Merry Christmas, folks! Have a vague holiday-related fic!

When Din thinks back on it, he realises that the problem had started at that stupid colony they'd finally left several hours ago.

Of course, the colony itself hadn't been the problem – if anything, the place had been beautiful. Cara had clearly been uncomfortable about visiting, but they'd had no choice – they had to refuel somewhere and it had been the only planet within reachable distance. Had they gone any farther, they would have run out somewhere in orbit and then, Cara had finally conceded, 'we'd be in deep shit'.

So, a stop on Ejolus it had been.

He hadn't seen the issue at first. It had been a perfectly ordinary planet, filled with perfectly ordinary people, even if they had – to Cara's horror – landed smack dab in the middle of some local festival. According to her, the colony there had been destroyed several times and they'd been big on holidays ever since, even if she'd never got a taste for it. Bad history, she'd said with a shrug, as they'd both uncomfortably tried to mingle for long enough to get what they wanted – both fuel and a place to stay while the ship could be brought back to fighting shape, given how severely they'd had to cut the power to any of its main functions in order to keep it flying for almost a day.

Din hadn't wanted to assume. Bad history could have meant anything for her, given everything about his friend as a person, and he'd left her be. It had only occurred to him that something serious had been omitted of her introduction to the place when he'd asked her a question and she'd faced him with that same stony expression that had always accompanied her deepest grieving.

"We can go back to the ship, if you want," he'd offered. They'd be in the way of the mechanics, but they had both always been good at making themselves scarce. "We still have some food—"

"Not enough," she'd cut him off, voice so brittle that it had nearly made him wince. "It's nothing. We need to restock."

Somehow, things had only gone downhill from there.

The festival had been beautiful – there had been dancing and music like nothing he'd heard before, distant and alien like few things tend to be after everything he'd seen over the years. Every flat surface had been covered in vibrant, fiery orange-red flower blossoms, thick vines propping them up against every nook of the streets, crawling up the booths, creeping over the stages used for all the performances they'd walked by so far.

Not that there'd been anyone else to notice – while Din had been gaping at his surroundings, Cara had kept her head down like never before, eyes trained on the cobbled street like her life had depended on it.

"Do you mind doing the shopping alone this time?"

The question sounds even rougher than her voice already had been when she speaks again and he looks up, startled, to see a tear trickle down her cheek. She must have not realised – as soon as she notices him staring, she wipes at her face hastily, rubbing at her eyes furiously. They come away trailed with the smoky grey of the kohl she'd lined her eyes with, and it all feels so unreasonably private that Din feels compelled to look away.

He doesn't. When she had first seen his face, he had challenged her to do the same, albeit silently – look away, pretend that nothing had happened – and she had proved him wrong without saying a word. She had seen everything he'd had to offer (had had to hide) that day, and it had never changed a thing. The opposite wouldn't do anything of the sort now.

"I'm sorry," she says, waving vaguely at the booths with food lined ahead of them, as if that explains anything at all. "It's the flowers— I'm allergic— Hay fever, you know?" The laughter that follows, now even tearier, makes his heart break. "It's always been a problem."

"Really? I hadn't noticed." He hadn't meant to put her on the spot and nearly recoils when she shoots daggers at him instead of offering a response, as if he had accused her of a terrible crime. "Back in the village—"

"It's just this stupid fucking flower." There's something vicious enough in her tone that couldn't possibly refer to the actual plant – gingerbell, if he remembers correctly. Her breathing is coming short and shallow and if he hadn't known better, he would have assumed "Every spring, it would bloom and my father would make us these baskets and I—"

"Carasynthia? Is that you?"

She spins around on her heel at the voice coming from behind her, wide-eyed and still breathless in the face of a woman who reminds him of his friend in a way he can't quite pinpoint. It's not a familial resemblance, but there's something ... "Cath?"

"Yes, of course." The stranger's arms are open for an embrace and Din isn't entirely sure if it's going to be reciprocated until Cara steps closer on uncertain feet. "Where have you been?"

And then, to his astonishment, for the first time since he'd known her, Cara bursts into tears.

~.~

Despite her best efforts to stop berating herself, Cara feels endlessly stupid.

This could have all been avoided, really. She could have warned him. She could have not lied. She could have even—

"You couldn't tell me this was an Alderaanian colony?"

She winces. "It didn't feel important."

"I could have gone alone." Din sounds almost upset on her behalf, which should be ridiculous, but it's heartwarming instead. "You didn't have to do this." Some of the righteous anger abates, leaving space for sheer confusion. "Not important? It's a piece of your world."

"I'd forgotten. With my schedule, I barely know what day it is most of the time." It's weak at best, as far as excuses go, but it's the truth – she hadn't realised that they'd reach this particular world on this particular day. "It's stupid anyway. It's like most of our holidays – we just celebrated it because it was pretty."

"You don't have to berate it just because you love it." It's so unbearably tender than she has to bite her tongue lest she tells him to follow his own advice. "You could have stayed. Your friend wanted you there; it's a beautiful celebration."

"I've been managing just fine without it for years." It's a blatant lie, but it's all right – they're almost back to the ship and she's more than ready to go back into the cocoon that being jaded blessedly provides for the majority of the time.

"This is more about just managing. Did those people look like they're just surviving?" She climbs up the ladder and into the ship, preferring to pretend that she hadn't heard him at all, but he persists. "I thought we'd got past that already."

"Of course we have." The gall to be offended at her own crisis is almost too much for her to keep quiet. "I wasn't trying to say—"

"I know that. That makes it worse, actually." He sighs when he's met with confused silence. "I got you something."

"Oooh, that sounds promising." Neither of them really celebrates any holidays at all – what with spending most of their days away from any actual world – and the Gingerbell Blossom Festival had never been a time for exchanging gifts, but she feels a spark of excitement all the same. They'd given each other things before in an effort to quietly show they care even if the rest of the Galaxy doesn't seem to, and it's about as pleasant as she remembers. "Is it a blaster again?"

He slides the helmet off and his smile, following the huff of laughter, is as exasperated and as warm as she'd expected. It fills her with truly scandalous amount of the same emotion she had so determinedly tried to squash down back at the festival. There's no space in her life for this; not an ounce of it. "It's not a blaster, Cara."

He extends a hand in the space between them – a foot and a whole universe, or so it feels – and his peace offering is nothing like she'd expected: a clay pot, decorated with colourful dots all over, housing the smallest flower she'd ever seen.

The tears come back, as obnoxious and unprompted as they had been before. "Is that—"

"It is."

Gingerbell. It's so gentle, so innocuous-looking, and the smell alone makes the memories flood back: endless fields and the scent of green and spring and life hanging in the air. Cara had held the blossoms in her hands, carefully detached from their stems as to not uproot them and lose them forever; countless flowers spread as far as the eye can see, making the world look like it'd been taken over by the most beautiful fire she'd ever seen.

"They can grow elsewhere. Clearly." He gestures back towards the colony outside, drowned in the same blossoms she had thought of as lost forever. He's so careful for her that it's infuriating. Cara had rarely loved him more for anything. "People don't just want them there because they're pretty. It's about revival, your friend said, didn't she? It's about life."

"You don't need to teach me about my own festival, you know?" It's meant to be teasing and Maker damn it, she's going to start crying again. It's exhausting, the effort to refrain, and she's almost starting to think that she doesn't have to.

"I know." He steps closer, one hand still on the flower between them, fingers warm over hers. That's a revival right there, she thinks. There's no need to voice it – it's the point of his gift, after all. "Do you?"

When she steps closer to meet him halfway, eyes closing as his lips slot over hers, still ever so gentle as if she's as fragile as the new bit of life pressed between them, Cara already has an answer for him.

Now I do.

He'd made sure of that.