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Something is wrong with the environmental controls on the space station. The air smells like strawberries.
Ben knows this means there must be some lichenous contamination of the pyridodine filters in the bowels of the station's life support systems. This particular species, if he's guessing right, is currently leaching slow toxins into the recycled air which will inevitably shave a few cycles off the lifespan of everyone drinking in the station bar.
The kicker, the punchline, the perfect pearl of truth? Everyone knows it, and has chosen not to care. This is not a place where novice spacers wash up. No one gets here without meaning to, without knowing what they’re getting themselves into. Maybe more than a few of the patrons at the station bar probably even welcome the idea of a layover ushering forth their own death.
It doesn’t come as any kind of a shock to him. Ben understands the impulse to hold one's own life cheap, to loosen one's grip on it. It's the very compulsion he's been fighting, with mixed results, for more than ten years.
But not everyone is there because they may have a death wish. Some are there because they have to be, because duty has led them there, and compelled them to stay.
Ben is just one such unfortunate. But somewhere, he senses, there is another.
Somewhere in the undifferentiated crowd, Ben can feel the flicker of a familiar presence, something sure and strong and warm. He reaches out, peers carefully into the smoky air of the club, and sees him.
It’s only the matter of a moment to reconcile the changes time has wrought in him. Battered beskar, painted a rusty red, has replaced the ill-fitting durasteel with which his tribe had first sent him out into the galaxy. The helmet, however, is unaltered. There is no mistaking that.
He's filled out some, or it's just the breadth of the new armor, but there's a solidity to him that wasn't there before. Ben hadn't thought him particularly green, before. And Mandalorians came of age terribly young. But the contrast between this version of the man he knew and the version Ben holds in his memory is surprisingly sharp.
In the maelstrom of minds that flicker and pulse in the crowd, everyone pulled by their thoughts in a dozen different directions, grasping fruitlessly at a thousand different sensory impulses and desires, only Din is still. Placid. Focused.
He is clearly working. All his mind is turned to thoughts of wary watchfulness. There is not even a pretense of a drink in front of him to lend him the appearance of belonging. No one in the room is unaware of him, and Ben is not the only one affected by his presence, though he is probably the only one touched in this particular way.
Ben feels the edges of his mouth flick upwards in a smile. It takes him a moment to identify the feeling that arises at seeing him again, but soon he recognizes it as...pride. Din has grown, since they last met. It is undeniable. He has grown into himself.
He sits up rigidly erect, one hand placed as casually as he can on the bartop, while the other hovers close to his own weapon. But even in this state of poised readiness for likely violence, he is somehow at his ease. At peace. Ben wants to immerse himself in the still pool of his mind, to slip in without making a ripple. To drink down the cool, clean draught of him.
How easy would it be to walk over to him now, to settle himself on the empty stool beside him? To order a drink, pretend like he was just some stranger? Even if Din neither acknowledged or recognized him, how nice would it be to bask in the quiet haven of that familiar presence, just for a little while?
But Din is not the only one here on a mission. He is not the only one with a duty to do. And neither of them can afford the distraction.
It takes longer than it should for Ben to turn around and leave the Mandalorian where he is, undisturbed.
Five years before
Since relaxing his self-imposed rules about leaving a wall and a closed door between himself and the Mandalorian while they sleep, he has learned a great deal about his temporary companion. Sometimes, in quiet moments, he makes a tidy catalogue of the things he has uncovered, as though the Mandalorian were a curious specimen of some previously undiscovered species.
The young man runs warm, absurdly warm, so much so that Ben has more than once palmed his forehead out of concern that he might have caught some obscure desert fever. When he wakes up with the Mandalorian blanketed against his back there is always a thin film of sweat that sticks his shirt to his skin, a clammy prickle that makes him shudder when he goes out into the pre-dawn chill. He ought to just forgo the tunic entirely, probably but...well. That would be a step too far.
Ben learns the man is an incurably light sleeper. Even in the depths of exhaustion, the slightest stir or sound is enough to rouse him. Ben wonders if it was training or hard-bought experience that made him that way, but in either case, it's not hard to believe.
But when he does sleep, the Mandalorian is silent and still, like someone well-used to sharing communal living space, like Ben himself once was. He does not seem to mind the close quarters of the ascetic little bed they barely fit into, and it never occurs to him to complain about the poor quality of the mattress, the thin blankets, the drafty air. He snores, but only faintly, and only sometimes.
He does not often dream. This too Ben learned to his surprise, and more like a little bit of envy. Because Ben does dream. He dreams every night.
Most are gentler dreams, lately, than those he has become accustomed to since he first came here, holding fast to his own sanity and composure like a man in a shipwreck clings to any handy piece of flotsam.
But sometimes the nightmares return.
They're different, now, than they used to be, as so much else is different. They still feature the past, but not the parts of his past he has come to expect. His unconscious mind reaches far back into strange recesses, touching memories Ben has not revisited for decades.
He dreams of sitting at table in the temple refectory, surrounded by his men. Their identical faces peer up at him, clad in brown robes and cream tabards, but they are all of an age, none of them ripe yet for apprenticeship, no older than eleven or twelve. They eye the senior Padawans that flit in and out as silent shadows of their Masters with barely-concealed envy, with certitude, that they will be found out before they can reach such an exalted state themselves.
He dreams of Phindar, of the Monument, of the cool, cultured voice of Xanatos DuCrion whispering his ear. Didn't I tell you? Didn't I promise you it would end this way?
And then, only sometimes, he dreams of the Mandalorian. Not as he is, not as Ben wishes he could dream of him, sober and earnest and diligent in his many labors, but what he could be. What he could become. A hollow shell of beskar, with nothing inside. All the temptations of a tyrant, laid out near to hand, ready to grasp. The leader of a desperate people, willing to serve a merciless hand, to rally under the power of an ancient and terrible weapon, and yield to the will that lived deep inside it, possessed it. Possessed him.
His dreams wander down different paths, unfolding with the silken subtlety of different choices into a kaleidoscope of unfurling futures. Some of them, unfortunately, wake him up screaming.
When he wakes, the Mandalorian is there, all his taut martial attention melting at once into concern once he realizes there is no imminent threat. At least, no threat that he can see. Not yet.
"Whoa there," he says, tentative hand at the small of Ben's back, voice still hoarse from sleep. "You okay?"
It takes Ben a moment to get his breath back, after.
"Of course," he always says. "I'm sorry to wake you."
"It's alright," the young man says. "Don't apologize. Come here."
And the Mandalorian turns towards him, shifts himself so there is even less distance between them than there was before. The heat of his body becomes an inescapable thing, a singularity whose event horizon he has long since passed over, and Ben lets himself be drawn in, against all his better instincts. He lets himself be held, in the awkward, uncertain way the Mandalorian has of holding him.
Somehow, Ben finds even that very inexperience comforting, grounding. The knowledge that the young man is trying , trying so hard, worms its way in between Ben's ribs and finds a home in the deep, red core of him.
"You're alright," the Mandalorian says, pressing the heel of his hand into the tense columns of muscle either side of Ben's spine. "You're okay." And it's only then he realizes that he's sweat through his clothes, even the blanket around him is damp. He pulls a face, makes to stand up.
"Hey, where are you going?"
"I—"
He means to go dry off, to purge his mind of this poisonous dread, to submerge himself in the Force until he doesn't remember why the thought of losing this man to his tempestuous future makes him want to renege on every vow he's ever made.
"Stay. Go back to sleep. It's okay."
He never asks Ben to tell him about it. He never asks him if he wants to talk. Such methods are not in his repertoire, and Ben's gratitude for that fact is boundless. What on earth could he say? How can he explain that, for once, the grief that's welling up and overwhelming him has nothing whatever to do with himself, but with this curious stranger, who breezed into and out of and then back into Ben's life without a warning and without any indication of what he would become? How is Ben supposed to tell him that he wakes up hoarse and breathless from visions of him, twisted into something tyrannical, laying waste to worlds?
"I don't know if I can."
The Mandalorian hums, considering, an edge of mischief coloring his tone. Ben knows what he will suggest before he says it.
"We don't have to sleep."
It's indelibly charming, every time, his artless attempts at seduction. There is no mistaking them for anything but what they are, and yet, the bolts fired find their mark every time. They never fail to strike him, to tempt him, to convince him.
Ben has asked himself what the secret is, proposed and rejected multiple hypotheses. Nothing truly explains it. Nothing strikes quite at the heart of the problem. But he doesn't mind. It's always lovely, while it lasts.
The Mandalorian licks his lips before closing the last bit of distance between them, his eyes flickering from Ben's mouth to his forehead, still resistant, as ever, to make eye contact. Ben breathes his way into it, tries to relax.
"I wish I could do more to help you," the Mandalorian admits, voice harsh. "I wish I—"
"Stop," Ben says. "You do enough. More than enough."
"Really?" the Mandalorian asks, earnest as ever, and Ben's heart breaks for him.
"Yes," he answers, tipping forward into the lithe, solid warmth of him, setting the dark disturbance of his dream aside, just for the present moment. "Really."
A wave of gratification rolls out from his bedmate, unheralded, overwhelming. Ben feels it go to his head, lets it steep into and suffuse him.
The Mandalorian is all ardent, careless affection. Half of Ben's job rests in just getting him to slow down, to enjoy himself, without rushing headlong into the task of getting Ben off. He feels his own hands cool against the taut planes of the Mandalorian's chest, pushing him away as much as he pulls him in, trying his best to find any kind of equilibrium. Any kind of balance.
It's been a long time since anyone disturbed his balance quite so much.
"Lie back," Ben says, knowing that such little orders will be easily obeyed. "Relax."
"Okay," the young man says, breathing out through his nose, scrambling for some composure. "Okay."
The variety of possibilities presented to him by the Force surely must be enough to let him hope — the scope and scale of the young man's destiny may be impossible to avoid, but perhaps its nature is not yet set in stone. Perhaps there is yet time to change what kind of king, precisely, he will be. If Ben does not push him away, if he gives him leave to stay a little longer, to take his ease here a little while more, maybe he can carry a piece of Ben with him when he goes. Maybe that shard of himself won't spoil him, but preserve him. Keep him whole.
Show the young man some tenderness, and maybe he won't take it for granted, but it will be enough to fortify him, to steel him against the temptations to come. Help him reject the cruel and easy path.
Or maybe he can stay forever. It should be easy enough to keep him out of trouble then.
It's the most self-indulgent thought Ben has ever entertained, but part of him wants to ask the boy to stay. Or, to discharge this last duty, and then return.
He never could, of course he never will. But he thinks about it, sometimes. What would he do, if the Mandalorian left, and came back? Could he find it in himself to send him away?
The echoes of his dream still have him off-center. He feels a little drunk. It emboldens him to slip a cool hand beneath the loose waistband of the Mandalorian's trousers, to trace questing fingertips down the outer curve of his hip, the soft swell of his thigh. It takes so little to get him worked up, to get him shuddering, he can't help but smile into the open kisses he presses to the corner of Ben's mouth, open-mouthed and sloppy.
"Ben, please..."
"What's that?"
"Please, I‚—"
"Please, what?"
"Touch me."
"In a moment. Easy," Ben says, holding him at bay just a little, shuffling down to the bottom of the bed, pulling down the Mandalorian's smalls while he moves. Ben’s touch drifts down either side of the Mandalorian’s waist, letting his hands grip tight to the jutting forms of the young man's hips, rubbing little circles with the pads of his thumbs. He has to push him down against the mattress when he threatens to buck up into his hold.
"Relax, I said."
"I'm sorry," the Mandalorian says, eyes screwed shut, "I'm sorry, I—"
"Stop apologizing," says Ben, letting an edge slip into his voice, an undercurrent of incipient warning before ducking down to ghost a breath over the crease of the Mandalorian's thigh, wetting his own lips while he nudges his cheek against the silken weight of his cock, taking his time.
"Okay," he says, hiccuping on an indrawn breath, "Sorry, I —"
"Ah ah ah...." Ben says, drawing back. "What did I say?"
"No apologies," the Mandalorian says, between clenched teeth, his gaze directed somewhere at the ceiling.
"That's right," Ben says, and gets to work.
It's a headrush, every time. The sounds the Mandalorian makes can't but go right to his ego, even though Ben knows better than to imagine it's any testament to his skill at this. Though he certainly had some, once.
The Mandalorian's hands fist in the blankets because he's too shy to wind them through Ben's hair. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, or fixed on the far wall, his mouth slack with some nameless feeling. Ben can't help but watch him from beneath his half-lidded gaze while he hollows his cheeks around the warm weight of him, pressing the flat of his tongue to the underside and holding still for a long moment. There is no need for tricks, no need to try anything complicated or creative, but he does have to make sure to reach out with his senses, to keep careful track of how close the Mandalorian gets to the edge.
Now? He's poised right on the perilous point.
He has to make a choice, every time. To push him over, or not. To keep him aching, or let him loose. Both options leave a little something to be desired, both present unique temptations. He never quite knows what he's going to do until he's doing it, unless the Mandalorian makes the decision for him.
"Ben wait, stop, I—"
He does as he's told, drawing away with a wet slide, resting his chin for a moment on the crest of the Mandalorian's thigh, feeling the flutter of the muscle there, listening to him breathe.
As Ben has had to explain more than once, there is no such thing as "too soon." At any rate, he will not allow for any shame between them, if they are to continue this. But the Mandalorian has been equally adamant, in his own way, about wanting to make it last, every time. He's wise enough to know how narrowly their days are numbered.
"Too much?"
"No," the young man says, with a desperate thrash of the head that he probably intends for a less wild gesture, but it serves to get the point across. "No, it's good, but I—"
"I know. I know, it's alright."
"Thank you," he says on the exhale, letting his head fall back against the meager pillow, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes before blinking away his delirium, tipping his head forward to meet Ben’s gaze down the bed. To meet it, and hold it, despite the great effort Ben knows it costs him, when he is so unaccustomed to maintaining eye contact with anyone.
And here is where Ben has to be careful. Here is where the young man slips up, says something dangerous. Ben can smell it on the air, the incipient declaration, the avowal.
The worst part is, if it came any later, if he breathed it out in the heady unspooling haze of disinhibition that fills the air after a climax, it would be the easiest thing in the world to dismiss it for nonsense. A brief chemical illusion wrought of nothing but surging neurotransmitters and sated hunger, a moth-winged figment of untruth. Ben would let him say whatever he wants under such circumstances, and forget every word by the morning.
That he wants to say it now, when no part of him has yet been satisfied, when he's pulled taut as a tripwire and threatening to snap? That's how Ben knows he's in trouble. That whatever the Mandalorian wants to say next, Ben has to nip it in the bud.
And what, exactly, does Ben expect him to say? He isn't sure. There are a hundred different ill-omened possibilities, each one somehow worse than the last. Each one a dreadful variation on the same theme.
No one else could make me feel this way. I'll never want this again. I don't think I can leave you. I love you. I'll always love you. Do you love me?
Do you love me?
“Perhaps I will go back to sleep,” Ben says, slipping into sudden wickedness because he knows of nothing else to do, because he’s desperate to stave off whatever is coming.
“No,” the Mandalorian says, jolting upward to a sitting position, before he thinks to get a hold of himself. “I mean, you can. If you want to.”
“I don’t want to,” Ben assures him, a slow smile blooming over his face.
In the poisoned air of a crumbling space station, Din sips in shallow breaths of fruity atmosphere, trying not to breathe deep.
His quarry is close. Some bone-deep sense assures him, fuels his steady patience, his willingness to be still, to wait for the unfortunate target to come to him. There is no need for haste, no need for imprudence. He has his success in the very palm of his hand, if he has the discipline to wait for it.
But something isn't quite right. Din knows he isn't exactly flying under anyone's radar, isn't avoiding attention. He never can. It's a tradeoff he's always accepted: the weight of his peoples' reputation, balanced against a potentially-crippling inability to just pass through a place's slipstream, unnoticed.
He's used to being the recipient of unfriendly attention. But this is something different. This is not the wary consideration of potential prey, or even the tentative hunger of someone eyeing his beskar with credits in their eyes. This is something else, something familiar, but...elusive.
A gaze like a warm hand pressed to the small of his back, like a solid shoulder offered for him to lean on.
He has to fight the temptation to turn around, to peer around in what would be a sign of obvious weakness. He's getting paranoid, imagining things. It must be nothing.
It is nothing.
He turns his attention back to the task in front of him, and doesn't give it another thought.