Hope you don't mind a quick little ficlet about eating together...
Din knows itâs normal, but what even is ânormalâ to a man who grew up in a culture where everyone ate alone, in silence? Communal eating like this is still alien to him. Breaking bread next to each other, sharing conversation around chewing, locking eyes⊠Itâs bizarre and occasionally uncomfortable (like being without the helmet sometimes is).
But he has to admit, itâs growing on him.
The first time is on the Kuiil, after the first revelation. The first of the handful of meals they shared properly, unhidden, before the Battle of Sundari. The food is meagre basic rations, the kind sold at every spaceport kiosk across the length and breadth of the galaxy. And ujâalayi, because, well⊠ujâalayi is ujâalayi. Itâs tradition.
Grogu devours his food with the same unbothered ravenousness as always â the kid will never turn down food. Luke, on the other hand, is snatching glances, and frankly it just makes Din self-conscious. Heâs already squirming at the thought of eating under someone elseâs gaze (what if he gets food in his moustache? What if he gets something in his teeth? What if he spills something down himself? What if it goes down the wrong way and he chokes to death? What if what if what ifâ), so the darting eyes are making him even more nervous.
âWhat?â he demands, perhaps a bit more sharply than he intended. Grogu pauses, ears flattening, staring up at him. Luke just blinks.
âWhat do you mean?â he asks.
âDo I have something on my face?â Din gestures at himself, slightly desperate. Heâll fix it, anything to just get Lukeâs gaze off him and the flitterflies banished from the pit of his stomach.
Lukeâs eyes go wide as he shakes his head vehemently. âNo!â
âThen why do you keep⊠staring?â Din finishes lamely, the back of his neck on fire.
To his surprise, Lukeâs cheeks burn bright pink and he hides his face with one of his hands, groaning softly. Din is just confused.
âSorry,â Luke mumbles, peeking out from between his fingers. âI just⊠I canât really believe I can see your face, now. I canât believe weâre eating together.â He chuckles, something pretty and bright and far giddier than Din is used to hearing from him. âIâm afraid if I look away, youâll disappear, but then when I do look, I get embarrassed.â
âEmbarrassed?â Din echoes.
Luke waves him away, not meeting his eyes. âYouâre handsome, Din.â
Din isnât really a blusher, but those words set his face aflame. He stares down at the debris of his ration pack, unable to even formulate a reply, feeling like his own body is too tight for him. His heart hammers in his chest, against his ribs like it wants to escape and soar out the airlock and into the vastness of space, unable to be contained. He wants to laugh, he wants to sing, he wants to curl up into a ball and never emerge, and he has no idea what to do with these feelings. Heâd never even thought he could feel them.
âYou too,â he instead chokes out, daring to glance up at Luke. Lukeâs blush deepens, and he grins, half-hidden by his hand. Their gazes lock, and maybe thatâs what they mean, those silly holobooks, when they say âget lost in each otherâs eyesâ.
Beside them Grogu makes a disgusted noise, and that breaks the spell.
Dinâs lost track of how many times theyâve eaten together, by now.
Today is no different except for the uncharacteristic heatwave thatâs plaguing Sundari, seeping through the ray shield dome and into the streets and houses of a half-ruined city that definitely canât yet afford the expense of air cooling. And despite temperature controlled armour, every Mandalorian is feeling the heat.
Din had come in, baking hot, from crop inspections and headed straight to the bedroom. Once there heâd shed helmet and armour, piece by ritualistic piece placed on its stand, until he was just in his flightsuit. And then the shirt came off, that, unlike the hallowed beskarâgam, tossed haphazardly to the floor. He then wet a towel and slapped it over the back of his neck.
And in that state of disarray he wanders into the kitchen with a groan.
Luke turns away from the nanowave stove. âWelcome hoâoooooome.â He raises his eyebrows. âOk, then.â
Din looks down and scoffs. âYouâve seen it before.â
âIrrelevant,â Luke retorts easily. âI like to see it.â He pauses. âMaybe not at the dinner table, though.â
âWell, itâs too hot,â Din grumbles.
âYouâre setting a terrible example,â Luke says, shaking his head as he carries various small bowls and plates over to the table with the Force.
âAbah!â says the young and impressionable child in question, taking his seat on his pile of cushions at the low table and eyeing his bowl of soup hungrily. Luke hands him it and he slurps happily.
Din scans over their meal â simple fare, because Luke isnât an adventurous cook and Mandalore is still running on fumes, including food imports â and picks up his fork. Heâs starving. All day spent shadowing Bo-Katan and Syben Rook in the quarter of the city dedicating to actually feeding their people is exhausting. And as Luke tells him about Groguâs day, he realises, with a jolt, how easy this is. How second-nature, how habitual. How little of his life heâs done this for, and how thoughtlessly, right now, he entered the room with no armour. Hell, with no shirt on.
The comfort, the serenity he feels around his family⊠it brings a lump to his throat. He doesnât need to worry, because he is safe. He doesnât need to hide himself, because he is loved. He can shed his outer shell and be who he is inside, and he can eat a meal with them. He can take a bite from a bread-puff and munch on kibla greens and stewed shatual hunted on Concordia. And itâs normal.
For decades he didnât have this. Heâd forgotten what it was to share a meal. And now he can.
Lukeâs voice is soft as it breaks through his reverie. He looks concerned. Din shakes his head and offers a small smile.
âJust feeling very lucky,â he says, hooking a forkful of Dacho noodles.
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