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Three days, and the Commodore had already acquainted himself with every detail of his new office.

With the surface of the desk, wide and curved, and how it ran sleek under a palm; the cold-sounding clatter it made when touched by glass or metal. With the panel on the corner-right of the back wall, third up from the floor, and the way it occasionally rattled from the shuddering mechanisms housed behind it. With the particular timbre to the ship’s whir, slightly sharper here than in corridors. With the twenty-two paces it took to walk the perimeter; the fourteen or fifteen when rushing, and upwards of thirty if meandering past with undivided attention on its art, artefacts, and holodisplays.

As Thrawn walked its periphery once more, he visualised the room in relation to the ship’s schematics. He had them memorised to the point of intuition. The ventral docking bay and its two adjacent hangars unfurled as a cold haze from below; imagined as pinpricks of light came the nearest escape pods – three levels down and starboard – then the rest, in order of distance; now the med bays and their wings, streaks of white and red; the bridge, accompanied by various routes that led there. He knit together each chamber through turbolifts, maintenance shafts, ventilation systems, knowing intimately even the veins and wiring buried within the body of the ship.

Unlike anything else in the Empire, the Chimaera was his. And it was an animal, alive though mechanistic, complete with a whole host of its own idiosyncrasies. In a machine, such idiosyncrasies were not flaws to be ironed out; they instead made for personality. As Commodore, it was Thrawn’s duty to acquaint himself with it.

He paced his office yet again, considering the manouvres he might command from the bridge – the thousands of sights, battles, celestial events he could catch from its viewport. Soon, his thoughts settled on the man that would watch them with him.

Lieutenant Commander Eli N. Vanto.

That was a title that commanded respect, though Thrawn had never needed such a thing to recognise the man’s value. It was also a title that seemed to weigh on his aide, or at least whose designation had coincided with a shift in mood. As yet, the Commodore had not discerned why – only a list of possible reasons he was working at whittling down.

Thrawn paused at the projection of a Pantoran sculpture along the left wall; semi-opaque glass, lightly stained blue, and roughly textured through a sea-related weathering process. It was mostly an experiment, testing the proficiency of the room’s projectors in replicating tone and texture.

A few careful dials, and he brought up something else: a Lysatran dish. Ceramic. Large, deep, rounded. The kind used for slow-cooked food and plated communally. That seemed a staple of the culture – communal eating, with family, neighbours, and colleagues alike. Not all of them together, Eli had corrected him on an initial misunderstanding; not usually, anyway, and not unless you want your work friend stranglin’ a neighbour who happens to be the teacher that failed ‘em in Math. That had left him wondering if he might ever be invited to dine with the Vantos, should the opportunity present itself, or whether the Lieutenant Commander thought a similarly violent turn of events would await Thrawn.

Along the side of the dish, twisting green against the even tan background, he traced a pattern of interwoven vines. Interwoven; another symbol of connection. And, vines; nature, as both immediate family and the people that shared the same towns or communities. Ties of blood and land.

Thrawn exchanged the dish for wood-carved landscapes, bands of outlaws caught in vibrant paint, collage work made of salvaged scrap, a fishing lure with the most ornate display of thread and feather. In each, Thrawn recognised the same staples he had learnt to expect from Lysatran culture: an emphasis on family values, both born and chosen, but the greater still significance of expression and sharing experiences with loved ones.

Of particular interest was a guitar. Acoustic, passed down to Eli by his maternal grandmother before she died. He was still young. And, from what he’d said, they were close. After discussing the experience with the Commodore (then a Captain), Thrawn had requested it scanned so that he might see it for himself. Its most striking feature was the bold patterning on its lower body, made up of intersecting lines and thick curves. Yet more imagery of repeated convergence, ever-separating but always to meet again. A symbol of exchange; almost a conversation.

Lysatran music, too, sang in the familiar of people the singer knew, of place names and highway legends. Their folk songs and oral traditions often blurred, with storytelling infused into the lyrics. Between songs alone, one could learn of local marketplaces or the history of a single street as if they belonged to their own hometown.

Open, familiar, expressive, Thrawn concluded, with an emphasis on exchanging personal and community histories.

Satisfied with his read on Lysatran culture – the confirmation of an analysis he’d made many times before – Thrawn seated himself behind his desk. He tapped his fingers soundlessly on the surface, interpolating into a fugue as he considered what use this information was when applied to his aide. With a swipe of the in-built screen, he sent a communication to his quarters.

“Lieutenant Commander Vanto.” Thrawn announced into dead space. Nothing returned but his own voice, and, after counting a silent minute, he shut down the channel and the room’s projections with it. Lights dimmed into near-darkness.

He leaned over the desk and continued his incessant finger-tapping.

At first, the Lieutenant Commander had shown satisfaction at his promotion. Beyond satisfaction – elation, voice higher in pitch than usual; fuller in tone. His smiles came easy, and even small slip-ups or coincidences were enough to prompt the warmest laughter. It wasn’t the promotion itself that had shattered his mood. Something tied to it, or occurring soon after.

Between a celebratory dinner and departing for their shuttle, he had used the Coruscant barracks to call his parents. That seemed the logical turning point. After all, it was since then that his usual wide smile had started losing its spark, slowly turning to a forced wince instead. Whenever his attention broke, his brows would knit as he settled back into a frown. In corridors, at the mess hall, on the bridge – within crowds, on his own, or by Thrawn’s side – he seemed equally alone in some vague way. As he spoke or moved, it was all unusually terse, like something hard and sharp had found its way in and was trying to break him apart from under the skin.

Something his parents had said, then. Yet surely they hadn’t been anything but proud of their son’s promotion? A death in the family was possible. Illness. But, in the past, he had told Thrawn of such things. Of course, there was the chance of mere coincidence. The Lieutenant Commander’s mood had drained increasingly since the call home, yes; but, more generally, time had passed since the initial shock and celebration of his new rank. It could simply be a matter of processing change.

Thrawn leaned back in his chair. Perhaps the Lieutenant Commander simply needed time alone. Time to adjust. After all, that was what Thrawn himself had been doing these past three days – acclimating to change, familiarising himself with this strange, new shape his (and their) life had taken on. To new independence, a new environment. New responsibilities, too, and the new people he had such responsibilities for.

Except, what applied to the Commodore rarely applied to those around him. While Thrawn had a tendency towards withdrawal, the Lieutenant Commander knew to seek out trusted company and support – unless he were too upset to do even that. Or, there was no company he felt he could trust. Furthermore, where Thrawn needed someone to pull him out and away from his thoughts, Eli often needed someone to draw him in. He could be masterful at distracting himself from his feelings. One had to force his attention onto what he neglected or was reluctant to give words to, lest his silence corrode him from inside.

That was as close to a solution as Thrawn would get, deliberating from the sidelines. And so he rose, tracing a hand upon the desk as he rounded its curvature, and strode towards the door. He hesitated to check the room one last time, thoughts still hitched on Lysatran folk art and idly stitching connections in the way he could never stop his mind from working at.

Then, he left for his aide.

Though the Commodore had not yet visited his aide’s quarters, he had memorised their designation and placement within the Chimaera much like everything else. His only stop en route was his own room, where he picked up a novel recently lent to him by the human – the first in a series of supernatural cowboy stories, and written by a Lysatran author.

He soon arrived at the Lieutenant Commander’s door, where he paused to tug his collar straight then set off the chime.

“Yeah, comin’!” Called a hoarse voice from inside, partly lost to a crash and thud. Thrawn wondered what he had knocked over in his rush.

The door slid halfway open, then an arm jerked out in an awkward attempt at holding it partly sealed. From the gap, Eli’s face emerged.

“Oh, Commander – Commodore, I mean,” his words sounded weakly through a strained smile, “still gettin’ used to that.”

Thrawn scrutinised his features, careful not to betray a concern that only grew at the sight of him. Eli took as much scalding as he could from that scrupulous stare, then forced his own eyes low. They were slightly puffy, Thrawn noticed; sore, with a small mark at the outer edge of the left. Like a burn. His cheeks, too, were streaked with red, making the scar that ran across the bridge of his nose look a shade lighter than usual. The way his hair fell seemed almost purposely tousled to hide as much of himself as he could.

“Are you sick, Lieutenant Commander?”

“No, sir, I–”

“Then, you have been crying.”

“What?! For stars’ sake – I ain’t been cryin’!” Eli retorted, and loud. But his flash of anger softened quickly; ebbed into something more like… regret. With an apologetic sigh, he went on: “Look, I ain’t been sleepin’ well, that’s all. You, uh, need me for somethin’?”

“Not at all.” Thrawn said, leaning closer and shifting on his feet as he peered overhead into the room. Boxes had been left out, one of which had scattered clothes and a timepiece onto the floor, and–

Just then, Eli bobbed into his line of sight, as if trying to block him. “What is it you’re doin’ here, then?” He interrogated. Reddening at the rudeness he perceived in his own words, he added: “No offence, sir.”

“None taken. I wanted to return this novel to you.” Thrawn ran a hand over the book’s sheen, illustrated cover, then offered it out.

“Right,” Eli mumbled, “you didn’t need to rush or nothin’.” He took the novel and turned it over in his hands, assessing its condition. He seemed pleased at the care Thrawn had taken with it – and yet more pleased to see it returned. “S’that all, sir?”

“No. Might I come in?”

“What for?”

A slight frown ruffled Thrawn’s expression. “Perhaps this is not a good time for you. If you do not desire my company, then I will leave.”

That, at least, wrought a smile from the man. A real one, too. Various features of the Commodore’s manner of speaking continued to amuse him, even after years of enduring them. You make everythin’ sound so serious, he’d once explained; so when it ain’t, it comes off as funny. In retrospect, the term desire could have been perceived as too intense by the Lieutenant Commander. It was not, however, too intense for Thrawn; it perfectly conveyed the severity of his meaning.

“I don’t mind your company, sir,” and Thrawn noted the mismatch between desire and not minding, “it’s just a mess in here.”

“So, you are busy cleaning?”

Eli winced while he debated something he seemed to ultimately decide against. An expression he sometimes used when considering a lie, and always choosing not to.

“Well… no. Not really.” Sure enough, his tone was confessional. “It’s not the kinda mess you clean, it’s just – junk. Junk I brought with me and ain’t sorted out yet.”

“That’s quite alright, Lieutenant Commander. I would like to see your junk.”

At that, Eli choked on his breath, eyes wide in alarm. Thrawn followed his eyeline to three ensigns passing them by just then, shaking with barely concealed laughter that ricocheted back down the halls once they thought themselves out of earshot. Returning to the Lieutenant Commander, he found him since descended into a blushing mess and coughing fit. His features were contorted in what looked like pain.

“Are you alright?”

“Stars above, sir!” Eli gasped, torn now between laughter and scolding. He let the door slip open at last, and shooed in the Chiss like a mischievous tooka. “C’mon already – just come on in before anyone else hears you.”

Thrawn let himself be herded in, still combing through the situation in the corridor. No amount of analysis indicated the source of his aide’s reaction.

The moment the door closed behind him, Eli crumpled in a sigh of relief. “Ain’t it a little early to be startin’ up rumours, sir?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Thrawn said with plain sincerity.

“Course you don’t.” Eli rolled his eyes. “Well, when everyone starts askin’ you how my junk is, I’d rather you didn’t answer.”

“There is no cause to be embarrassed about your junk, Lieutenant Commander.” At the eyes now glowering in his direction, Thrawn relented: “Nonetheless, I can see how such things might be personal. Very well; I will not discuss your junk with other officers.”  

Eli pinched the bridge of his nose with an entirely sour look, and it was difficult to tell whether that was irritation or frustrated amusement scrunching his expression. There seemed to be subtext Thrawn was missing from this situation. Unfortunately, he was unlikely to see it unless his aide spelt it out for him – and spelling didn’t look like his priority today.

Though he was in uniform, Thrawn could now see, it was crumpled and poorly kept. And it was easy to see why, judging by the state of his tunic: flung to the floor in a heap, leaving him only in his black undershirt. The anger with which it had been thrown was almost captured by its sprawled position.

Of the few other items littering the room, none were there for leisure or aesthetics: his datapad, a toothbrush, folded sleepwear. Practical necessities. Everything else was still left in unsorted boxes. It looked more like someone was moving out than moving in.

Thrawn crouched near the crate Eli had knocked over on his way to the door, carefully replacing its spilled contents and setting it upright. It was unlike his aide to be comfortable amidst such chaos. Rather, the half-finished nature of the task implied he was some degree of overwhelmed.

“Yeah, sorry for the mess.” Eli mumbled, rubbing his neck. “I’ve been havin’ a hard time figurin’ out what goes where. Used to sharin’ for so long now, it’s strange bein’ on my own.”

“Yet another change for you.” As Thrawn wandered the room, he peered into each box. “Has it been difficult adjusting, Lieutenant Commander?”

“Well, it hasn’t been long yet. I’m happy to have my own place, though.” Kicking his boots to the corner, Eli seated himself on his bunk and sighed. He stared at Thrawn as he rifled through a box of miscellaneous trinkets, incredulous and slowly shifting to a scowl. From deep in its jaws, the Chiss drew out a figurine; some kind of bounty hunter, judging by the attire. He was only disrupted when Eli cleared his throat and posed a pointed question: “Find anythin’ you like, sir?”

Thrawn noted the stiffness to his voice, then reinterpreted the prior clearing of the throat as an intentional gesture – likely meant to indicate… distaste. It hadn’t occurred to him that he was merely a guest here, and it could be considered rude to poke around a person’s possessions. Intrusive. He straightened, brushed his tunic clear, and backed away from the boxes.

Though the beginnings of an apology had begun to stir in the Chiss’ mind, he returned his gaze to find Eli distant, attention already far away.

Opting for silence, then, Thrawn neared the man. He appeared to blink awake as he drew closer. Took a deep breath; heaved a deeper sigh. His earlier frustration was forgotten, traded in for cold defeat.

“What’d you think of the book, sir?” There was little interest in his words. Thrawn made it his task to stir it.

For a few moments, he nodded to himself, recalling the nights he’d spent reading it and inviting its atmosphere to flood back into him. Open skies; low-burning fires; the sense of endless tomorrows. Plains and plateaus and the liberty to define oneself however one wished.

“It was a compelling insight into Lysatra, exchanging realism for bold, lurid style – much like the illustration.” Thrawn paused to gesture at the cover, sporting a colourful, highly-stylised graveyard shoot-out. “I find this often comes closer to true realism; not in its presentation of events, perhaps, but in its emotional truth.”

“Maybe. It can be pretty over the top.”

“Indeed, but expressive.” Thrawn assured, taking care to reiterate the value of the bold expression Lysatra seemed to favour, rather than an obsession with the ‘realistic’ or objective.

His eyes flitted momentarily to a place on the bunk beside Eli, though his lips hesitated on the words.

“You can sit, sir.” Eli gestured, intuiting the Commodore’s unmade request.

“Thank you.” He joined his aide. His hands fidgeted while he spoke, searching fingertips or rubbing loose circles into palms as he mined into his concentration. “I also expected a greater focus on horror, since you warned of its supernatural elements. However, these were not once framed as a source of fear. Instead, they were used to discuss loss, connection, and companionship.”

“Yeah, I always liked that about it.” That seemed to guide Eli away. Somewhere lighter. Memories, perhaps. “I was stupid scared of ghosts, as a kid. Never really believed in ‘em, but scared anyway. This was one of the books that changed that. Stopped bein’ scary once I started thinkin’ of them as friends or watchers.”

“Indeed.” Thrawn acknowledged, before turning towards another point. “There was also a focus on what ties a person to certain areas. At first, I found this at odds with the nomadic nature of our protagonist. However, it is because she is nomadic that these places are so significant. Unlike the other characters, she has nobody to witness her, only the landscapes themselves.”

Eli considered this deeply, affording the Commodore’s interpretation genuine thought. “That’s an interestin’ read, sir. I always saw the landscapes as talkin’ more about family history, and bein’ cut off from that.”

“Absolutely,” Thrawn nodded, “it is both. Especially since the landscapes are her family. They are all she has to communicate her experiences to, and, in a way, they often serve as narrator.”

“You liked the book, then? Or just like thinkin’ about it?”

“Again, both. Though, my main interest in reading it was to better understand you when you discuss it.” Thrawn knitted his hands and turned to his aide, attentively. “What do you think about it, Lieutenant Commander?”

“Oh, it’s just fun. The whole series is, really. Comfortin’. I read ‘em young, and have a bunch of good memories with ‘em from back home.” Enjoying the simple pleasure of its feel in his hands, Eli flicked through the book a couple times. “These days, though, I think what strikes me most is how Lysatra’s described. I know a lotta the places the author writes about, ‘specially in this one. And the way she describes it all… she captures it how it was twenty years ago. The way it is in my memories, y’know?”

That twisted towards a new splinter in Eli’s mood. New, newly identified, or just newly painful, the Commodore would have to learn for himself.

“Lysatra has changed, then?” He inquired.

“Sure. Everythin’ is always changin’, no matter where you are. And that ain’t a bad thing,” he sighed, “just, I ain’t there to see it.”

Like stamps or pinned butterflies, Thrawn collected this scrap of a confession and filed it away with his other insights.

There was his change of environment and role aboard the Chimaera; the likely overwhelm caused by the requirement to clear and decorate his quarters; and, underlying it, some homesickness for Lysatra. The Lysatra of past – and perhaps also present.

“So?” Eli prodded into the Chiss’ thoughts, leaning back against the wall as he did.

“So what?”

“The book ain’t why you’re here, sir.”

“It isn’t,” Thrawn admitted, “but I assure you, it is less pretence than coincidence. I intended on visiting you anyway, and I had already finished the book. Two birds, one stone. Correct?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“I did try to call in advance.”

Eli stiffened, smoothing a brow the way he sometimes did when stressed or trying to focus. Quietly, he confessed: “I know.”

“Ah.” Thrawn bowed his head. “It was intentional – avoiding me?”

A sharp exhale, and a long pause. So long that the silence grew heavy.

“I’m sorry.”

“No need, Lieutenant Commander.” Waving away his apology, Thrawn turned to stare down the man. “I am simply curious as to why.”

Eli shrunk towards the wall, unable to meet the Commodore’s eyes. Instead, he gazed at the ceiling, like the words were written there. “Plain fact is,” reluctance stunted his speech, “I didn’t want you comin’ round, sir.”

“Why?”

“I… wasn’t comfortable.”

“I see.” Thrawn took a moment to process that. A trace of hurt bled into his usual, placid visage. He quelled it within an instant, because this wasn’t about him – and if Eli felt that way, there had to be a reason. “Why?”

“Why, why, why!” Eli erupted in great huffs of humourless laughter, though they sounded more like gasps for air. Any of the usual warmth was absent from them – and what a gaping absence it was, leaving only distress and desperation and something scathingly bitter. “Because why would you wanna see me like this, sir?”

Yet another ‘why’ caught itself at the back of the Commodore’s throat this time. “Explain,” he said instead.

That seemed to test the man’s patience. He groaned, pulling at his hair while his words rushed in like they were streaking through hyperspace. “Look, I know I keep screwin’ up on shift! Alright? You keep steppin’ in for me and I’m sorry you had to do that, and I know I gotta do better! Nobody needs to tell me that. You didn’t need to come here to tell me that, sir!”

“Lieutenant–”

“Yeah, exactly – Lieutenant Commander. What a joke. Can’t even sort out my own fuckin’ room, and my attention ain’t where it should be, and I know that, and I’m lettin’ you down and I know that too. We look like fuckin’ freaks up there.” At last, he seemed to calm, though it sounded closer to broken surrender. “I’ve got nothin’ to give you right now, sir. My mind just ain’t with it. So, the why of it all is a ‘why in the hell would you wanna see me’.”

As Eli’s outburst cooled into shame, a warmer storm stirred in Thrawn’s chest. Hot, flooding frustration. Was that all Eli saw himself as – a resource to be used? Prickling in came a worse, more personal realisation. Was that all Thrawn had led him to believe he was? Had his interest only ever read as professional? Did Eli truly think he was no more than a tool in the Commodore’s array?

“Allies and business partners are founded on what can be given or exchanged. We are neither.” Thrawn shuffled closer to Eli, back towards the wall so that he could rest upon it next to him. More quietly, and closer, he continued: “I have a… personal interest in your wellbeing, Lieutenant Commander Vanto.”

Half-statement, half-question, but wholly uncertain of itself: “As a commanding officer.”

“As a–” Thrawn’s brow twitched, confronted with a sudden chasm – like chasing a river to its origin and finding only a sheer drop into oblivion. The precise language of what they were had eluded him for some time now. A blank nothing that words couldn’t fill; alternatively, the sprawling tapestry of everything, which words could never do justice to.

Aware of the drawn-out silence that was only deepening between them, Thrawn gave in. “No, not as a commanding officer.”

What that meant to the Lieutenant Commander, if anything, he couldn’t tell. Watching the stillness of his face, he wondered if Eli might’ve been hoping for a… different response. More than simple negation. Bold, in the way favoured by Lysatra; something expressive and undeniable. Something he could hold.

Thrawn regretted that from Basic to Sy Bisti or even Cheunh, he could not find the words to set it right. He tried anyway.

“You have made mistakes,” Thrawn affirmed, no desire to console his aide with the false comfort of lies, “as have I – which you have overlooked. This is a new ship. We are unfamiliar with it; with its crew. They, in turn, are unfamiliar with us. You may remember that we had similar troubles on both the Blood Crow and the Thunder Wasp, at first. We will learn, and our mistakes are essential to that process.”

“Yeah. You’re right,” Eli mumbled, “as you always are.”

“Not always.” Indeed, he had been wrong many, many times if his aide felt the need to tear himself apart over such benign and genuine mistakes.

“You are an exceptional officer, Lieutenant Commander Vanto, and an even better… companion.” It stung like an off-key note in a choir. That wasn’t the right word, but it was still something, and kinder than any military title. “My concern has nothing to do with your performance, but your own state of mind. And, if you sincerely believed I had any intent to scold you…” Thrawn shook his head, barely veiling a disappointment at himself for whatever had prompted such a grave misinterpretation, “that would be cause for a re-evaluation of my own behaviour.”

Eventually, Eli found the resolve to reply: “Thank you, sir. It wouldn’t be botherin’ me so much, if I…” It was his turn to look for the right words now, and it looked like he couldn’t find them either. “I just feel like shit.”

“I see. And, do you know what caused this change in mood?” Too late did Thrawn realise how his phrasing made it sound more like an appointment with the doctor.

“Aw nothin’, everythin’ – I dunno.” A fleeting second passed where Eli seemed to consider going on, but it ended with him shaking his head in dismissal. “Ain’t worth talkin’ about, sir. Why don’t you just tell me some more about the book, or somethin’. Art. Whatever.”

Thrawn immediately saw it for what it was: another attempt at running away from the problem.

For now, the Commodore would indulge.

He refixed his attention on the book in Eli’s hands, scouring every detail of the image. Its central figure, the dark-clad protagonist on a rearing orbak, dual-wielding blasters and a timepiece slipping from her pocket; her adversaries clawing out from behind tombstones; the bleeding sunset that lit the graveyard warm. Noticing his thoughtful gaze, Eli passed the book to the Commodore. He traced a finger upon its most salient features. His aide watched on.

“The illustration mimics the frontier painters, stylistically, but rejects their idealism. The depiction of the graveyard is also subversive – not a place of unity, but discord. Perhaps a reflection of our hero’s conflict with her ancestry and homeland.” His inflection now took on the quality of a professor, rather than any naval officer; command traded out for curiosity. It was something Eli had noted to him before, and with seeming delight. He hoped he felt such delight now, too.

“Ordinarily,” he went on, “the sunset, graveyard, and timepiece would all indicate death. However, given the novel’s celebration of the macabre, and the coiled shape of the snake at the orbak’s hooves, it is likely they instead represent renewal and change. Change not as loss, but as freedom.”

Hovering over his shoulder, Eli stared at the piece as if seeing something new in its strokes. “You’ve got an interestin’ way of seein’ things, sir.”

A sentiment that Thraw appreciated. Nonetheless, as much of his own analysis as he was willing to bear at the moment – and as far as he would allow his aide’s attempt at distraction to go. If the underlying cause of the Lieutenant Commander’s malaise was too uncomfortable to prod at head-on, there were other ways. Distraction itself could easily be sharpened into a tool.

“Where would you like it?” Thrawn motioned with the book.

“Oh, I don’t usually leave that kinda stuff on display, sir.”

“Of course not. You usually reside with ensigns that cannot be trusted to clean their own uniforms.” That teased a chuckle from the human. Thrawn rose from the bunk and looked for a suitable location, continuing: “These are your personal quarters, and you can do with them as you wish. If the memory of Lysatra is comforting to you, then perhaps you should keep it… in reach.”

It was good practice to keep one’s comforts within reach. Thrawn had learnt as much from his years spent with Lieutenant Commander Vanto at his side.

Thrawn assessed the shelf above the bunk. Furthest away from its head, he laid the book flat on the surface, testing it. Within view, easily accessible, while saving the upper portion for objects of greater practical use; a perfect location.

“The other books in this series, Lieutenant Commander,” Thrawn glanced between the boxes, “where might I find them?”

“Should be that one, there.” Tracing Eli’s eyeline led to an especially scuffed box, once red and now only reddish, set against the back wall.

Thrawn analysed it on approach. A faded old sticker lined its side, reading, in scruffy handwriting: Eli N. Vanto. This one had lasted him since childhood, having accompanied him from home to both Myomar and Royal Imperial Academies, the Blood Crow, the Thunder Wasp, and now, finally, the Chimaera. It had witnessed more of the Lieutenant Commander than the man he served as aide to. A strange thought.

Careful not to crease a single cover, Thrawn removed the books one at a time. He read out the title of each as he did, prompting a welcome synopsis from Eli. Some were part of the series; these, Thrawn placed into a pile on his right. Others included a collection of Lysatran ghost tales, a nonfiction text on Wild Space history, and an old mathematics textbook kept for sentimental value, which he separated to the left. The first two, he had interest in reading; the latter, he would certainly never request.

Once assorted into groups, Thrawn carried the other novels to the bunk and ordered them upon the shelf. Seeing that they wouldn’t stand on their own, he scanned the room for something to prop them up against.

“Wait, I got somethin’ for that.” Spurred on by new enthusiasm, Eli dove off the bed, onto his knees and digging through the boxes for some bookends. A matching pair: twin birds, carved of auburn wood with a mild spice to its scent. He carried them to the shelf, where he closed them around the sides of the book set while Thrawn steadied them upright. Their hands lightly brushed as they did. Eli’s unsleeved arms grazed warm against Thrawn’s skin, their thick hair slightly ticklish.

Thrawn slid his eyes to a side-on stare at the Lieutenant Commander, who, in turn, seemed to be making concerted effort not to notice. The air itself seemed to thin.

“From your mother?” Thrawn asked, breaking away as he stepped back.

“Yep.” Eli followed him. He appraised the shelf and seemed pleased at the sight, so his absent-minded smile suggested. “Funny how you can tell.”

“Of course. Her gifts to you are often practical, and attuned to your tastes.” To draw comparison, Thrawn rustled up a set of shot glasses he had noticed earlier, presenting them to his aide. “Your father, however, seems to gift you what he desires for himself.”

“Can always count on him for that.” He shook his head. Amused, though. This seemed to be an endearing quality of his father, then, rather than something for which he genuinely begrudged him.

Thrawn contemplated the glasses. Slender blue patterns lined their bodies, each sporting a different design. “Your parents are proud of your promotion…?”

“They–” Eli cut quiet. He took the glasses from Thrawn’s grip and carried them to the door, making a new pile for objects he would sooner store than decorate. “I know what you’re doin’, sir. We don’t need to talk about it.”

“I am merely curious, Lieutenant Commander.” A light, feigned innocence mellowed the Chiss’ tone. Though, there was nothing feigned about the bittersweet truth of his next words: “I don’t have anyone to tell; other than you.”

Eli continued ordering his possessions, silent but betrayed by the brow sent wrinkling under the unmistakeable weight of guilt. “They’re proud, yeah. Never been prouder – except maybe that time I gave ol’ Colt Canlow a bloody nose.” A tale he had told Thrawn before, of a school bully and the only time Eli had ever got into a fight. “They keep callin’ me, and oh you should just hear ‘em, sir. They talk like I’m in command of a whole fleet.”

The Lieutenant Commander paused, having drawn out a small, cuboid chronometer. A traditional, Rodian style of timepiece, marking time in dotted patterns that silently switched with a mechanism inside. Shore leave on Rodia had seen them depart with the souvenir – selected by Thrawn as a gift. Eli had been able to discern its patterns almost immediately, before even the Chiss. He had relished in explaining it to him the way he so often did in return, and Thrawn had relished in watching the mild, well-earnt pride settle on the human’s face.

“Here,” Eli pressed the piece into Thrawn’s hands and directed: “at the top of the shelf.”

A place of honour. The Commodore couldn’t deny some satisfaction in that decision. He felt his own lips tug back into a whisper of a smirk as he cradled it to the shelf.

“They even threw a little party,” Eli went on, “invited round some neighbours, got some music playin’. I’ll be welcomed in like royalty, next time I’m back.” At that, the smile that had been building since he’d started talking about his family sunk into sadness.

For a while, they focused only on the task at hand. Eli unpacked his clothes – an assortment of casual attire and a few sets of uniform – while Thrawn sorted things into more manageable piles.

“It’s funny, really. I always found it embarrasin’, my parents makin’ a fuss to everyone. Would’ve thought I’d be glad to be away for it – the party, I mean.” Eli worked away as if it wasn’t affecting him, but Thrawn could hear the waver to his tone. “For some reason, though, I… find myself missin’ it.”

“With distance, all things look different.” Thrawn offered.

“I s’pose so.” He paused. “I am glad to have my own life. At the same time, though, it feels like I can’t be part of theirs anymore. Like they have these stories I’ve been cut out of.”

Such phrasing both intrigued and enthused the Chiss. The Lieutenant Commander did not merely miss home, but missed being part of whatever home was – missed being cradled in that sprawling brand of interwoven, Lysatran community. It must have been a great comfort now lost.

“That is understandable.” Though Eli’s view of home hardly mirrored the Chiss’, Thrawn still knew what it was to lose, to be apart from, and had since he was a child. “Lysatra prides itself on connection and closeness. Most importantly, on sharing one’s experiences, and documenting one’s life. You may keep in contact through calls; you may visit them, when circumstances permit. None of this is the same as sharing your life with them.”

Eli’s rustling finally came to a stop. Instead, he straightened, and looked dead at the Chiss with an inscrutable expression blurring suspicion with empathy. “You say that like someone who understands, sir.”

“One person can never understand another. Not completely. There are too many perspectives and experiences interfering with the process, making each moment unique to us, and language intelligible only to the person that speaks it. Such things build a chasm, so that no two people are ever truly talking about the same thing – even though they may use the same words.”

“Well that’s depressin’, sir.”

Thrawn turned away, kneeling to yet another box and sifting through its contents. He felt the human watching him, still. “There are aspects, however; commonalities in my own life, perhaps, and the amount of time we have spent together, that may allow a bridge of this chasm. At least… partially. So perhaps I do understand. But only so–”

“Finally!” Eli flung himself to the floor, beaming at a tortoiseshell-colour comb Thrawn had just found. It was the same one he’d used since they had met. “Been lookin’ for this!”

Thrawn looked over the especially shabby state of his hair. “I can tell.”

“How sweet!” Eli scoffed, in false hurt but genuine shock. “What are you sayin’ sir? That I’ve looked better?”

“Hardly,” and Thrawn leaned in closer, flitting between his tan features and the soft framing of his hair, settling on the glimmer of his eyes, “only that your hair has been more unkempt than usual. Not that it is an issue. I like it that way. It is… very you.”

The man’s face was burning into a bright, blushing glow through the Chiss’ vision, jaw slack in surprise. He snorted: “So first you say my hair looks like I’ve been dragged through a hedge, then you say it’s fine ‘cause I’m a scruffball anyway!”

“I didn’t mean to imply–”

But Eli was laughing now – a full, easy laugh, the kind that cascades from the chest and warms the very air. Thrawn abandoned any attempt to correct himself, if it meant he could, for just this moment, stay laughing. His own lips curled into a smile.

“I know what you meant, sir.” Eli assured at the tail-end of his amusement, still grinning. “At least, I think I do.”

There was no way to make sure that he did, though Thrawn wanted to put words to it anyway. But Eli was gone before he could – back to his feet and setting the comb by his sink.

The moment had passed.

He next turned to fussing with a bag he’d stuffed under the sink. It housed a set of tools for basic maintenance. Fixing some of the staples – sinks, pipes, panels – had become a habit during his service on the Blood Crow, where his and Thrawn’s maintenance issues were frequently gridlocked at the bottom of the priority list. A useful habit, and one that had endured.

When he looked back, he caught a familiar item in the Chiss’ hands.

A crafted curio. This small, rounded, patchwork cactus stitched from various kinds of fabric, like a collage of colour and pattern.

“The piece your uncle made at his community crafts session.” Thrawn noted, as his aide wandered over. This, too, he remembered the story of. An uncle that frequently struggled with grief, whose enduring sting had trickled into a relapse of agoraphobia ten years ago. The crafts session had been part of some wellbeing initiative that he found largely unhelpful, though it had started the process of re-engaging with the community.

“You don’t forget a thing.”

“Of course I do. My memory is fallible, much like anyone else’s. Though, less so when it comes to you.”

“Right.” What had been awe dissolved into confusion, or discomfort. Intrusive, Thrawn commented to himself again, always too late to catch the words others might interpret as too extreme, and other times too apathetic; unsure if he really wanted to. Regardless, Eli dismissed it as another of the Commodore’s idiosyncrasies. As if he’d said nothing, he changed subject: “The damn thing follows me everywhere.

Almost offended on behalf of the cactus, Thrawn asked: “You don’t like it?”

“What – you do?”

“Yes.” He ran a thumb over its spines. They had a satisfying sharpness to them, and made a light plinking sound when pulled at. All this, to house a paradoxically soft core, stitched from all manner of textures and textiles. The pieces of life that comprise a person. “Patchwork as testament to the way our experiences shape us. Life as a collage.”

“Hell, even my uncle don’t like the thing, and he made it. He calls it–”

“The cursed cactus,” Thrawn interjected.

“Exactly!”

“For all the times he pricked his fingers on it.”

“That’s right. And yet here you are, admirin’ the damn thing. You really can put the poetry into anythin’, huh.” Eli took the cactus from its sole admirer and made to toss it to the rejects pile. Either with the Commodore looking, or having since developed some degree of compassion for the piece, he decided instead to afford it more care, placing it down gently.

Change, grief, Lysatra; the sense of being removed from the context in which one’s life is valued. Change as a reminder of family, family as part of grief, grief for what has changed, what has changed including Lysatra – the more Thrawn turned these elements over in his mind, the more he realised they were interlinked in a matrix of splinters that sent Eli spiralling. Something deeper than loneliness; mourning. The life he had now at the cost of his access to the life of then.

Thrawn had never once regretted pulling him out of inventory and supply. But he wondered if that hadn’t been yet another tie to his life before the Empire – another point of familiarity, a part of himself in which his past resided – severed.

And severed by Thrawn.

If that were the case, he had a lot of making up to do.

With the boxes mostly emptied, Thrawn busied himself folding each flat and tidying them into the crate at the foot of Eli’s bunk. Whatever he was reluctant to display had been pushed into a small pile at the door, but almost everything had been organised around the room now. Long-term storage was the likely option, but the Commodore hoped for another: that his aide might entrust these unwanted possessions to him. After all, there was a space on his shelf that would sport Mr. Vanto’s shot glasses finely. Another that the patchwork cactus would grate against, but at a far richer payment than aesthetic consistency; it would serve as a vivid, visual reminder of Eli whenever Thrawn glanced at it.

That alone made it invaluable.

One of few things left at the centre of the room was an orange biscuit tin, ornamented in white, lace-like patterns and the brand name in Aurebesh lettering. A makeshift storage space for family photos. Thrawn recognised it as such from the rare times he had been shown its contents. Only five or six of its photos had the Lieutenant Commander ever shown him, and only when drunk enough not to care – and, once sober enough to regret it, wishing he hadn’t shown any at all.

Photography was an amateur passion of his father’s. Analogue photography in particular, believing it more expressive than its digital counterpart (though his wife disagreed). It was less the quality, so Eli had suggested, and more his paranoia that the whole galaxy could go out in an instant, leaving nothing but the memories. While his distrust of modern technology was at odds with the reliance on it demanded by owning a shipping company, Thrawn could understand how having a physical copy felt more tangible than a heap of digital files. Harder to lose; or, it could at least feel that way. And Mr. Vanto seemed terrified of loss.

But then, who wasn’t? In his own way, even this incessant need to track and analyse and hold onto scraps of scenes, of speech, of the precise manner in which Eli’s hands moved, was all a desperate means of holding on. Knowing that he could not keep these things close, that they could be taken away, and so carving out a place for them on the insides of his skull.

Thrawn picked up the tin and ran a palm over the grooves of its lid. His fingers slid round the side, working to pry it open.

“I’ll have that!” Eli blurted, knocking it from the Chiss’ careful hands before giving him the chance to surrender it.

Thrawn flinched at the sudden force and movement. It took a few moments before his arms fell to his sides; he drew a breath.

“Sorry, sir.” Eli winced. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It was merely a reflex.” Smoothing his collar idly between fingers and thumb, Thrawn began to pace.

As if in apology, Eli cracked open the container and sifted through some photos. He wandered back to his bunk and settled down there, searching for whichever he thought less embarrassing.

“Hey, sir. You ever seen this one?” And when Thrawn turned around, he was holding up a photograph of himself as a child, standing on a pier with three girls. The oldest had him caught in a headlock, while another was stealing his baseball cap. All wore bright colours; all were smiling.

Thrawn took the photo into his own hands and analysed it more closely. Sand dusted Eli’s mop of hair – damp, clinging to his forehead. They had been in the sea; at least enough so to splash each other. Threaded into his necklace was a large, grey feather from some kind of seabird. Behind them, out of focus, stood an adult struggling to hold four ice creams at once. It must have been a trip for desserts after a day spent on wild, childhood antics.

“Your cousins on the coast?” Thrawn discerned.

“Yep, that’s them.” Eli reclaimed the photo and had a last look before returning it to the box. He smiled as he did, no doubt at old memories. Thrawn noted its similarity to the boy in the photograph – bright and genuine. “You know how I never had any siblings. So, those kids were really closer to sisters for me.”

Eli let him hold the photo, and Thrawn reassumed a seat beside him. He turned away while he rifled through the images, part-shielding them with his body. Still embarrassed, then; but willing to share anyway. If selectively.

Of the small selection he was willing to give to Thrawn, what stood out most was the first that sported his scar. Older; old enough to be working at the Vantos’ shipping company, at least, since that was where he’d had his accident. Still young, though, and enough so for the scar to be bolder than Thrawn had ever known it. In the photo, he posed with his uncle – the maker of that so-detested cactus – both decked in fly-fishing gear. Eli seemed much less enthused with the scrap he’d caught than the large-jawed creature his uncle had roped in.

“Oh no.”

“What is it?”

Eli hesitated, then slung another photo at the Chiss – though he overshot closer to the pillow. With that, he buried his attention back in the container, not wanting to see his Commodore’s reaction.

Thrawn picked up the image and held it close. That same smile as ever, and with someone else’s hand half-run through his hair. Green hair, gelled into small spikes.

“Fascinating.”

“It weren’t meant to come out green.” Eli admitted, leaning over to look at himself again. “This is where I got my lifetime ban on truth or dare.”

“Green suits you, Lieutenant Commander.”

“Suits me more than that,” he slid another photo to the Commodore, “wouldn’t you say?”

This image depicted him a similar age, resting on a sofa in his mother’s embrace, arms crossed and the most miserable glare shooting at the photographer. Its defining feature: freshly buzzed hair. He looked almost unrecognisable without the mane to soften his features.

“Sometimes, tryin’ to fix things only makes ‘em worse.” Eli plucked both snaps from Thrawn’s hands and shuffled them back into the tin, glad to be rid of them. “That’s what I learnt from that.”

For a few moments, Thrawn only stared at him, observing the Lieutenant Commander from different angles. It was difficult to imagine him sporting a similar haircut now. He was too used to the consistent scruff softly sweeping his forehead.

“I like the hair.” Thrawn decided. He found himself wanting to reach out and touch it, curious of its texture, but refrained.

“Yeah, me too.” Rather than hiding the tin away, Eli now thumbed through the photographs in full view. Either he had grown more interested in them than his own insecurity, or simply no longer cared. Otherwise, he had finally figured that there was never any threat from Thrawn; no desire for ridicule, no allure to humiliation. Only ever curiosity and, sometimes, what looked like affection.

An image of Eli atop his father’s shoulders, both of them beaming. A series, then, from a birthday celebration; others from a school play. Some were recent: Eli on his most recent visit home, a candid photo caught by his father, of him and his mother chatting on the porch of their home. Thrawn wondered if, on days like today, he would go to her for support – or his father instead. Perhaps it simply depended on what he was looking for. From what he understood, Mrs. Vanto was a woman with action plans and a timeline; you went to her for solutions. To talk shop. Mr. Vanto, on the other hand, would offer an attentive ear, genuine platitudes, and not much else.

Which brand of consolation would he seek out now, if he could?

“My oldest cousin again.” A remarkable image, for its defining feature: it was the first without physical contact. Instead, Eli and his cousin stood side by side and a little apart. Smiles, though worn, were worn-out. “The one who’s got me in a headlock in that photo on the pier, remember?”

“Yes,” Thrawn mused, staring at the way their hands now lay slack by their sides; “I recognise her.”

“We used to be real close.”

“Not since joining the Empire?”

“Not for a long while before that.” Eli shook his head but kept staring into the face of the past. “It’s easier to stay friends when you’re kids, I think. It don’t feel so long. Not as much seems to happen. You get older and time seems to get bigger. Hell, I ain’t had a proper conversation with her in years.”

“Lysatra does seem to favour frequent reunions; expressing and sharing one’s experiences. As do human relationships in general.” It was all too easy for even the closest connections to degrade from time and distance. “Without these staples, I would imagine it is difficult to remain as close as you once were.”

“Sure is. I guess that’s just how things are.”

He flicked through the photos more impatiently now, losing interest or looking for something specific, then came to a total standstill at one particular image. “That’s my grandmother.”

“The one who gifted you her guitar.” Thrawn remembered. The one who died.

“That’s the one. Wait, I got a – it’s somewhere in here…” The tin pattered with the ruffling of fingers and photos. Brows furrowed in concentration, Eli searched until freeing another image from the pile: “There. She’s actually with that guitar in this one, see?”

Regal. That was the term that presented itself when looking upon this lady. An almost regal quality to her. Not in the way she dressed – jeans and a blouse, quite plain. Neither in her short brown hair, flecked grey at the temples, nor the calloused fingers grating at guitar-strings. Not at the lips pursed as she sang. Not in her posture. Regal in the way that her very spirit seemed to fill the room; command it. And, resting his head on her knee, a young child: Eli, sleepy but full of wonder. He was caught reaching out to pluck a string while she played. A benign little nuisance, though the woman didn’t mind, content and eyes half-closed as she sang.

She seemed at peace. A rare, complete kind of peace.

“I would have liked to hear her play.”

“Yeah.” An absence in Eli’s reaction. He had been listening; but, his mind was cast elsewhere. “I have a lot of good memories with her. In a weird way, I think I miss her least – even though she’s the one that’s gone for good.”

“How so?”

“Well, we had a bunch of good memories. And, when it ended, it ended. Nothin’ like my grandpa – y’know, my dad’s dad?”

“Mm. That sounded difficult.” That particular loss had been a drawn-out process, and filled with pain. A slow deterioration. Eli’s last memory with him was being mistaken for his father, which had shattered his heart in two ways: his grandfather saw the kindness of his son in him, yet their last meeting had left him unseen.

“As for my grandma, she died when I was twelve. And it was over, just like that.” A sudden loss. Eli said it didn’t feel real for three years. “And it hurt then, and it still hurts now. But at least it don’t feel like she’s waitin’ for me. Don’t feel like she’s gone, either. Just feels… like we had our time, and now I take her with me.”

Of all the Lysatran culture Thrawn had engaged with since knowing Eli, their religious beliefs remained an aspect he had only a vague grasp of. Certainly not in practice, and only slightly more so in theory. He had never deigned to broach the topic with Eli. Such things could be difficult, or uncomfortable. What Thrawn did know, however, was the concept of carrying the dead for the rest of one’s life. Not as punishment or a burden. As a presence; a perspective, a way of seeing oneself or the world around them, gifted by the passing of loved ones.

Carefully nestling the photographs back into the tin, Eli finally brought one out with just him and his parents. He held each of their hands, hanging mid-air from their grip between them, pure mischief lightening his face.

Like nothing, Eli swept the photo away. He was usually so gentle with their container, but practically tossed it aside now. He leaned forwards, stiff and staring down at the floor.

Thrawn caught the slightest hitch in his breath, and in what he could see beneath the way his hair hung, his eyes seemed glazed.

In all the photos, the same throughline spoke to Thrawn: proximity, touch. That playful headlock, a hand tousling hair, lying in embrace or resting on a knee, embraces and hands in hands and arms through arms. Nearness. Pressure.

The language of touch.

Eli had never requested physical affection. That didn’t mean he didn’t miss it. Didn’t mean he, perhaps, didn’t want it. Didn’t mean that it was not amongst the parts of his past he yearned to feel in the present, or another aspect of experience he felt cut off from.

“I think,” something unsteadied Eli’s voice this time, nervously scrunching the sheets under his palms as he spoke, “when you’re away, it feels like the whole world stops spinnin’. That it’s just there waitin’ for you, the way it was.” He bit his lip hard in a failed attempt to tame its quivering. The sharpest inhale, and: “It ain’t. It never is.”

With a shaky breath, Eli tilted his face to the ceiling. The shimmer of his eyes caught the light. They welled until flooding, and a blink sent a streak slipping from the corner then tumbling down his cheek, lining it in a sparkling trail.

The first tear ran free.

Then, the rest, full and clinging to his eyelashes. They thickened his voice as if choking him from inside.

“This is so stupid, I just – I don’t…” He sniffed, scrubbing roughly at his eyes in his own war against them. It irritated the existing burn that lined the left, confirming Thrawn’s theory on its cause.

Nothing but bitterness cut through his next words: “Shit, just look at me. Fuckin’ stupid. Stupid.”

Eli buried his face in his palms, desperate, jerking with the bounce of the knees his elbows rested upon. Thrawn recognised his breathing as the kind that attempts dignity despite desperation: tight, painful, crushing to the core. His whole body shuddered with an uncontrollable sob – nowhere else to go but out. And if he couldn’t fracture outwards, he would simply break inside.

Again, he was gnawing his lips. Hungrily, like it could hold him together, help him claw back some composure. He dug into his face so hard, it must’ve hurt.

The realisation shot like a lightning-strike to Thrawn – the realisation that he was watching. Only watching. As if a holofilm or nature documentary, with studious focus. Attempting to note each detail rather than alter the course of events.

His mind leapt from spectator to thrashing, drawing disparate links where none existed in frantic attempt to discern a course of action. His attempts to coax the man into talking of his problems, had they gone too far? He was crying now; sobbing. But, crying could be beneficial for humans. A communicative behaviour, yes, but one that also had soothing effect. Still, this sudden outburst was his own fault. Would calling his parents only make it worse? He couldn’t send him home – it was too soon to both his last visit and their takeover of the Chimaera; it would be denied. Let him cry? No, more than that. Then what?

Amidst the chaos snaked a single throughline, closer to instinct than thought, never shaped into words.

Thrawn raised his arm with the particular brand of slow surrender used on startled animals – the kind that screams there is no a threat. Then, he splayed a palm against Eli’s back, firm, as if he could stop him from falling apart. He felt Eli freeze for a moment, stiff and spine straightening for a moment. Slowly, though, he slackened. His hands fell from his face, resting his forehead instead on a fist, and his leg began to sway slightly as opposed to its earlier, violent jolting.

“I’m sorry, sir.” He said, breaking into sobs at the use of his voice. “Stars, I dunno what’s got into me – why now. I’ve been away for years… I should be over this already.”

“You have been away for a long time. It is easy to forget quite how long, and all that has happened since.” Thrawn said quietly, leaning in to his aide. “Perhaps the promotion reminded you of that.”

Suddenly, Eli pushed up from the bunk, leaving Thrawn’s hand cold against nothing and suspended mid-air, like he’d left a ghost in his place. He let it sink to the bed, while the man stormed at the end of the room and back – away again, repeatedly.

“I’ve been chasin’ after it for so long.” Eli flicked his hands, like it would dispel the tension. “Always felt like I was workin’ towards somethin’. Now I’ve got it–” and he kicked the tunic still crumpled on the ground, “–and what? A damn insignia. Now, I take pride in my work, and I take pride in that – but it’s a fuckin’ insignia! That’s it. And nobody to see it. Nobody I can… feel here with me, just voices from worlds away.”

So he was no exception to being shaped by culture after all. I ain’t Lysatra, he’d once declared so stubbornly in response to one of Thrawn’s culturally-based analyses, I’m just Eli. But here it was now, the concept of exchange, of being seen. Rather, their absence. Perhaps he had been promoted; perhaps he had a new insignia. It was ruled meaningless without being witnessed – and that was a revelation like a clear chime in his mind.

To witness.

That was all of Lysatra’s heart; to witness and be witnessed, the highest act of care. To accept every aspect of a person, to see them fully, as they are, not as you think they should be. To grow closer through the exchange of these unique perceptions of one another. To love by walking through the flames together. To be seen through language, music, art; touch.

Something half-numb made his steps feel light as he took them. An unfamiliar flutter shivered up him. He watched his subject like a piece of interactive art, studying it – him – first; the trembling lip, the head hung low half-hidden by hair, the breathing he fought to wrangle under control.

As the Commodore neared, Eli turned his face towards the wall, rubbing at his eyes so harshly that it was painful to watch.

“It ain’t right for you to see me like this, sir.” He said weakly. “Not as my commanding officer.”

“I have already told you,” Thrawn whispered, “I am not here as your commanding officer.”

Thrawn slid his arms around Eli’s waist then up against his back, drawing him in to a tight embrace. He nestled his head atop his, feeling its comfort upon his chin and cheek. At first, Eli’s body had stiffened; whether from surprise or protest, it faded all the same. Because he now sunk into the hug, let his neck crane into Thrawn’s chest, feeling held for the first time in years.

Pulling close, he wrapped his own arms around the Chiss, tracing around his shoulders and smoothing the back of his neck.

A shuddered breath ran free from Eli – a long-stifled sob loosened from the ribs and allowed to live outside their cage. Thrawn felt the man's chest jerk with the occasional gasp or sigh against his own, but, gradually, he calmed.

After a while spent like that, Eli tapped his back. Thrawn took it as a sign to pull away. All of a sudden, it seemed impossible to look at him. He could command himself, but his body would not obey.

“I used to think of them waitin’, and that’s what would get me sad.” Eli told him. “Thinkin’ of them waitin’ there for their son to return. But they ain’t waitin’. They’re out just livin’ their lives, and I’m not a part of that now. Never will be again – not like before. And I don’t regret it, but…”

“It is difficult nonetheless.” Thrawn kept his eyes on the ground as he spoke, barely able to make even a glance at Eli. “Not only is everything changing, it is changing without us. As are the people we love. That is a lonely realisation.”

“Shit…” The Lieutenant Commander’s tears had restarted with a fury. He went to rub his eyes with the usual harsh scrub.

But Thrawn caught his wrist before his hand met skin. “Gentle,” and he traced a finger across the burn softly, “you have already marked your face.”

With lightly brushed knuckles and a tender thumb, he swept the tears away. The warmth of his cheeks flared at his touch, burning bright and hot. His pupils, however, were dilated, far past–

Eli pulled the Chiss into another hug, made rough by the suddenness of his movement. Desperate for the security of his arms around him. Thrawn welcomed it; allowed him to collapse against him, and in turn let himself settle upon his body. Eli rested his head in the crook of his neck, drying what remained of his tears on the Chiss’ shoulder. Hands searching along the man’s back, Thrawn gently held the back of his head. At last, he could run his fingers through his hair for no reason but to feel. Thick and soft; exactly as he’d expected. Imagined.

“Every memory and every name, the sense of every touch,” the right language had finally clicked for Thrawn, “they are sewn into you, so that you are never truly apart. You carry them with you. You see through their eyes. The way your mother used to cut your hair, the songs your grandmother would sing; the sight of your father as he took each photograph. These are millions of impressions upon your skin.”

He took a hand to Eli’s forehead and tilted it back slightly, caressing his scar with a light touch. “They mark you.”

Eli rested his chin upon his shoulder, and Thrawn patted his hair once more.

“I lucked out with you, in the end.” Eli said quietly, throat still trembling with remnants of tears, though his voice had found its strength. “You’re one thing that’s stayed the same. A constant.”

Yes. They had marked one another, too. Was that not what they had been doing since the start? Experiencing things together, witnessing one another – their worst moments, as well as their best. All those memories that meant so much to Eli, he had confessed to the Chiss in his moments of joy and melancholia alike. He bore witness to both the Commodore’s flaws and strengths, and accepted both camps with equal measure – even welcomed them. Adored them, as Thrawn did his.

It was an intimacy hard to imagine outside of years spent in total trust.

An exchange in the way of family. Love.

At last, and with a contented sigh, Eli stepped back. He let himself slide against the wall and to the floor, deciding to sit there for a minute. Thrawn followed him, staring like he was the only thing worth looking at in all the galaxy.

“Thanks, sir.” That term now clattered uncomfortably on his tongue. A sign of respect, but a cold barrier of formality. “I still feel like shit, of course. But… it helps.”

Indeed, there was a lightness to his tone. Though he wore a face yet marked from crying, his tears had cleared up. Things wouldn’t be better today, but they would get better.

“There is no need to thank me.” Thrawn bowed his head.

“Sure, but… thank you anyway. And I know you had it all planned from the start, alright? So you ain’t fooled anybody.” He said, both pointedly and playful. “But, hell,” he rested his head against the wall, “maybe that’s alright.”

“I didn’t plan it all.”

“Sure,” he laughed, “whatever you say.”

“It is the truth.”

“Yeah?” A raised brow bled defiance into the human’s expression, as he challenged: “Name one thing you didn’t plan to–”

Thrawn clasped his hands around Eli’s cheeks and planted the softest kiss upon his forehead. His skin warmed against the lips; flares of hazy colour, a dance of cool blues and marigold.

When he slipped away, he stargazed into those dark-rimmed, brown eyes, wide and clear and endlessly deep. A run of nervous laughter rattled from Eli; it made him seem almost… frightened.

Shame wasn’t something Thrawn often felt. But oh, it was rippling now, uncomfortably full in the chest and swelling still, screaming at the base instinct to run and claw out.

Had he misread everything between them? The glances and knowing looks? The expressions that could only be interpreted by one another? Brushed hands and blushes, the way the ground felt solid underfoot when they knew the other was close behind? Or, had he been alone in all of those things?

For once, the garbled static of existence, the wild everything that Thrawn spent his life wrangling into any kind of coherent experience, collapsed into just that: static. No, chaos. Broken transmissions and disintegrating language and disembodied feelings, still frames viewed with the colours swapped and wrong.

Years of sideline spectatorship, and Thrawn had just betrayed himself. He had no idea what Eli thought, or felt. He was a fool to have believed any different.

This was why he made plans. This was why he pre-processed and post-processed to infinitesimal detail. To avoid the uncontrolled veer into the dark of whatever this was becoming, or had already become.

“Goodbye, Lieutenant Commander Vanto.” Thrawn jolted to his feet and made for the door.

Almost pouncing after him, Eli shouted: “Wait!” Sheer bewilderment singed his cry. Thrawn looked down to find Eli’s hand clasping his wrist. Its grip loosened and slid into his own, clinging to the last few of his fingers. “Where are you runnin’ off to?”

Thrawn stared only at their intertwined hands, and, hardly able to glance back at him, asked: “You wish for me to stay?”

“I wish for you to do what you want. But… I’d like it if you stayed.” He even laughed, and Thrawn wondered how he could at a time like this. “Or is it customary for Chiss to run off after…” whatever it was.

“Not… customary.” Thrawn managed, his throat suddenly dry.

He sat back down with his companion, straightening the seams of his trousers again and again. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t make them perfect.

“You asked me, once, on my read of Lysatra.” Though his insides had flipped, he made no show of it in his voice. “I answered that it was all in exchanging experiences.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Eli leaned in. “What about it?”

“I would like to amend my interpretation.” Thrawn considered his words carefully. “It is about the exchange, yes. But also, the concept of the witness. The lines come together, depart, then reunite before leaving again. That is the exchange. Even when apart, and especially when together, they are always in view. That is the witness. Not a literal meaning of sight; closer to…”

And Thrawn used a Sy Bisti term for which there was no direct translation. A term for which, in fact, the closest translation was witness – though it implied something far more full and complex. It involved all the senses, and something beyond. To wholly experience another person, as if within their skin.

“And to accept what you see. Not a passive viewing, either,” he elaborated, “but the active decision to bear witness. To desire life through their eyes. To love from within their perspective.” There was the usual, hopeless feeling that he had been unable to articulate quite the depth of what he had intended. As long as his words made the shallowest indication of it, perhaps it was enough. “What do you think of this interpretation?”

“It's beautiful,” were the immediate words sent tumbling from Eli’s mouth, then he paused for the rest to catch up; “and I think just about everyone back home would call it krayt spit. But that don’t mean it ain’t true. Just that they’d use different words. But this is how it all makes sense to you – it’s your way of seein’ us. That’s what makes it beautiful, I think.” With endearment, he added: “Most things are, lookin’ through your eyes.”

Daring now to meet his gaze, Thrawn felt the thousand swirling storms inside collapse in on themselves. Rare, for his thoughts to ever quieten like this; their absence left nothing but the moment. A confession made breathless by desperation: “I would gladly witness you, Eli Vanto–”

And he dove with such force that he tackled the Chiss, resting over him with his lips pressed hard to his. Warm, rough, yet a tender exploration and lapping like waves. Palms sweaty as they moved against his neck and up, up, combing through the slick, fine hair, clasping his scalp, a knee between his thighs. Thrawn reached around his arms, smoothing them over and over. He searched every region of his face – the fleck of a freckle, the light and faded slash of his scar. The peace of his eyes, closed and lined by thick lashes. How they tickled, when they fluttered open. The way his brows… were furrowing now. Was he... angry?

His lips loosened, breaking into a wide grin, then laughter. Rolling onto his back, he beat the floor with a fist.

Thrawn propped himself up on a hand, tracing his own lips as if there were something wrong with them. “What is it?”

“You kiss with your eyes open,” Eli managed through his laughter, “of course you kiss with your eyes open…”

“Yes,” and he spoke as if it were the most obvious thing, “I would like to engage with every aspect of the moment. Does it not make sense to–”

Any attempts at explanation only made Eli howl in greater still laughter. Tears lined his eyes again, but they were nothing like the despair of earlier. Thrawn found himself smiling along with him, even laughing ever so quietly, amused at Eli’s own, contagious amusement. He would shower him in open-eyed kisses if it meant he’d carry on.

A harbinger of doom: the console cried online, fracturing the moment.

“Bet that’s my parents.” Giddiness drained out, though the smirk remained. Eli hopped to his feet, and Thrawn feared this his cue to leave. But before the bitter cold of disappointment could settle fully into his bones, Eli gestured for him to join: “Ain’t you comin’?”

In response, Thrawn merely tilted his head.

“Somethin’ else to add to your knowledge of Lysatra, alright? Parents love it when their kids bring their partners ‘round for dinner. Gives ‘em a bunch to talk about after.”

Thrawn rose and wandered to Eli’s side. “Partner.” He repeated. Such a word could mean anything. A one-time ally, a business partner, a colleague. “How do you mean?”

“How do you think I mean?” Playful, Eli elbowed the Chiss light in the ribs. And he must’ve read something genuinely baffled into his expression, the way he proceeded to clarify – by tilting Thrawn’s chin low towards him, and leaving a kiss upon his brow. He smoothed a thumb across his lips, gaze full of affection. “That spell it out for you?”

With a tight smirk, Thrawn replied: “I believe it does.”

And though Eli set to answering the call, and even once the blast of salutations had started being exchanged within it, Thrawn’s attention stayed scattered somewhere else. Fixed on the reignited spark in the Lieutenant Commander’s eye, and how much he had missed it, and how he wished that it would never go out again.

How he knew he couldn’t stop that.

And how, on those days, he would try to bring it back once more.

Their life was indeed taking on a new shape aboard the Chimaera; perhaps an even stranger one than his office contemplations had suggested. Whatever unrest that had earlier caused, however, it drained now into simple adoration. They would see all manner of things from that viewport, and they would see them hand in hand – from one another’s eyes.