Corso keyed himself into his new digs, larger and a slight upgrade from his previous room, but not by much. At least this one had a kitchenette and separate bedroom but carried the same run-down tiredness in its walls. It reeked of the aged who'd lived well beyond years of caring and simply waited to die.
He retrieved a bottle of ale from the conservator unit in his room after dropping the food container on the dinette table where it would remain, likely untouched. The sofa creaked under his weight as he sat, elbows on thighs, bottle dangling between his knees and his gaze tracing the worn patterns in the threadbare rug.
He'd seen Bowdaar and Akaavi keeping tabs on him and was grateful that they maintained their distance, but if they were still here, that meant Ky hadn't come home yet. Home. She was his home, and he'd walked away. Kriffing hell!
His mind tumbled through scenarios, none of them pleasant, and Scourge's words came back to haunt him as they did every night.
'Above all else, she seeks to preserve the gentleness in you and will do so to the point of great pain and terrible loss...she needs a partner, not a lackey...give her shelter...find the balance.'
He rolled his shoulder, still sore from being dislocated a few days ago and stretched his neck until it popped before sprawling back, balancing the bottle on his leg. It'd been a hell of a day ending in an argument with Rona.
"I won't do it," he'd said. "I told you from the start I won't hurt women or children, and I'm damned sure not going to start shaking down innocent shopkeepers just trying to make a living."
"It's for their protection," she'd argued. "You think it's cheap to pay all my people and keep things safe out there?"
"Protect them from what? Us?" he'd countered. "I don't mind busting Justicar or Merchant Guild heads, doing boundary sweeps or even escorting your couriers, but I won't do this."
"Cousin or not, you're setting a bad example and making me look weak."
"Then don't ask me to do stupid shit you know I won't do. Hell, throw me out on the street, send me off world, put a blaster to my head. I really don't care anymore. But, I won't give up my values, not for you, not for anyone. It's all I've got."
"It would've been a promotion," she'd said.
"I don't want a promotion. I just want to do my job and be left alone. Can I go now?"
Yeah. A hell of a day.
He checked the date and time on his wrist chrono, a little after 8:00 PM and fifty-one days since Rishi. Surely, it'd been a lifetime ago. The condensation from the bottle trickled over his fingers, forming a wet ring on the fabric of his pants. The ale would be warm before he took his first sip, but he couldn't find the strength to lift it to his lips. His head lolled on the back of the sofa, and he closed his eyes against the glare of the single overhead bulb. The dotted afterimage floated on the backs of his eyelids creating a halo around the face of the woman he loved and lost. Stars, what have I done?
During the day, he walked the boulevards and alleys of Coruscant with Sprocket, hoping, praying for a fight to relieve the tension that coiled around him like a whip. Belsavis had excised a wound he'd thought long healed and scarred over, Ky was the anchor that kept him grounded in his better self. Without her, he began to untether from that gentle soul and half anticipated, half feared that Game Face would become his permanent mask.
Nights were his bane when the purpose of hours devolved into lagging minutes dragging baggage of their own. Often, he would roam the levels of Coruscant, spending countless seconds like pocket change expecting nothing more than cheap passage from one to the next. He'd walked the perimeter of the Senate building and squatted outside the Galaxies Opera House transfixed by some traveling troupes rendition of 'Dark Eyes, Warm Thoughts' that drifted down to the street from an open vent. He'd dropped five credits in a beggar's cup and watched the man scurry away like a spider that had captured its first prey in months. Mostly he stayed enveloped in shadow, observing from afar, insular people leading insular lives, and in those slivers of time, amid the crush of humanity, he could almost forget.
The sigh he exhaled hovered over his face like a cloud of dismay. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair and took a swig of warm ale that tasted like the bottom of an ashtray smelled. His legs weighted like lead as he stood and emptied the dregs into the sink and threw the food container into the bin. He swept off his shirt, tossed it into the hamper and headed toward the 'fresher.
Steam and water that fell like Rishi rain washed away the grime of the city, but undissolved memories remained intact. Damn her storms, and damn me for storming out of her life.
Towel wrapped around his waist and hair still dripping, he grabbed a glass and bottle of Sullustan Gin from the cupboard. Not one to indulge in harder drink than ale, he'd recently developed a taste for the liquor and finally appreciated Ky's penchant for a nip or two or three or...
He held the half-full glass perched on his palm, stabilized by the pedestals of his fingers and gazed into the clear liquid. Calcium splotches dried on the surface of the tumbler sullied the pristine clarity of the liquor and no matter how he twisted and turned the glass, the blemishes remained.
Secrets, like water stains on glass, had marred their relationship. Her secrets coupled with his crystallized into a film so murky that the beautiful fluidity of their love distorted and refracted like cracked quartz under a dim sun.
He should have told her the truth behind his hatred for Skavak. That the man had sold weapons that found their way back into separatist hands—weapons that had murdered his family. All she knew was that they were dead, not the why or how of it. He'd all but pushed her straight into that prick's arms.
His first small sip dispensed the scent of juniper from the back of his throat into his nasal cavities. His eyes watered and he closed them while his empty stomach lurched as the alcohol hit. He chased the first sip with a second heftier mouthful, swallowing the harbinger of a fretful night despite the spreading warmth in his marrow. He opened his eyes to peer once again into the blemished well of remorse.
Scourge had warned him, and she had begged, but he'd stood stubbornly in the face of losing it all. Pride dictated that he guard his secrets about what he'd endured on Singat 9 and fear had prevented him from integrating his divided self into one cohesive being.
War had revealed aspects he couldn't reconcile with the gentle optimist fostered by his upbringing. His young psyche had shattered with the horrors he'd seen, the abuse he'd suffered and the things he'd done. Those parts of him shouldn't be a conscious choice, a beast to cage, a mask to wear, but flow naturally, one to the other from a core of unity. He'd lived too long in a one-dimensional state, unmalleable to change according to the demands of the moment.
She'd provided a chance for him to end this before it started when she'd pleaded for another way out, and he'd remained silent. The pieces of him united would have found an answer, and never have let her go. She'd needed him whole, and he'd failed her.
The gin crashed against the hard edges of his pain, eroding the razor sharpness into rounded stone, and still, he cursed himself for being the coward he was.
He toasted the peeling paint and cupboard door that hung catawampus from the hinges. Broke ass room—broke ass life—and a heaping plate of self-pity. He looked to the bottle for peace and found none.
'Find the balance,' Scourge had said.
Kriff! It was going to be a hell of a night.
A/N: Title inspired by song of the same name by Louis Jordan. If you like old-timey blues, you might want to check it out.