──── My Love is Sick ┆-`♡´-
﹙‧₊˚♡ pairing: qimir (the acolyte) x reader
﹙‧₊˚♡ content: gender!neutral reader, race!neutral reader, reader has hair, happy ending but angst comes first, perceived one-sided longing, hanahaki au, master/acolyte dynamic — YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!! | wc: 10.1k
﹙‧₊˚♡ summary: you don't know how you managed to fall in love with your master. you've never seen his face. you've never even heard his unfiltered voice. but you love him all the same, despite knowing he will never love you back. when you begin to cough up flowers it's almost funny — you always knew your master would be the death of you, one way or another.
You weren’t able to pinpoint the moment it started.
The realization that you were in love felt nothing like the stories in books and holodramas. It didn’t fill you with butterflies. Or hopes of a shared future together. It felt like a death sentence. The shadow of a guillotine blade falling across your face.
You’d never felt anything like it before, but you were intelligent enough to connect the dots.
Somehow, you had fallen in love with your Master.
You’d never seen his face. Never even heard his true voice; all you knew was the rasping, fragmented echo of his words bouncing against the inside of an eerily grinning mask. And yet, you loved him. Or you were beginning to fall in love with him. Perhaps you were so naive in the ways of the heart that you had only developed a crush on him, and could not differentiate between mere infatuation and love.
But even as you tried to rationalize with yourself… appeal to every bit of your higher reasoning and logic, you knew you were a lost cause. You loved your Master.
“Y/N?” Qimir pokes you in the side, and you jump.
“Kriff, Qimir! How are you always sneaking up on me?” You cut your eyes at him, hand settling on your chest to try to coax your heart back to its normal rhythm.
“I really shouldn’t be able to. Slacking on that training, huh?” Qimir gives you a crooked, teasing grin.
“More like you’ve got the force signature of a Porg. You’re easy to miss.” You reach out and smack his arm, equally teasing.
“Aww, always knew you missed me when I wasn’t around.”
“I meant you’re easy to overlook.”
“You should be more clear with that language then. I’m choosing to believe the first version of that sentence.” Qimir settles down beside you on the rooftop.
“You go on believing whatever you like, buddy.” You shove him before bringing the binoculars back up to your eyes and looking across the busy street.
The latest mission from your Master is to retrieve a collection of ancient Jedi texts. You'd looked away the moment he'd spoken the words, confused but unwilling to question what was not a lesson, but a direct command. He'd taken notice of your hesitation regardless of your attempt at mindless obedience.
"There is much to be learned from even the most unlikely of places, Acolyte. You will understand once you've done as I've asked." Then he had turned his back to you, a dismissal.
The minders of the temple enter and exit in waves throughout the day. You could become hypnotized watching them and their slow, unhurried movements. Like bugs in a hive. There are too many Jedi posted here. This sector of the Galaxy is peaceful, or has been bent into the shape of peace through heavy policing, and the people of this particular world cherish art and history as the truly divine. The only answer to the Jedi's overwhelming presence is they have something worth a great deal of protection hidden within their walls. You'd wonder how your Master came to learn of esoteric Jedi texts hidden away in a small temple, on a small planet, but there's no need for that kind of wondering when the answer is pressing the side of his face into yours, as if you'll be able to share the binoculars one eye each.
A smuggler is a smuggler. Qimir might have abandoned the Hutts, but that didn't mean he'd given up the skills of his trade. Now he just used them in service of a more worthy master.
You huff, shoving Qimir to the side before tossing the binoculars in his lap and lying down on the roof. "Thank you for volunteering to watch the temple for me. My eyes were starting to go numb."
"Hm. It was really more of a fleeting curiosity." He says, even as he picks up the binoculars and does as you ask.
"I'm developing an insistent curiosity." You say, eyes closed, relishing the afternoon sun across your face. The planets you frequented were rarely so pleasant. It was important to hold on to things that were nice and simple: sunlight, clean air, being able to close your eyes and not worry that the person sitting next to you would take the first opportunity to stab you and rob you blind.
"In regard to—"
"—The way you would look with a broken nose."
"Understood. This temple won't be moving under my watch… or without causing a few serious tremors since it's got some deep underground levels. Can you imagine how chaotic everything would be if buildings were like droids and could just get up and go whenever they wanted to?" Qimir rambles, but as playful as he is, Qimir's incredibly diligent and never seems to mind making your life easier.
Power, the ability to be all of what you are and to live without restraint, freedom — these were the things you thought you were gaining when you left the order to follow in the darkened path of your Master. You did not think you would gain a Qimir. You're grateful for this unforeseen acquisition often; you are rarely grateful to have him around when you're trying to nap.
"I've done enough surveying. Tonight I complete my mission."
“Finally. Been a little slow pulling the trigger on this one. I’m sure you could just ask our master for some extra leisure time if you wanted to take up sunbathing as a hobby.” He teases.
A flicked hand gesture that’s incredibly obscene if you’re from any of the Outer Rim worlds. You’re not sure where Qimir hails from, but he gasps all the same. You stretch out on the roof with all the pleasure of someone who has slept in much worse places.
Before you doze off, you feel Qimir shoving something soft beneath your head, and your nap is all the better for it.
You creep along the quiet halls of the Jedi temple with burnings lungs. There is no reason to hold your breath. You hold it anyway because you are afraid, and your breathing is something you are able to control.
Control is an illusion. One of the many illusions the Jedi imbued you with. Your Master had taught you. The lesson had yet to stick. Perhaps the failure to learn this lesson, to take it into the recesses of your mind and let it settle into your being, is one of the reasons you are shaping up to be such a poor acolyte.
You had hoped your inability to follow and embody the doctrine of the Jedi was due to a failing within the doctrine itself. Not a shortcoming of your own nature. But the years spent serving your new master called that comforting self-assurance into question.
You had failed your last mission. The mission. The grand cumulation of all your master's teachings: to kill a Jedi Master without a weapon. It had seemed like a riddle to be solved at first. An experiment to strengthen the mind, because the actual completion of such a task would certainly be impossible. An inane hope. While your Master was often vague, he was rarely deceitful. He'd truly expected you to pull off a miracle.
Obediently, you had gone off to do his bidding, even as doubt ate away at your mind and weakened your resolve. The last time you'd entered a Jedi Temple you had been shaking with fear. A disgrace. You should have been well beyond such fear; or at least able to twist the fear, and the self-hatred that came with it, into power. But you'd done none of those things. When you’d set your eyes upon the Jedi Master you’d been ordered to kill, you’d frozen. How were you supposed to do such a thing? You'd attacked them blindly. Without any plan. What sort of plan was there to make? You knew what was being asked of you but couldn't grasp at even tattered delusions for how to achieve it. And then came the terrible realization that you were still more Jedi than whatever your Master had tried making of you — because you had raised no weapon to the Jedi Master they had responded in kind. The blows you exchanged were fierce. Vicious. But it was no longer mere logistical uncertainty of how to carry out your mission. It was an unwillingness to do so.
How could you strike down an unarmed, thinking, feeling being in cold blood?
You fled. For days you'd wondered what to do next. Run away? Fake your death? Take a poison and truly die, because you knew there was no way to fool your Master? No escape from the grave you had dug with your own cowardly hands.
In the end you'd done none of those things; you went to your Master on bended knee and told most of the truth, "I am so sorry, Master. You honored me by believing I was ready for this final mission. But I wasn't ready. I failed you."
To speak the full extent of your doubts would have been foolish. A death sentence. And much as you hated yourself in that moment, shadowed by your failure and the collapse of your faith in yourself, you did not want to die.
You begged for the continued privilege of his teachings. "I am not a prodigal student, Master. I wasn't ready this time. But I will be one day, I promise you. I can become more. I can."
Nails dug into your palms hard enough to draw deep moons, and then blood, as you awaited his verdict. Even as you pled your case, you’d thought it was a lost cause. The last words of the damned and desperate. When your Master settled his hand on the back of your head and said he would continue to guide you until you were ready, you had wept openly.
You had seen him kill mercilessly. Without conscience or hesitation. And yet, when you’d begged for mercy, he had given it. A Master whose teachings were about death, power, and chaos, and he hadn’t even begrudged you your tears.
For the first time, failure did not mean discardment. It was monumental. Transcendent. Your tears of gratitude slipped into the dirt you still knelt upon, rendering it muddy. Perhaps you should have seen the genesis of your doom taking shape right then. As your Master lifted his hand away, you’d nearly chased after the warmth of it like a lowly street mutt.
You fell asleep that night dreaming of his hands and his unexpected kindness.
This mission you couldn’t fail. You would work to deserve the faith your Master had put in you despite the ways you kept falling short of expectations. He had given you the grace of a true teacher. You owed him the devotion of an exceptional student.
When you climb back onto the roof, scrolls in hand, you toss them into Qimir's lap with a victorious and far too loud laugh. It isn't killing a Jedi. But getting in and out without being seen and taking a hoard of their most precious treasures with you is a victory. You feel dizzy with relief. Are already imagining presenting the spoils to your Master and receiving his acknowledgment: "You've done well, Acolyte."
Another laugh, louder this time, as your accomplishment sinks in. Qimir covers your mouth to stifle your overwhelming giddiness; but raw joy has a contagious nature and he finds himself in his own fit of giggles. You helpfully move to cover his mouth in turn, and there you are, two fools crouched on a rooftop laughing into one another's palms.
"There are many powerful emotions, and they can all be transmuted into strength using the force. Anger does not have to be what drives you, Acolyte." Your Master says, handing you back the scrolls after taking a moment to spread them open and check their contents.
You get the sense he isn't checking to make sure you aren't foolish enough to bring back a fake — but because he himself is curious. These are not merely ancient pieces of art, or words to be read and tossed aside like sleepy bits of poetry. These scrolls thrum with power. Not merely light or dark, but existing in stark defiance of either extreme. The last remains from a sect of Jedi Masters who had once wielded their emotions instead of suppressing them. It's a wonder the texts hadn't been destroyed.
If there is anything else like this hidden away on some distant planet occupied by the Jedi it's likely to be done away with in a panic if word gets out that these were stolen. You hope it won't come to that. The unnecessary destruction of knowledge when knowledge itself cannot be inherently evil. I should ask Qimir if he knows of any other artifacts that we might save in case the Jedi decide to purge the rest of their temples, then you smile, Maybe they wouldn't be so paranoid to try it afterall.
"Do you have an emotion that drives you beside anger, Master?" You ask.
You enjoy the quieter training days. Today has taken on the glow of a special joy. You're no less ready to fend off a random attack, mental or physical, but it's your muscles that are ready. Not your bones. You're a ship with its autopilot engaged. Some of your favorite parts of being a Jedi had been the absorption of this type of scrolled, dusty wisdom. Few Sith teachings had ever been written down. Even fewer still existed — most had been hunted down and wiped out. What little still remained seemed to be in your Master's possession or far beyond your conjoined reach.
This Jedi text, so old it was written on actual paper instead of a holograph, dated back to the beginnings of the order when they were still learning how to harness the force in its entirety. Back before they had decided as a collective that emotions could only lead one astray, and suppression was enlightenment.
"Hmph…" You watch as your Master tilts his head, thinking over his answer. He is never quick with his words.
Sharing space and conversation with your Master — without exchanging blows powerful enough to make your arms ache — was a rarity. It was such a simple thing to do; exist near each other in brief instances of calm normality. His energy brushing against yours felt sacred.
His force signature would not be a comfort to anyone else. It had not been a comforting energy to you when you first met. To be near him was to stand at the edge of dark waters that bore no visible waves or tide but still something snatched at your ankles and dragged you into and under the murk, and kept you under; the implicit threat of drowning. Death. A fraction of your Master's energy licking at the edges of your own was a tight grip around your throat. You wonder what your force signature feels like to him. You don't dare to ask.
"Passion, and what drives my passion is this — us, my acolyte. Bringing forth more force users like myself into the world. Ones brave enough to carve their own paths."
Passion. The word feels alien to you even now. Before you came to know your Master it was as if you spent all your years in a dreamy haze where nothing around you was real or tangible. In a world where you could hold no attachments you had detached from the world entirely. You persisted because everyone around you did so, and you had no wish to be left behind, but there was little desire driving you forward. The Jedi ways brought you no balance; only a dangerous level of apathy that worsened with each teaching.
What great emotions or hidden depths had you known until the rebirth you had experienced upon leaving the order? Now you knew worry when you reached back for Qimir's arm to make sure he was following close behind on dangerous missions. You knew endless joy when you pleased your Master.
Could these things — these feelings, and attachments — truly be enough to unlock power as awe-inspiring and limitless as your Master's?
"Sit, and begin to read your new scrolls. You have earned the precious knowledge they hold." Your Master bids you to his side as he settles into a meditative position on the forest floor.
You sit closer than you need to as you eagerly open your scrolls and try not to think of how your thighs might touch if you moved slightly to the left. Temptation beats at you like a drum; you resist it by pretending the urge is not there at all.
Qimir opens the door to your claustrophobic ship quarters without announcing himself, as is his way, "You need to get your nose out of those dusty scrolls before your nose becomes a dusty scroll."
"The force actually cannot do that, you'll be happy to know."
"Oh, you get my point." He huffs, slumping into your room and collapsing onto your bed. It jostles you, and one of your knees, previously curled peacefully beneath you jabs his stomach painfully. You smile at his grunt of discomfort.
It's fun, the way Qimir doesn't grow to fear you no matter how much he watches you improve. From the moment you met he's treated you one way only — and that's with a total irreverence that somehow makes you feel like a person. With Qimir you were not a tool. Not even someone he tolerated because your shared master had bidden him to do so. The mischief he subjected you to — that grew worse with each passing year — spoke of companionship. And that was not so easily faked or thrown away.
You had never considered anyone a friend before. Never cherished anyone close to your heart. Qimir was your friend. The first tenderness you had ever been brave enough to allow yourself. You could not bring yourself to tell him this. Too many years spent with the Jedi made certain words die on your tongue even as you were thinking them. Cowardice or brainwashing, who could say at this point. But even without the words Qimir lay in your bed with his robes covered in force knows what, reaching far too casually for the precious item in your hands.
Some things work themselves out all on their own.
"Ah! Qimir these scrolls are a few thousand years old. Are your grabby little hands even washed?" You swat them away and he makes the very adult decision to swat back; obviously, you can't back down from that challenge so now you are having a battle of viciously flopping hands.
"You are the meanest Sith thing I know."
"I am not a Sith thing — I am a Sith acolyte."
"Have you even left your room today?"
"Yes."
"Oh yeah? When?"
You fluster, trying to think of a lie because your shared ship is small and you wouldn't put it past Qimir to have stared at your door all day just to win this conversation. The lie doesn't come. "Oh yeah? When?" You mock his voice but make it much higher-pitched and far more annoying.
"Very clever. That settles it then. Up!" Qimir smacks your thigh, rolling off your bed and landing in an ungraceful heap on the floor. He springs to his feet quickly, and doesn't even look embarrassed. He falls far too often to still take shame in it.
"And why would I be doing that?" You ask, dryly.
"Because we're going to the market while it's still open so we can find you a decent meal."
"Maybe later. I really have to—"
Qimir grabs hold of your arm and (tries) to yank you free of the bed. He telegraphed the movement to an insane degree. You have ample time to center your weight so you don't move an inch. He tugs again anyway. You have to give him credit for never giving up whenever a first attempt fails horribly.
"C'mon, no one masters anything in a day no matter how much they strain their eyes to do it. Besides, you get so grouchy when you're hungry I doubt you're even taking anything in."
"I do not get grouchy when I'm hungry!"
"They said, snapping at me like a grouch." He teases, reaching out to poke your forehead. "Do you remember when we crash landed on Krownest and it took three days to repair the ship? I thought you were going to eat me."
"Okay, first of all, I wouldn't have had to consider eating you if you had properly stocked the ship's food stores at the last port city like I asked you to —"
Qimir runs away to escape the argument he's started. Mindlessly, you run after him, unable to let him get the last word. He runs all the way to the market.
You sulk as Qimir piles an unfamiliar meat dish into your bowl. He's frustratingly good at getting his way.
Your strikes aren't brutal enough. Even when you train alone — no other living creature at the end of your lightsaber waiting to be cut down — you hesitate. It enrages you. You wish you could look inside yourself and find the beating heart of this inability to forget the doctrine of the order. You would carve the weakness out of yourself with a rusted blade if you new its source.
A breath to calm your nerves and anger. You nearly scream as you realize you've suppressed something that you could have brought into your practice. Use it. Feel it. The anger is there for a reason and it isn't wrong to wield it. You fall back into your fighting stance. Jaw set. Lightsaber igniting and casting a green glow across the crumbling floor of the ancient ruin you've called home for the last few weeks.
"Why are you not sleeping?" Your Master's voice startles you as it creeps out of the inky darkness.
You turn your saber off, feeling like a youngling caught stealing treats from the refectory, "Master!" A shallow but respectful bow.
He says nothing else, waits for you to answer his first question. Your Master does not tend to repeat himself.
You wish he had asked something else. The answer you have to give is a silly one. It is not merely dissatisfaction with the development of your mastery in the dark side of the force that keeps you awake.
You've gotten accustomed to sharing sleeping spaces with Qimir. Now, on this isolated planet your Master had chosen for a few weeks of intense training you find you cannot sleep without the company of the smuggler. It's a ridiculous problem to have. Your body is a finely tuned machine now. Perfectly equipped to handle the various torments your Master refers to as training. You used to be so exhausted at the end of days like this you'd practically have to crawl to your sleeping mat at night. Your endurance must have improved as the only thing you can think about is whether or not Qimir is doing anything foolish while you are not watching him.
You miss the reassurance of his sparse force signature pulsing with life on the other side of the ship you've come to think of as home.
"When I'm facing opponents I'm restraining myself too much. Stopping myself from using deadly force that would end the fight and… dragging them out until I see a non-lethal opening. I just wanted to get in more practice to try and break myself of the habit." A half-lie far more palatable than the whole truth.
"Then we will practice together. If you hold back while fighting me you do so at your own peril." The words could be frightening — probably should be frightening — but you catch a hint of tease in the reverberating voice.
Or your mind is playing tricks on you. Either way, you flick your saber on just in time to block a devastating swipe from your Master's saber. The blow would have taken off your head if it connected. There was a time when he slowed his strikes for you; did not put so much of his strength behind every connection. It's a needed reminder that your progress has not permanently stagnated.
A year ago that move would have killed you. Now, you almost cut him in the side when you weave away only to slide back closer and faster than he expected. Bold. The smell of singed cloth bubbles up in the space between you. Your saber had cut his tunic.
"Very good." He kicks you away hard enough to rattle your ribs. "We'll stop in an hour. Though we find refuge in the dark we are not nocturnal."
You wind up combat training for several hours. Your Master has always enjoyed a good fight.
The first flowers come while you're in the refresher. Steam is all around you. The room is sweltering with it and you assume that's why it's becoming harder to breathe. That theory dies off when you begin to choke. You wonder, as you're brought to your knees, if you've been poisoned.
But what poison feels like something is fluttering up your throat?
Qimir would know. It's a pity you can't call out to him for help. He carries an eclectic and nearly paranoid amount of antidotes on his person at all times.
Your vision is blurring from lack of air. Thinking is getting harder. You swear, though, that you something is clogging your airway. On the edge of consciousness you use all your focus to channel the force and pull at your throat. You're horrified when something actually comes loose, dropping wetly onto the refresher floor. You lean against the wall, panting and promising to never again take oxygen for granted when your eyes lock onto the offending object that temporarily robbed you of that basic ability.
Petals. Dark blue petals dotted with blood. You stare. Don't trust your eyes — don't want to trust them. But they don't disappear no matter how long you stare and your throat burns from the effort of expelling them.
You stare a little longer in the hopes the flowers will reveal themselves to be a steam mirage. Surely those have to exist, right?
Qimir knocks on the door. The sound scares you so badly you have to stifle a scream. He asks you if you're alright. Apparently, you've been in the refresher for hours. It feels like ten minutes have crept by. There isn't any steam left in the room; not a droplet of moisture clinging to your flesh.
"Dinner didn't agree with me! Be out in a bit." You croak out, standing on weak legs to scoop the petals off the floor and drop them into the vac-tube. They disappear in a rush of suction.
You wait until you can hear Qimir's footsteps move away from the door before you begin to cry.
The music is loud. It fills the air, and has such a resonance it's easy to imagine every note is reaching towards the sky; the song is beautiful enough that if the sky could move it would surely reach back. The people of the town whirl around each other in intricate, tight circles that are dizzying to watch. You enveyed their ease and grace. Enveyed all the years it must have taken to learn this complicated, joyful choreography because you could picture parental hands correcting the positioning of chubby baby legs while trying not to laugh at each precious mistake.
You were given to the Jedi too young to remember anything about the ones who had brought you into the world. When you first left The Order you had not thought much of this particular loss. As you saw more of the galaxy — and the vast and differing types of people who made up that galaxy — a seed of grief began to burrow into your mind, and the strangest and smallest of things watered the seed until it bloomed into full-fledged resentment and empty wanting.
"You're clapping off beat." Qimir nudges you.
You sputter, "I am not clapping off beat!" Lost in thought as you were the beat had gotten away from you. You correct it as fast as you can, hoping Qimir doesn't notice the change. He does, of course, and his smile deepens into something unbearably smug.
"This is one of the most beautiful dances I've ever seen." You try switching topics to avoid Qimir's incessant teasing.
"I've seen better."
"Oh, have you?" Qimir always has a grand (and tall) story to tell. Unfortunately, they're horribly entertaining.
"Mhm."
"And where did this dance take place?"
"On my homeworld." He says, eyes stuck on the ring of dancers twirling around each other.
You pause, hands losing the beat again, and stare at the side of Qimir's head. He's never spoken about his homeworld. The past he shares begins and ends with the life of a smuggler. You'd think he'd been grown in a vat with the way he avoids talk of his youth. "And what world is that?" You can't even be subtle about the question. You're too hungry for the answer.
His eyes flicker from the dancers to you. There's a strange expression on his face. Seriousness. It's ill-fitting. You want to wipe your thumb across his brow until the lines disappear and he's smiling again. "Wouldn't you like to know." The tease falls flat because you would like to know — should know — more about your closest friend.
But you know how painful the past can be; and if Qimir is running from something, even if it's only memories, you'll run alongside him.
"I refuse to believe you know how to dance." You scoff, changing course and watching the tension leave his shoulders the second you do.
"Care to place a wager on that?"
"Depends on the wager."
"The next time the Hyperdrive craps out on us you have to repair it. I hate that tight little space." He exaggerates a shiver.
"You're on. Now go make a fool of yourself for my amusement." You shove him forward and he turns to stick out his tongue before he continues walking towards the outskirts of the celebration.
As he gets closer his walk begins to change: he goes from a stumbling slump to a saunter that rises and falls with the music. His shoulders pull back as he spreads his arms out wide, as if to greet the sun, and falls into a twirl where he keeps his upper-half stiff and proud. His dancing is fierce. Elegant. A sharp contrast to the softer movements taking place around him. It's a shock to see Qimir like this. When he leaps into the air you take a half step-forward, ready to catch him as his eternal clumsiness kicks in — but there's no need for your save-Qimir-from-himself instincts — he lands on his feet with all the grace of an Asharl panther and spins into the next step.
A small group of locals who'd been taking a rest from the revelry make noises of approval and encouragement as they step closer to watch him. A few begin trying to copy Qimir's unusual, tumbling movements to varying degrees of success. You had never considered Qimir the teaching type, but when a child joins the newly forming dance circle Qimir slows down the steps so they can join in on the mimicry as well.
A laugh bubbles out of you and you whistle at him, wanting him to know you're watching and that he may have been right — the dance of his people, whoever they may be, is incredible.
Your whistle and joy alike die feebly, choked out by a cough too strong to ignore.
Qimir is blessedly distracted by the other dancers who have begun to crowd him, eager to be taught something new. You take your chance to slip away. You only get so far as hiding behind a nearby hut, so close you can still hear the music, before you're overtaken by a fit of flowers and can go no further.
Breath comes in jagged bursts, has to creep around vines and petals as they race to escape your lips. The petals are wet with blood this time. Some drip with it as if the blood is merely a summer rain; something perfectly natural and benign. You've seen a great deal of blood since becoming an acolyte — your own blood included — this is different. This is not the result of anything you can control, a blow you should have blocked or a bolt from a blaster you should have dodged. It simply is, and it's getting worse. Thorns beginning to tear at your lungs. Vines wrapping around ribs.
There's a fullness that shouldn't be there whenever you breathe too deeply. You know that feeling will make way for another soon — a constant, slow suffocation. The little research you'd done on the HoloNet had told you that. You'd stopped doing research.
You wonder if your Master knows any dances. The line of thought, soaked in want, does not ease your cough. You bring your thoughts back to Qimir in an attempt to center yourself. It's rare the two of you have no mission to accomplish or tight deadline to stick to. You have to settle your body in order to get back to him.
Eventually, your desperate mantra works. You rejoin the celebration as if you'd never left. You'd wiped the blood off your mouth with the inside of your sleeve.
"I have a reward for you." Your Master interrupts your meditation with a brief touch to your shoulder. It lights you up from the inside. You can't allow yourself to linger on it.
You've thrown yourself into the scrolls with a relish, and had begun acting upon the knowledge within them with an intensity you hadn't known you possessed. Everything felt so urgent now: improving, living, taking in each small moment for what it was because it would never come again. Life did not pass in a blur when every breath was a small battle and the battle was becoming harder to win.
It was an injustice. There had been so much you wanted to do. So much you wanted to see.
Your grief was the rawest thing you'd ever felt besides the love the grief stemmed from. When you reached for the strands of the force around you it was as easy to wield them as it was to pluck the strings on a child's instrument. Finally, you understood the shape of the world around you. You could feel it like it was your own heart beating in your chest. Perhaps it was the shrinking divide between you and the force that allowed you a glimpse at true mastery now that everything was coming to an end. How could you not understand something that was so near and getting nearer?
There were decisions to be made, and the decision would have to come soon. Death or surgery. The third option was laughable. You would never tell your Master that you had stepped so far outside the respectable boundaries you belonged to. So busy falling in love with him that you failed him as a student. It was revolting.
Looking in the mirror had become a monumental task that you tried to avoid at all costs. You were waning. Wilting away like a flower as an unforeseen frost fell across its roots. You had, of course, also developed a distaste for flowers. Qimir would point out booths in markets that you used to run toward to smell their unique blooms. You passed them by without a glance now. You had a perfectly unique and fragrant bouquet taking up space in your chest.
"I have done nothing worthy of a reward, Master." The reply is not the empty flattery of a sycophant but an earnest rebuttal. What have you accomplished? What can you look back on with pride?
"Do you not trust my judgement, Acolyte?"
You bow your head, a minor apology for a minor infraction, "Forgive me, Master. I must seem ungrateful."
"No, but you must learn to let go of doubt in the same way you have learned to let go of your restraint." From the flowing confines of his black coat he passes you a parcel wrapped in rough, brown cloth.
Hesitantly, you begin unwrapping the folds. You blink as the gift is revealed. Eyes shooting up to the smiling mask of your Master. You have never been more desperate to see his expression; to read his mind so you could understand why he thinks you worthy of such a rare thing: a pair of cortosis cuffs sized to your wrists.
"Master, I cannot —"
"You question me twice?" He takes the cuffs from your hands only to take hold of your wrists and slide the cuffs onto them one by one. They're a perfect fit.
"This is an honor, Master." Your mouth is dry. Your mind races with all the ways you can incorporate the cuffs into your fighting style.
"Your progress since you retrieved the scrolls has been immeasurable." His hand lifts and falls on your shoulder. Outside of battle you have never touched so much. Two points of contact. You want to look away from his mask and down at his hands so you can memorize this impossible moment.
"It has?" You can't help chasing after another scrap of praise. Your nature is, evidently, to take more than what you are offered. Greed. Before the sickness overtook you, you would never have imagined greed to be your sin.
"Yes. You are settling into your power — you no longer run from yourself."
You do drop your eyes now, but to the floor, you have to center yourself to suppress the horrible cough you cannot reveal to the man in front of you.
"Would you teach me to use them the way you use yours? I've always admired the way you incorporate your armor into your fighting style." You say when speaking stops feeling like being strangled.
"Of course." He pulls away from you. You miss him already. Your teacher. The first choice you had ever made for yourself, and you'd chosen him again and again.
You can't stop choosing him now. So there it is — decision made.
You feel weak. Your hands are shaking. You can hardly breathe around the blooms taking root in your chest.
Still, you know you'll only get weaker, not better. This is your last chance to prove yourself. You will never have your Master's love. But you can make him proud.
That thought alone makes you brave, makes you strong, however fleetingly.
Before you go you will prove that you were worthy of your Master's teaching. His attention. You could cement yourself in his mind as a good acolyte. His most loyal student to the very end.
You drop down from your place in the ceiling rafters.
The Jedi turns, startled. They can feel your intent. Your absolute resolve. This time, you will not fail. The Jedi draws their lightsaber despite you brandishing no weapon.
You rush forward.
You throw open the door to the ship with shaking hands. You can barely see a few feet in front of you. The ground is swimming. Closing the door takes even longer than opening it did. Your fingers keep missing the buttons you have to press.
"Y/N?" You hear Qimir's voice from deeper in the ship. He has a lovely voice, you think foggily, even as it bounces against the walls of the ships, and sounds more hollow for it.
You've worried him. Distantly, you realize you left in the middle of the night without telling him. You feel a little bad for that. Beneath the pride and the pain. You didn't mean to make Qimir worry.
He comes around the corner, saying something, but stops dead when he sees you.
You're leaning heavily against the wall. Shaking like you've just escaped a snow storm on Hoth. But you grin at him, blood on your teeth and lips, a savage victorious thing.
"I did it, Qimir." You try to step towards him. Just a single step. That alone is too much for your body to take. Your head rushes and you're falling. You don't hit the ground. Qimir is there, catching you around the waist.
He's stronger than he looks, you think distantly, limp in his arms.
"Hey- hey - look at me, hey little acolyte, focus. Look at me. What did you do? What did you do?" Qimir's voice is frantic and reedy. He tries to help you stand on your own but you can't make your knees work right.
"I did it, Qimir," you rasp, throat aching. "I finally did it. I killed a Jedi, without any weapon... I did it." A bubbling fit of laughter. You're near high with the victory even though it took every ounce of your energy to achieve the feat. The accomplishment has cost you dearly. Before, you probably had a few weeks left, but now —
— now you wonder if you should have woken up a little earlier today so you could have watched the sunrise. This planet's sunrises are supposed to be breathtaking, and you didn't get to see it. A pang of regret fills you; shadowing the joy of your impossible victory.
"What did the Jedi do to you?" Your brow furrows at the anger in Qimir's voice. Have you ever seen him angry before now?
"Didn't do anything." You say, wanting to soothe him despite the pain.
"Then why are you — you're dying, I can feel it." Your vision swims, but the hurt and confusion in his voice makes you reach out, grasping blindly for the hand that so tightly holds your face.
"It's okay, Qimir. I'm okay."
"No, you aren't. What's wrong? Where... where are you hurt?" Qimir tries to tug off your tunic, desperately searching for a wound he won't find. Weakly, you push away his hands. His face twists with helplessness, then anger. "Have you lost your mind? I'm trying to help you. Let me help you."
"The Jedi barely laid a finger on me. You shoulda seen me, Qimir. Master would be proud of me. I think, finally," you laugh, and the thought of your Master makes you cough. You rock forward with the violence of it and Qimir struggles to maintain his grip. Your chest aches, and when your knees finally give out Qimir does not let you go, but follows you to the ground, softening the descent.
Gently, he cradles you against him. You'd never been held so carefully before. The warmth of his body is soothing, even despite the pain. You know you won't survive the night, so you allow yourself the weakness of imagining it's your Master's arms around you instead. You can't get any worse. It's over. There's no harm in pretending anymore. You close your eyes, and think of him.
The pain worsens. You swear you can feel more flowers bloom. More vines wrapping around your lungs. Heart, maybe. Squeezing and squeezing — and they won't stop until they squeeze out every ounce of air and each drop of blood. You imagine your Master anyway.
Coughing again. Worse this time. One of Qimir's arms comes up to brace your shoulders and hold you still. Your mind is overtaken by the singular desire to make the pain stop. You can feel the flowers and their vines creeping up your throat. You try to bite them back but it's a losing battle and the attempt at suppression is brutally punished with a fresh wave of agony washing over you —
— helplessly, you cough up the flowers onto Qimir's shoulder. They're the darkest of blues, vibrant in the way only poisonous things tend to be, and they're full flowers now. Stems and all. The final stage. Even though you know they're ripping you apart inside you reach for one of them clumsily. There's blood on the petals, your blood, and yet they're beautiful. Deadly and beautiful, just like your Master.
You pass out from the pain.
Consciousness comes slow, helped along by a cool, damp cloth pressing against your temple. Your chest still aches but breathing is easier than it was despite how each gulp of air rustles unfurling petals near your lungs.
“I—” you try to talk. It’s agony to do so.
“Quiet.” Qimir’s tone is harsher than you’ve ever heard.
“I’m alive?”
“Barely. Be quiet. You’ll make it worse.” He says. “It was close… I almost couldn’t—”
You drag your eyes open. The light hurts. You bear the pain while trying to give Qimir a reassuring smile.
“It’s okay, Qimir. I did everything I had to do.” You rasp out. “You can’t help me. It’s not your fault. Thank you for trying.”
“Who is it?” He asks suddenly.
You turn your head away. His hands are rough as they grasp your chin and force you to look him in the eyes.
“Be gentle with a dying woman, Qimir.” You joke weakly.
The joke obviously doesn’t land. Anger floods his face. His grip tightens to the edge of pain, but it’s miniscule when compared to the ache everywhere else.
“There’s a planet a few hyperspace jumps away that performs the treatment.” Qimir says through gritted teeth. “I’ve already called ahead to announce our arrival.”
“No.” You say simply.
“No?” He echoes, sounding on the edge of some sort of mental snap.
“You don’t have to stay and watch me die, but I won’t get the treatment.” You say as firmly as you can despite the frailty of your voice.
“You won’t make it another day! Have you lost all the sense in your head?” He seems truly baffled. If you had the energy, if the situation was different, you might have laughed at the bewilderment across his face.
“Who is it?” He repeats the question.
“That doesn’t matter, Qimir.” You sigh, and feel the flowers at the back of your throat flutter against the inhale of air. It’s starting to not hurt. The lack of pain is almost as scary as when you first began to feel it.
“How couldn’t it matter?” He asks, tone laced with venom.
“They never could have loved me.” Saying the words out loud makes you tired. Makes your body feel heavier than it ever has.
“You’re going to get the treatment.”
“I said no, Qimir. You cannot make me. You can take me to the damn facility but I won’t ask them to treat me and they won’t force me to get the procedure.”
Silence falls over the room. Qimir’s hand falls away from your face.
“How could they mean that much to you — that you would die before you let them go? Who are they?”
“Why is it important?”
“I think your Master will quite enjoy killing the person responsible for the death of his acolyte.” He says the words darkly.
Perhaps, if your Master and the one you loved were not one in the same you would feel fear.
Considering the circumstances? You laugh. You laugh so hard it brings tears to your eyes. Earlier the force of it might have hurt. But you’re so dizzy and everything seems dimmer now. Despite how weak your body feels the force wraps around you like a warm blanket. It's as if it's trying to coax you away from all the pain and suffering. It’s comforting to know that when you die you will become intertwined with the great folds of the galaxy itself.
“You’re delirious.” Qimir stands, voice ice cold. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get your Master. He’ll make you see reason since I obviously can’t.”
“No!” A sudden strength fills you and you grab his wrist roughly, desperate. “Please Qimir, no.”
“Did you forget that you promised to serve him faithfully?” He demands.
“I did not. Please, I don’t want him to see me like this.”
You want him only to know that in the end you did as he asked of you. You don’t want him to remember you as you are now. Feverish, hardly able to breathe, weak. You’d finally proved yourself worthy of him. Worthy of his attention and his wisdom. You want him to remember that, as he moves on to his next student, who will no doubt be more promising than you. Stronger. Maybe strong enough to be his equal.
Strong enough that he might grow to love them. New tears begin to fall. Ones of sadness instead of delirium. A sob bubbles up from somewhere deep inside you.
“Your life is his. It isn’t for you to throw away senselessly. It isn’t yours to give away to another.” Qimir hisses.
“I haven’t. I have not given it to another.” You protest, sick at the thought of choosing anyone above your Master.
“Oh? This seems an odd way to show devotion—”
“It is devotion to my Master that kills me!” Your shout echoes off the ship's walls.
You didn’t think you’d ever say the words out loud but now that you’ve started you find you want to say them. So badly, you want to say them. You want someone to know. Know that you were not just a devoted student or over-zealous follower. Want someone to know that you loved. Against all reason, and sanity, and common sense, you loved fiercely. Who better to tell than Qimir? Your only friend in all the stars and all the worlds hidden among those stars.
“I love him, Qimir. He haunts me. My every thought. My every dream. I love our master. I cannot — I will not forsake him. I couldn’t bear it. I can't live in a world where I look at him and feel nothing. I would rather die.” The words are exhausting to say. Each vowel is a brick pressing down on your chest. You feel free as a bird to set the words loose.
Shock is written across Qimir’s face. You close your eyes. You don’t want to watch as that shock becomes judgment. Why would you go and do something stupid like that? Like falling for our Master? You hear the words in Qimir’s voice without him even saying them.
“I don’t want him to see me like this. I succeeded.” Even lying prone in bed, clutching onto Qimir like a child, you smile pridefully. “I killed a Jedi without a weapon just as he asked. I want him to remember that even if I was not always strong that— that I did not die weak. I did as he asked. I was strong enough. I didn’t fail him. I don’t want that ruined by seeing me like… this.” You open your eyes, face wet with tears. “Please, Qimir. It is the last thing I'll ever ask of you.”
He stares at you, expressionless.
Slowly, he moves to sit on the edge of the bed. You’re too weak to even make more room for him.
Your grip on his wrist doesn’t falter. “Please. I don’t want… I don’t even want him to see my — body, after I’m gone.” The words ring strangely in your ears. It’s odd to speak of yourself as a corpse who has not yet died; but that’s what you are.
“You’re a fool.” Qimir says quietly, all the anger bled from his voice. He touches your face. His hand is warm and strong even though it trembles. You lean into it, savoring the comfort. Your body feels so cold.
“I’m his fool.”
Your eyes slip closed again. It is so much effort to keep them open.
A pair of lips crashes into yours. For a second, you hardly register them, so bewildered are you by the contact. When your mind catches up with the sensation your eyes do manage to part; you're unsettled to find that you are not, in fact, hallucinating in your last moments.
Qimir has taken it upon himself to kiss you.
You’ve never made a noise of disgust so adamant. With all your strength you brace your arm against his neck and push. He hardly moves.
You tilt your head to the side to escape him instead. He tries to follow.
“Qimir! Have you lost your mind?!”
“No, but you have lost yours. Evidently.” He tenderly pushes your hair away from your face, staring at you as if he’s seeing the stars for the first time. A simple look has never repulsed you so entirely.
“Get out. I will die alone.” You say hatefully.
“You will not die at all, my foolish little acolyte.” A rage fills you that is almost inhuman at the implication of belonging to anyone besides your Master.
And then the energy of the room changes.
Qimir has never had a strong force signature. At times, it is almost comically faint. Even when he is standing close enough to brush your fingers together it can be hard to register him.
Suddenly, there is a force signature in the room so strong you could choke on it. You would know it anywhere. In sleep. Blinded. In a drunken stupor. On death’s very door.
You look around mindlessly. Forgetting Qimir is even there, despite his weight pressing into you physically. You don’t want your master to see you like this. You don’t. But now that you've sensed him your heart seizes at the thought of not seeing him before you die. Perhaps this last memory of you, weak and shaking, will leave him feeling disgusted like you fear. Confirm the suspicions you know he holds about whether you've ever been a worthy pupil.
But you don’t feel much like his pupil at the moment.
You’re just a woman in love, and you want to see the one who so effortlessly holds your heart in the palm of his hand one last time. Even if it makes him hate you.
“Master.” It’s more of a sob than a word, and you can’t find him, you can hardly see at all, anymore. The world is so shaky.
“Hush, little acolyte. I’m here.” A hand on your face, again, and the fog in your mind clears, making way for him.
You feel his presence push its way into your mind for the first time in months. You block nothing from him, let him feel it all: the fear, the grief, the terrible, all consuming love.
'Open your eyes, little acolyte.' your Master’s voice rings in your head.
'I’m sorry, Master. I’m sorry.' You can hardly even think of the words to answer him. 'I’m so tired. I’m weak. I’m sorry — '
“Hush, you don’t need to be sorry. You just need to look at me. Open your eyes and look at me. Please.” Qimir’s voice in your ear saying your name, and your Master trying to use your bond to keep you tethered to consciousness and life alike.
The edges between you and the force grow ever fuzzier. It all feels so beautiful. So complete.
“No.” Qimir shakes you.
Your eyes roll open and your exhaustion runs so deep you can’t even glower at him the way he deserves.
“I love you. Death cannot have you. You're mine.” Qimir says the words fiercely. At the same time they echo through your mind in the familiar voice of your Master, and you don’t understand —
— he pushes the understanding onto you.
You see yourself through your Master’s eyes. The first time he saw you. The moment he decided you would be his acolyte. The moment you chose him back, turning away from the order. All the times you assumed he didn’t believe in you and he did; to the depths of his soul he believed in you always. Warmth coats every memory.
It’s easier to breathe as the revelation of his adoration washes over your mind; a rising sun coming up over the horizon, thawing death's hold on you.
He pushes further. And now there are moments that do not belong to you and your Master, but you and Qimir. The first time you shared a drink together. All the smiles and laughter and searching for each other in every room. Each moment you came to him downtrodden and he picked you up, filling you with hope in the way only Qimir ever has.
You don’t know why your Master is showing you this.
Until you do.
When he pulls out of your head you’re left gasping — but the flowers are falling away from your airways. Melting into nothingness already, little by little.
“What —”
“I should have told you sooner. I would never have kept so much from you if I'd known it would make you suffer this.” Qimir says, sounding pained. But it isn’t Qimir. It’s your Master. Your head swims.
“Don't… I don't understand. Who are you —”
“I am your Master, and you are my acolyte. My brave little fool.” The words sound almost sweet when they're whispered like that.
His lips are back on yours but this time you welcome them. Qimir — your Master — kisses like a man starved, like he's dreamed of you endlessly and is afraid even the briefest hesitation will be punished with waking, and discovering this moment, too, is just a dream. His hand moves to cradle your head, lifting it from the pillow to pull you closer. You gasp as the kiss deepens and his tongue swipes between your parted lips with a desperation you can't wrap your head around. You let his hunger sweep you up the same way you've always let him overwhelm you.
Everything you're willing to give, Qimir takes.
"Such a dedicated thing you are. It's more dedication than I deserve —" He pulls away to breathe the words against your lips.
"Never!" You protest viciously, angry at the suggestion even as it comes directly from him.
A smile full of indulgence before he softly kisses over each of your eyelids, "And brave too, to focus on the final trial instead of saving your life." The next kiss is softer still, lips falling to your forehead. His reverent attention makes you anew. Washes you clean of all the heartache that has built up inside you like toxic sludge.
"I wanted to make you proud."
"You have — and as your Master I order you to never try and make me proud again." You laugh, and something in your chest loosens further as the man you thought of as your best friend and the man you worshipped begin to merge in your head into something beautiful and whole. There's so much you have to ask him. So much you want to know. Need to know. But you can't bring yourself to ask any of it yet — you're too busy marveling at the glinting, intense depth of his eyes. How many times had you wondered what your Master's eyes would look like while Qimir sat right beside you?
"I make no promises." You tease lightly, trying to find the new footing the two of you will stand on together.
"You are not as funny as you think you are." He glares. It's not as intimidating as the ever-smiling horror of his cortosis mask. You want him to know that, and reach up with a trembling hand to pinch the end of his nose.
He huffs, in awe of all the audacity you can muster up after such a close brush with death. Your energy still flickers and wanes, but Qimir has latched onto you like a grappling hook to the side of a ship. Pours his own strength into you and thinks of nothing but restoring you to your former glory that you were so ignorant of possessing to begin with.
"Your breath is still rattling."
"Well, it took me months to get this sick. I won't recover in a day."
"But you'll recover soon — I'll make sure of it." Qimir reaches for the cool rag that had slipped from your forehead and dabs it across your face with more care than the kindest nursing-droid would be capable of. In the certainty of his words, you hear a thousand things he hasn't said out loud: that he loves you, that he'll take care of you, that nothing will ever come so close to taking you away again.
You close your eyes, not to die, but to rest, and you know if you were given the chance to do anything over, you wouldn't. All the suffering and pain and misery had ended with you here; in the arms of the man you loved beyond reason.
A/N: This has got to be the longest thing I've written in years. Holy shit, honestly. I started imagining this reader was training to be a Jedi Consular before they defected (which is why they struggled so much to take in Pure Sith teachings).
qimir when reader hasn't even passed his trial: why shouldn't they have one of the most valuable things in the entire galaxy?? as a little treat???
if you enjoyed this drabble consider reblogging or leaving a reply. if you really dug it, check out my PATREON: slasherscream, for some exclusive content. this particular story was posted three weeks ago on the patreon, for early access. THIS PARTICULAR STORY ALSO HAS ALTERNATE NSFW ENDING THAT IS PATREON EXCLUSIVE. xoxoxo
a big thank you to my current subscribers: audrey, @bisexual-horror-fan, bella, cupcake, @3d-wifey, goat, goth trash, hannah, jazz, juju, kai, kas, kali, kelsey, mari, nukusei, rocky, skwiggy, sy, and @u1tra-vi0lent, viv. without amazing readers like you, i wouldn’t still be up and kicking on this blog!
divider credits: @strangergraphics and @uzmacchiato
