. true colors .

Were Alexsandr to voice all the ways he'd thought of Zeb, he might faint from the heat of his own blush.

It was already enough that his cheeks pinked more visibly at the directness of his own request.

Those two frank words in answer did little to ebb that color from freckled skin, even as they soothed the immediate edge of his self-conscious nerves. What a thrill it was, to know Zeb wanted this as much as he did. Alexsandr leaned into the fingers skimming through his hair, lashes fluttering again and almost falling shut.

His contented hum of a sigh was muffled by the press of their mouths at last. While his experience was limited and from situations he'd rather not dwell on, Alexsandr poured his all into the kiss. The texture, the warmth, the sheer wonderful reality of it both sated and stoked his craving for Zeb. Only a muted twinge from the patched gash on his side stopped Alexsandr from sliding off his chair and onto Zeb's lap. Instead, he smoothed a thumb over the other's cheek in gentle, repeated arcs, while resting his opposite palm atop one strong thigh - not aiming to try anything, just for balance and for the simple pleasure of touch.

Alexsandr. There it was. Whatever. He wasn't embarrassed.

How could he be, with Alexsandr brushing a thumb rhythmically along the side of his face and placing a palm on his leg? Those hands were so loving and gentle, even if Zeb did have to intervene on his own behalf, steering his thoughts away from that touch to his thigh since he was quite certain that it was initiated for a steadying effect as opposed to titillation. As it was, he already had to force back the desire to pull Alexsandr into his lap for a tight embrace. With the earlier wound still freshly tended to and healing, he wouldn't do anything to risk causing any additional pain.

That guard who had thrust the knife into Alexsandr's side really had no concept of how narrowly they had escaped having both of their arms crushed — which Zeb surely would have done had he been there. Not that he would have been proud of it, but hey.

Okay, maybe a little proud. Or more than a little.

When they parted for a breath, the whispered plea which followed from Alexsandr coaxed a soft groan from him before it was taken by another kiss. The ache of yearning entwined with the very beat of Zeb's heart until it was almost gloriously unbearable, yet to persist in it was a sort of luxury; with his palm pressed more firmly against the small of Alexsandr's back, his fingers curled and straightened, the very tips of his claws drawing minutely back and forth along shirt fabric. He could do this for hours, could do it all day, if it wasn't for —

All the more reason to dive back into their kiss.

His self-control frayed a little further at the sensation of Zeb's claws against his back, and he arched subtly in response. Alexsandr didn't want any fabric in the way here either. He ached, so acutely it was almost physical, to feel them on his bare back - a delightful contrast and complement to the rest of Zeb's hand, skimming past scars and implant indicator lights, teasing to a shiver or pressing firm in sheer desire. Alexsandr's own fingers curled as well, skating blunt nails gently down into his love's beard.

It felt too soon when Zeb finally pulled back. Despite the other not even moving that far, Alexsandr very nearly gave chase again. Every word dripped hot and sweet down his spine; he appreciated the kindness of Zeb's effort, even as he welcomed another kiss with fervor. As that one kiss turned into a trail over and down onto his neck, Alexsandr's lips remained parted, letting loose a short, faintly vocal sigh at each one. His eyes only fluttered open halfway at last with the press of Zeb's brow against his.

I'm floating in a most peculiar way And the stars look very different today... Though I've crossed one hundred thousand miles I'm feeling very still...

Louis "Lodi" Yero — of Destiny 2 Indie RP Sideblog

mainblog: @trueheartofarebel || mun: Morphy (they / them)

| RULES | ABOUT | VERSES | ASK |

Especially once Zeb nuzzled their foreheads so eagerly and gave an answer Alexsandr had only dreamed about. He swallowed again, trying not to tear up anew at how certain Zeb looked and sounded. Like it'd been thought of before; like there was no question about it, no caveats. Alexsandr let his eyes close when the other's knuckles so gently dried his face, and he trailed his fingertips by feel from Zeb's forearm up to a broad shoulder. 'It's only right because it's you'. The idea sounded so natural on Zeb's tongue, yet so novel in Alexsandr's ears - novel enough to open his eyes.

Before he could muster much of a reply, though, he felt the slight yet distinct pull on his hair. Every whispered word that followed dripped heat, both comforting and rousing, through his veins. Lips parted, lashes fluttered a little over dilated pupils, and nervous tension drained from the line of his shoulders. Yours, always and entirely. Unwavering trust was what welled instead, steadying him as his hand lifted from Zeb's arm to cradle one cheek. Alexsandr watched the other's gaze roam, hoping his adoration was as vibrantly obvious on his face as it felt in his heart. "The honor's mine, Garazeb... my dearest," he assured, just as quiet, and face a tad flushed at finally voicing the endearment. His own stare lingered on Zeb's mouth for a moment or two. "Or, perhaps it could be both of ours?" A half-rhetorical question.

When that palm then lifted to rest against his cheek, Zeb exhaled deeply through his nose. It was an intimate kind of pleasure, one he would push away with anyone else, either because he didn't want it or because he was intrinsically certain that he didn't deserve it; the latter remained true, and it would come to gnaw at him again as it always did, yet it was, for now, a shout relegated to a whisper beneath the weight of Alexsandr's gaze. The quiet moniker that next slipped from the other man's tongue jolted him with surprise, though it was hardly unwelcome. ' My dearest. ' Was that really how Alexsandr thought of Zeb? Dearest, like he was someone to be treasured. The notion petered out in his own mind when he caught hazel eyes lingering on his mouth.

Were Alexsandr to voice all the ways he'd thought of Zeb, he might faint from the heat of his own blush.

It was already enough that his cheeks pinked more visibly at the directness of his own request.

Those two frank words in answer did little to ebb that color from freckled skin, even as they soothed the immediate edge of his self-conscious nerves. What a thrill it was, to know Zeb wanted this as much as he did. Alexsandr leaned into the fingers skimming through his hair, lashes fluttering again and almost falling shut.

His contented hum of a sigh was muffled by the press of their mouths at last. While his experience was limited and from situations he'd rather not dwell on, Alexsandr poured his all into the kiss. The texture, the warmth, the sheer wonderful reality of it both sated and stoked his craving for Zeb. Only a muted twinge from the patched gash on his side stopped Alexsandr from sliding off his chair and onto Zeb's lap. Instead, he smoothed a thumb over the other's cheek in gentle, repeated arcs, while resting his opposite palm atop one strong thigh - not aiming to try anything, just for balance and for the simple pleasure of touch.

Yet there was no darkening disgust, no awkward discomfort, no apologetic pity. Something instead seemed to light in those expressive green eyes, despite the tinge of caution on Zeb's face and in his voice. Alexsandr's cheeks reddened again, gaze struggling for a few moments not to flick aside. "I, I didn't mean..." That drag of his stool closer to Zeb gently cut off his trailing reply. Alexsandr kept his balance, though only one hand rested on the table now.

The timbre suffusing his nickname fractured his fear, dripped a subtle tingle under his skin, nearly made him shiver. He couldn't help letting his eyes stay closed in a prolonged blink, lips parted a sliver as he angled into the skim of Zeb's knuckles over his cheek. Stars, might there truly be a chance...? Alexsandr's eyes opened immediately, one hand lifting to keep Zeb's near his face while he shook his head. Stilled by the other's fingers combing into his hair, fingertips resting on Zeb's forearm instead, he brought his other hand up toward his friend's face - though it halted and curled in hesitation. He wanted, wanted so badly it hollowed his stomach even as it filled his heart, but that persistent sense of undeserving seethed in his mind's ear.

Only to be dulled by the tender press of their foreheads. Then drowned out by Zeb's forthright warmth. 'Being in love with you'. With him. Every echo of the words amid his thoughts pulled the fear and melancholy from his love like weeds from a garden. Zeb was in love with him too. Alexsandr squinted a little against the sting in his eyes. One drop escaped, then two more, then they wouldn't stop sliding down his cheeks even when wet lashes squeezed shut. His curled hand moved again, smoothing onto the back of Zeb's neck. Alexsandr swallowed hard, to better speak past shaking breaths.

Then, a palm pressed against the back of Zeb's neck, and Alexsandr smiled. The mounting trepidation instantly melted away as relief bloomed in his chest to take its place. ' You are the best thing that's ever happened to me. ' Although his grin widened, it was slowly gentled by every tearful word and rhythmic brush of Alexsandr's thumb. If Zeb was only capable of breaking the other man's fear with his bare hands, he would do it as many times as necessary ( and more, just for good measure ). Instead, he brought his fingers to rest on the small of Alexsandr's back and listened.

Somehow, each word was better than the last. Pleasure prickled along his skin until he fervently nuzzled his forehead against Alexsandr's. "All of you. I want all of you." Maybe Zeb had carried Alexsandr in his heart as his in some capacity until now ( even if he hadn't quite grasped what that meant to him ), yet this was something else; disquietude over what might be thought of it evaporated when Alexsandr stated as much with such devotion. "Even the parts of you that you're afraid of, that made you think you'd ruin this." When his knuckles brushed against Alexsandr's cheeks again, it was to collect the tears lingering there. "You can't ruin this, understand? It's only right because it's you." How many planets had he been to, how many faces had he met — ? And no one came close to Alexsandr. No one.

Especially once Zeb nuzzled their foreheads so eagerly and gave an answer Alexsandr had only dreamed about. He swallowed again, trying not to tear up anew at how certain Zeb looked and sounded. Like it'd been thought of before; like there was no question about it, no caveats. Alexsandr let his eyes close when the other's knuckles so gently dried his face, and he trailed his fingertips by feel from Zeb's forearm up to a broad shoulder. 'It's only right because it's you'. The idea sounded so natural on Zeb's tongue, yet so novel in Alexsandr's ears - novel enough to open his eyes.

Before he could muster much of a reply, though, he felt the slight yet distinct pull on his hair. Every whispered word that followed dripped heat, both comforting and rousing, through his veins. Lips parted, lashes fluttered a little over dilated pupils, and nervous tension drained from the line of his shoulders. Yours, always and entirely. Unwavering trust was what welled instead, steadying him as his hand lifted from Zeb's arm to cradle one cheek. Alexsandr watched the other's gaze roam, hoping his adoration was as vibrantly obvious on his face as it felt in his heart. "The honor's mine, Garazeb... my dearest," he assured, just as quiet, and face a tad flushed at finally voicing the endearment. His own stare lingered on Zeb's mouth for a moment or two. "Or, perhaps it could be both of ours?" A half-rhetorical question.

Alexsandr reminded himself that his dearest friend would surely be kind in his rejection. He reminded himself of the vow they'd shared aboard the Ghost, how those words were offered without any knowledge of his deeper feelings. Zeb wouldn't rescind them over this. Surely.

Once they reached the door to his quarters - more closed off than some fellow captains had, as he relished the privacy - Alexsandr let his focus shift to staying upright. Adjusting a bit to keep balance, he looked to Zeb and managed a small smile; somehow, seeing a tell of the other's nerves eased his own a bit. "Thank you." He braced one hand atop Zeb's shoulder, his opposite typing in the keycode (his family's flat number and home level on Coruscant) before he led the way inside.

It was a simple, open floor plan, with only the 'fresher and shower closed off from the rest of the space. A round dining table with a few stools sat near the middle of the floor; a work desk with neat stacks of flimsi, a datapad, and a lamp was closer to the rear wall and to one side, safely away from the shuttered windows to prevent any information leaks. Toward the other side of the back wall was a small kitchen of sorts, though some parts were rarely used. Off to their right was a mechanic's workbench, mostly kept neat though his latest tinkering project - refinements on a restraining-bolt remover - still sat out beside a few tools. To their left, near the shower and 'fresher door, were his dresser and his bed, the latter larger than he'd been used to before. All the furnishings were fairly plain and utilitarian, which made one addition stand out on the wall beside his pillows: a somewhat rough painting of the meteorite from Bahryn, in greyish-black and vivid yellow.

Alexsandr switched on the lights with his free hand, then made his way to the dining table. Settling onto one stool with a sigh, only then did he let go of Zeb's shoulder to gesture at another seat. "Please." A brief silence to gather some of his thoughts into some semblance of order. "First, I want to apologize for causing any concern. When I spoke earlier about this, I mean." He scoffed quietly at himself, glancing down at his hands loosely clasped atop the table. "More like danced around it, I suppose. But, I... I haven't done this before. Talked frankly about these kinds of feelings. I never thought I'd have to, not with how... impossible it seemed for me, before. With anyone."

Except for a single painting hung on the wall. Immediately, the familiarity of what it represented ( rendered in muted colors aside from that warm gold ) catapulted Zeb through a kaleidoscope of memories. The meteorite was unmistakable: its shape as he cradled it in his palm while its faint heat seeped into his skin, the soft glow alighting Alexsandr's hands when he offered it because the human surely wouldn't survive nightfall on Bahryn without it.

And someone had painted it. No, Alexsandr had painted it, then put it up to look at. When? Why? The questions didn't quite reach his tongue, a soundtrack stuck on loop in his head as they made their way to the dining area. It was only the task of ensuring that Alexsandr was comfortable on a stool that lowered it a few decibels — before it ended abruptly at the gesture to sit. Right. His eyes still on Alexsandr, Zeb did so, resting an elbow on the edge of the table while silence fell heavy between them; not the comfortable kind, but one weighted down by all that was unsaid.

Finally, his companion's voice broke the quiet. Initially, he had resolved to maintain a neutral expression on his countenance to allow room for Alexsandr to speak, though his failure was immediate with the furrowing of his brow upon reception of an apology. Zeb hardly felt owed one, much less with such a degree of severity. Nevertheless, he forced back any utterance to that effect so as not to interrupt when this was obviously taking great effort. He only felt more bemused as Alexsandr continued, watching those golden-brown eyes drop to clasped hands atop the table ( not unlike back on the Ghost, really ). A chill of unease stole through Zeb, that prior musing concerning whether what he was about to hear might be bad crawling once more along the edges of his mind.

Then, there it was. ' …I'm in love with you, Garazeb. ' In spite of himself, his lips parted in soundless surprise. In love. And yet, all at once, every hint of uncertainty fled as shadows after opening a window to allow the sun in.

Hearing that simple phrase felt like learning the name of something Zeb hadn't previously been aware of the word for. Apparently, knowing how he felt about Alexsandr and understanding what to call it were two different matters. Perhaps he really was obtuse, or he had spent so long believing he would never experience it that he hadn't grasped it when it happened. On Lasan ( another lifetime ago, it seemed ), none of Zeb's romantic attachments had entwined with his soul this way, and assuredly not after. Now, he wasn't sure if he wanted to smile, laugh, or pull Alexsandr into his arms — because the sudden burst of joy in his chest was enough to eclipse even the dull, aching insistence that he didn't deserve an iota of it.

He very likely would have done it all, if the stark reality of the other man staring at him with what seemed akin to fear hadn't struck him like a slap to the face. So vastly divergent was it from Zeb's own emotions that he questioned for a beat if it was possible he had hallucinated the past few moments and missed what Alexsandr actually said. Was that even possible? "You look like you just told me you've got a terminal illness." Caution tempered his flare of pleasure before it could truly begin to burn. Was Alexsandr unhappy to feel this way about him? Was this an excision of the truth with the wish to be rid of it? Or did it tie back into the manner in which Alexsandr talked to Zeb before, fairly caving inwards in front of him? ' You deserve better than being saddled with my feelings. ' Perhaps he already knew the answer.

Yet there was no darkening disgust, no awkward discomfort, no apologetic pity. Something instead seemed to light in those expressive green eyes, despite the tinge of caution on Zeb's face and in his voice. Alexsandr's cheeks reddened again, gaze struggling for a few moments not to flick aside. "I, I didn't mean..." That drag of his stool closer to Zeb gently cut off his trailing reply. Alexsandr kept his balance, though only one hand rested on the table now.

The timbre suffusing his nickname fractured his fear, dripped a subtle tingle under his skin, nearly made him shiver. He couldn't help letting his eyes stay closed in a prolonged blink, lips parted a sliver as he angled into the skim of Zeb's knuckles over his cheek. Stars, might there truly be a chance...? Alexsandr's eyes opened immediately, one hand lifting to keep Zeb's near his face while he shook his head. Stilled by the other's fingers combing into his hair, fingertips resting on Zeb's forearm instead, he brought his other hand up toward his friend's face - though it halted and curled in hesitation. He wanted, wanted so badly it hollowed his stomach even as it filled his heart, but that persistent sense of undeserving seethed in his mind's ear.

Only to be dulled by the tender press of their foreheads. Then drowned out by Zeb's forthright warmth. 'Being in love with you'. With him. Every echo of the words amid his thoughts pulled the fear and melancholy from his love like weeds from a garden. Zeb was in love with him too. Alexsandr squinted a little against the sting in his eyes. One drop escaped, then two more, then they wouldn't stop sliding down his cheeks even when wet lashes squeezed shut. His curled hand moved again, smoothing onto the back of Zeb's neck. Alexsandr swallowed hard, to better speak past shaking breaths.

As promised, he made no complaint.

The rest of the crew aboard, fortunately, had the good sense not to comment. A small adjustment to ensure the bacta patch was visible on his midriff proved a sufficient, wordless explanation. Instead, focus turned to the information Alexsandr had retrieved. From what he could see of the scan results, it'd been well-combed and found clean. Thank the stars. That in itself was enough to let some lingering tension drain from Alexsandr's posture against Zeb's chest. It was also easier to see the true value in what he'd found then, how the recorded patterns and schedules would be actually useful.

Alexsandr appreciated not having to rely on his bad leg once they landed back at base. Its lingering soreness was further compounded by the subtle shift from artificial to natural gravity. Debriefing General Dodonna was somewhat awkward at first, as he had to be deposited into a chair so Zeb could be dismissed, per the General's protocols. At least it didn't take too long, mostly full of summarizing the data and assuring he hadn't been recognized. His own dismissal from Dodonna's desk came with an order to report to the medbay and rest afterwards.

He managed to depart under his own power, though with a clear limp. It took even less time to find Zeb again; apparently his dearest friend had stayed as close to the doorway as allowed. Only after he'd been checked then carried from the medbay did Alexsandr let his mind wander back to how close he'd come to a confession. A frightened, flinching part of himself posited brushing the whole thing aside, somehow. But that somehow hewed far too close to lying for Alexsandr's taste. He never wanted to lie to Zeb.

Instead, he was almost the one rather apt to cause trouble when General Dodonna dismissed him from the debrief back at the base.

He had been part of this mission, hadn't he? And how was Zeb supposed to know when Alexsandr might be ready for his assistance again if he wasn't allowed in the room? He couldn't help the faintly irritated backwards flick of his ears at the thought. Still, Alexsandr didn't say anything ( not that it was liable to have mattered, he knew ), nor was he about to instigate a scene over it regardless of the small flare of annoyance that arose. If there was one thing Zeb had learned across years of combatting his temper, it was that there were certain ' hills worth dying on, ' and should he turn everything into a battle then none of them truly meant anything; here with Dodonna wasn't one of those hills. Alexsandr could handle this, and he would stay close enough that the man wouldn't have to limp too far to find him.

So, there he waited in the hall, leaning against the wall beside the doorway with his arms folded over his chest, until his friend reappeared. It was off to the medbay then, on an order from the General that Zeb wholeheartedly agreed with. The patched wound checked out as he had hoped it would, and it wasn't long before they emerged once more. As they stepped outside, the sound of Alexsandr's voice drew his gaze downward. ' If you wouldn't mind. ' Zeb nearly rolled his eyes in fond exasperation at that, though he managed to refrain ( the last thing he wished was for it to be misconstrued as vexation ). "Of course I don't mind. I'm not a taxi service, y'know." It's 'cause I want to.

Suddenly, Alexsandr mentioned their talk. Although he had been eager to parse through it before, uncertainty now washed over him. Alexsandr sounded so — stutter-y. Was whatever he was requesting to hear bad? Part of Zeb wanted to insist they discuss it right now ( ridiculous as it was ) because he felt just about prepared to crawl out of his own skin at this brand of anticipation; instead he gave a shrug of a shoulder. "Yeah. So long as you're up for it." Following Alexsandr's directions, they started down the indicated path while he did everything possible not to dwell on what was to come.

Whatever it was, he didn't want to regret asking. Zeb didn't want Alexsandr to regret saying it, either. A little too late for that, huh?

Alexsandr reminded himself that his dearest friend would surely be kind in his rejection. He reminded himself of the vow they'd shared aboard the Ghost, how those words were offered without any knowledge of his deeper feelings. Zeb wouldn't rescind them over this. Surely.

Once they reached the door to his quarters - more closed off than some fellow captains had, as he relished the privacy - Alexsandr let his focus shift to staying upright. Adjusting a bit to keep balance, he looked to Zeb and managed a small smile; somehow, seeing a tell of the other's nerves eased his own a bit. "Thank you." He braced one hand atop Zeb's shoulder, his opposite typing in the keycode (his family's flat number and home level on Coruscant) before he led the way inside.

It was a simple, open floor plan, with only the 'fresher and shower closed off from the rest of the space. A round dining table with a few stools sat near the middle of the floor; a work desk with neat stacks of flimsi, a datapad, and a lamp was closer to the rear wall and to one side, safely away from the shuttered windows to prevent any information leaks. Toward the other side of the back wall was a small kitchen of sorts, though some parts were rarely used. Off to their right was a mechanic's workbench, mostly kept neat though his latest tinkering project - refinements on a restraining-bolt remover - still sat out beside a few tools. To their left, near the shower and 'fresher door, were his dresser and his bed, the latter larger than he'd been used to before. All the furnishings were fairly plain and utilitarian, which made one addition stand out on the wall beside his pillows: a somewhat rough painting of the meteorite from Bahryn, in greyish-black and vivid yellow.

Alexsandr switched on the lights with his free hand, then made his way to the dining table. Settling onto one stool with a sigh, only then did he let go of Zeb's shoulder to gesture at another seat. "Please." A brief silence to gather some of his thoughts into some semblance of order. "First, I want to apologize for causing any concern. When I spoke earlier about this, I mean." He scoffed quietly at himself, glancing down at his hands loosely clasped atop the table. "More like danced around it, I suppose. But, I... I haven't done this before. Talked frankly about these kinds of feelings. I never thought I'd have to, not with how... impossible it seemed for me, before. With anyone."

'I liked it.' As seemingly impossible as a flower growing from stone, yet there it was, resonating in his mind's ear.

Nearly as impossible was that cradling touch to one side of his head. Alexsandr turned slightly to press into Zeb's palm, lips parting for a stumbled inhale at his nickname rolling off the other's tongue. Yet it was the beckon which finally pulled amber-brown eyes upward to meet green. The question of his trust spurred an immediate answer. "With everything I am," he breathed, emphatic.

Alexsandr didn't interrupt further, though. Even when he was baffled about what good he could possibly be for Zeb, even when his dearest friend admitted a similar uncertainty about deserving, even when Zeb's opposite hand rested over his. He sat silent, watched, and listened. Until... 'What feelings'.

There was the crux of it. Alexsandr couldn't decide if he regretted alluding to his feelings, or if he craved to finally confess. Perhaps both. They flared bright in his mind, complementary crystal-clear sentiments each containing myriad facets. I love you. I want you. They tangled in his throat til it burned, then froze tight as Alexsandr caught the same sounds Zeb had. How had he nearly forgotten where they were, or the chance of being overheard and made fun? He wondered to himself whether the fresh, vivid blush staining his cheeks might prove half his answer on its own.

Nevertheless, Alexsandr's nestle into his hand easily diverted his agitation, dissipating it until it fizzled out entirely. Focused instead on the way that just-bitten lower lip stopped short of grazing his wrist by only the smallest fraction, heat rippled down his spine.

In the aftermath, momentary rumination clouded Zeb's thoughts. He had never considered anyone his like this before ( whether its recipient was aware of it or not ); Alexsandr was simply different, and he'd had no particular conviction to question that. Why would he, when it had happened so naturally after the other man's defection? Yet, at the same time, why wouldn't he? Perhaps Nyra had been right — she had always told Zeb that he was obtuse, in that vaguely insulting but accurate manner no one aside from an older sister could get away with. ' If you don't shape up, you're going to miss whoever your heart's looking for even if they walk right in front of your face. ' Of course, back then he had snarked about how his heart wasn't looking for anybody since he had eyes while she just rolled hers. Now, he would give nearly anything to hear her advice one last time.

The little smile Zeb received then forced him to place such contemplation to rest for the moment; they had the present to attend to. Nevertheless, Alexsandr's warning prompted a huff of a laugh as he rose to his feet. "Sure, so long as I don't punch 'em first." Grinning just wide enough for a glint of teeth, his fingers slid up into Alexsandr's hair to ruffle it once more. With his hands now free, Zeb grabbed the discarded shirt atop the bench and draped it around its owners shoulders ( covering up some of those freckles he was so curious about ). Then, he slid one arm beneath Alexsandr's knees and another around the waist before hoisting the blond up in one fluid movement.

As promised, he made no complaint.

The rest of the crew aboard, fortunately, had the good sense not to comment. A small adjustment to ensure the bacta patch was visible on his midriff proved a sufficient, wordless explanation. Instead, focus turned to the information Alexsandr had retrieved. From what he could see of the scan results, it'd been well-combed and found clean. Thank the stars. That in itself was enough to let some lingering tension drain from Alexsandr's posture against Zeb's chest. It was also easier to see the true value in what he'd found then, how the recorded patterns and schedules would be actually useful.

Alexsandr appreciated not having to rely on his bad leg once they landed back at base. Its lingering soreness was further compounded by the subtle shift from artificial to natural gravity. Debriefing General Dodonna was somewhat awkward at first, as he had to be deposited into a chair so Zeb could be dismissed, per the General's protocols. At least it didn't take too long, mostly full of summarizing the data and assuring he hadn't been recognized. His own dismissal from Dodonna's desk came with an order to report to the medbay and rest afterwards.

He managed to depart under his own power, though with a clear limp. It took even less time to find Zeb again; apparently his dearest friend had stayed as close to the doorway as allowed. Only after he'd been checked then carried from the medbay did Alexsandr let his mind wander back to how close he'd come to a confession. A frightened, flinching part of himself posited brushing the whole thing aside, somehow. But that somehow hewed far too close to lying for Alexsandr's taste. He never wanted to lie to Zeb.

The stilted, restrained timbre of Zeb's initial answer did no favors for Alexsandr's train of thought. He bit the inside of his lip again when his dearest friend coaxed his hand away further by the wrist. Of course, of course Zeb wouldn't want his touch to return; who would?

If he was...? Alexsandr's diverted stare lingered on his returned hand atop his lap, and opposite fingertips brushed his wrist as if seeking the warmth Zeb left behind, tracing the shape of that earlier hold. The other's compassion seemed a bottomless well. Yet, if Zeb's reaction hadn't been discomfort, what was it? And why was Alexsandr's discomfort being presumed, when it was his lapse of self-control which ruined the atmosphere in the first place?

It hadn't been strange to Zeb? Alexsandr almost wanted to laugh, if he wasn't in heartache. No humor touched his answer, not least because it was a conscious effort to keep his voice as steady as he could. "How could it not be? You're presented such affection from an ex-Imperial with hands stained up to his shoulders and too short a record of good - how is that not even strange, nevermind tolerable?" His bared shoulders hunched a little while he spoke, gaze still fixed on his own hands and face still flushed from ear to ear. "You... your words are very kind, and I'm grateful. But for my own satisfaction, I admit my hope this hasn't..."

Alexsandr chafed abruptly at his own formality. "Stars, Garazeb, I'm sorry. I wasn't uncomfortable at all; too much of my comfort was the problem, it let the honesty of my thoughts run rampant. You deserve better than being saddled with my feelings."

It was jarring to then hear the sudden tonal switch to measured, mannered speech from Alexsandr, like they were strangers again. That would be worse than his previously wounded pride. Much worse. And yet, for as taken aback as he had been each ensuing moment, it hit him all the harder when that formality was dropped with a weariness. ' You deserve better than being saddled with my feelings. ' What was Alexsandr saying? Was the first leap Zeb's mind took right after he had already been so wrong?

"You weren't — ? I thought that you — " Great, he was losing the ability to speak in intelligible sentences. But it wasn't as if he wanted to spit out what he had been attempting to say, anyway! The embarrassment of vocalizing the entirety of the sentiment threatened to clamp his jaw shut again, especially now that Alexsandr probably hadn't even thought of it to begin with. Still. What kind of hypocrite would Zeb be to anticipate frankness from Alexsandr if he ceased to offer it himself? Karabast. "I thought that you felt thinking about me that way was strange." Mortified, his ears practically flattened against his skull. "Ya know. Lovely or whatever you said." As if it wasn't carved into his brain. "I didn't want you believing that you couldn't take it back if it didn't feel right. But — I liked it."

Then, Zeb pressed his palm to the side of Alexsandr's head, cradling it. "Look at me, Sasha." He hoped Alexsandr would, that he wouldn't need to watch those eyes' vacant, lowered stare. "I already told you that between us, what happened on Lasan is over for me. You trust me, don't ya?" Slowly, his thumb began to brush the shell of Alexsandr's ear, back and forth along that rounded curve ( receiving similar ministrations had always felt soothing to him ). "And I never would've sworn myself to you if I thought any of what you just said was true, 'cause it's sacred. You've got no idea what good you are. Or what good you are for me."

With a short shake of his head, Zeb rested his free hand over Alexsandr's, covering those fingers tracing his prior hold on the other man's wrist. "Maybe — " He faltered, then. "Maybe I don't always think that I deserve to feel like I do when I'm with you, but that's only 'cause of how much it means to me. So, I need you to understand that I'm not saddled with anything when it comes to you." Rarely did his pulse pound so fervently, an amalgamation of adrenaline and vigilance, when danger wasn't thick in the air, yet this was far too comparable. The desire not to misconstrue any more of Alexsandr's meaning drove his next words. "But I need to hear you say — what feelings." It was barely out of his mouth when sounds from the hall sent his ears flicking to attention. Right; they weren't in private, and another member of the Ghost crew could walk in at any second ( they might even be looking for them to garner more information about the mission ). While Zeb didn't particularly care if they were spotted together this way, he didn't wish to insist upon a baring of the heart that could be overheard.

'I liked it.' As seemingly impossible as a flower growing from stone, yet there it was, resonating in his mind's ear.

Nearly as impossible was that cradling touch to one side of his head. Alexsandr turned slightly to press into Zeb's palm, lips parting for a stumbled inhale at his nickname rolling off the other's tongue. Yet it was the beckon which finally pulled amber-brown eyes upward to meet green. The question of his trust spurred an immediate answer. "With everything I am," he breathed, emphatic.

Alexsandr didn't interrupt further, though. Even when he was baffled about what good he could possibly be for Zeb, even when his dearest friend admitted a similar uncertainty about deserving, even when Zeb's opposite hand rested over his. He sat silent, watched, and listened. Until... 'What feelings'.

There was the crux of it. Alexsandr couldn't decide if he regretted alluding to his feelings, or if he craved to finally confess. Perhaps both. They flared bright in his mind, complementary crystal-clear sentiments each containing myriad facets. I love you. I want you. They tangled in his throat til it burned, then froze tight as Alexsandr caught the same sounds Zeb had. How had he nearly forgotten where they were, or the chance of being overheard and made fun? He wondered to himself whether the fresh, vivid blush staining his cheeks might prove half his answer on its own.

Alexsandr caught that quiet, sharp inhale. He hoped it wasn't out of discomfort, though watching Zeb's face offered some reassurance. His dearest friend wouldn't be the type to hide dislike for something, surely, not for this. Alexsandr strove to focus on the thought and its past proof, to distract himself from an urge to lean in further regardless of injury. He craved it. He couldn't follow through. He shouldn't, not when it risked their friendship. This was enough, this tender moment with his nickname in Zeb's voice resounding in his mind's ear, with what contact they had, with a sincere grin on his face. He still felt like a coward.

His own breath subtly shook when Zeb's hand slid up over his neck and scalp, stumbling into a short chuckle (and narrowly avoiding another wince) at the ruffle of his hair. Alexsandr ducked his head a little, then angled it into the touch for as long as he could. Blush lingering, the broadness of his smile ebbed under a pang of self-consciousness. "For letting me hear it again." Meeting Zeb's gaze brought another sentiment to the fore and past his lips. "...It's lovely, the way you say it."

' For letting me hear it again. ' The reply to his question swiftly sobered the grin on his face. Of course Alexsandr wouldn't hear the moniker from family, not when contacting them was so risky as a known traitor of the Empire. And what did they think when they received that news? Would they be horrified to see Alexsandr now, exchanging intimate vows of loyalty with a Lasat? With Zeb? He didn't want to know. Instead, he chose to focus on the blush clinging to freckled cheeks, and on the fact that his friend found it ' lovely ' ( what an Alexsandr-esque adjective to employ ) the way he said the nickname — wait, what?

Zeb's heartbeat slammed to a halt in his chest. Lovely. Amusement wasn't etched into Alexsandr's expression, nor had sarcasm echoed in the sentiment. Although the man never poked at him like that since Bahryn, he couldn't deny his skepticism of the sincerity in it. But it was sincere, wasn't it? Alexsandr said that something about Zeb was lovely, and meant it. As heat ran down his spine, pleasure unfurled in his chest. Maybe he deserved to feel it and maybe he didn't, yet it was his.

Then, just as fast, it was over. Alexsandr ( countenance now a scalding red ) swiftly glanced away as if caught doing something shameful while the hand on the back of Zeb's neck retreated. ' That must've sounded strange. ' Must've, Alexsandr had said, as if it there was no room for doubt. Why? Because Alexsandr found it so insane to think of him that way? Because he should have been uncomfortable at how ridiculous it was to associate him with such a descriptor? Zeb's ears flicked backward as embarrassment flared through him, verging into frustration that knotted unrelentingly in his stomach.

He caught himself just before it twisted into anger. At times, it struck him as the only emotion that he understood anymore, like the only one he should feel, until he had made a home within his own rage. Zeb's bones ached with the weight of it, but it was the price of his failure and of his survival. Discovering Lira San lifted that burden — a little. Enough. While he never wished to be seen as a leader ever again, he did want to hold onto the pieces of ' Captain Garazeb Orrelios ' that he had left; the discernment he had developed on Lasan, despite his eternal predisposition towards hot-headedness, was one of them. Internally, Zeb swore he wouldn't allow his mortification at deriving such joy from something Alexsandr deemed strange to supersede all else that he shared with his beloved friend. Whatever was running through that pretty head that he couldn't understand ( why say it? why say it only to take it back? ), he knew the intention hadn't been to hurt him. That wasn't Alexsandr.

"If I was uncomfortable, you'd know." The set of his jaw was awkwardly stiff, though he refrained from grinding his teeth as he spoke. Reaching up with the hand that moments ago had ruffled through soft hair, he looped his fingers around Alexsandr's wrist still hovering behind his neck. Zeb had been the one to place it there to begin with, and if the other man was suddenly disconcerted by this degree of affection, he would accept it without question. Alexsandr's pain was his pain, in every meaning of the phrase — always. "But if you're uncomfortable, you can say it." He guided the hand back to Alexsandr's lap before letting it go. "You should say it."

The stilted, restrained timbre of Zeb's initial answer did no favors for Alexsandr's train of thought. He bit the inside of his lip again when his dearest friend coaxed his hand away further by the wrist. Of course, of course Zeb wouldn't want his touch to return; who would?

If he was...? Alexsandr's diverted stare lingered on his returned hand atop his lap, and opposite fingertips brushed his wrist as if seeking the warmth Zeb left behind, tracing the shape of that earlier hold. The other's compassion seemed a bottomless well. Yet, if Zeb's reaction hadn't been discomfort, what was it? And why was Alexsandr's discomfort being presumed, when it was his lapse of self-control which ruined the atmosphere in the first place?

It hadn't been strange to Zeb? Alexsandr almost wanted to laugh, if he wasn't in heartache. No humor touched his answer, not least because it was a conscious effort to keep his voice as steady as he could. "How could it not be? You're presented such affection from an ex-Imperial with hands stained up to his shoulders and too short a record of good - how is that not even strange, nevermind tolerable?" His bared shoulders hunched a little while he spoke, gaze still fixed on his own hands and face still flushed from ear to ear. "You... your words are very kind, and I'm grateful. But for my own satisfaction, I admit my hope this hasn't..."

Alexsandr chafed abruptly at his own formality. "Stars, Garazeb, I'm sorry. I wasn't uncomfortable at all; too much of my comfort was the problem, it let the honesty of my thoughts run rampant. You deserve better than being saddled with my feelings."

Those eyes flicked down to his mouth, for only a moment. Stars, though he knew it was only his wishful thinking, the dream of that glance preceding a kiss seized Alexsandr's throat until he swallowed hard. There were other ways to show his affection without giving away the true depth of it. There had to be; his fear of Zeb's disgust would loom too large otherwise.

When Alexsandr offered the nickname, he watched the other search his face. He didn't know what Zeb was looking for, but knew that only sincerity and a dash of hope would be found. "Of course." It was special, even moreso than it'd been before his Academy enrollment. That was precisely why he trusted Zeb with it.

It was, easily, among his most preferred of all the expressions he had witnessed upon Alexsandr's face thus far. Not too long ago, the way concentration settled along the man's features had sent the corner of his mouth lilting upwards, and he hadn't even been sure why. More recently, there was the little grin that rose to those lips when he spoke with Alexsandr in a way he didn't with anyone else. And that look Zeb had glanced up to see earlier? That one had already shot high up there. This right in front of him, though — it felt as if someone was squeezing his heart too tightly in his chest just to look at it.

However, with the marginal curling of Alexsandr's hand in his fur, his next intake of breath was subtly sharper. Every single one of Zeb's nerve-endings seemed to alight and gather at the site of that simple movement, just as they had when the man's fingers spread slightly upon first coming to rest on the back of his neck. Such small ministrations, probably not even intentional — why did it have to make him react like this? Stupid. But that internal lambasting didn't renege the instantaneous urge to press into it now, or to pull Alexsandr nearer because this suddenly wasn't close enough; it was like the hot flare of a spark that promised to burn.

Alexsandr caught that quiet, sharp inhale. He hoped it wasn't out of discomfort, though watching Zeb's face offered some reassurance. His dearest friend wouldn't be the type to hide dislike for something, surely, not for this. Alexsandr strove to focus on the thought and its past proof, to distract himself from an urge to lean in further regardless of injury. He craved it. He couldn't follow through. He shouldn't, not when it risked their friendship. This was enough, this tender moment with his nickname in Zeb's voice resounding in his mind's ear, with what contact they had, with a sincere grin on his face. He still felt like a coward.

His own breath subtly shook when Zeb's hand slid up over his neck and scalp, stumbling into a short chuckle (and narrowly avoiding another wince) at the ruffle of his hair. Alexsandr ducked his head a little, then angled it into the touch for as long as he could. Blush lingering, the broadness of his smile ebbed under a pang of self-consciousness. "For letting me hear it again." Meeting Zeb's gaze brought another sentiment to the fore and past his lips. "...It's lovely, the way you say it."

But what mattered more in this moment was Zeb's hand.

Specifically, its gentle weight on the back of his neck in return.

Alexsandr couldn't contain a faint yet more distinct gasp at the sensation, the sound then stumbling into an exhale when their foreheads met. The stronger itch was now tingling in his palms, with the urge to cradle Zeb's face. He kept his hands stubbornly in place; such a gesture could hint at Alexsandr's depth of feeling, could turn this into something his dearest friend might not want. This was enough. The mirrored holds, the prolonged contact of their brows, so close he could feel a little of Zeb's breath while the vow still hung between them... it was more than he'd dared to yearn for.

Of course, his own gaze couldn't help briefly shifting a little lower to the smile creeping across Alexsandr's lips, and an undeniable warmth settled into the very marrow of his bones. So, none of this was disagreeable after all, nor was his inquiry about a nickname. Good to know. As the acknowledgement flashed through Zeb's mind, he wondered again what would be thought of that word, the one that ( now that he had recognized it ) was too intertwined with his emotions to pretend it didn't exist: his. He harbored no notion of how to explain it in order to find out, or if he even should. Maybe Alexsandr would find it repulsive, and he would rather let Chopper roll over his foot than know that for sure. Repeatedly.

But Zeb didn't need to mull over it right now. As it was, the mention of ' a few ' nicknames undeniably piqued his curiosity, until it was pushed aside while Alexsandr continued to speak.

Sasha. It sounded affectionate. Sweet.

Those eyes flicked down to his mouth, for only a moment. Stars, though he knew it was only his wishful thinking, the dream of that glance preceding a kiss seized Alexsandr's throat until he swallowed hard. There were other ways to show his affection without giving away the true depth of it. There had to be; his fear of Zeb's disgust would loom too large otherwise.

When Alexsandr offered the nickname, he watched the other search his face. He didn't know what Zeb was looking for, but knew that only sincerity and a dash of hope would be found. "Of course." It was special, even moreso than it'd been before his Academy enrollment. That was precisely why he trusted Zeb with it.

Alexsandr's focus returned to the bacta patch's application, a quiet sigh leaving his nose at its coolness against the wound. His movements would likely remain restricted until they returned to base and the medics could take a look at him, but —

His thoughts crashed to a halt, at the sound of his name on Zeb's tongue.

He swallowed hard as their gazes met again. The briefest flicker of a furrow arose on his brow while he listened to his dearest friend's formal phrasing, before he realized. He hadn't been refused at all. Heart thrumming in the backs of his ears, Alexsandr solemnly treasured every word. The start of yet another blush clung high on his cheeks, but he didn't dare move. Not until Zeb's gentle hold closed around his wrist, sparking a faint gasp. His fingers splayed a little further against violet fur, basking in the texture and the warmth. Alexsandr already knew his answer, before Zeb's touch even retreated.

"Garazeb." It came out in a whisper. He straightened up with support from his other arm, just enough to lean closer for sincere and affectionate emphasis of his recitation. "My heart beats to the same rhythm as yours. Ashla knows the truth of this."

The lean forward and earnest underscoring of each word as it was repeated back ensured there was no dubiety to be found as to whether Kallus approached the exchange with as much solemnity as it ought to be. Perhaps this wouldn't be viewed by others around them in the same manner it would have been on Lasan ( where such an oath was proclaimed in front of comrades who understood the gravity and degree of such loyalty, in whatever form it took, and honored it ) but now, alone with no eyes on him except those of honey-gold gazing into his, a certainty sparked in Zeb that it didn't matter. All he cared about was the hand against his fur, the quiet words assuring him that how keenly he felt their bond was reciprocated, and the subtle rise and fall of Kallus' bare chest with each breath.

Maybe, eventually, when Lasat don't need to hide, we can say it all again on Lira San.

The ease with which the thought arose in his mind was simultaneously as shocking as being hit by lightning, and as natural as a heartbeat. Kallus had practically chased Zeb through that star cluster beyond the Outer Rim to Lira San. Wasn't that right? Chava had said that Kallus was the warrior from the prophecy she knew would help them get there, and he had scorned the idea that the person he hated so much could have anything to do with a hopeful future for the Lasat — if a future for them even existed. How was it that everything was completely different now? It was insane. Impossible. Unbelievable. At one time, he would have punched someone's lights out for insinuating that what was happening right in this moment could ever be real! And here Zeb was, somehow completely wrong and happy about it. Everything really was upside down. Or perhaps it was right-side up now, the way it should be.

Whatever that meant. Better to leave the sentimental riddle-talk to Kanan.

But what mattered more in this moment was Zeb's hand.

Specifically, its gentle weight on the back of his neck in return.

Alexsandr couldn't contain a faint yet more distinct gasp at the sensation, the sound then stumbling into an exhale when their foreheads met. The stronger itch was now tingling in his palms, with the urge to cradle Zeb's face. He kept his hands stubbornly in place; such a gesture could hint at Alexsandr's depth of feeling, could turn this into something his dearest friend might not want. This was enough. The mirrored holds, the prolonged contact of their brows, so close he could feel a little of Zeb's breath while the vow still hung between them... it was more than he'd dared to yearn for.

Besides, he preferred this silent exchange. Though his palms remained atop the bench's cushion - despite their itch to cradle his dearest friend's face - he found contentment in letting only his eyes wander while the other worked. So wholly was he sunk into that distraction, Alexsandr registered that their gazes had met, but for once had no thought for his own expression. Zeb hadn't looked uncomfortable, and hadn't stopped his tending of the wound; there was nothing to break the moment, at least in Alexsandr's view.

He knew Zeb had no idea of how deep his devotion ran, so in the back of his mind during their stretch of silence, he entertained the fantasy of having it accepted. To declare how he was entirely Garazeb's in every way possible, and be met with an easy grinning agreement, like it was the most obvious and welcome thing. To hold the other, or be pulled closer himself, without fear of crossing the bounds between friendship and romance. Without fear of his past haunting his every touch. A fantasy, that always prickled sharp in its retreat.

But retreat it must, when Zeb's voice drew Alexsandr's attention. Lowered eyelids opened a little wider at what was volunteered, how it lent this moment greater weight of importance. A pledge. But, what way was it meant to be offered in? Had Garazeb done so, without him realizing? And for even the one giving aid to consider it a privilege... The idea that his injury could be anything but a burden to be minimized was baffling - yet, not unwelcome. Quite the opposite, even if such breadth of kindness inspired humble awe. Still, Alexsandr didn't dare presume that sentiment had held true on Bahryn.

What came next, however, surprised him. ' I'd be glad and honored to accept, were it ever offered. ' Well, wasn't that bold? And yet, it had been uttered so softly, with the tone somehow only underscoring the sincerity. Any levity upon Zeb's face faded, his eyes studying Kallus for a moment. This was why he had been affronted by the earlier refusal of his help, wasn't it? So spurned by the expectation that he would watch Kallus suffer without protest? It had struck Zeb like a rejection to a pledge he hadn't even offered, which was why he had attempted not to allow his stupid hurt feelings to surface; it was unfair, his friend hadn't known. Now, Kallus did.

"Huh." Once the answering acknowledgement rose in his throat, he finally glanced away to grab a bacta patch from the medpac. The careful precision with which he placed it over Kallus' gash didn't betray the rapid turning of his mind. Zeb protected all of his friends, but he had never recognized it with the sort of bond the Lasat viewed as sacred. Not even with Kanan, who had saved him from not only the Empire but from himself; amid their sardonic jests and petty disagreements, there was no question that he would die for the jedi if it came down to it, without blinking. It was just different with Kallus, though. Everything was. He wouldn't only give his life for Kallus, but the facets of himself that he never knew how to vocalize, and the trust that entailed.

Gently smoothing the patch into place for the last time and peeling off his gloves, Zeb was keenly aware of his heartbeat, and how it was quickening. "Alexsandr." Had he ever used the name directly? The tips of his ears flickered forward then back at the thought, his gaze catching Kallus' again. "Do not tend your wounds alone, or urge me to leave your side, for your victories are my victories, just as your pain is my pain. Grant me this distinction of your trust, alongside the promise that I will go wherever you go, in spirit as well as body, and stand next to you in battle as long as I have life. Ashla knows the truth of this in my heart." Regardless of the rapidity of his pulse, Zeb's tone remained steady. These were words he was only accustomed to in his native tongue, but it felt right saying them now.

Alexsandr's focus returned to the bacta patch's application, a quiet sigh leaving his nose at its coolness against the wound. His movements would likely remain restricted until they returned to base and the medics could take a look at him, but —

His thoughts crashed to a halt, at the sound of his name on Zeb's tongue.

He swallowed hard as their gazes met again. The briefest flicker of a furrow arose on his brow while he listened to his dearest friend's formal phrasing, before he realized. He hadn't been refused at all. Heart thrumming in the backs of his ears, Alexsandr solemnly treasured every word. The start of yet another blush clung high on his cheeks, but he didn't dare move. Not until Zeb's gentle hold closed around his wrist, sparking a faint gasp. His fingers splayed a little further against violet fur, basking in the texture and the warmth. Alexsandr already knew his answer, before Zeb's touch even retreated.

"Garazeb." It came out in a whisper. He straightened up with support from his other arm, just enough to lean closer for sincere and affectionate emphasis of his recitation. "My heart beats to the same rhythm as yours. Ashla knows the truth of this."