Kallus blinks, his attention still mostly hanging on the feel of Zeb's wrist under his fingers, the plush of Zeb's fur where it's not hidden under his armor dulled by the gloves Kallus idly, muzzily wishes he'd not put on, the sheer size of the man leaning over him as dizzying as it's ever been.
"Come again?" he says when Zeb doesn't lean in and nuzzle into him, doesn't kiss him with that careful, awkward hesitance he's still got, even though they've kissed a few times, now. A pity.
"Pretty sure you've got a concussion," Zeb says, his tongue forming each word carefully against the plush of his lips, and oh, Kallus loves his mouth, loves how it stretches wide to show his fangs whenever he's grinning about something, how it feels against the curve of his neck when they're alone together. Loves how it moves over Zeb's accent, his Basic thick with the remnants of Lasana he only speaks when he's deep in his cups, and even then only a word or two, the secret poetry of the life he guards more jealously than his own life.
He shifts, wanting to reach up, to touch, to feel the coarse silk of Zeb's beard, to pull him down and kiss him, even though they're out where the others could see them and Zeb's shy about that kind of thing, still, the unspoken secrecy blanketing the newer facets of their friendship as thick as the air curling sluggishly around them, heavy with the promise of one of Lothal's famed rainstorms.
Only when he starts to lift his hand, Zeb looks at it like it's an unwelcome interloper and captures it in his hand, his brow furrowed as he lifts his head away from Kallus and looks around, shouting for Mart - who's a good kid, from what Kallus can tell, if inexperienced and kind of stupid for it, but who is absolutely not welcome in the space Kallus is sharing with Zeb, not when Zeb's kneeling over him still, so close that Kallus can smell the rich, heady scent of him, feel his warmth through his trousers and Zeb's jumpsuit, just like something drawn from the fantasies he's spun in his lonely hours since Bahryn, daydreams he'd thought would never be more than private indulgences but now, now -
"Get a medic. Pretty sure he's got a concussion."
The word floats on the next breath Kallus exhales, hovering over his face like the warmth he can't quite feel from Zeb's chest, but wants to. Takes its time to descend, to process into something more than just another sound.
Zeb angles him a look that Kallus absently suspects he should take as an insult.
"I didn't hit my head that hard."
One of Zeb's ears lifts, as does his brow, surprise as sweet and delightful on his features as any of the other expressions Kallus has seen from him. "Y'do, do you."
Zeb shakes his head, shifting a little, and then the entire planet shifts, the sky swimming like bacta overhead as it dips and lifts, the rocky grasslands falling away into a distant horizon broken by the foothills of the western mountains, stopping when - oh - that's Zeb's chest, his jumpsuit and armor poor pillow under Kallus' temple, but it's his chest, one arm firm and steady at Kallus' back, the other slotted into the bend of his knees, fitted like it was made to be there, his claws curled just right into the fabric of Kallus' uniform, through it, anchoring him, anchoring them, the way his beard brushes against Kallus' forehead when he tries to look up at him adding to the spinning disorientation as the planet falls away beneath them, Zeb rising like one of the mountains clawing at the sky on the far horizon, his chest rumbling a bastardization of his deep, beautiful voice as he speaks.
Foolhardy idiot human passes without fanfare or register through Kallus' attention, the effort it takes him to lift his hand to press against the elevated thump of Zeb's heartbeat taking precedence, offering comfort in the advent of the mild nausea rising through Kallus' belly, better where Zeb's got him curled in on himself but unpleasant still, Zeb's loping gait drawing headache up and across Kallus' skull where - oh.
"Garazeb," he says, once he's convinced his tongue to cooperate.
"I think I may have a concussion."
Zeb chuckles, the sound and feel of it the most amazing thing Kallus has ever felt. "Glad we agree on something," he says. "Keep hold'a me. Gonna get y'fixed up, just gotta get you to a medic."
Kallus closes his eyes and tries to untangle the words he's decently sure he should be able to understand. Gives up after only a moment, instead pursuing the task of tracing the seams of Zeb's garments. A much better use of his attention.
"Okay," he says, in case Zeb's expecting an answer.
"Gonna be mad at you for this," Zeb says. "Later. After you're better."
"That's fair enough," Kallus says, and Zeb chuckles.
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