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Coruscant sunsets could have been the most beautiful in the entire galaxy, she thought, warm and thrumming, full of oranges and pinks and yellows, like the summer citrus that was sour and lovely in her mouth. Full of the gentle winds that carried the sounds of the city into her small apartment, full of soft evenings spent spinning happily around her furniture, full of the sticky-sweet moments that could remain hidden in those citrus colours.
Such as a familiar figure, lean and tired and lovely, knocking on her door as she spun lazily around her living room. She knew that knock - only one person ever knocked like that, sharp and succinct as a knock could be, polite and proper and all things she knew she should be, but hardly ever was. Only one person leaned against her doorway like that as she opened the door. Only one person gave her that smile, a wry, bemused smile that softened in the corners of his eyes, a smile that felt gentle pink as she smiled back, a warm compliment to the way his orange hair gleamed in the golden evening light.
She grinned back, leaning against the other side of the doorframe, so close she could smell him, something soft and warm that settled gentle in the back of her throat and filled her head with golden sunlight, “You’re an unexpected face.”
His smile, it was something so familiar, something she had tucked safely into the careful protection of her soul so long ago when they were just children , but oh how the war weighed in his eyes, shadows and ghosts and horror there, things not even his sweet summer smile could hide. “But not unwelcome, I hope.”
Her grin widened and softened into a smile, another from their childhood, the citrus to his summer, and she stepped back from the doorway, allowing him room to enter. “Not currently, at least.”
Obi-Wan stepped into the small apartment, blue eyes moving slowly across the furniture. So many memories were stored across those cushions, across that fabric, the paintings on the walls had been witness to so much, so many moments like this, more than fleeting and less than lasting, never enough to take his heart but maybe just enough to break it.
She swayed into the kitchen, feet bare across her floor, and wordless he pulled his boots off, too, leaving the mud and dirt and war by her door, unwilling to trek it in any further. This apartment, it was the only place he could still imagine was free from the war, from pain and anger and hatred, because she was a creature of sunlight and laughter, and her home was much the same.
She returned with a glass of Correllian wine, handing it to him and draping herself languidly across her sofa. “What can I do for you, General Kenobi?”
His smile wasn’t that bemused one she knew so well, or the softer one she’d seen occasionally, when they were sharing breaths and space that they shouldn’t have, but one of a fading yellow, tired and cracking and world-worn. “Just Obi-Wan, my sweet.”
My sweet, it trickled sweet and thick and sticky down her spine, settling heavy in her stomach, another moment from childhood they’d somehow managed to bring with them as they grew up, and she watched silently as he sipped the wine until it was gone, watched as he tried to hide the shadows in his eyes. They lingered even after the glass was empty, and she held up the bottle she’d been cradling. “More?”
Oh, he knew what she was doing, and he knew how this would end, they both knew how it would end, the way it always did in these hidden citrus moments, and something like amusement glimmered in his eyes as he lifted the empty glass towards her. She moved from her perch, shifting until they were so close once more, watching as his body shuddered, as his breath stuttered, memories of heat and touch and friction, and she only smiled at him again as she refilled his glass.
“What’re you doing in my apartment, Obi-Wan?”
He stared at the wine, contemplating his answer, ever the negotiator, “I can’t visit an old friend?”
She pursed her lips in amusement. “Sure you can. Is that what you’re doing?”
She could see their entire history in his eyes as he met her gaze. “What else would I be doing?”
She blinked at him, considering the question, considering all it was that he was actually asking, permission to cross boundaries they had set in place so long ago, permission to fall into the patterns they’d established as children, and the wine tasted odd and yellow in her mouth. “Oh,” she hummed, moving just a little bit closer, “you’ve always had a penchant for breaking the rules.” But never any of theirs, never any of the rules they’d place carefully and intentionally between them, because it was easier to prevent heartbreak than it was to surfer it.
His hand was warm and soft and familiar on her leg, his presence something of safety and gentleness, and though his scent had changed as they grew, there was always a consistent underline of something light and citrus, like the fruits they used to share had become permanently etched into the essence of his being. There was such sadness in his eyes as he gazed at her with an ancient tenderness, as if their souls had known each other for lifetimes before, and she had once found comfort in believing they would know each other for lifetimes after.
“If I remember correctly, you’ve always had a penchant for breaking them with me.” The laughter in his words was the same soft pink as his smile.
She leaned a little closer, his thigh warm and solid beneath her hand. There was comfort in that, in his solidity, physically but also more, a solidity in his decisions, in his entire being, a man whose foundation was one of steadfastness and surety in all he did,
The sky was fading to the bright darkness of the city night, and from somewhere below her apartment, music fluttered up through the open windows on the warm citrus breeze, something sweet and lilting and light, a melody of memory and nostalgia and hope ~ … from Olalla to the city lights, somebody told me to believe in better times … ~ and when she met his gaze again, there was a familiar glimmer in his eyes, childhood mischief and moments and promises, and they were already standing, already moving -
His body was more than familiar against hers, it knew hers, with that intimacy that only a once-ago-lover could, the intimacy of two souls who knew each other with the familiarity of the same stardust , and they moved easily and wonderfully around her living room, bare feet scuffing softly across the floor. She wondered briefly if the pattern they danced was the design of all they were, wondered that if she could see the trail they left, would it be the story of their memories and their hopes, something soft and summer and citrus, and if she coloured it, something pink and orange and yellow - something golden.
~ … oh Olalla don't you fear the night, there's only time to believe … ~ and what a fool he was, Obi-Wan thought, for expecting to come here and remember what it was to love her and somehow not break his own heart, what a fool, but she was sweet and sturdy in his arms as they moved, and her body existed in the same space as his so lovingly, and she flowed and swayed and swirled like the summer breeze through her window - what a fool.
She had never hidden herself from him, leaving her mind and emotions open to him, and so he knew her, he knew her down to the sparkling stars that made up her soul, and there was safety in that, and he pulled her closer as they spun, the wine turning his mind slow and thick like molasses, turning his fingers soft and wandering across her body, seeking, hoping, telling her all those words his mouth never would. Her head was a grounding weight on his chest, her fingers threading through his hair as their spinning slowed to gentle swaying ~ … there's a story meant to be told, when the door is shut in the cold … ~
“Stay as long as you need,” she murmured against his chest, the invitation sweet honey to his war-wracked being.
“I can’t.”
He felt her smile, felt the easy acceptance of all he was and all he couldn’t be, the way she always had, “I know.”
~ … there is a world down on its knees for better times … ~ he spun her suddenly, and she moved in that lovely, flowing way of hers, her laughter the soft orange that had always gone so well with his gentle pink, the soft orange that always restored his cracked yellow, a melody of memory and nostalgia and hope, and he felt his own essence sparkle in response to hers, the way it always had, because they were made from the same stardust, and she had always given him all she was, and he tried, he tried to his core to give her the same.
Coruscant nights could have been the best, as they danced bare-foot designs around her small living room, Corellian wine in their minds and sweet summer love in their souls, orange and pink and yellow, the colours of all they were and all they had been ~ … somebody told me to believe in better times … ~ the colours of the sticky-sweet moments that were all they would ever be ~ … to believe … ~