One of the first things he noticed about the other man was his hands. It was hard not to. They were always moving, always working. Yet despite this, they were always neat. Always cared for. He could appreciate that. He only hoped that the effort he put into his appearance was equal to the effort he put into his work.
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Naval officers did not frequently practice shooting a blaster. It was not a necessity for them like it was for the ground forces – but the man thought it was important to be equipped to deal with any issue. So they practiced at the range, sometimes alone but sometimes with each other. And he had to admit, the man's fingers looked nice when they were wrapped around the handle of a weapon.
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He gestured more when he was comfortable. Hands waved around in the air as gently as a breeze. Fingers twitched with activity as he spoke, emphasized points of a story. Like a dance, you could not understand the tale that was spun unless you watched. It was mesmerizing.
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The man's fingers are long. He felt like he shouldn't notice that. He does anyway.
.
The hands that have captured his attention so thoroughly did not look as nice as they had when they first met. It is nothing too noticeable, but they were drier than usual. It reflected the tiredness in his eyes. He offered him a bottle of lotion and it was accepted. He understands. They are both very tired.
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If he had thought that his fingers on the butt of a blaster looked nice, then his fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle was a work of art.
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The war effort moved forward, ever forward. They slowly gained ground. His hands started to look better than they had months ago. He was happy for it, happier still, when he came to him to ask where he had gotten that brand. They are still tired, but it was more bearable.
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His hands are calloused. A lifetime of hard work is written there, in the seams and rough patches of his skin. It is unsurprising, given what the two of them do for a living. It's funny though. They didn't feel so rough when he pressed his lips to them.
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One hand pointed out some detail he had overlooked on his datapad while another pressed against his shoulder. He thanked him for his help and blushed when he accepted it but didn't move away. He is comforted by the contact, by his closeness. He hoped that his own presence offered that same thing to the other man.
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His hands are rough, but his touch is soft. They do more than just gesture when he gets comfortable enough.
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He intertwined their fingers together. Nervousness made him hold his breath and he knew he shouldn't be nervous, they had done many things that were far more intimate than holding hands. Yet he was nervous anyway. Fingers squeezed his own in acknowledgement and he released his breath with a smile.
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The war effort moves on. They are almost done and they are no longer tired. While they both had believed in their eventual victory, it hasn't felt truly real until this point. When they can just lie in bed for a few hours, without worries as life moves on beyond the Imperial Palace's windows. A hand seeks out his beneath the blankets, and he offers it without hesitation. The other man brings it to his lips and kisses each his fingers softly, still half asleep despite his movements. The touch alone feels like a victory, although this one is much more personal.