twostandingby | (no subject)

"Is it today?"

Winter nodded numbly. "Yeah."

He bows his head.

Fourteen years since it happened, and while the edge eventually dulled off the day-to-day pain, that doesn't make this date any easier.

And every year, he knows that he can't even imagine what it's like for Winter.

He gets up and crosses to her, taking both smaller, strong hands in his. "Hey. Come on. We'll go get a bottle of wine, go back to the room."

She nods, glancing up at him and then away, blinking quickly so she won't have to close her eyes too long and endure what she sees everytime she does.

It's the work of two minutes to go downstairs, pick up a bottle of wine and two glasses from the Bar, and walk back up to the room.

They are two very quiet minutes.

Tycho unlocks the door to room 181, pushing it open with a foot and holding it for her.

She's got the glasses and when she enters the room, she quickly sets them down, so she doesn't drop them because she's shaking. "I hate today."

He kicks the door closed, drops the bottle of wine on the bed, and enfolds her wordlessly in his arms.

She clings to him, her eyes drifting shut and there it is. The perfect orb of Alderaan shattering, the knowledge that everyone she's ever cared about, everyone that any Alderaanian ever cared about, gone. The image of the asteroids left behind, hanging in a gravity well, along with the caskets and boxes of gifts left by hundreds of faithful children.

She draws in a shuddering breath. "Gods. It never gets better."

What can he say? 'It will'? It won't. 'It's okay'? It's not.

He says nothing. He just does what he always does on this date-- He presses a kiss against her hair, and he holds her.

And she's just grateful for that, clinging to him, and crying until she just...can't.

This is another day she just wishes she were normal.

He breathes raspily and it would be hard enough just seeing her in so much pain, even if he didn't share it. He doesn't suffer the explosion behind his eyes the way she does, but he sees the faces of people long gone. His parents, his sisters, his brother, Nyiestra; grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, friends. They've never blurred; never will.

Tycho remembers, and he stands tall and pale, and lets Winter cry.

She pulls away from him and takes his hand, moving the wine off the bed and sitting on it, pulling him with her. "You lost more than I did, Tycho." she whispers, her eyes red as she shakily moves hair out of his face.

She grabs the wine and the glasses and pours it, carefully because of her hands still shaking and hands him a glass. "I love you."

He sits down, closing his eyes a second as her hand brushes his face. "It doesn't matter," he says, voice low, and he means that it doesn't matter who lost more people or more of a home, because either way, it's all gone. They're all gone. He takes the offered glass of Alderaanian green, and his hands are steady where hers are not. "I love you." He gently pulls the bottle away from her and sets it on the nightstand.

She takes a deep drink, and holds the glass limply in her hand. pushing her hair out of her face. "I'm so glad you're here."

He reaches over and rights her glass just before it would have started to drip, resting the base on her knee. "I know. Me too." Most of his own glass goes down fast.

Of course, this means they won't be together on this day when he eventually goes home. There'll be comms, though, he knows, or holos, and his pilots will be respectful and quiet, and it's enough.

She pulls her glass back to her lips and downs the rest. She puts the glass on the bedside table and leans her forehead against his.

They probably should have made a toast to home. He didn't think of it, though, and still doesn't. He just places his mostly-empty glass next to hers and closes his eyes, skimming his knuckles over her cheekbone. It'll be alright, the gesture says. It hurts now and it always will, but we'll get up in the morning and keep going.

She wraps her hand around the back of his neck, playing with his hair idly, pushing him closer and kisses him fiercely.

It doesn't stop her from almost crying again.

He slips his arm around her, other hand cradling her chin, and his eyes burn and snatched breaths burn and her lips burn.

She pulls him closer, before pushing him down onto the bed and pulling away. She lays her head on his chest, sighing, playing with her pant-leg.

That arm around her isn't moving away as he stares up at the ceiling. It is, however, absently stroking her back.

Fourteen years, and he still misses them like vaping crazy sometimes.

"I never really knew my parents." She begins, a story he's heard over and over again. "So the only person I really miss is Bail. And the Aunts. And the pittens."

That draws a watery laugh from her. "Servants, schoolmates. I even miss the girls who horrible. The popular nitwits."

He's heard it before. Doesn't mean he minds hearing it again.

"I don't miss those girls," he says. "Mia used to come home from school in tears." Quiet. "But of course you'd miss Bail." Smile. "I wish I could have met him."

"He was a brilliant man. So smart. And compassionate. And I think he knew, that something would happen to him, to Alderaan. He made sure that Leia and I didn't spend a lot of time on Alderaan after we joined the Rebellion." Winter says, looking up at the ceiling.

"You really think he knew? Would that have been possible?"