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suitably_heroicAnd, as always, the 17th of August came around, and Atton felt like shit.
("You don't even have August in your galaxy," Summer had said, and what a joke that was - like Atton hadn't been inextricably bound to this galaxy as much as his own since the days he first limped into Fandom.)
But he had made plans. So with difficulty, he found it in him to roll out of bed, and brush his teeth. Even managed to shovel some breakfast into his mouth. Put on pants. The works. An hour later, he and Dane limped to the subway (he was limping, at least) with their hiking bags packed and the furrowed brows of men on a somber mission.
He thought about cracking a joke about that, but he couldn't think of anything funny. Instead they rode the silence all the way to the park. Into the wilds. Until they took a familiar turn, brushed under familiar trees, and found a familiar monument.
They took a moment there.
It wasn’t lost on Atton that Dane had his own pain buried here in these grounds; that there was a version of this that would feel like encroaching on that somehow, dumping his own, unimaginable, galaxy-wide hurts on this earth, smothering the smaller ones below.
Like Dane's brother and its own slow family tragedy mattered less than Atton's galaxy's stupid wars, or something. There was something wrong about that thought. Especially now, watching Dane replace the old flowers, and brush the moss off the stone.
But he’d been invited here. Jack had been. To leave a little of himself behind here too. (Because he was inextricably bound to this planet, as much as he'd ever been to Alderaan or Malachor V, because maybe his hurts deserved to be here, too, not above it all but equal. Pain shared.)
When Dane was done, they got moving again, weaving their way through hidden paths and along ridges of trees and stone. Atton didn't know where he was going; he gave himself to that one part of the Force he had always quietly appreciated, the flow of life all around them without judgment or fear.
“Here,” he said eventually, coming to a stop on a small incline, a little bald spot between the trees. It felt right. Like he really had been drawn here.
You must learn to feel it around you, its currents, its eddies. Listen to the echo of your thoughts, your heart - separated from war, separated from hate.
Separated from loss.
He closed his eyes and felt the trees, the birds spooking between the branches; the snails creeping around in the undergrowth, the way the soil yielded as the worms squirmed through.
(Think of what you felt when you felt the need to protect me--)
A spike of pain. His eyes snapped open. "Right," he muttered, rubbing at his brow with the back of his arm.
"Are you okay?" Dane asked, quiet.
"It's just funny how something can still be this raw after a decade," Atton replied. He looked at the little incline, the waving grass. Felt the rocks scattered beneath the bushes. "But I think I've got it."
He stretched out an arm, and pushed his consciousness outward, towards the rock. Pulled it towards him. "'We’re both matching monuments to burning metal; we’re battlefields well past the retreat'," he hummed. "Really should've-- made that catchier." Watched the rock float in front of him, steady, unyielding. "You will always be here with me," he said, trying for steady, failing entirely. "In me. Safe. I just--"
The stone descended slowly. It was flat, rounded along the edges. When it touched down on the ground, it settled gracefully. "I've just got to let us both be safe this time," he said.
And he stretched out, reaching for another, pulling a square rock from the underbrush. "Safe and steady," he said, and allowed it to settle on top, making a satisfying cold clacking noise as it touched the first stone. "And able to grow." The third was long. He twisted it in the air.
It was a gross display of power, balancing it so perfectly on top of the first two stones. But he felt he owed her that. That, and the spray of pebbles around that central column, a scattering of something chaotic, untamed.
Someone else pulled at him, and he swallowed. His hand shot out to find another rock, one that felt right, heavier and rougher around the edges. "I was always full of shit," he said, "And I'm grateful you put up with that." He set it down beside the others. "Maybe with you around we wouldn't have gone the direction we had, you know?" The second was as heavy as the first, and almost tumbled off its base. "You would've just-- would've just clapped me and Mical over the head and called us idiots, probably."
A smaller one. Almost square. "I really do think you were the best of us."
Breathe.
Atton's chest squeezed painfully.
He took a few steps back. Ran his gaze over those piles, and thought about the women that they stood for: Mira, with her red hair and her no-nonsense attitude, locked into square shapes of heavy dark rock. Meetra, always distant, hurt, but also solid, seeking, in light pebbles and rounder shapes.
Breathe.
“It’s not enough,” he said.
He reached for another rock, a smaller one. “It’s not just August,” he said. “It’s never just been August.”
The weight of it felt strong and yet brittle in the Force. Maybe it was the sand sliding off of it. “This one’s for my dad,” he said, and set it down just a few inches from Meetra’s stack. “And– this–” Square. Unyielding. “--for my mom,” and that one, the odd-shaped one, “--for Esaak,” and one for Mona, for Aniseve and Dev who had taken him under their wing for a little while after they died, for names and faces he hadn’t thought about in years, each life a little shorter as the war went on. Smaller rocks, for the victims he remembered, that had stayed with him. Three rocks for the smugglers who had shown him the ropes after he'd stumbled out of Fandom dazed and bleeding, and something bigger and icier for Bao-Dur.
One for Kreia, that old witch?
Maybe.
He stepped away, then.
Breathe.
Together, the stones made a flower shape, rocks branching out like petals from the central piles. “It’s still not enough,” he whispered. “I should–” For everyone who he’d left, or who’d left him behind. For–
He should have brought bags and bags of pebbles. One for every person who had died at Malachor V, whose life had passed through him in an instant, only to be snuffed out while he remained, and–
Solid. Two hands, settling on his shoulder. Then Dane pulled him against him. Atton didn’t realize he’d started shaking a little.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of it, this monument to loss.
“I knew there were a lot,” he said. “I didn’t know how many.”
“I'm sorry,” Dane said quietly. "That is-- yeah, that is a lot."
"It needs to end here," Atton said.
"Well," Dane said, and gave him a firm squeeze. "I think at this point, that's completely up to you."
It was, wasn't it?
Fuck.
"I think I'm okay doing the show tomorrow," Atton said weakly.
It was all he had.
‘Cause I never saw tomorrow
A tomorrow quite like this
But I guess I’m moving on
And I have been for some time.
[[ nfb, nfi. ]]
("You don't even have August in your galaxy," Summer had said, and what a joke that was - like Atton hadn't been inextricably bound to this galaxy as much as his own since the days he first limped into Fandom.)
But he had made plans. So with difficulty, he found it in him to roll out of bed, and brush his teeth. Even managed to shovel some breakfast into his mouth. Put on pants. The works. An hour later, he and Dane limped to the subway (he was limping, at least) with their hiking bags packed and the furrowed brows of men on a somber mission.
He thought about cracking a joke about that, but he couldn't think of anything funny. Instead they rode the silence all the way to the park. Into the wilds. Until they took a familiar turn, brushed under familiar trees, and found a familiar monument.
They took a moment there.
It wasn’t lost on Atton that Dane had his own pain buried here in these grounds; that there was a version of this that would feel like encroaching on that somehow, dumping his own, unimaginable, galaxy-wide hurts on this earth, smothering the smaller ones below.
Like Dane's brother and its own slow family tragedy mattered less than Atton's galaxy's stupid wars, or something. There was something wrong about that thought. Especially now, watching Dane replace the old flowers, and brush the moss off the stone.
But he’d been invited here. Jack had been. To leave a little of himself behind here too. (Because he was inextricably bound to this planet, as much as he'd ever been to Alderaan or Malachor V, because maybe his hurts deserved to be here, too, not above it all but equal. Pain shared.)
When Dane was done, they got moving again, weaving their way through hidden paths and along ridges of trees and stone. Atton didn't know where he was going; he gave himself to that one part of the Force he had always quietly appreciated, the flow of life all around them without judgment or fear.
“Here,” he said eventually, coming to a stop on a small incline, a little bald spot between the trees. It felt right. Like he really had been drawn here.
You must learn to feel it around you, its currents, its eddies. Listen to the echo of your thoughts, your heart - separated from war, separated from hate.
Separated from loss.
He closed his eyes and felt the trees, the birds spooking between the branches; the snails creeping around in the undergrowth, the way the soil yielded as the worms squirmed through.
(Think of what you felt when you felt the need to protect me--)
A spike of pain. His eyes snapped open. "Right," he muttered, rubbing at his brow with the back of his arm.
"Are you okay?" Dane asked, quiet.
"It's just funny how something can still be this raw after a decade," Atton replied. He looked at the little incline, the waving grass. Felt the rocks scattered beneath the bushes. "But I think I've got it."
He stretched out an arm, and pushed his consciousness outward, towards the rock. Pulled it towards him. "'We’re both matching monuments to burning metal; we’re battlefields well past the retreat'," he hummed. "Really should've-- made that catchier." Watched the rock float in front of him, steady, unyielding. "You will always be here with me," he said, trying for steady, failing entirely. "In me. Safe. I just--"
The stone descended slowly. It was flat, rounded along the edges. When it touched down on the ground, it settled gracefully. "I've just got to let us both be safe this time," he said.
And he stretched out, reaching for another, pulling a square rock from the underbrush. "Safe and steady," he said, and allowed it to settle on top, making a satisfying cold clacking noise as it touched the first stone. "And able to grow." The third was long. He twisted it in the air.
It was a gross display of power, balancing it so perfectly on top of the first two stones. But he felt he owed her that. That, and the spray of pebbles around that central column, a scattering of something chaotic, untamed.
Someone else pulled at him, and he swallowed. His hand shot out to find another rock, one that felt right, heavier and rougher around the edges. "I was always full of shit," he said, "And I'm grateful you put up with that." He set it down beside the others. "Maybe with you around we wouldn't have gone the direction we had, you know?" The second was as heavy as the first, and almost tumbled off its base. "You would've just-- would've just clapped me and Mical over the head and called us idiots, probably."
A smaller one. Almost square. "I really do think you were the best of us."
Breathe.
Atton's chest squeezed painfully.
He took a few steps back. Ran his gaze over those piles, and thought about the women that they stood for: Mira, with her red hair and her no-nonsense attitude, locked into square shapes of heavy dark rock. Meetra, always distant, hurt, but also solid, seeking, in light pebbles and rounder shapes.
Breathe.
“It’s not enough,” he said.
He reached for another rock, a smaller one. “It’s not just August,” he said. “It’s never just been August.”
The weight of it felt strong and yet brittle in the Force. Maybe it was the sand sliding off of it. “This one’s for my dad,” he said, and set it down just a few inches from Meetra’s stack. “And– this–” Square. Unyielding. “--for my mom,” and that one, the odd-shaped one, “--for Esaak,” and one for Mona, for Aniseve and Dev who had taken him under their wing for a little while after they died, for names and faces he hadn’t thought about in years, each life a little shorter as the war went on. Smaller rocks, for the victims he remembered, that had stayed with him. Three rocks for the smugglers who had shown him the ropes after he'd stumbled out of Fandom dazed and bleeding, and something bigger and icier for Bao-Dur.
One for Kreia, that old witch?
Maybe.
He stepped away, then.
Breathe.
Together, the stones made a flower shape, rocks branching out like petals from the central piles. “It’s still not enough,” he whispered. “I should–” For everyone who he’d left, or who’d left him behind. For–
He should have brought bags and bags of pebbles. One for every person who had died at Malachor V, whose life had passed through him in an instant, only to be snuffed out while he remained, and–
Solid. Two hands, settling on his shoulder. Then Dane pulled him against him. Atton didn’t realize he’d started shaking a little.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of it, this monument to loss.
“I knew there were a lot,” he said. “I didn’t know how many.”
“I'm sorry,” Dane said quietly. "That is-- yeah, that is a lot."
"It needs to end here," Atton said.
"Well," Dane said, and gave him a firm squeeze. "I think at this point, that's completely up to you."
It was, wasn't it?
Fuck.
"I think I'm okay doing the show tomorrow," Atton said weakly.
It was all he had.
‘Cause I never saw tomorrow
A tomorrow quite like this
But I guess I’m moving on
And I have been for some time.
[[ nfb, nfi. ]]
