. Their fingers close, and just like that, Fives is lifted- lifted from the ground, into the air.

It’s so easy. He would be so easy to snap in half.

He claws at Eya’s hand – they always become so desperate so quickly – but finds no leverage. Eya stares at him coldly, cocking their head, their arm not even shaking from holding up his weight.

“Gar serim, vod’ika. I am the one who should be worried.” Sarcasm drips off their voice like poison. They squeeze just a little tighter, Fives’s head dark red as he gasps for air and is granted no reprieve.

In a desperate attempt, he stretches out his arm, legs kicking until Eya lets go of him.

“It would have been so easy for me to destroy you,” they jeer, the cruelty of their words bitter on their own tongue. A small voice in the back of their mind tells them they are being mean, tells them they should stop, tells them they should check in with Fives. They ignore it.

“Why don’t you, then?” Fives’s voice is impossibly hard, anger soaking the air between them, anger that makes Eya’s vision swim red at the edges when they taste it. “Why don’t you, hm, Kyreya? Have you gone soft in your time here? You, who pretends to be such a great warrior, lost their edge? Stayed out of the fight too long, huh, hut’uun?”

The word comes unexpected, the insult drifting through the air and burying its hooks deep inside Eya’s hearts. They narrow their eyes, rage boiling in their blood like molten fire.

“Nu hut’uun, haar chak! Gar nakar’mi meg gar sirbu.” They spit out the words like they burn on their tongue. “You don’t know the ways of old, vod’ika. How dare you insult me like this? Especially after losing to me in battle, how dare you-”

“I haven’t lost yet,” Fives whispers, and even before the words have left this tongue, he is on them again, clawing at their side until Eya doubles over, sharp nails burying into their skin. Fives uses the opportunity, wrapping his own body around theirs until he’s hanging from their back. Eya roars and twists, but they can’t reach him, not like this.

Fives howls triumphantly, fingers digging into the meat of Eya’s shoulder. His legs wrap around their middle, his arm snaking around Eya’s throat until he has the leverage he needs to block their air supply.

Eya’s vision starts to swim, wheezing breaths wrenching themselves from their dry lungs. Their gills flutter uselessly, tendrils coiling tight with the taste of Fives’s premature triumph.

There is only one way out, and it’s dangerous. Eya makes it work. They stumble forward, one step – two steps, to where soft mats cover the ground. And let themself fall backwards.

Fives is crushed beneath their weight, his victorious howl fading into a wheeze, breath rattling in his throat. His arm drops, nails clawing at Eya, at the hardness of them, the muscle of their shoulder, the bone of their jaw, until they find something soft.

Fives’s fingers press into Eya’s eye sockets, and then, all they see is red.

The world fades, and it’s all them and that pain, that unbearable pain and their eye- gone- they can’t see, there is only darkness, darkness and the shiver of impact, the crack of bone beneath them. Their fists curl up as Eya twists, their movements more muscle memory than conscious decision. The eye whirs in their skull, strange and hateful, and something presses down harder, throbbing in their skull.

It’s like blacking out, only worse. Eya’s ears are ringing, their hearts pounding in their chest as they try to find whatever is hurting them like this- find it and get rid of it, destroy it, annihilate it, crush it until this pain- this fucking pain- until it stops, it stops, it needs to STOP.

Bone snaps beneath their palm when they punch down, but they still can’t see, can’t see, can’t see CAN’T SEE.

Their head is swimming with disorientation, their gills contracting with dry air instead of water, and Eya floats. Blood is dripping down their cheek, but it tastes… wrong, tastes like metal instead of the sea, is thinner, is sweeter than their own.

Someone is groaning, and Eya’s fist shoots out in the direction of the noise. There is that sickening crunch of bone again, their fist connecting with a soft nose. Everything smells like blood, like sweaty fear. Finally, the pressure fades from their eyes, and Eya tries to open their eyes. Only one does, the other stuck somewhere between past and present.

Eya is met with the image of Fives below them, their hands wrapped around his neck, his face blooming with bruises, his nose broken. He is covered in blood, red and blue mixing on his tan skin in patterns of horrible beauty. Eya stares and stares and doesn’t see, their hands still squeezing, their breath still sharp, their hearts still out of rhythm. Their left eye whirrs in its socket, comes back to life, but Eya can’t see anything but the lifeless form below them, chest moving shallowly, legs still twitching. Their mind is unwilling to comprehend what their eyes are telling them: The dance with death is over.

It ends with Fives’s red grin as he spits blood in Eya’s face, with his smaller hands clawing on their larger ones, until they recognise his face under all that blood. Until their hands slowly unfurl from his delicate neck to let him breathe, his chest heaving when he gasps for air, his eyes unsteady, flicking back and forth.

“Oya, vod.” He hunches over, holding his knees tight, trying desperately to catch his breath. “I thought you were about to kill me just then.”

Eya is panting hard, their tendrils curling in the air as they taste the familiarity of Fives, trying to ground themself, trying to find their way back to the here and now, to this sweaty dojo and to their brother, who is alive, alive, though the look in his eyes is different than it was before the fight.

They did this. It’s their fault – he is afraid. They scared him, they-

Fives… Eya stretches out a tendril and he leans back a little, away from them in a weak attempt to hide his feelings. Eya can still taste it in the air though; not even a clone soldier can hide the stench of mortal fear.

They crouch down next to him, fingers knotted in their lap, eyes swimming. Eya stares at Fives’s bloodied face, at his broken nose and his split lip, the missing tooth and the gash through his brow, at his hair that’s matted with blood. And they realise they did that. This is all their fault – they hurt him when they promised they wouldn’t, they took him and broke him. He almost died by their hand, right here, when all it was supposed to be was a bit of fun.

Eya lost control, and they nearly destroyed him. Their vod, who trusted them with his life, and they took it and crushed it until he nearly bled out right next to them.

“I’m sorry.” Eya’s voice doesn’t sound like their own. So, they repeat it, over and over and over again until the words feel more familiar on their heavy tongue. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Fives’s terror still hangs in the air like a shroud, and still, his small hands find their way around Eya’s, holding them tight and bathing them in something new- something soft and lovely and warm- love.

Eya shudders and tries to pull away, but Fives keeps them steady.

“Ne tok’kad,” he says firmly. “Stay with me, Kyreya. Look at me.”

Eya can’t bear it – can’t bear the soft affection lacing his voice, dripping from his skin, can’t bear the forgiveness he is showing them for no reason at all, can’t bear that he is here and alive when he was so close to dying for the stupid choice of trusting them.

They should have never agreed to fight him, should have never said yes, should have never-

Memories come crashing in, cruel and uninvited, dark shadows on the doorstep of their mind.

And they remember it all: The war, the fight, the death. A pale blue hand slipping from their grasp, the terrified sound of their buir in the face of an explosion that should never have happened, that Eya was the cause of. The look in Healas’s eyes dancing across the room, spotting them- The cries of the children left for dead, and the taste of pure dread that choked them all those years ago- the searing pain of their missing limb, the taste of burnt flesh on their tongue… and then, the witch, and the millions of souls living inside her, screaming and screaming and screaming and tugging at Eya, tugging them down to where everyone they had ever killed was waiting for their turn, pulling them from their own body. A voice, familiar and loved… until Eya hears the words it says.

Gar cuyi kad, gar cuyi kad, gar cuyi kyr, gar ner, ner kad ner kyr ner oya, Ne’kho- 

“Kyr’eya!” There is another voice, steady and serious, almost angry, nagging at the back of their mind, a voice that is familiar but not of old. “Gar be’chaaj, verd’ika. Ke yaimpa at ni. Jii.”

Hands shake at them insistently, pulling at their real body, pulling them back from where they went, back to where they are tethered to the real world, where their arm aches and their knuckles burn, where the air smells of blood but not of death, of desperation but not of terror anymore.

“Eya, love.” The voice is right next to them, accompanied by the warm sweetness of affection that seeps into them. “Eya, I’m here. You’re here, and you’re okay. I’m okay.”

Eya turns their head, and the missing weight of their tendril weighs so heavy that they think they will tip over for a moment, and their eye isn’t right- isn’t right isn’t right, it’s so loud-

Finally, they focus, and reality comes flooding back. A small hand is patting their cheek, Fives nearly seated in their lap in order to get close enough to touch them. Fives. He looks so small, his lip trembling, his eyes large as he regards them.

“Eya?”

“Yeah.” Eya’s voice is rough, their throat dry and they can’t seem to swallow down the taste of metal on their tongue.

“You good?” Fives sounds like he doesn’t even expect a serious answer, and Eya isn’t about to give him one. There is nothing they could say that could make this better.

“Aye, I’m good. Don’t worry about me, vod.” Eya shakes their head, tendrils unravelling from the tight knot that has formed behind their head, trying to absorb all the smells that fill the air. “I was… my mind was far away. It happens after a fight, sometimes. I’m good, I promise.”

“Hmm.” Fives stares at them with dark eyes. “I- Don’t get mad, Eya. But… I don’t think you are.”

Eya opens their mouth to object, but Fives raises his hands as if to stop them.

“We don’t- we don’t have to talk about it. Not if you don’t want to, and… not to me. But maybe you should talk to… I don’t know. To someone. I don’t… I don’t think that is normal. I don’t think this is supposed to happen- gods, the way you were screaming-”

Screaming? Eya furrows their brow. Nobody has ever said anything about them screaming during an episode before.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” They shrug, their mind going a mile a minute. Screaming… it’s getting worse. But still- the way Fives is looking at them; somehow it’s worse than before. Pity has always been so much worse than fear.

Fives shakes his head, then flinches at his own movement. Dark bruises are blooming around his neck, the shape and size of Eya’s hands. Guilt rises in their chest like bile, bitter and rotten.

“It’s not about that,” Fives mumbles. “I just- I don’t think you’re well, Eya.”

“I’ve been fine until now,” Eya snarls, a sudden anger overtaking them at Fives’s insistence. They push his small body away to stand up from the ground. “I’m… fine. I’ve been managing, this was just… a mishap. I should not have agreed to fight you, I should have known better.”

“Known better?” Fives stares at them. “You mean- this has happened before?”

Eya shrugs and turns away, Fives’s gaze burning a hole into their back as they walk towards the lockers. This was just… a bad day. Just a bad day. They’re fine, they’ll be fine. Next time they’ll know- next time they won’t fight someone who means something to them, next time-

“Like I said,” they mumble, pulling their shirt over their head carefully, “I’ve been fine until now. Just… leave me be. I’ll take care of it.”

“Will you?” Fives’s voice is quiet and closer than they expected it to be. “I hope so… Gods, Kyreya. I hope so.”

Eya grunts noncommittally and turns to face Fives, who is staring up at them with a more serious expression on his face than they have ever seen him wear.

“I’ll see to it,” they repeat, though there is no real force behind their words. They are not sure they mean them just yet.

Fives eyes them a moment longer, mistrust shimmering golden in his eyes. Then, he nods slowly.

“If you say so.”

Quietly, they get dressed. When they walk out, Fives hugs Eya goodbye as he always does. Their tendrils curl around him softly, smoothing over his skin, covered in fresh bruises and old scars. It hurts to feel the love he still has for them, even after all this. He should hate them, but he has so much love to give.

Next time. They’ll talk about it next time. Tell him everything that happened, tell him who they are. He deserves to know. He deserves to know it wasn’t his fault that they hurt him, that it was all them- that they won’t do it again. He deserves to know that his love won’t be wasted on them. That they are trying to be better.

Next time. Eya’s tendrils curl around Fives’s arm for a moment before they let him go. He tastes like family, and when he smiles up at them, their hearts finally find their rhythm again.

It ends like this: With Fives walking away from them, kicking a pile of dirt in his way. With Fives turning around to wave at them, a small smile on his lips, and with Eya’s heart aching as they wonder where exactly they went wrong, and how to fix it all because if there ever was someone who deserves it, it’s this man with his soft heart and his sunshine smile.

It ends like this: With Fives fading into the grey of the city, and never coming back.

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Fin.

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Mando'a:

Isiri abiik, Ne’kho. Aala agol be aru’e. Ori’jate, ad’ika! - Smell the air, Ne'kho. Feel the moving flesh of your enemy. Very good, child! Udesii, vod! - Chill, bro. Vode ratiin, nayc? - Brothers forever, right? Jate. - Good. Gar serim, vod'ika. - You are right, little brother. hut'uun - Coward (atrocious insult to Mandalorians, the worst thing they can possibly be called) Nu hut’uun, haar chak! Gar nakar’mi meg gar sirbu. - I am not a coward, dammit. You don't know what you are saying. Gar cuyi kad, gar cuyi kad, gar cuyi kyr, gar ner, ner kad ner kyr ner oya, Ne’kho- You are the sword, you're the sword and the death, you are mine, my sword my death and my life, Ne'kho. Gar be’chaaj, verd’ika. Ke yaimpa at ni. Jii. - You are far away, soldier. Come back to me. Now.

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I'm sorry (I'm not). If you liked the angst, please leave a comment and a reblog! Always much appreciated.