There are thieves who rob us blind
And kings who kill us fine.
But steady the rights and the wrongs
Invade us, in innocent songs.
I'm not ready.
—
Meetra knows what mourning is. She's felt the bitter sting of war in her bones, unyielding and maybe unending. She's laughed with her soldiers, she's seen them die. Somewhere along the line she realized that it's all for nothing, that not one person could give thousands a reason to leave their lives behind. Not even Revan, who stirred and shook the galaxy, who tried his damndest to protect what he loved by giving away everything and everyone, a seemingly noble sacrifice of the lives brave and foolish enough to follow him.
And for what?
A Republic that eventually buckled and fell to it's knees to the very person who tried to save it. Betrayal and redemption mean nothing, after all, if it's the innocent who are lost. Meetra's seen it, the pain of families and loved ones left behind. She's seen what it is to mourn a life that was so vibrant and full, eyes gone cold and a stare hard as the end comes. It branches out to all those they've touched, the pain refracts and reverberates and Meetra doesn't think she'll ever understand why.
She knows she can't compare her loss to those of war, to the people she's seen love and lose, to those who gave their all for a galaxy that will always tip back towards neutral. For the Force and whatever that means, whatever she once believed in only to turn up cold and dead at her feet.
Meetra knows she can't compare her loss to any of that, but it still feels like mourning.
—
Waking up is the worst part.
It begins with icy fingers dragging up her arms and legs, reminding her she's in a bed too large, too empty, too everything it once was and now isn't. Light flecks in from the window and into her eyes, guiding them around its large frame, reminding her of too many nights when the stars would pass by, burning out and fading like fireworks; reminding her that there's life beyond the thick glass, and she needs to submerge herself in it. Osmosis or some other shavit like that, she doesn't really care.
She gets out of bed, folding the duvet up so that the bed appears as though it hasn't been slept in, and really, it feels like it. It's what she tells everyone when they see her. She hasn't slept, she's getting older, she's just tired. Nothing more, nothing to look past and into. It's convincing enough, she figures, no one presses on about it.
Meetra knows what they're thinking though, her appearance gives it away. She's long avoided looking at herself in the mirror, she knows what's there. The sight of deep purple marks beneath her eyes and pale, pale skin stretching over her sad features won't change anything. She remembers the life in her eyes and the dimple on her cheek that stayed a bit too long after she'd stopped smiling; she supposes she hasn't seen it in a while, now.
Rubbing her hands over her face, Meetra skips breakfast, because that's what she does. Too many early mornings resulted in bad habits and too few words said to the one person that needed them most. So she heads out the door and tries not to recount the numbers in her head. She does anyways because that's also what she does, it's what she's been reduced to. Numbers.
Five years since Kreia died on Malachor.
Five years since they moved in together.
Four months since reality set in.
One month since he left.
Just because we're not together, he'd said, doesn't mean I won't need you.
She swallows roughly as she gets into the taxi. It's cold, colder than it has been in a long time, and as she pulls her scarf up to cover her lips and nose she tells herself that it doesn't mean anything. She doesn't have to find symbolism in everything, there's no deeper meaning behind the simplest of things. No matter what she tells herself, though, the cold still feels more foreboding than anything else.
Coruscant passes in a blur that she's seen countless times. Only after so many did it lose its appeal, and only when it took on a deeper meaning did she stop caring what shade the sky was. Vomit, she thinks now, it's early enough that the sky is vomit colored.
And she kind of hates it.
She closes her eyes for the rest of the ride, waiting until she can feel the taxi stop to open them again. It stops short of the Senate Building, but it's quiet at this time of morning and she doesn't particularly feel like making it an issue, so she gets out. She can walk.
Thankfully it's cold enough that she can't focus on anything other than putting one foot in front of the other, hurrying into the Senate Building. The door floods her with heat and the promise of another day losing herself in her work, and she wonders absently as she heads to her office when exactly work became a thing for her, when it became important to her. When it took precedence over what she really needs.
Mission interrupts her thoughts before they get too involved, thankfully. She has with her two cups of coffee and Meetra's fairly certain she'd kiss her on the lips if it were deemed professional. Instead she sips the warm drink, a bit too sugary to mask the bitter taste, but it's better than the headache already threatening to creep up the back of her skull.
"Thank you," she says, once the heat of the drink fills her stomach, warming her through to her fingertips, "What's on the itinerary for the day?"
She knows Mission hesitates because she's filing through the papers on her desk, the one's she thought they'd sorted through last night. It'd been one of those nights that stretched on much longer than it should've, the kind of night that drove him away and somehow it wasn't any easier without the nagging guilt. Pressing her lips together, Meetra tries to forget, but the moment allowed makes her clutch the mug just a bit tighter.
"Senator Barshay still hasn't signed," Mission says as she thumbs through one of the more crucial files they need.
Meetra closes her eyes, "Seriously?"
"I know," Mission says after a quiet moment, "but we'll figure it out."
The Twi'lek's features twist marginally, and Meetra is slow to let out a breath and a nod. She's thankful for Mission's presence, fairly certain that positivity goes a lot further than anything else when it comes to success. They've always been close, ever since she moved to Coruscant. They're the Dream Team now, and she wouldn't really want anyone else working beside her every day.
And it's just any way to support the Republic, she supposes, or at least that was what she was thinking when she accepted the position. There was no way she could've known how it would change everything, but maybe it's worth it in the end, as long as she's doing something.
"We will," she agrees eventually, offering Mission a smile.
Mission smiles too, until it starts to fade and turns into pressed lips before she speaks, "Hey, uh, a few of us were thinking of going out tonight. You should come."
Meetra's head snaps up from where she's thumbing through the files on her desk. It's not the first time Mission or anyone has invited her out, usually she avoids it with some excuse, she's tired, she's getting old, always getting old, but Mission looks serious, so she doesn't offer the usual inanity.
"I don't know, Mish."
She nods, "I know, I know, it's just—we miss you, yeah?"
Meetra mimics the gesture, because yeah, she knows it's true. Admitting that won't do anything though, so she lets another quiet moment pass, thumbing through a file as she tries to figure out how to get out of this. She quirks her lips to the side before she glances up at Mission, who's still watching her. She takes a breath before she speaks, "We've been really busy, Mish, you know that."
"That's true," the girl answers calmly, "But that hasn't stopped me from going out and seeing them."
"Well we'll see how you deal when you're my age, I think the osteoporosis is settling in."
Mission lets out a small laugh, "Yeah, okay, let's pretend that's true. Even granny needs a night out, right?"
"You're funny, you know, reminding me of my agedness. It cuts deep, my dear."
"You're not old."
Meetra shakes her head, "Tell that to the aches and pains."
"Come on, it'll be fun," Mission says with a bit more than enough petulance.
"Are you really certain about that?
"Yes, and your persistence is annoying, no wonder you got everyone to sign."
Meetra raises a brow, her lips threatening to curl into a smile, "You forgot about Barshay."
"Oh, right," Mission rolls her eyes, "How could I forget? Don't worry about it so much, one of us will come up with something. My credits are on you."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"I mean it, and you deserve a night off before you formulate your master plan."
"You're right," Meetra says, "I did have my eye on a bottle of wine and a particularly awful romcom."
Mission sighs, her voice flat and unaffected, "You're hopeless."
And, well, shavit. "What do you want me to say, Mish?" she asks, forcing herself to swallow, "That I'd love to go? Because I think we both know the answer to that."
"Mee, we've been friends for a while now, yeah? I think you can trust me when I say you can handle it. It'll be weird, yeah, because you've been avoiding everyone for—"
"I haven't been avoiding them," she interrupts.
Mission gives her a look that says more than enough, "As I was saying. You've been avoiding everyone since he left and I don't think it's really fair to keep holding on to whatever happened between you two. I get it that you don't want to tell me about it, but was it so bad that you can't see anyone?"
"I don't really have a choice here, do I?"
"Meetra, you're not listening to me."
"Do I ever?" And okay, she knows she's pushing it.
Mission looks annoyed, something that's easy to do in jest, but she looks serious now and it forces another swallow from Meetra.
"You know," Mission says, and Meetra swears her own body is frozen, only able to watch her lips move, "I'm not letting you wallow in whatever this is, I know you Meetra, and I know it's been hard, but these are your friends, we're here for you and you know we love you."
She closes her eyes and for a moment she pretends that it doesn't hurt. She pretends that a few weeks hasn't actually been a little over a month, and that he's not the only person she's been avoiding. She regrets the empty promise to pretend like nothing has changed. They all know it's different, and despite what Mission is saying, she can't possibly consider going. She knows it'll tear down everything she's worked towards for the past month, and she can't give that up.
She absolutely cannot, so she doesn't understand when she finds herself nodding.
And she can't take it back, because a smile has already etched itself onto Mission's youthful features. For a moment Meetra loses herself in it, in her smile, because the darker blue shadows sweeping across her face feel vaguely like the ocean, and maybe she can see infinity in them.
"Okay," she hears herself say, but she doesn't mean it. She doesn't think she'll physically be able to go, she thinks maybe her legs are frozen in place and that's it, she'll stay in this office for the rest of her life. Easier that way, she supposes.
But Mission breaks into a smile, coming over and wrapping her arms around Meetra's neck, breathing a thank you into her ear, followed by an it'll be great, and everyone will be so happy to see you.
For a moment Meetra believes her, that they won't resent her for avoiding him because of what happened. For all that's happened. Maybe they can all pretend like everything didn't break into pieces, that the disappointing dream of destiny still exists.
That Meetra didn't let them all down.
So she closes her eyes and allows herself a moment to accept Mission's hug. Her arms tighten around her marginally, but it's enough to force out the thoughts that she hates, the ones that keep her up most nights and drove him away completely. In Mission's arms she can forget for a moment all that has happened, seemingly a lifetime between the days of hurtling through space with these people and drifting off into her own mind.
Five years.
—
The after work hour is a daze of too many people and bright lights burning the edges of Meetra's vision as she walks to the cantina. It's close enough to her flat that she was able to stop in and get changed before she sees them. She does it mostly because she doesn't want them to see her as the woman that fell apart, the one that threw herself into work because it became all she had. She wants to be their Meetra, the one who wears oversized sweaters that remind her of Jedi robes, the one who tells terrible jokes that only Atton laughs at out of pity, the one who's half the weight of but can still outdrink Canderous. Maybe she'll be able to exercise that last one tonight.
The streets are too familiar. She thinks that maybe her footsteps are imprinted on the sidewalk, weary and worn down from too many nights stumbling out of the cantina, stumbling over Atton and her own drowsiness. His arm would be tight around her waist, pulling her close as they tried to make it home before either were too tired to go any further. Maybe her drunken footsteps are still there, but she doesn't look because she knows his would be next to them.
The thing is, Meetra doesn't think she'll ever be able to be just friends with Atton. She doesn't know how to be friends with him anymore, frack she's avoided him for a month even though they said they wouldn't. The ache creeping up the back of her neck tells her that seeing him again would only confirm all her fears. Not only the nightmares, but that he's fine without her, better even. She wants to ignore it, but she can't.
She doesn't want him to be better off without her, and she knows its selfish. She's lost most of the people in her life, and now that she's been given the chance to keep them she's only made it worse. So yeah, she wants to be missed, and maybe it's for all the missing she's had to do in her life, or maybe it's because she doesn't want to give up the hope that it'll work out better than the hand of fate.
You can't play the Force, though.
For all she knows he could be happy, he could be seeing someone else and living his life the way a man like him should. He should be able to meet people without that internal hatred for himself, the unforgiveness for nearly a lifetime of pain. He should be able to move on now that he's free from the past. She just doesn't think she'd be able to watch it happen, she won't be able to stand seeing him happier with someone else.
She's close to turning around when thoughts of Atton getting married enters her head, but she lets them disappear as the heavy lights of their usual cantina come into focus. She hisses at the cold, pulling her scarf back up from where it's fallen and exposed her chin and neck. She doesn't have to miss him because he's right there, he's behind a set of closed doors shutting out the frigid air. He's in the warmth, he's surrounded by laughter edging on love. He's where she wants to be, but she's standing out in the cold, her hands turning more red and chapped by the moment.
She tries not to read into it that it's her fault she's standing in the cold, that if she could only move she'd be with them. She tries to focus on the regret of not wearing gloves, if only so that she can stand outside just a little longer, but instead she's blinded by bright lights that bore through the back of her head and the cold sending tendrils of ice through her bones. She's trapped by so much more than the people she's known for so long now, the ones that have been there for her for the past five years.
The one's who hold enough accountability to prevent her from telling them the truth.
Resentment and guilt definitely do not roll freely in her stomach, so she focuses on each step. Each step and then reaching for the door. Reaching for the door and then scanning the crowd for their usual booth.
It's strange, really, how something that was considered such a constant in her life could be destroyed so easily. Once everything fell apart she thought this would all be gone too. She'd hoped the cantina, even, would disappear from the streets of Coruscant once it heard what happened. So she most certainly didn't think their booth would still be there, or that they'd still spend time crowded around the beer sticky table.
She's still standing in the entrance, but she's wondering how many times they've been here without her.
"Meetra!" Mission calls, smiling as though she wasn't actually expecting her to show up. Meetra supposes it's okay, because she hasn't really given anyone a reason to believe her.
"Hey," she says as she approaches the table. Mission is curled into Dustil's side, sitting across from Mira and Bao. Meetra can only assume Atton is next to them, because she doesn't look in that direction. Instead she focuses on Mical, taking the empty spot next to him as he offers her a warm smile, pretending that she can't look up to see Atton across from her.
"Finally," Mira says, pushing a lock of hair behind her ears, "Haven't seen you in ages."
Meetra smiles, but she knows they all know the reason she hasn't been around. Instead she offers a, "Been busy," and that's the end of that.
She listens for a majority of the time, she has her arms folded over each other as Bao goes on about teaching engineering courses at the Academy. Mission's listening as well, but Meetra can tell Dustil is too enamored with the Twi'lek next to him to pay attention to the conversation. Mira goes on about wanting to get more involved like Mical, who now heads the Order alongside Bastila, who still needs to take time for her son. Everything got a bit messy since Meetra turned down the position.
She's thoroughly zoned out when she considers sneaking a peek at Atton. It's pretty pathetic, actually, the way she pretends to look over his shoulder at the rest of the cantina before focusing her eyes on him. And well, damn, he's looking right back at her. She feels the warmth of Mical next to her, but it's Atton's gaze fixated on hers that makes her stomach drop. His eyes are still the same milky grey that she'd first met over five years ago, holding the same love she's not sure ever left even when he did.
He looks good, if she's going to be honest with herself. His skin isn't worn the same as hers is, not stretched thin or purpled from weariness. She absently wonders how he feels, if it's even close to the same as she does, and how he's obviously handling it so much better than her. It stirs a certain rawness in the pit of her stomach and she's never felt more exposed than she does when she's looking at him, when he's looking back.
Atton takes a glance at the rest of the table, everyone's too entranced by some story about Mira's recent trip back to Dxun with Canderous to notice. Looking back at her, his eyes narrow slightly, and his lips form words that are barely audible, "Are you ok—?"
"Atton," she cuts him off, his name foreign to her tongue. and that—that's just too much. She digs her nails in the flats of her palms to prevent the jolt that threatens to wrack through her body, watching as his brows knit together at her obviously pained expression. She shakes her head, "You don't get to ask me that."
At first he recoils, but his face softens in understanding and god, she just wants to make it all go away. He opens his mouth to speak once more, but she shakes her head, getting up from the table.
All eyes are on her as she puts her coat on, frowns etched onto their faces before she even speaks. "Sorry kiddos, grandma has to get going, 'm too old for these kinds of things."
Mission shakes her head, nearly crawling over Mical to get up from the booth as well, "Sure, sure, you're doing a great job of covering up the grey. I'll walk you home, yeah?"
At first she wants to refuse, she wants to say that she'll be fine on her own, but she can feel Atton's gaze on her and she needs to get out of there as quickly as she can, so she agrees, hooking her arm through Mission's on the way out.
"You did great," Mission says quietly once they're out on the street. Meetra is silent for a long moment, not wanting to deny it even though she knows she didn't do great. She fled at the first interaction between her and Atton in over a month. She feels vaguely pathetic, and even worse for letting Mission think that she's holding herself together when she can feel her veins ripping at the seams.
Mission speaks up again once Meetra's building is in sight, "Dustil says he wants to get married."
This catches Meetra's attention. She smiles down at their linked arms. "That's the best news I've heard in a long time, Mish," she says before she pulls her into her arms, wrapping her tightly because this girl deserves so much and she's so, so happy for her.
Mission smiles when they pull apart, "It's been a long time coming, I guess. We've been together since before you lot arrived on the scene."
"Is he going to be okay living here full time instead of Telos?" Meetra asks once they start walking again.
"We've talked about it and yeah, I mean that's where Carth is and where he grew up, but it's not really his home, you know? It's been so long since he's lived there that it doesn't feel like the natural place to settle down."
Meetra smiles again. "I'm glad you have him, you guys are good for each other."
"Yeah," she says into the quiet of the empty street. The lights seem dimmer, if possible, that kind of distant hazy glow that Meetra thinks sometimes isn't real. It's quiet, too quiet for Coruscant but she likes it, it suits how she's feeling.
"Hey Mee?"
Meetra glances over at her, the dim lights reflecting across the blue of her skin, and yeah, infinity is definitely in there somewhere.
"Yeah?"
"Do you miss him?"
Meetra turns her head away, they're approaching her building but she feels like she's walking in slow motion. As long as her and Atton have been apart no one has really asked her that, though she supposes it may have something to do with the way she's been deflecting every question thrown at her lately. It's one question she's not really sure she can answer, maybe not right now, maybe not honestly, anyways.
She ends up not answering at all, only aware of time passing by the speeders overhead as they stand outside the door to her building. It's not awkward, exactly, just quiet and Meetra's silently thankful that Mission's not pushing it.
That is, until she speaks up again.
"You know," Mission begins, "He's still here Mee, he's not going anywhere."
"You make it sound like he's waiting for me."
Her delicate shoulders are pulled up in a small shrug, "Maybe he is."
"Don't," Meetra starts, finding that she doesn't really have anywhere to go from there, "Don't do that."
"I know you don't want to hear it, but I mean he's not exactly the one to blame here, you know?"
Meetra thinks she might nod, maybe she says something but it's so hard to focus because she's absolutely numb. The only tangible thought in her head is that her blood's frozen and she can't move her arms, can't move her legs or blink or maybe breathe.
But then she can, and her back is turned and she's heading in through the door, trying to keep her knees locked as she stands in the lift and hopes in whatever Force she still holds onto that she can make it to her flat where she absolutely does not cry.
—
Meetra remembers him. He was as warm as her two month reprieve on Tatooine, where she first heard Revan had died by the hands of Malak. It was the biggest news the galaxy had seen in some time, and praises of Bastila and her battle meditation already began. News spreading that there was a chance now.
It's silly, really, because Meetra knows now that the Republic will always find some way to prevail, whether they have someone like Bastila or not. It was never lost and probably never will be.
But his smirk is still imprinted on her mind, his eyes dragging up her barely clothed body as she tried some mock interrogation on him, not knowing what exactly she was getting herself into. He was darker then, but still warm, and his offhand comments were enough to make her bite back more than a few smiles.
She shouldn't have found him so endearing.
Sometimes she pretends that none of it happened. She pretends that her and Atton met in some seedy cantina, that they had that sappy soulmate moment where they realized they belonged with each other and to each other. She feels like a teenage girl, but it's easier.
It's easier than remembering the long nights awake on the Ebon Hawk, facing a new war that she might've been fighting alone. It felt like that for a long time, until pazaak and smuggled juma became a thing. She tries not to remember the way his lip would curl when he could tell she was bluffing, or when she took a sip too many and had to steady herself by gripping his forearm with everything she had.
It's hard to remember everything, she supposes, like looking through fogged glass or someone else's memories. They're vague, like when she found Vash's body and he held her until they both knew they had to go, or when he finally told her about his past and it felt like she, too, had survived his trauma, the utter pain of losing everything including oneself. And maybe she has, to some degree at least, because they always fit together, always.
She remembers him on Dantooine, she remembers the way the sun would trace his profile, the slope of his nose and the way his lips would part as he smiled. She remembers his courage at Khoonda, she remembers when their dynamic shifted. It doesn't seem real, almost, that the sleazy jokes and offhand remarks led them to a steady five year relationship. One that she let fall apart because she's afraid.
So yeah, she pretends that it didn't happen like that, because that's what she does now. Pretending is a lot easier than facing the truth.
—
Another cold morning greets Meetra with the same icy fingers gripping at her arms. She tucks them back under the duvet, pleading for a few more moments of her solitary warmth and escape from work, for once.
Senator Barshay is quickly becoming more of a problem than a solution. The thing is, they need his signature. Meetra and Mission spent weeks revising one of the heavier sections of the Coruscant Accords. They'd planned and wrote, and it was all for the benefit of the Republic, really, so there's no need not to sign. Just another loophole sewn shut, easy.
Except of course, Senator Barshay has yet to do anything.
Meetra pretends she doesn't see the symbolism in it as she heads to the office, but it's all too clear. The thing is, she's trying, she's honestly trying to make a difference in the one way she knows she can. It's frustrating that it isn't working out, but she tries to stay positive, because if she dwells on it too long she realizes there's no point in forcing anything to happen, it's all going to go the same way anyways. She doesn't know what for anymore, but she just needs more time.
She walks into the Senate Building then, greeting Mission once she enters the office. They never discussed what happened outside Meetra's building a few days ago, but it hasn't made things awkward between them. It's not the first time they've let the Atton conversation die out, and it probably wasn't the last, so she figures they can both safely ignore it.
"I've got an idea," Mission says once she greets her.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, and I think you're going to like this one."
Meetra returns the smile Mission offers her, "Lay it on me."
"Senator Barshay is throwing a New Years party up in his uppity up posh flat. I say we get ourselves invited and do some heavy negotiating...or maybe get really drunk, not sure which one yet"
Meetra scrunches her nose, "I like the drunk part."
"I knew you would."
"I don't know, Mish," she says, eyebrows furrowing for a moment, "I'm not sure that he'd really appreciate talking business at a party."
"It's wouldn't be like, talking business," Mission says with a shake of her head, "It's more of getting in the back pocket of the one senator we still need to sign."
"Did he get the additional file we sent him?"
Mission shakes her head again, "I comm'd his assistant earlier and she said he just kind of...blew past it? Apparently he said he didn't have the time for it right now. I don't know why he's avoiding this, I really don't. Like, it's not like we're changing anything that drastically." She pauses, "We aren't, right?"
"No," Meetra affirms, "No, I just, it's strange. I can't say I understand in the slightest."
They're both quiet for a long moment, the silence between them filled by rushing speeders and the occasional frozen gust lapping at the window. It draws Meetra's eyes to the dull city towers looming just past it. She likes them better at night, when they're illuminated by hazy lights and the stark contrast to the blackened sky. She scrunches her nose at the dull durasteel frames, the sun bouncing off the glass of the windows, because there's no life in them now.
"Well," Mission says, breaking her reverie, "It can't hurt to talk to him in person, right?"
"No, I suppose not."
"Free alcohol?"
Meetra cracks a smile, "You've got me there. What about everyone else though, surely they'll miss your presence at whoever's throwing a New Years party?"
"And yours."
"And mine," Meetra amends, "Really though, you shouldn't have to miss out for some silly senator's party."
Mission frowns, "You want to go by yourself?"
"It would only make sense, right?"
"Not necessarily," Mission says, the corners of her lips still tugging down, "I'll be there for you, Mee, you don't have to like...martyr your New Years for my sake."
She cracks a smile, "No, I'm saying just the opposite. I know you want to spend time with them, so do it."
"Mee," she breathes out, "Are you sure? We're a team, you know. The Dream Team."
Meetra nods, "I know, but I can handle one party on my own, I promise. It'll be better than that bottle of wine I've been saving."
Mission's frown only grows.
"I'm joking," Meetra assures, "I'm not that pathetic."
Mission cracks a smile but shakes her head, "As long as you're not telling me you're too old to go or whatever. Charm the pants off Barshay, okay? Not—no not literally."
Meetra laughs, the sound ripped from her throat without her permission, "We'll see about that, Mish.
—
She remembers their first night together on Coruscant. It was a week after they'd decided to move in together and everything was still new, they were still adjusting, still planning, still thrilled about the newness that they'd all received after the end of a long and arduous year of fighting against forces greater than themselves.
And the thing is, they won. Atton may have sustained a nasty injury from Sion, but he'd lived, and he continued to stay with Meetra even when she gave him the chance to go find himself on his own. At first it was always the stunning realization that neither wanted to find themselves separately, it was together, always together since that first day on Peragus.
Atton took her to a local coffee shop that night, and god it felt so late but it was exciting because they were finally doing all the normal things that they both missed out on in life. They drank coffee and shared a piece of cake too large for one person. They laughed until Meetra thought she'd be sick, though that was probably the grotesque amount of chocolate frosting she'd consumed, but it felt so right she wanted to burst out of her skin.
"Do you think we would've met if neither of us ended up on Peragus?," he'd asked.
She'd smiled, but shook her head, "Please tell me you're not going to get all sappy on me now, Rand."
"Think about it, though," his smirk a bit petulant, "Of all the people in the galaxy, you and I end up together. I think the Force was out to get us or some shavit."
"Romantic."
"Oh, tell me you're not impressed by my grand idea of soulmates Mee, that somehow two people who are obviously meant to be together just happen to end up in the same abandoned mining facility."
She'd had to bite back a smile, so helplessly endeared by him. "Maybe."
He'd taken too large a spoonful of cake, messy from frosting and clashing silverware, his eyes daring her. She'd only responded with a glare, hooking one of her ankles around his.
And it was a quiet moment, one they later deemed important. They also deemed the coffee shop as theirs, making it a place where they would retreat to when things got tough or when they had no idea what to do, out of plans and out of money. They'd always have a place to go.
Meetra hasn't been there in months.
—
Traces of that first night still linger in her mind. She's cleaning the kitchen because it's the middle of the night and she really has nothing else to do. She tried sleeping, but that only proved to agitate her, her limbs growing uncomfortable and the duvet snaking around her body too much. So she got out of bed, and here she is, rifling through their old junk drawer.
Mostly it's just bills and documents that she'd needed hard copies of at one point. There's a strange amount of comlinks as well, she's not sure they've even used them, but her hands slip past them and towards an object tucked away in the back of the drawer. Her hands clasp around its familiar shape, a deck of pazaak cards, and she drops it immediately.
There's not even a proper case around them, just a worn thin rubber band holding the deck together. It's the one Atton carried with him on the Ebon Hawk, the one that was in his pocket the moment they met. He'd put them away as a memento and got himself a new deck once they moved to Coruscant, and seriously, it was such an Atton thing to do to store them in their junk drawer.
They feel different now, though. She's clasped them in her hands plenty of times, but right now they feel foreign, like they belonged to someone else entirely. And maybe that's how much she's changed, that she can't even bring herself to feel the same as she did five years ago. It's confusing, really, how empty she feels, how the only direction she knows is the one she cannot take.
She pockets the cards, not really up for finishing the drawer. She puts away the documents she needs to keep and tosses the rest aside, trying in earnest to forget about the cards because really, they're just cards.
She repeats that to herself as she gets settled in for bed once more.
They're just cards.
—
The morning he left had been just like any other, except for the fact that he was up long before her. She remembers the outlines of his fully clothed back as he rested his forearms against the kitchen counter, his head left to hang as he stood there, still. He didn't turn around, they'd been close enough to always have a sense of where one another was, except at this point they'd lost that. The silences had stretched on too long, they closed each other out of themselves and it made more of a difference than Meetra at the time would ever admit.
Despite the distance between them she knew what was happening the moment he turned around, his eyes meeting hers for what felt like the first time in weeks. Maybe it was, she's not sure, but the hollowness wading in the pools of his eyes was too much for her to handle, so she went about her morning as usual.
By the time she poured herself a cup of coffee he'd moved a leather bag out into the living room, and she wasn't looking at him but she could see him facing her through her peripheral. She let the coffee burn her tongue, anything as an excuse to put him out of her mind, to pretend that it wasn't happening, wasn't real.
"Mee," he'd said, "At least look at me."
She did, and she'll never forget the weight hanging between them. She'd had to bite her lips, preventing any I'm sorry, or please don't leave from slipping past. She regrets the pride, she regrets doing what she thought was right to prevent the fear from holding on. She regrets the silence that she held onto as he walked out the door.
He'd stopped, though, he hesitated a second, his hand inches away from opening it. He'd twisted his head back to look at her, his voice quiet, "You know I can't do this anymore, Mee, but just because we aren't together doesn't mean I won't need you. Bao said I could stay with him, so uh, that's where I'll be if you ever, you know, need me too."
And he was gone, and the cup of coffee in her hands may or may not have shattered against the counter, not where she could still feel the traces of him.
—
Meetra had hoped to avoid another cantina outing. Mission invited her out again and she'd offered her usual I'm too old. At first it worked, Mission let it go and Meetra assumed she could go on with her usual evening plans, which did include a bottle of wine she'd picked up on the way home.
What she wasn't expecting, however, was a certain Twi'lek to show up in the middle of her half-thawed frozen dinner with Dustil in tow, demanding that she go out anyways. And okay, it's really hard to deny her, especially when she's invading Meetra's closet and finding her clothes to wear no matter how many times she says she doesn't want to go.
Meetra stands in the doorway, watching as Mission holds up an old sweater she used to wear most winters. The collar was always too big but proved to be perfect for nestling the lower half of her face in when the wind was too much. She takes it from Mission, muttering a quiet okay, and pats the girl's bum on her way out of the bedroom.
She hesitates before sliding the sweater on, it feels familiar and strange all at once, like it belonged to someone else. She hesitates before leaving the bedroom, moving over to her nightstand to pocket Atton's pazaak deck, figuring she can return them if he's there tonight. Maybe he won't want them, but it doesn't really matter to her, she more needs to get rid of them than to keep holding on. She needs to let go and that hurts more than she thought it would.
And she already thought it would hurt a lot.
Mission and Dustil are waiting in her living room, carrying on some quiet, small conversation. They look comfortable, happy, and Meetra's really not jealous or anything. She misses the way it is to be with someone like that, but Mission and Dustil are happy and she doesn't want to take that away from them, so she smiles once they look over to realize she's emerged from the bedroom, sweater and all.
Her jacket fits snug over the sweater, but she's warm as they enter the streets that are almost impossibly colder than before. She listens as Dustil and Mission talk, icy air slipping between their lips with each breath. They walk quickly, and she knows if it weren't for Dustil and Mission she'd turn around at the sight of the cantina's hazy glow. It's the same cantina, but she swears it's less welcoming this time, as if it's wondering why she's come crawling back.
She can only afford a quick glare at the sign, pressed lips smiling when Dustil holds the door open for her.
Atton, Mira, Mical, and Bao and Visas are already sat at the booth, Atton and Mira already in some debate that Meetra's not sure anyone will ever understand. They look up at the same time, Atton's smile broadening slightly at the sight of her. She finds herself smiling back, not sure if that's what's appropriate for the moment, but then decides it doesn't really matter.
Meetra sits down next to Dustil as Mira speaks up, "Oi, I thought you guys were skipping out on us, we were waiting to order drinks until you showed up."
"She says that like she hasn't already been drinking," Atton says with a pointed glance at the empty glass on the table.
"You make me sound like a bleeding alcoholic," she answers, glancing around the at the rest of them, "Which I'm not."
Bao laughs, "Don't worry about it, we'll just catch up."
Mira glares at him, but doesn't push it any further. Instead, Bao nudges Mission's hand across the table, "So how's Carth taking the news?"
Mission and Dustil steal a glance at each other before she breaks into a smile, "Really well, actually. I mean I've always felt apart of the family, so I guess it's just kind of official now."
"Almost," Dustil says.
"You guys are sickening," Mira says, turning to Meetra, "I don't know how you work with her, the endless romantic drabble would drive me insane."
"Hey!" Mission cries out, smile plastered to her face, "I'm not that bad!"
"She's not," Meetra agrees, "But I mean, what kind of friends are we if we don't criticize her for finding true love while the rest of us rot? Except for Bao, of course."
Bao-Dur looks a bit surprised at that. His own relationship with Visas is still in the works and Meetra feels only marginally sorry for throwing him under the bus, but it's enough to deflect from the fact that she'd mentioned being single. She avoids Atton's gaze, but everyone else is still talking around them.
"We're lucky we have Mical or the whole Order would be corrupt," Mira notes.
"Funny," he says, but Meetra doesn't think it's very funny.
The table goes quiet for a moment, and Meetra supposes it's because talking about the Order has always been a touchy subject, especially since Atton never agreed to be apart of it after Malachor, and Meetra left without any explanation why. The thing is she can't very well tell them, it's gone too far past and she's only acted out of fear. It's already changed everything and she doesn't want to hurt them any more than she has to, doesn't want to hurt herself more than she already has.
Mission breaks the tension by talking about the right time of year to get married, the warmer weather, she thinks, but Meetra likes the cold. She's helpless when it comes to bundling up, her scarf tight around the lower half of her face and the exhilarating rush between inside and outside.
"I'd get married in the winter," Atton says, and Meetra pretends that he's not looking right at her.
"As if you'd get married, flyboy," Mira says with the quirk of an eyebrow, "That would require, you know, actually settling down."
He frowns, "I've settled down quite nicely, I think. Me and Bao have a good thing going on, don't we?"
"Oh it's great," Bao-Dur agrees with the smallest amount of sarcasm.
Atton laughs, "I'd be offended, but I think he just wants to get some alone time with Visas."
Bao-Dur immediately looks away and the whole table laughs at that. He's a good sport though, never one to outwardly complain about anything, and Meetra can tell that he's not completely opposed to the attention.
"Don't act like you'll miss me when I leave," Atton says as Bao-Dur's lips press into a tight line.
"You know I will," he answers, "Just, I'm not so sure about the mess."
Meetra would normally laugh at that, mainly because she knows how messy Atton is, but she's confused. "Where are you going?"
His face falls marginally, "I uh, Carth hooked me up with a job on Telos, I'm flying over in a few weeks."
She can feel everyone's eyes on her, but she only nods, lips pressed into a smile, "Good for you."
He half-smiles, like he's not sure how to take that. "Thanks."
It's quiet for a moment after that, the only sound is of glasses hitting the table and the dull thrum of music in the background. It's gotten to that time where the lights go down a bit, masquerading the dance floor with only blinking spots of light to illuminate the swell of bodies gathered there.
The conversation picks back up again as Bao-Dur recounts a new project he's working on. Meetra doesn't really pick up on the details, instead letting her eyes wander the walls of the cantina, begging for the night to end before she has to flee under her own volition. The last thing she wants is to chicken out again, to not be able to handle the conversation and the words that she thinks might actually have the power to destroy the walls she's set in place.
It's just hard, to think that Atton is picking up and leaving in a few weeks, or whenever he said he was going. It feels final, she thinks, like this is it, and she can either do something about it or let it happen. She hates it, but she know which she'll choose already.
By some miracle she makes it until everyone gets too tired to keep drinking, too burnt out on conversation and each other's company. She pulls on her coat, covering the old sweater that she'd caught Atton glancing at more than once. She's in the middle of wrapping her scarf around her neck when she notices Atton lingering behind everyone else.
"Can I walk you home?" he asks, his gaze uncertain, lip pulled tight on one side.
Meetra nods, because she's not entirely sure she could speak at the moment, or whether or not the answer would be the same if she could. She's forcing herself this way, she supposes, and she's not entirely sure why.
The dark streets are too familiar, almost, even moreso than when she walked the distance by herself. With him, though, it feels just like all those nights spanning across the past five years, their footsteps set in stone, next to each other. It feels right, it feels like everything she's been missing for the past month, it feels like he's still in her life, that though she hasn't been seeing him, he's still there.
Her hands are cold though, she forgot her gloves again back in her flat, and really, it's not a far walk, but Atton seems to notice. He wraps his own gloved hand around hers, not meeting her gaze when she glances down at their linked fingers and up at his profile.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier," he says, squeezing her hand just a little tighter, and really, it feels like nothing's changed. It feels that way even though she has work tomorrow, and the next day and the day after that and every day to ensure she's distracted from life, from him.
She shakes her head, "It's not like I gave you the opportunity to."
He nods, she knows it's partially because it's true, but hopes it's because he's just thinking.
"You know," he says after a short moment, "I never thought—"
"Wait," she interrupts, pulling her hand from his and reaching it into her pocket. He gives her a dark glance until she's pulled the pazaak deck from her pocket and is holding it out for him.
His hands surround hers as he takes it, a wary, but familiar expression etched onto his features.
"This is, um," he starts.
Meetra nods, "I know."
He pulls them out of the rubber band, taking off his gloves and tugging it up his wrist before his fingers slide over the cards, spreading them in his hands before he gives them his usual shuffle. She smiles because she hasn't seen it in a long time, and maybe not since the Ebon Hawk.
They're quiet until they reach her building, achingly so when they stop walking and Atton stops shuffling the cards between his hands, keeping them occupied and away from hers. He glances up at the stairs, his eyes reaching the doorway that used to be his home. She wonders absently if this is the first time he's seen it since he left. She knows it is.
"I—" he starts, but doesn't finish for a long moment, one that Meetra lets sit between them because she isn't really sure what to say either. What she doesn't expect, however, is for his arms to wrap around her shoulders, pulling her in for a hug. She lets the palms of her hands rest on his back, but doesn't pull him any closer, letting this short amount of distance be enough.
She wishes she had more. She wishes she could offer an I'm sorry or an I didn't want you to leave, but she's left empty, devoid of words or any comfort as the hug lasts distinctly longer than it should. He's the first to pull away, his eyes drawn down to hers, muttering a quiet, "Goodnight."
She's turning her back to go up the stairs when she hears him say her name again. She turns, looking down at his expectant eyes, almost pleading as he stands there for a quiet moment, words begging to fall from his parted lips.
"I miss you," is what he says, and Meetra nods. She nods and turns, entering her building with shaking hands.
—
Meetra doesn't necessarily believe in solutions. She doesn't know what could fix the ache in her chest or fill the hollowness of her thoughts, she doesn't think there's anything to stop the bitter feeling creeping up the back of her neck, spreading like a web over her bruised mind.
The answer isn't in his slate eyes or in the vastness of space, no amount of alcohol or cigarettes could cure the twisted feeling in her spine, the burn of the tips of her fingers of all that's been won and lost. Instead she finds herself sitting on her kitchen floor, legs stretched out in the moonlight passing through the window above her sink.
The shadows twist and refract among the angles of her kitchen, burning new images into her memories, drowning out the ones she's trying to forget. There's one that never fades, though, one that hasn't since it first entered her head.
It was always a dream, she thinks, but it was always more than that. The hole burning through her back was more than just a premonition, it felt like a memory yet to happen. She knows where too, she's seen and felt it countless times since that very first time. The question has always been when.
So she tries to focus on the shadows, her fingernails scratching lightly at the cracks between the kitchen tiles, and she watches as the shadows threaten to swallow her whole. Dark against light against dark.
She wonders what that means.
—
Mission's eyes are slow as they trace Meetra's face the next morning. Her own youthful features twisting into a frown as she immediately opens her arms for a hug, which Meetra readily accepts.
"You look like hell," Mission breathes into her neck.
Meetra nods, because it's all she can do without having to explain why she didn't sleep or why she didn't bother to dress in her usual work clothes even though she knows she should. This way she doesn't have to tell her that Atton misses her and she misses him, and yet they can't be together, that he's leaving and there's a chance they'll never be together again.
But Mission catches on even without words.
"I should've told you about Atton," she says as she pulls away from the hug, "I'm really sorry, Mee."
Meetra shrugs, "Don't worry about it." She goes for nonchalant, but it sounds more strangled than anything else, and really, she should've taken the day off.
But that's just not what she does.
Mission shakes her head, "No, it's not like he's dying to go. It's hard on him too, and I don't think he'll ever give up on the possibility of the two of you getting back together."
"Okay."
"No," Mission says more adamantly this time, "It's not something you can say 'okay' to, and I know I should've told you, but Meetra you're not listening to me. You're upset, that much is obvious, but has it occurred to you that you can fix this? That neither of you have to suffer over something you both want?"
"It's not that simple, Mish."
"He's leaving, I think you can make it a lot more simple than whatever you think it has to be. It's just Atton, you know? He still loves you, but you can't expect him to just wait around until you've realized that you guys should be together."
"It's not that simple," Meetra repeats, her voice a bit sharper as she focuses on the palms of her hands before her.
"Why?" Mission presses.
"I can't explain it in a way that would make sense. Not right now."
"I just don't understand what could've happened between you two," she says quietly, and Meetra can feel her eyes on her.
A long minute passes before Mission says anything again. "You'll tell me eventually, right?"
Meetra nods, but doesn't say anything, doesn't look over at Mission. She just keeps her hollow stare at the edge of the window, not making herself look at the dull spires beyond it. She keeps her stare steady and that's it, that's all she has because she can't explain herself, she can't talk about it because there's so much more underneath the surface of it. There's so much more than her and Atton splitting in two, too much more to explain right now.
"Yeah," she says eventually, the time between their words so long Meetra's not sure she even remembers what she's agreeing to. All she remembers is slate eyes and white heat searing through her stomach, and that very well can't be explained when she's unsure if she really understands it herself.
Mission exhales softly, her footsteps moving across the room the only sound besides the speeder traffic outside. "Barshay's party is this weekend," she says.
"Yeah," Meetra huffs with a slight laugh, "I think I'm saving all my charm for then."
"You've got that right," Mission says seriously, but dissolves into a laugh of her own and for a second the moment is broken. Meetra's not sure if Mission's smile is defeated or genuine, but she'll take it either way.
"I'm sorry, Mish," she says, like it's something easy to be sorry for, "I just need time, yeah?"
Mission looks like she's going to say something, hesitating before she nods, "Okay."
Meetra nods too, "Okay."
And the day goes on, just like every other, but time is a factor now. Maybe it always was, maybe Meetra was always teetering on the edge of losing everything she's been holding on too tightly to. She doesn't have the time now, but maybe she never did.
—
"I'm too old for parties," Meetra mumbles, watching Mira and Mission in the reflection of her mirror. They're both seated at her bed while she attempts to make her haggard eyes look more alive. Nothing doing, though, everytime she watches them in the mirror she can see death and emptiness pooling in them.
Makeup sucks.
"If you're old then I've got very little to look forward to," Mira says with a snort, "Besides, you just need a little excitement in your life. You go from killing three Sith Lords to working the nine to five, obviously it's going to feel like you've slowed down."
"You know she's right," Mission adds, meeting her gaze through the mirror, "You're allowed to have a night out and have fun."
"Find yourself a hottie or summat."
"Or," Mission interrupts, "And I believe this is the better option, go and make friends with Senator Barshay."
Meetra huffs out a small laugh, "I'm sure Barshay will be utterly charmed."
Mira looks between them, "Is he attractive?"
"No," Mission answers for her, "Not even a little bit, god Mira that's not the focus here."
Mira looks a bit perturbed, but offers an innocent face as she busies herself finding patterns on the ceiling. Meetra shakes her head, giving up on the makeup because it's not the same, it's never the same, and all it does is remind her of her Revanchist days. Of the hours she'd gone through, of her painted lips and pale face, of the mask laid bare in plain sight, all done for the one who would destroy her.
"Don't worry Mish," she says as she looks away from her reflection, "It's fine, I know what I'm supposed to do and all that lot."
"Good, because you need to get going, you only have like, fifteen minutes if you want to be there on time."
Meetra's in the middle of plaiting her hair to one side, "I thought I had to arrive fashionably late?"
"That's for normal parties," Mira answers instead, "You're trying to woo a senator, shouldn't arrive late."
Meetra just shakes her head and gets up from where she's sitting. She's wriggling into her boots as Mira and Mission make their way to the door and put their coats on, the sentimentality of the New Year starting to set in as she watches the two interact.
They look over then, Mission's face softening into a smile as she hugs Meetra goodbye. "Good luck," she says as she pulls away, "I know you'll slay him."
"Figuratively, of course," Mira adds as she hugs Meetra as well.
Meetra smiles at the two, "Thanks guys, I'm sure it'll be fine."
They both say their goodbyes and then it's Meetra alone in her flat, eyeing the room before she huffs out a breath and pulls on her gloves, then her coat.
She wraps her scarf around her neck as she heads out, and she can see her own reflection in the glass door of the entrance, the mirror effect enhanced by the blackness behind it. She looks tired, always tired, so she doesn't hesitate to push open the door with more force than necessary.
The cold air makes her eyes water, and she has to blink hard while a few stray snowflakes attempt to make it in her eyes, sticking to her hair and on top of her scarf, where they rest like white flecks of the moon, illuminated like the bright lights above her.
She takes a taxi mostly because it's too cold otherwise. Senator Barshay doesn't live too far from her but the snow picks up the moment she heads that way, seemingly making up her mind for her. The taxi isn't much warmer, but the snow isn't blowing in her eyes and that makes all the difference to her.
Mission was right about Barshay's flat, it's bigger than most of the ones she's been to, the first floor itself is roughly double the size of hers. She knows there's another level, but it's hard to find the stairs because the rooms are already thrumming with people, crowds gathered and divided in the living room, kitchen, branching off into the smaller rooms around.
Most people are at least half drunk already, and Meetra's hopeful to join them once she actually finds Barshay and has some sort of conversation with him. She's not sure what she's going to say yet, hoping that it'll come naturally enough to prevent it from sounding too rehearsed or preachy. All she needs to do is mention the revision and hopefully explain away whatever reservation he has.
"Ms. Surik."
Turns out she doesn't have to go looking for him.
She angles her head towards the sound of his voice, and Mission was certainly wrong about his appearance. He's a bit larger than life, really. Besides his slicked back hair, his beard extends past his chin, full and dark. He stands at about the same height as Canderous, she supposes, taller than her at least, and his eyes are wide, a unique shade of grey not dissimilar to Atton's.
"Senator Barshay," she greets, accepting his hand as he pulls hers to his lips.
"To what do I owe the honor of greeting the New Year with one of the Republic's greatest heroes?"
She shakes her head, "I heard there would be free drinks."
"Of course," he laughs, "A little party never killed nobody."
She smiles too, but before she has the chance to answer, his lips twist into a suspicious smirk. "This is about the Accords revision, isn't it?"
"Guilty."
He lets out another small laugh, his clear eyes crinkling with the smile that follows, "And you want to sway my decision?"
Meetra shrugs slightly, shifting her weight beneath her, "I suppose it's worth a shot, right?"
His smile stays. "Well, I suppose I'm still deciding. Drink up, Ms. Surik. Enjoy the party," he says, lifting his own drink to his lips before excusing himself.
She watches him for a moment after, the way he greets his other guests, making his way through the crowd like the groomed politician he is. And, well, their entire plan boiled down into a minute's worth of conversation isn't very impressive, especially considering he could see right through her, but she doesn't consider it a failure. Planting seeds, that's all.
—
For a moment she considers just going home, forgetting that this all happened and carrying on with her life, but she doesn't particularly feel like ringing in the New Year with a bottle of wine and dull lights passing through her empty apartment. Besides, the snow is blowing in mesmerizing patterns and despite her earlier reservations, she wants to stand in it.
She's surprised at how many people are on the balcony. She clutches her drink just a bit tighter, the warmth already spreading through her veins, but sitting heavily in her stomach. It's a tumultuous moment, the one where she realizes she's alone facing a New Year, one that makes her wonder if it's worth it to stay on Coruscant as she is. It's one that forces her to consider the consequences of going against fate, or whatever the Force means to her anymore.
But it's a moment that is quickly dissolved by the snowflakes resting in her hair, keeping frozen and still long enough for her to make out their individual shapes. She keeps her gaze fixated on them as she breathes through her nose and the moment passes, lost like the others, the ones she refuses to acknowledge.
And maybe fate does exist, maybe the Force is pushing her in a direction she doesn't understand, but she wants to laugh out loud when she notices the familiar outline of a back leaning over the balcony's edge.
She doesn't say anything, merely sidling up next to Atton on his left, her eyes tracing the icy spires surrounding them. It's the highest she's been in a long time, surpassing her own tiny flat by a longshot, and she's almost forgotten how perfect a view can be. The sides of the towers are half white, half illuminated light.
The falling snow echoes into the night, a halcyon silence fills the air around them despite the crowd shifting like an amoeba behind them. She can feel Atton's gaze on her now, can feel his warmth nearly surrounding her, its stark contrast to the frigid air more than welcome.
"I didn't come here to see you," he says, breaking the quiet.
She's slow to answer, "Did you know I'd be here?"
"I figured as much," he says as he shifts his weight, leaning to face her, "Mission kept mentioning Senator Barshay, but said you weren't going to Mical's with the rest of them."
She shakes her head, "Boring party that oughta be."
"Well if neither of us is there," he alludes, his smile as crooked as ever and god, she kinda hates him at the moment.
"So why are you here, then?"
He shrugs, "I wasn't really feeling the whole family reunion thing, and besides Barshay has roots on Alderaan, old family friend or summat."
Her lips twitch to the side and she swears it's only because it's so cold. "I didn't know that."
Atton nods, "I'm not sure it ever came up, it's not important anyway."
"No, I mean, it's fine, I just—I don't know. Five years together and I didn't know you were family friends with Barshay."
"Five years," he repeats, quiet, but his face twists into a smile, "You know, for a second there I thought you were going to ask me to use my connections to convince him to sign whatever you guys are working on."
"The Coruscant Accords."
"Yeah, whatever, I wouldn't do it anyway."
She frowns, if only to prevent herself from smiling, "It's important though, it determines how a planet can join the Republic."
"Doesn't matter."
"You're still a little shavit, you know that?" she says, not bothering to control the smile edging at her lips. And maybe she hates herself too. She doesn't think it's fair if she laughs, it's not fair to what she's given up on to find happiness in what she chose instead. It's precisely why she did it, but that doesn't make it right, doesn't make it fair.
It's such a catch twenty two that she thinks she might be sick.
"There it is," Atton says, his face serious.
"What?"
"That face. You always have it when you're upset or don't want to talk to me. Had it for a long time at the end there."
She bites her lip, eyebrows furrowing, "I know."
The thing is, Meetra can't apologize. She knows it's true and she is sorry, but she can't force the words out of her mouth. Her lips are powerless to form them, and even so, she's not sure how much it would change things.
"I don't get it," he says.
Meetra watches her breath as it freezes and fades before her, taking a long moment to consider it. She swallows thickly before saying, "I don't either, I don't think. I'm not sure I know what I'm doing, but I know it's wrong."
"What is?"
"Just—it's probably better if we don't, Atton."
"No," he says, his eyes are hard before he moves his head towards the view, "It's better if we do, because I meant what I said the other night. I miss you Meetra, and I still need you. I don't think I'll ever stop needing you."
"Atton—"
He shakes his head, "No, because you know what? All I've wanted was to protect you, but I don't know how to do that when you won't tell me what's wrong."
"I can't, okay?"
"Meetra."
"Don't."
His head lolls back for a moment before he angles his body completely towards hers, "I don't understand. You give me these bits and pieces but you never actually admit what's been wrong this whole time. I lived with this for four months before I couldn't take it anymore, I feel like I'm suffocating here."
She's quiet for a long time. She lets the heavy air mix between them until she can't even breathe it in anymore, the cold air stabs at her lungs and she has to force it out, but she's okay, she supposes, maybe she can do this.
Or maybe not. She shakes her head, pressing her lips together and turning her attention to the rail of the balcony, dragging her finger along the accumulating snow. She can feel his gaze on her but she can only shake her head again, "I'm sorry Atton, but this is mine to keep."
His smile is nearly sardonic, the lights reflecting against his teeth is almost unbearable to look at. He doesn't say anything though, he merely lets out a small huff of air and lets his face fall again.
It's quiet for a long moment before he speaks again, and she can hear the emotion in his voice. "Do you remember when I told you about my mother?"
She nods because she does. She remembers the dark night, sitting on the floor of their bedroom because the hot summer air was too much to lay in the bed. She remembers the pain he bore, probably still bears, from disappointing his mother, from hurting her the most out of everyone he's hurt, out of everyone he's damaged for life.
She nods because it feels recent, even though it was still early on when they first moved in together. It feels like that night is still alive in her memories, the sticky heat surrounding her even as her teeth threaten to chatter from the cold.
"I never told anyone any of that before, you know," he says, his eyes earnest even as they reflect the lights of the city, "But I knew, that if there was one person who could hold onto that information and wouldn't use it against me, it was you. I knew that it would be safe with you, that I'd be better for it and it wouldn't be mine to bear alone."
She's listening, but she's biting down on the inside of her cheek. He's playing dirty but she thinks that maybe he isn't playing at all.
"I trusted you with it, and I never regretted it. After all I was right, I was safe with you and if you ever have any doubts that I'd do the same for—"
"Please," she interrupts, "I'm just—I'm not ready."
"Meetra."
"No, like I'm literally not ready."
"For what?"
She takes a deep breath before she speaks, terrified she won't be able to get the words past her lips, "For any of it. I liked my life here and somehow living with it partially destroyed is better than leaving it and—and dying."
His eyes snap up to hers, his face absolutely still as he watches her, his eyes narrowing marginally, "What?"
She shakes her head, the reality of it all settling in for perhaps the first time, "I'm going to die, Atton."