#oldtestleper

Mereel shook it at him. “Yeah, it shows off your assets. C’mon, time’s a-wastin’.”

“It’s sleeveless,” Corr said again. Why wasn't he getting it?

“Yeah,” Mereel said slowly, like he was talking to an idiot. “And you’ll be the only person in that club with two metal hands, so advertise it, maybe.”

Corr didn't want to advertise it. He was a walking advertisement. Every goddamn day people awkwardly looked away when they saw his hands were durasteel instead of flesh, or worse, deliberately called attention to them to ease their own discomfort. He didn't want to be reminded with every stranger’s look that he was fucked up, he could remember that just fine on his own. He glared at the shirt, and then at Mereel. “No.”

“The fuck is your problem?” Mereel snapped, throwing the shirt back down on the bed. “Do you want to go out tonight, or not?”

No, Corr thought mutinously, like a one-year cadet. He wasn't a cadet anymore, though, he was all grown up and deployed, and Mereel deserved better than his temper tantrum. He sucked in breaths, pushing away the awful tension in his chest. “I—I don't know,” he finally said.

“You don't know,” Mereel said softly, and Corr was abruptly aware that he was alone in a room with a—a brother, undeniably that, but still one who everyone said was psychotic as all nine hells.

He immediately hated himself for even thinking it. Mereel had helped him with his arms, he—he wouldn't do anything to Corr, he wanted to go fucking clubbing with him, have fun with him, and all of a sudden it was too much. Corr raised his hands to clasp the back of his neck like he always did when he got overwhelmed, but the harsh bite of cold metal startled him out of it, and that was. The heat in his cheeks surged up behind his eyes and. He couldn't stay here.

He lurched out into the main room, unfocused thoughts flashing through his mind of heading back to barracks—or maybe Qibbu’s, that's where he was supposed to be, these days. The tidy pile of his armor stopped him short. That, and the less-tidy pile of his blacks, rank enough to smell even where he stood, and his escape was spoiled as easily as that. He hesitated because he couldn't face pulling a filthy bodyglove over his water-clean skin.

He wavered, torn absolutely, before inertia won and he retreated to sit on Mereel’s ratty couch. He propped his hard, cold, metal, un-fucking-feeling elbows on his knees and stared at his hands. Who the fuck was he trying to kid. He was a GAR logistics clone, not a commando, and sure as shit not an ARC. He wasn't EOD, either. Not when something as simple as a brother saying it could have blown up in our faces sent him into a tailspin like this.

The floor creaked beside him, in the doorway to the bedroom. Corr was absolutely certain Mereel knew every loose floorboard in this apartment, and if he wanted Corr to hear him step on one, then it absolutely wouldn't be by accident. Corr didn't care. He didn't care that Mereel was leaning in the doorway staring at him, he didn't care that he was wearing the man’s underwear while rejecting his invitation. He didn't—he was too fucking tired. He’d humiliated himself every possible way in front of a legend, and he was still… alive.

Distantly, it occurred to him he was probably in the comedown from the stims.

Less distantly, the floorboard creaked again as Mereel went back in the bedroom. He poked around, not being quiet but not making excess noise, either, opening drawers and lockers and—putting away his wardrobe, Corr supposed. He was sorry for spoiling that, the way he was sorry for everything he did and was. He stared blankly at the weight bench across from him and let reality fade.

He came back to the sound of Mereel setting something down on the arm of the couch. Corr didn’t turn to look, because everything was feeling sharp and awful, and just the weight of Mereel’s eyes was too much.

“I’m heading out,” he said, his voice low. “If I’m not back by morning, tell Ordo. There’s a washer unit in the closet, instructions are inside the lid.” He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but couldn’t find the words. Finally he knocked his knuckles gently against the doorpost. “Stay as long as you want.”

It felt like he was turning himself inside out, but Corr forced himself to speak. “Thanks.”

“Ba’gedet’ye.” Mereel sounded—it didn’t matter how he sounded, Corr couldn’t trust his brain in this state. Nulls didn’t get embarrassed.

Mereel knocked on the doorframe again, then crossed Corr’s field of vision to get to the door. He’d paired his black pants with a neon pink polo, collar popped. He snagged his keys from the thicket of receipts, and with no more ceremony than that, headed out into the Coruscanti night.

Corr sat for a while longer. Mostly pitying himself, which was a fucking awful show for a clone, but he figured it didn’t count if there was no one to see. Eventually he mustered enough will to look over to what Mereel had left for him.

A small pile of clothes and a blanket. Corr sniffed hard to keep the tears back. It took him a little longer, but it was easier to keep moving now that he’d started. There was a shirt on top. Cotton, nothing fancy, but when Corr unfolded it, it had long sleeves. A couple tears did squeeze out then. Stars and planets, he was pathetic. Crying over a shirt. He pulled it on, going slowly so he didn’t get it caught in his metal joints, and the relief of being covered again was deep and—not pleasant, exactly, but settling. Like finding good cover on an op.

Then was a loose pair of drawstring pants, and the blanket—cheap, mass-produced, but probably warm, and when Corr held it up to his cheek, it was the softest thing he’d felt in months.

He had to stand to put the pants on. Standing was good. Now that he was up, he might as well clean his blacks. He’d never cleaned them in a washer unit before, that’s what the laundry section on his old destroyer had been for, but he’d done it once or twice in the sink, or in an upturned breastplate when on a long campaign and he’d gotten sick of stewing in his own juices.

They weren’t that bad now, thankfully. He read the instructions inside the washer lid twice, then once more for good measure, then tossed his and Mereel’s blacks in and set the cycle running. It made a quiet white noise that dulled the edge of his hypersensitivity.

He looked at the fridge. Mereel had said he was welcome, but Corr didn’t feel welcome. He considered his stomach. It wasn’t growling, but it would soon. He shrugged. Not the first time he’d had to skip a meal; he’d survive.