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Drink

A drink does not have the same meaning in Tattooine as it does in England.

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If the green woman didn't pull him up by the scruff of his shirt, he would've toppled headfirst into the grain. He cursed inwardly. Damn lightheadedness and damn small body. Tom would've been more thankful if he wasn't trying to keep his annoyance down (it was interesting to note how fast embarassment could be converted into anger in his case). She lifted him up with just one hand (he hated his small size), set him down and knelt in front of him with a look of concern on her face.

"Tam!"

Anakin ran over as much as his short legs could carry him. Tom closed his eyes, feeling his sibling's worry seep through their bond and forced himself to sigh instead of snap. "M'fine."

He was fine, really. The woman placed a hand on his head, the crease of her forehead told him clearly not of the same opinion.

"You're warmer than you should be. You're not fine."

"When did you drink last?" Anakin asked, quickly. Tom shrugged. He didn't really understand why that caused identical looks of alarm to go up on Anakin's face and the green woman's.

"Is it such a—" he cut himself off before he showed his vocabulary too much. "Is it a big deal?"

"You're dehydrated, little one."

"He is. He's not used yet," Anakin said, his narrowed look a lot less intimidating on a child's face.

"Used to what?"

"Drinking," Anakin said, with such a reprimand in his tone that Tom couldn't help but bristle. What? He knew enough about drinking, thank you. There's water, and then you drink it. How many other ways of drinking would he need to know? But it wasn't what Anakin meant, because soon he caught scattered images from the blond, the bleached bones of beasts left to dry under Tattooine's harsh twin suns, the dessicated remains of travellers stupid enough or naïve enough to brave the deserts alone. The…

In the middle of the silent communication the two of them was having, he had been pushed to a table at the side of the room a drink pushed into his hand. Tom didn't need Anakin's glare to prompt him to finish it. Then, the woman gave him another one with the same look of such pointed concern that it took some effort to hold his tongue back (he didn't need to be babied) and just drank it. Then, Anakin shoved him another one.

"You're kidding me," he muttered, but that was the extent of his protest as he started sipping in smaller quantities.

He would've been less obedient if he wasn't baffled. He had seen that under Anakin's glare were the first strains of fear. It was not fear of him, which Tom knew like the back of his hand and could recognise the moment a wisp of it drifted into another's thought. It was a fear for him, and as such it took him some time to note.

And what was he supposed to do about that? He was trying to send Anakin some sort of message to stop it. It was distracting. Anakin only snapped out something close to stop being stupid and take care of yourself better—which really didn't do a lot of good for his ego and the feelings of incompetence he'd been getting since he was here.

And thus; hello again, Anger. I thought I wasn't going to see you again for some time, he thought dryly. He did his best not to snap. If he was actually a four years old, he would've scowled and let his temper get the best of him.

Leena let out a relieved sigh, the stare she gave him was still one of reproach.

"What are you thinking?" She snapped at him, and Tom stared up at her towering, glorious fury. "There might not be excess water here, but let me tell you the first rule of living here. When drinks are on the table, you grab one and drink, you got that?"

He nodded, too stunned to speak.

"Tell me the first rule!"

"Drinks on the table—drink." The words escaped him before he knew it.

"Good! Remember that because your life depends on it. If I find you fainting again, you will be sorry, you understand?"

"He gets it. Sorry Leena." Anakin said, saving his sibling from the need to reply. It was a good thing too, because Tom couldn't decide between trying to kill her or just try to kill himself and stop the whole annoyance of living on Anakin's dustball.

Sheeesh, Tom, you gave us quite a scare, there. Please don't take Leena personally. She's just worried. Anakin said. Tom had to reluctantly admit that he was right, because even if he was only reaching out to magic slightly here, he could feel the small tremors of panic from her.

She was frightened for him. Huh. Wasn't that interesting? He'd never known anyone being so concerned for his well being before. This planet was really convenient in the way its stronger magic field allowed them to easily get a read on other people's emotions.

Was it really that bad? He asked Anakin.

Dehydration? The blond scoffed, but Tom could feel relief bleeding at the edges of his thoughts even as he lectured on. By the time you feel thirsty here, your body's entering heatstroke. Anyone who is alive drinks by a disciplined habit—because they can't afford to be careless.

That was when he realised how much Tattooine sucked compared to Earth.

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