#it's very hard to imagine what else its communicating 🫠

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

the body language. the fucking body language ?????

[tarabyte3]

Amalia, omg, THANK YOU my dear friend 🥹💕

The imagery of water all throughout is so beautiful it’s like you captured the sea as its own character, incredibly powerful and deadly bringing these two together and at the same time almost parting them forever

Yes!! Thank you because that is exactly what I was going for and I'm relieved it came through! I wanted to ascribe a consciousness or intent so that everyone reading felt some degree of the helplessness the characters feel. Because water is such a big thing. It's crucial to our existence and there's so much symbolism associated with it—and the ocean in particular—it’s cleansing and healing, it's birth and rebirth, it’s a reflection of our emotions, it's chaos and power, a force of nature, and it's death, the great equalizer. Something you can be lost to. Just the phrase they use for boats and planes that disappear, “lost at sea,” has always been so chilling and heavy to me. Because we know they aren't lost, not really. And I wanted to play with that idea of lost and found.

And of course, in all of my Kino fics, I always focus on the inside of the prison, but I wanted to finally delve into the line “I can't swim” and what that means for him. Kino’s struggle doesn't end at the front door, you know? So I wanted to write something that embodied all the depth and impact of that line. Something deserving of it, like a love letter to the character. So when this idea hit me, I jumped on it!

Omg Kino’s stubbornness. 😮‍💨🫠 We saw what he was like with Cassian when he thought he was right, so I can just imagine how infuriating he can be when he sets his mind to it. (Which HAS to occasionally translate into angry sex where he's tender and apologetic for being an ass afterwards 😏 It has to, I know it does) But you're absolutely correct, it's also such a coping mechanism for him. It's easier to be a stubborn old man when you're already in so much pain and turmoil and you don't want any more 😭 That man needs a hug!!!

The kiss, yes! Exactly! He just went for it when he saw any softness and vulnerability in her because, like her, he's been starved for it, too. It was easy to hold back while they were in prison and when they were constantly fighting. They both just needed a gap in the armor, or a weakness in the seawall if you will. And I'm so glad you liked that line, “He tastes like drowning.” Because that was one of my all time favorite bits!! I was so proud of it, so it makes me very happy someone else appreciated it 🥹

Him blanketing her: I wanted more of that juxtaposition, even in the smut! Warmth and cold, soft and hard, distance and intimacy. There's so much they want to explore and feel, but they're in a cave and desperate, so the environment and their own emotions are working against them. But all that tenderness is still there beneath the surface! There's potential and promise in it. They’ve survived. They will continue to survive!

Thank you so much for your kind words, omg. 😭🙏 You're so sweet!! I’m going to cherish this forever. And while I wanted this to be a love letter to Kino as a character, I also write for all of you as a thank you for your community and your support and for inspiring me so much with your thoughts, ideas, and our old man thirst hours. 💖🫶 So thank you again!

Remember You Are Half Water

Pairing: Kino Loy x f!Reader

(7.2 k words)

AO3 link

Summary: Drowning is easy. It's surviving that's hard. Or: After the prison break, you and Kino hide out on Narkina 5.

Warnings: (18+) Explicit, angst, enemies to lovers (kind of), they argue and not in the flirty way, vaginal sex, rough sex, unprotected sex, grim realism, survival situation, descriptions of drowning, descriptions of resuscitation, cpr, thoughts of death, thoughts of dying, talk of dying, mentions of suicidal thoughts, mentions of imprisonment, themes of death, themes of drowning, description of pain, dreams, nightmares, illness, self-indulgent melancholia

A/N: I accidentally wrote this after getting a random idea in my head while working on I Want You to Show Me Weak (my brain will do anything but finish a fic 😌), so have a surprise Kino oneshot. Just please mind the tags, especially with the events currently happening in the real world. This isn't a dark fic, but the tone is quite grim. (Mostly. I am still a filthy hopeless romantic, after all.) Also, I'm well aware of what Narkina 5 is supposed to look like, however I simply Do Not care 😌

Fic title is from The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood. Collage quote from Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Ocean.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me) it’s always ourselves we find in the sea

- e.e. cummings, maggie and milly and molly and may

Your lungs burn.

There's a weight across your shoulders, pulling you down and under the waves. Your arms are spent and heavy with exhaustion. You have no idea how long you’ve been swimming—dragging something through the water, but your muscles are on fire. Your lungs are on fire. It would be so easy to just give up.

To just let go.

Because you're so tired. You’ve heard drowning isn't so bad. Like going to sleep, they say. You can do that. That's nothing compared to this.

You catch sight of a face at your side, barely breaching the surface. His face. His eyes are closed and his mouth is slack. Like he's sleeping.

You go back to swimming.

“Breathe, goddamn you!” You sob. Even though you're numb from the cold, your hand is trembling as you pound against his back with your fist. Between the shoulder blades, behind his lungs. Every hit makes a wet slap. His white uniform is soaked through and nearly translucent. It clings to him. The water, greedy, still won't let him go. “Don't you fucking do this, you prick! Wake up!”

He doesn't flinch under your assault. Not even when you roll him back over onto the rocky sand and press a rhythm into his ribs.

This is worse, you think, because now you can see his face and feel the ghost of his angry stare, even through his closed eyelids. His skin is grey and clammy, his lips nearly blue, and his beard and hair are slick and dark with water. His expression is relaxed. Peaceful. Not asleep. He's never looked like that before. This isn't how he's supposed to look.

The only movement beneath your hands is the jolt of his body from the compressions.

You let out a scream of frustration.

The waves lap at your face, forcing salt up your nose on an inhale. You splutter, losing your grip on that arm slung around your shoulders, and for a moment it slips. You kick frantically at the water as you scramble for him.

“No—” Your voice gets choked off by the whitecap of another wave.

You grab at his face, drive it back above the surface, even as you plunge below it. Whatever else you were going to shout is lost in a cloud of bubbles. You're the only thing keeping him from sinking to the bottom now. Just you, clinging to the hope of life.

You can't think about that dead weight.

You fight back to the surface with a cough, spitting out a mouthful of saltwater. You have to keep moving. You have to keep—

You’re being shaken awake. The hand on your shoulder is warm, but the grip is almost harsh—unforgiving as the fingers dig into your flesh.

You blink your eyes open to find Kino staring down at you with a frown. The light from the small fire throws shadows across his face and deepens the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth and along his forehead, making him look even more severe than he usually does.

“You were dreaming again,” he grumbles. Then he releases your shoulder without warning, nearly shoving away from you in the process, and he shuffles back across to his side of the small cave to resume lying down.

Now that you're conscious, all of your injuries and pains from the past few days come rushing back to fill your awareness. You let out a groan as you push yourself up off the cold stone floor. Not that sitting is any better—there’s a rock digging into your ass to prove your point, and you send it skittering. It doesn't make a difference. With a sigh, you rub the heels of your hands into your heavy eyelids in an attempt to clear the blurriness from your vision.

“Sorry,” you try, your voice hoarse with sleep. You quickly clear your throat and try again. “Didn't mean to wake you.”

He only grunts in response.

The sky at the mouth of the cave is a slate grey. It’s been raining the last few days—as if the water is trying to follow you ashore—so you aren't sure if the muted light is the growing dawn or due to the thick storm clouds that leave the landscape darkened, no matter where the sun is overhead. It's made everything damp and chilly, and you can feel it in every joint and bone. Between that, your desperate and adrenaline fueled escape from the prison, nearly drowning, and laying on the hard, rocky ground, your entire body aches.

You're both still wearing your white and orange uniforms, though they're worn and filthy now. More brown than white. The fabric is also next to useless outside of a temperature controlled environment, but you have nothing else to keep you warm and nothing at all for your feet. You’d gotten lucky that there had been driftwood piled inside the seaside cave, brought in by the tide and left safe from the rain. Kino had found several more pieces along the beach on that first day and dragged them into the shelter to dry out. Neither of you dared to venture any further afterwards, either from fear or exhaustion.

The last of the wood is burning between you, and, when it’s gone, there won't be anything left to keep the chill at bay. You know you’ll have to recommend sharing body heat at some point soon, but you're reluctant to do so because you also know it won't go over well. You're certain it's the last thing he wants, even if the alternative is stubbornly dying from exposure.

“Think they’ve moved on yet?” You ask, just to have something to distract you from your thoughts.

“Doubt it,” he replies in that gruff voice.

“Yeah,” you sigh. You slump forward and let your forearms rest on your knees, suddenly weary. “But we're going to have to leave eventually. We need food and real shelter.”

“You’re too weak to walk it,” he says to the cave wall.

“I’m fine,” you insist.

Kino's head whips around, and he meets your eyes with a glare. “No, you're not.” You let out a noise of disgust before you can reconsider, and his jaw clenches in response. “You nearly died.”

“Don’t start this again.” You mean it as a plea, but it comes out merely resigned in your exhaustion. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve had this argument since you first woke up to him coughing and shouting on the beach. You don't want to have it again.

“Like you’d listen anyway,” he says. And then he scowls, like you're the problem.

Alright, maybe you'll have it one more time.

“Gods, that bit of power really did go straight to your thick skull didn't it?” You laugh in disbelief. “Why can't you just accept that it was my choice? Mine!”

“I’m well aware of your poor decision making!” He shoots back. Then he sits up to face you, and now it's a proper fight, you think. “I’ve already told you, no one was supposed to die because of me!”

“And I already told you to get over yourself!” You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Do I look fucking dead to you? Hmm?”

“Don't act like it wasn't a close call!”

“I never said it wasn't.” You pinch at the bridge of your nose in an attempt to keep your frustration at bay. Screaming won't make him listen to reason, no matter how good it will feel. “What would you have had me do, Kino? Just let you drown?”

“Yes,” he replies without hesitation.

“Well, I didn't.” Your arm flops to your side, too heavy to hold up now. “So maybe you should just consider being fucking grateful instead.”

“I didn't ask for this!” He snaps. It's followed by an immediate look of regret.

Oh. That's new. You take a moment to study his face—the way he can suddenly no longer meet your eyes, like he's ashamed of all things.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

You ignore his sardonic, “You.”

Because you don't understand him. Is he really this upset or his pride so wounded over the fact that he needed to be saved? Is he truly this angry just because someone—or more specifically you—saw him when he was weak after being in control for so long? Those are convenient reasons. They're probably even contributing to his horrid mood, but they don't feel as if they’re the reason. It's almost as if—

“You wanted to die.” The shocked realization tumbles from your lips before you can stop it.

There's a long, deafening beat of silence.

“You don't know what you're talking about,” he says quietly as he gathers those strong arms around himself and crosses them like a shield.

Part of your mind is screaming at you to just drop it. You’ve entered new territory. You've never made him defensive like this before, and you don't know how he'll react. But based on all of your previous interactions with him, you know it won't be pleasant. Which is an understatement. The stubborn part of you, however, hopes that this means you're actually making progress. And if you’ve come this far…

“Is that why you won't even try to leave this shit hole again?” You press. “Is that why you're trading one prison for another?”

“That has nothing to do with this,” he says as he narrows his eyes at you, and you're almost disappointed to hear some of his anger returning.

“Yeah right,” you scoff.

“Listen, neither of us is in any condition to evade the searches. All we’re going to accomplish is getting caught.” It sounds almost reasonable, but you know better. You know it for what it really is: a deflection. You did hit a nerve.

“That's only going to get worse,” you argue back. “The lack of food is going to weaken us further, assuming we don't freeze to death first.”

“And it will still be easier if we're not being hunted. We have to be patient,” he says as his frown deepens, frustration beginning to take root once again. “Let them think we’re dead or gone.”

“And how long will that take? Days? Weeks?”

“A hell of a lot longer than three days!”

“Fine. Then we should at least go out and do some scouting so we have an idea of which way to go when the time comes,” you offer instead. “We might even find supplies.”

“It's too risky,” he says dismissively as he waves you off. You bristle against the gesture. “We’re safe here. The cave entrance is hard to find, but if we go in and out too often, we’ll draw attention to ourselves.”

“There's always going to be risk, Kino, whether we leave tonight or a week from now. If we wait, it could be too late,” you point out. “For all we know, the Empire is sending a blockade to keep us all trapped here! Then what?”

“They aren't going to send a blockade for a prison break,” he scoffs.

“And how can you possibly know that?”

“How can you?”

“Why is it so hard for you to trust me?” You hate the hint of misery that seeps into your voice and betrays how much that idea pains you.

“Why should I? If I recall correctly, your judgment has nearly gotten you killed once already,” he says in a mocking tone.

You glare at him. “My judgment saved both our lives.”

He glares right back. “I'm starting to think that was sheer dumb luck.”

Oh, how fucking dare he. After everything you went through—

“I didn't realize you were such a coward,” you say coldly, desperate to hurt him as much as he's hurt you.

The tendons in his neck go taut with rage. “Fuck you,” he spits, but he no more than gets the words out when he's racked with a violent coughing fit. The force of it makes him double over onto the cave floor, and his body heaves with each one.

You wince at the sight, feeling ashamed of your comment now. You didn't want this.

The coughing spells are a parting gift from Narkina 5—the water still won't let him go. He's had a few of them since you got him to shore and forced the ocean from his lungs, and each one sounds a little bit worse than the one before. You're no healer, but that's obviously not a good sign. He needs medicine. You also haven't broached the subject with him because you know it will just start a fight.

As if everything you say doesn't start a fight.

You lean back to wait it out, letting your head thunk tiredly against the cave wall. There's nothing you can do to help him and trying will only make it worse—you learned that the hard way. Plus, it doesn't seem fair to argue with him while he's like this, even if you're only doing it to get through to him for his own good, the stubborn jerk.

It takes several minutes before he finally stops coughing long enough to get his breathing under control. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, rights himself with as much dignity as he can muster, and gives you a cold, hard stare. “Go, then, if you're in such a hurry to end up back in a cell,” he grits out, his voice a strained, wet gravel.

“Fine,” you huff, pushing yourself to your feet. “Stay here and waste away if you want. See if I care. I can find a way off this slag heap by myself.”

You almost make it past the mouth of the cave.

The moment your foot touches the rain slicked rock, the combination of fatigue and an unsteady gait causes you to slip. You hit the ground with a grunt, landing hard on your hip. Sharp, hot pain shoots through the joint, curling up your spine and down your leg. The shock of it takes your breath away, and your eyes sting with fresh tears.

Oh, brilliant, you think caustically. Of all the times to fall on your ass.

Behind you, Kino swears. A second later, you hear the slap of his bare feet on rock as he stomps towards you.

“Broken?” He doesn't quite snap the question at you, but it's a near thing.

“No,” you choke out.

“You have a fucking death wish,” he growls before he hauls you to a sitting position.

Despite the pain, that statement makes you laugh, though it's a bitter, near hysterical sound. You tilt your head back to grin up at him. “Guess we make quite the pair, huh?”

He doesn't respond.

He just shoves his hands under your armpits in an attempt to get a grip on you with those thick fingers. Then your laughter quickly dissolves into a wounded hiss as he drags you back into the cave with no care for your new injury. You're not sure why you suddenly expected him to start coddling you. He never did before.

He dumps you back into the spot you’ve been occupying, glad to be rid of you, and you catch yourself with your hands before you land in a heap.

“Asshole,” you mutter under your breath.

After that, neither of you speaks for a while, content to sit and lick your wounds in what passes for peace now. Eventually, the pain in your hip lessens to a dull throb and the fire is reduced to embers, the long hours sucking the heat out of both.

Outside, the sky has gotten a bit lighter, but is still that dreary mask of grey that makes time feel nebulous. Unknowable. The rain, at least, had turned into a mist about an hour ago. Without the sound of the drops echoing throughout the cave, the silence is unforgiving. Every shuffle along the rock, every sniffle or sigh, every brush of clothes is harsh between you.

“Why are you so mad at me?” You finally ask, desperate for any noise that isn't him heavily exhaling a whistle through his nose.

“I already told you,” he replies, emotionless.

“I’m not talking about that,” you sigh. “You hated me the moment I stepped onto the floor.”

In the low light, there's a brief look of shock on his profile before his scowl returns in full force. “I didn't hate you.”

“Yes you did. You could barely look at me. And you yelled at me all the time.” He opens his mouth to protest, but you continue on so he can't interrupt you. “Look, I understand, in a way. I was slower than nearly all of the men, and you were pissed about being stuck with me. But it's not like I did it on purpose.”

“It wasn't that.” There's a renewed touch of exasperation in his voice. You're intimately familiar with that tone. You’ve heard the way he normally sounds when speaking to other people—got to see what it was like without ever experiencing it yourself—but you’ve never spoken to him without receiving either his impatience or his distaste. You prepare yourself for another fight.

“Then why? Because I was a distraction?” Your bitterness bleeds from you, an anguish built from months of labor and fear. And loneliness, you think. Because, even though you’d been constantly surrounded by people, you’d never felt so completely and utterly alone.

“It's nothing.” He rolls onto his side to face the cave wall, intent on ignoring you.

“It clearly wasn't nothing,” you respond dryly.

“Just drop it,” he says over his shoulder.

“No.” You cross your arms. You're done listening to him just because he tells you to. You don't have to now. You're not in there anymore. “After everything, I think I deserve to know what I did to have you treat me that way.”

“And I don't want to fucking talk about it,” he growls.

“Well, too damn bad! Because there's nothing else to talk about, and I want to know why you hated me when all I wanted was—” You cut yourself off with a hitched breath before you accidentally finish that sentence.

Fighting is one thing. That's easy. Safe. But this is something big and messy that you're still trying to come to terms with, made all the more complicated by your current situation, which was already plenty complicated before. This will only make things worse. You know it will. And despite all the hurtful things you’ve said to each other, you wouldn't be able to stomach his rejection. His pity. His disgust—couldn’t handle being forced to endure it while stuck in this damned cave and made to wallow in the forced intimacy of the space that's anything but. No, this is the one truth you could never take back.

To your embarrassment, your voice is rough and raw with emotion when you speak again. “When all I wanted was to be treated like a person.”

“If that's what you wanted, you were in the wrong place,” he says coldly to the cave wall. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”

“No!” You shout. You no longer care if you’re being petulant because you are angry about it. You’ve been holding onto the feeling for months, but you're tired now. You don't want to carry it around anymore. “I won't let you bully me into silence. I want the truth.”

“Keep your voice down!” He hisses as he flings himself upright to glare at you. Every bit of him is rigid with tension. Dangerous. At least he's looking at you again.

“Then answer me!” You stubbornly glare back at him. “You owe me that much.”

“Fine! I was afraid, alright?” He finally snarls, reminding you of a cornered animal, spitting as it lashes out. “Is that what you want to hear? That you were right? That I'm a coward?”

“What?” All of your anger leaves you in a sudden rush. The hiding, the running, the water—that fear you can understand. But this? You stare at him in genuine confusion. “Why?”

“Because I was scared shitless about what could happen to you! That place was cruel to the men it was designed for. Whatever it had in store for you was going to be much worse. I thought…” He runs a hand down his face and over the scruff of his beard, now grown out beyond a neat trim. The action wipes his own anger away, and underneath it is something human: exhaustion and vulnerability. “I thought, if I kept you at a distance, it would hurt less when it finally broke you, but you made it so damn hard.”

“Oh,” you breathe out in shock, as though you’ve just had the wind knocked out of you. You have, in a way, because, gods, what can you possibly say to that? It's the last thing you were expecting—realistically, you thought he was worried your lack of strength or speed would get someone else killed. This, however…you couldn't have even imagined this. The implication of it… “Kino—”

“Don't. Okay?” He cuts you off. And then he turns away to shut you out as well. “Just…fucking don't.”

So instead you sit there in the uneasy quiet of the cave, feeling adrift. Helpless. Like you're right back in the middle of the ocean, at the mercy of the waves, with nothing to hold onto to keep from sinking; there’s only water in your fumbling grasp. At least then you'd known which way you were supposed to go, it was the getting there that was the problem. Now you don't even have that. You wonder if you’d have the energy to even try if you did.

A part of you wants nothing more than to reexamine every interaction, every look, and every word he’s ever spoken to you and see what you might uncover that you'd missed, but you can't do that with him right there. His presence just muddles everything up until you can't help but mix reality and memory, past and present, assumption and realization. You're nearly dizzy with it.

Plus, knowing that things weren't so black and white between you doesn't change what happened or how you feel. You’ve been hurting and angry for a while—especially at him, and most of which he still deserves for how he treated you. That something more existed lessens the intensity of those feelings, but it doesn't erase them completely. Not yet. Reconciling what you know and what you thought you knew will only come with time.

To the rest of you, however, that reconciliation doesn't seem as important as your fear at almost losing him or the realization that there is something more than just hatred on his end. Even if that thing is nothing more than kindness and compassion, it's something. And you could have died not knowing that. Or worse, you could have lived without knowing instead.

Gods, complicated is an understatement. If only you could have wanted something easy for once. You wonder if he thought the same thing as he watched you from across the work floor. And it feels odd to think that maybe it's not such an unrealistic hope anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, breaking the silence between you at last.

He laughs, and it manages to sound condescending. The familiarity of it is grounding. “What do you have to be sorry about?”

“I guess…” What are you apologizing for? For misunderstanding him? For making his life harder, even if it wasn't your fault? For not agreeing with him? For being unable to shoulder his anger? For continuing to push and push and push. Maybe all of it, you realize. For your part in the making of this. “I guess for saving you when you didn't want me to,” you answer with a shrug instead.

At first, you think he isn't going to respond to that, and you can no longer find it in yourself to blame him. But then, with a voice that’s softer than you’ve ever heard from him—weren’t even sure he was capable of it—he says, “It's not that I didn't want to be saved.”

“Then why? Help me to understand, Kino,” you plead, praying that he won't clam up or lash out again. Not when you've come so far. “Please.”

He gives you a heavy, resigned look before settling his attention on the cave entrance where his gaze becomes unseeing. Though there are only a few feet between you, he suddenly seems miles away.

“When we were planning all of this, I knew what was waiting for us on the outside. I mean, they built the fucking thing in the middle of an ocean and I can't swim. How ironic is that? All that work, and I was gonna make it to the door just to drown.” Then, quietly, “I never gave a thought to what I would do if I didn't. Now I've got no clue what comes next.”

“Neither do I,” you say in disbelief.

He lets out a dark laugh. “Sure don't act like it,” he mutters.

“I’m just better at hiding it.” You give him a small smile that he cannot see.

“Maybe I should be, too,” he muses to himself. “It’d be a hell of a lot better than feeling so lost.”

“Hiding it doesn't make that go away,” you say sadly. You know that all too well.

His only reply is a non-committal hum, and it suddenly occurs to you that he has no clue what you actually went through. How could he? He lept into the water and woke up on shore with nothing but darkness in between. All he knows is that you saved him. Without the rest, he thinks he's struggling alone.

“I almost gave up, you know,” you admit quietly.

That gets his attention again. He turns to look at you, and his eyes are wide with fear and concern. “What?” He gasps.

“I could barely see the shore when the adrenaline wore off. When faced with that distance, all that water, and no strength left?” You shrug in an attempt to seem unbothered, even as the memory fills you with dread. “For one horrible moment, I suppose drowning just seemed easier.” Like going to sleep, you don't say. “But I couldn't. I looked at you, and I couldn't. Not without trying first. And before you say anything, leaving you behind was never an option. Not for me. If this place was going to win, it was going to have to take us both.”

“I never wanted that,” he says helplessly. “When I came to and saw you laying there, I thought you were dead.” His voice breaks and he takes in a deep, shaky breath, but it does little to steady him. “I knew then what you did for me, and I thought it killed you. That after everything, it was me. I broke you, and it wasn't worth it. Not me.”

“You didn't,” you insist, desperate to make him listen. You recognize that despair because it's the same one that haunts your dreams and doesn't let go when you're awake. It's the same fear that grips your chest in icy fingers whenever you catch his sleeping face or you're forced to sit by and listen to him cough—the water still won't let him go. You understand now that he needs the reassurance that it's over just as much as you do. So you push yourself to your knees and dare to move closer, despite the protest of your aching body. “I’m right here. See? I was just tired afterwards, that's all. Just tired. I’m right here.”

Without warning, he reaches for you, and, even though he's never harmed you, you flinch thinking maybe you’ve finally pushed him too far. Only, he grabs the front of your uniform and pulls you to him, just as unkindly as he dragged you across the cave. And then you think he's going to scream again, but when he opens his mouth, he leans in and crushes your lips together instead.

You freeze against him.

Because Kino Loy is kissing you, and that can't be right. He hates you. His mouth can only scowl and scream and cough and—there’s a little grunt from the back of his throat as he adjusts the angle of your lips, and, oh, this is real. Without another thought, you're kissing him back.

At first, there's only tentative relief—at the reassurance, the sensation, at finally getting something you want—but heat starts to build in the breath-humid space between your bodies the longer you kiss and kiss. Something born of more than lust or desire. And though they flicker in your belly as well, it's a bone deep desperation to feel alive that drives you forward and aches to be quelled.

When you break apart to catch your breath, he rests his forehead against yours. Close enough for your noses to brush together and to feel each hard exhale—that blessed, life sustaining air—across your skin.

“I’m sorry,” he says with a sob. His voice is low and thick with grief against your mouth. The sound and shape of it is so different from his anger—in the low light, only a ghost of that harshness is left, clinging to the shadowy lines of his face. You don't have to ask what he's apologizing for.

“Show me,” you whisper back. You let your lips brush over his again in invitation. He responds by delving into the wet heat of your mouth and wrapping you in his arms with a moan.

So you give yourself over to the exploration of his tongue against yours and his large, callus roughened hands as they engulf the sides of your face, caught in the whirlwind of him. It leaves you breathless faster than you like, and when you break for air again, you don't want to give him a moment to change his mind or to pull away completely. So your mouth wanders to his cheeks, the scruff on his jaw, his Adam's apple, the hollow of his throat above the collar of his uniform—seeking out every bit of him that you can reach as he pants and swallows beneath your lips.

He smells like sweat and smoke and saltwater, and his skin is sharp and briny on your tongue as you lap at a spot on his neck. He tastes like drowning, and for a moment you're lost in the memory of him in the water, his weight pulling you beneath the waves. His lifeless face staring up at you from the shore. But then he sucks in a sharp breath, jolting you back to the present, and his lips are on yours again. Warm. Alive. Not the cold flesh you forced air through. Not the same shared breath.

“Wanna see you,” you gasp into his mouth as you lift at the hem of his shirt.

Without a word, he moves to obey.

You both peel away your filthy uniforms with trembling hands, revealing bodies that are just as dirty and unwashed to the chilled air, but beneath all of that is color. His flush of arousal. Bruises that are starting to fade, a gruesome rainbow of healing. The shadows playing in the shifting of muscle as he reaches for you to pull you back into the warmth of his arms. Alive.

He's the first soft thing you’ve touched after days of nothing but rock. And before that, months of only tools and labor and struggle. You bask in the sensation: The greying hair on his chest, the roundness of his belly and hips, salt dried skin, his palm on your cheek. The other on your thigh. He’s softer than you remember from when you were hauling him through the waves—

You wrap your hand around his cock, and his heartbeat throbs in your fist. Alive.

He lets out a groan when you stroke him, something deep and guttural that rumbles through the cave like thunder. The sound sends blood and heat rushing to your core, where it pools between your thighs and leaves you aching and empty. You tease the silken foreskin over his length and work your thumb along the underside of the swollen head just to hear more of it.

With a growl, he falls upon you, pulling you in for a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongues and hunger. His hand cups the swell of your breast while his thumb circles your nipple. You cry out and arch into the roughness of his hand. Then you're both eagerly groping and learning all the ways you can draw more noises from each other until you're left squirming against the insistent throbbing between your legs.

“I want you inside of me,” you murmur into his mouth.

He clenches his eyes shut as his breath hitches, and you're thrilled you can get that reaction out of him. But then he opens his eyes again and, in a shaky voice, asks, “You're sure?”

“Yes!” You growl, impatient. “Fuck me, Kino.”

He lets out a groan. “If you keep that up, I’m not gonna last very long.”

“Don't care as long as your cock is inside me first.”

“Fuck!” He hisses. His hips involuntarily jerk forward at the thought, and said cock grinds into the bend of your groin. “Then I'll give you what you want.”

After that reaction, you think he's going to throw you down and do just that. Instead, his touch gentles, his palm cradling the base of your skull as he lays you out along the rock. The movement doesn't make you feel delicate or like something that's injured and cowering in a cave, but rather like something to be revered.

This is his apology.

A caress along your inner knee has your legs falling open, leaving you exposed before him. Before you can be self-conscious about it, he gives your arousal a heated look that drives the thought from your mind. Then he traces a fingertip up the tender skin of your thigh, and fire licks from your thigh to your belly.

For a moment, you wonder what it would be like to have this on the other side of the galaxy. Not in a cave, but in a bed, warm and clean with a full stomach. Maybe it would be sweet like this between you the whole time rather than something that's taking an effort just to maintain. Because you know this is only a moment—a reprieve. It can't last, not when that cold desperation and panic are rebuilding within your gut.

It's a lovely thought. But by the time he kneels between your thighs, you need again. You pull him down and he goes willingly, falling to brace his hands on the stony ground on either side of your shoulders. Then you hold your breath as he closes the distance, slowly, until the length of his cock is resting and throbbing, flush against your sex.

Your hips grind up against him, trapping him between your heat and his belly so that when he thrusts back, seeking more, he drags himself along your wet folds; the sensitive head of his cock rubs against your clit. Both of you moan, wounded and strangled sounds. So he does it again. And again. Over and over until you're both gasping and shuddering at the slick friction.

All the while he stares down at you, studying you. Taking in the way your face contorts and breaks with pleasure. His eyes are sea blue, you realize—the water, greedy—so wild and deep and pulling you in. It sets your pulse racing and makes your palms sweat against his shoulders. You turn away from the intensity in that gaze.

“No.” To your surprise, he takes your chin between his finger and thumb, not gentle but steady, and he forces you to look anyway. To face him. “Let me see you.”

He holds you there with the weight of his body as he shifts to nudge at your opening. It's so close to what you need. Your legs wrap around his waist in silent encouragement. Then, once he's lined up, he sinks forward with a groan and stretches you open on his cock until you're aching and full.

His mouth goes slack. Those eyes become heavy and lidded. Not closed—alive. Which makes all the difference to your wounded mind. So you drink in the sight of him like this, buried in the tight embrace of your cunt. A ruinous look.

You're drowning again.

It scares you, just how much you want to give yourself over and let go. How easy it would be to become lost. To believe that this is something more than desperation. But then his eyes refocus and whatever tenderness had gripped him is absent from that gaze. In its place is hunger. Need. Urgency.

“Gods, you're so tight,” he grinds out from behind clenched teeth as he gives a shallow thrust into you. The sound goes straight to your core, soaking him further. “Feels so good.”

Then he finally—finally—fucks you. Hard and fast.

The ground is cold and unrelenting beneath your spine where you're folded and crushed against it. Above you, he's blanketing you in heat and the delicious slide of flesh along your nerves. A lovely contrast already, but then his hand finds your hip, his fingers digging into your fresh bruise, and you gasp from the pain—it hurts, but if it hurts that means you're alive. He doesn't stop at the sound. Instead, there's understanding in those eyes as he pulls you in to meet each plunge of his cock, and, oh, that's even better.

You spare a thought for his knees right before he shifts. Then he's dragging against that spot inside of you, and your mind goes blissfully empty with pleasure. Your head falls back, weightless with it. At that opening, he buries his face in your neck, muffling every grunt into your skin. He presses the vibrations of them into your flesh and bones alongside his exhales, the scrape of his beard, the unconscious skim and purse of his lips. You shiver.

You won't come from this alone, but you don't care. This is enough. You just need to feel something—need the proof that he's alive. That you're alive. That this IS real and not some drawn out hallucination your dying brain came up with between the span of one heartbeat and your last.

But it has to be real. Even in your darkest moments, alone in your cell, you never allowed yourself to want this—the thing you could not have. The galaxy had been cruel enough on its own without any assistance from you. So there were no images or dreams in your mind to conjure this from. Which means these messy kisses, the wet noise of your joining, your sweat slicked skin, his hair, salt-stiffened and curled between your fingers, must be real. It also means every moment of this is new and unburdened by expectation or comparison.

It's everything else that haunts you.

All too soon, and just as promised, his body grows tense, and he starts to tremble above you. Between your exhaustion and his unrelenting pace, this was never intended to last. And he's so close, but when he meets your eyes, you see hesitation. Uncertainty. When he moves to pull away, you realize he means to finish by stroking and spilling himself across your belly instead. But that isn't what you need.

“No! Don’t,” you beg. Your legs tighten around his waist, and you grasp at his neck and shoulders, unwilling to let him go with a strength that surprises you both. Then you roll your hips and grind yourself onto his cock, dragging a hiss out of him. “I want to feel you.”

He groans as he yields to your plea, too near that edge to argue, so he falls right back into a punishing rhythm. Yet underneath the hunger and determination, there's anguish now, too. As if by doing this, he remains afraid he'll break you somehow. Still, he clings to your hips as every thrust turns short and sharp with purpose until, at last, he buries himself fully and chases that relief in the depths of your cunt.

When he comes, the only sound he makes is a harsh sob. And then his cock is pulsing inside of you, filling you with warmth. Life.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

He collapses heavily at your side with a few wet coughs, spent and too exhausted to hold himself up any longer. You lay there for a moment, listening to his ragged breathing, unsure of what comes next. You're afraid he’ll push you away once his mind clears. That he’ll go back to hating you from across the cave, now muggy with the scent of sex, as his come leaks down your thighs.

He doesn't.

Instead, he holds his arms open in silent invitation and you realize he's offering you a choice: move forward with or without him. And this time, you know he accepts that it's your decision to make. But you’ve already made this choice once, when you watched him slip beneath the waves. When you dove for him in the water, hauled him back out of it, and then forced it from his lungs. It was just as easy to make then. Maybe now he’ll understand what it means.

You go to him and curl against him in acceptance. He kisses the fragile skin of your temple, and then he helps you get settled by tucking your head under his chin and rubbing warmth in a soothing pattern along your stone chilled back. Your hand finds his waist. His leg entangles with yours. Back and forth until there's nothing but drying sweat between you, as if you have always fit together in this way.

You want to savor this. More than that, you want to have this if you can. If he’ll let you. If he doesn't go back to holding you at a distance out of habit and self-preservation in a day or so, always waiting for the worst to happen and scared of the hurt that might follow. As if anything could be worse than losing him now. Then he really would be the thing that broke you. A self fulfilling prophecy. You almost want to laugh at the irony.

All at once, the silence feels heavier than you can bear.

“Never again tell me you aren't worth it,” you whisper fiercely to the cave. “You are to me.”

He doesn't respond, but the hand splayed over your ribs twitches before clutching you tighter.

“We’ll try in the morning,” he says quietly instead. Under your ear, the compromise rumbles loudly throughout his chest. Beneath that, his steady heartbeat.

His statement doesn't fill you with anything as naive as hope. The Empire is still looking for you, and they aren't ever going to stop now. You’ve only traded imprisonment for the illusion of freedom. The thought claws at you, threatens to pull you under. But there's an arm around your shoulders that squeezes as it holds you close, and you remember that you can't let go. You can't lose him. You won't. You have to keep moving.

“In the morning,” you agree.

"Hey,” he said, half-asleep, “what were you before me?” “I think I was drowning.” A pause. “And what are you now?” he whispered, sinking. I thought for a second. “Water."

- Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous

A/N: The song for this fic is Ocean Eyes by Billie Eilish btw.