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Obi-wan is grateful that he’s able to blame the flush of his cheeks on the wine cradled in his hand when Anakin strolls in through the grand entrance. The crowd parts for him naturally, his azure silk top with puffy, long sleeves and tight-fitting black pants allowing him to fit in amongst the senators and royals, the force creating the tiniest golden shimmer around the edges of Anakin’s honeyed curls. Anakin lifts his head to scan the crowd, a note of recognition passing through his features when he locks eyes with Obi-wan. He looks ethereal, a sight to behold--
“Come here often?” Anakin teases, lifting an eyebrow at Obi-wan, who is undoubtedly staring at him, blushing at him, even. He’s had far too much wine.
Obi-wan blinks hard, the lovely image of Anakin shattered entirely, and purses his lips, shooting the man a withering glare. “The symphony? Why, yes, I do love coming here in all my copious free time. I frequent the symphony hall in between naps and walks in the park.”
“It’d be a great place for a date, too. You should invite Ventress next time.”
Obi-wan raises an eyebrow. “Yes,” he hums, “maybe the music will quell her homicidal tendencies.”
Anakin snorts at his sarcasm, and their attention shifts to skimming the crowd, cataloging each and every face mingling in the swarm of people.
The council had sent them on a diplomatic mission to steer a neutral planet into siding with the Republic. Separatist forces are growing stronger day by day; no planet has the privilege of remaining passive if the Republic is to win the war. However, before anyone could edge around the topic of politics and war, the Queen had insisted on inviting them to a symphony, followed by a ball to celebrate the Republic’s successes in the war so far. The festivities seem frivolous to Obi-wan, and a waste of time, but citizens do need joy, semblances of normalcy to cling to in the midst of dread, he supposes.
The chimes signaling the beginning of the symphony ring out, loud and heavy, and Obi-wan and Anakin regard the ceiling, noting the noise.
“Time to find our seats, it seems.” Obi-wan murmurs, letting his hand fall into the small of Anakin’s back as he guides them to the right entryway, trying to ignore the firm muscles barely concealed underneath the impractically thin top. An usher stands at the entrance, scanning the tickets as guests filter in.
“You still have our tickets, master?” Anakin holds a hand out, and Obi-wan, a little too tipsy for his own good, almost grabs it with his own before realizing Anakin is asking for his ticket. Force, what is in this wine? Obi-wan rifles through his pants pocket and procures their matching set, handing one to his former padawan. They are seated side by side, so it doesn’t really matter which one he took. The usher barely gives them any thought, grabbing their tickets, checking them in, and handing them back without so much as a peek at their faces.
And then they are inside, and Obi-wan feels the surge of emotion flood through Anakin at the sight of the symphony hall. The ceiling is painted with scenes of the planet’s most impressive wonders and heroes, gold flakes etched into the perimeters of the creature's faces. A massive chandelier hangs brilliantly from the center of it all, illuminating the hall with a golden, hazy, twinkling light, casting dim shadows into the corners of the room. Despite its massive size, the place feels intimate, cozy. Obi-wan already wants to pull at his collar, unused to wearing anything but Jedi robes or armor, let alone elegant civilian clothing. But the mission had necessitated delicacy, and the natives of the planet respect elegance, refinery, so it was important to the mission that they look the part. Anakin had laughed when the council had passed that along: “You’re a perfect fit for this, master. Maybe you can brew them a cup of tea while we’re there.”
Obi-wan nudges Anakin’s hip, using his chin to signal that they’re holding up the flow of traffic. Anakin takes one last look around the room before gliding forward, checking his ticket one more time for the location of their seats. The lights darken not too long after they’re seated, the tranquil hum of conversation fading in anticipation. Obi-wan allows a glimpse over at Anakin, who is pretending very hard not to be excited. But Obi-wan knows him, can see the way Anakin’s eyes are a little too wide, his back a little too tense, his presence in their bond a little too electric.
A quirk of a smile catches his lips. Anakin has never been to a symphony before, has he?
A piano starts out in soothing, rhythmic undulations, washing over the crowd in whispers of comfort, followed shortly by the deep tones of a cello. Obi-wan closes his eyes, soaks in the feeling of peace, contentment, stillness. For the most part, where it counts, he is a good Jedi, proficient in wrangling in his emotions and being a lifeline of calm to those around him. But there are two things that grabbed his heart, sunk their greedy little fingers in and never let go: Anakin, and music. There is no one alive that knows this about him, for he could never live down the embarrassment, let alone the retribution of the council. And yet, he loves.
If he had been standing, he would be swaying in time with the waltz.
He leans into Anakin’s brain a bit, tugging on their bond, just enough to snag glimpses into his emotions, but not so much that Anakin would be disturbed by his presence. A wave of contentment, heartache, longing, love, washes over him. In surprise, Obi-wan cracks an eye open at him, peeking at his face.
Anakin is completely smitten. His fingers tap in time to the music on his thighs, a light smile ghosting his features, eyebrows furrowed ever so, his gaze cemented on the group of musicians on stage. Obi-wan fights the urge to brush his curls behind his ear, instead gulping down the rest of his wine in one go. Anakin does take note of him then, shooting his master a bemused look, which Obi-wan counters with a jump in his eyebrows and a daring smirk, feeling blood rise into his cheeks at their eye contact.
Siths hells, they are never going to make it through the night.
Correction: he is never going to make it through the night.
Obi-wan isn’t quite sure what’s gotten into him, but he isn’t going to fight the warmth that seeps through his bones, the pervasive happiness that comes so rarely these days. ( Love? Maybe.)
As they settle back into the music, Obi-wan’s mind wanders. He supposes it makes sense that Anakin never had the chance to come to a symphony before, or hear real music like this live, given that the music at the temple was rather limited and generally missions had them frequenting dive bars and nightclubs. It’s a shame, Obi-wan thinks, Anakin deserves so much more than he had been given in life, and Obi-wan is suddenly filled with tender softness for the moment laid out in front of him. He wishes he could bring the man more happiness like this in the day to day grueling onslaught of war. Obi-wan wonders how often he’ll be able to sneak them away to events like this before the younger man, and the council, catches on. He’ll need a good excuse. Thankfully, half-truths and omissions are his specialty.
He tips his head back, letting his presence in the force extend out around him, and treads through all the input: the crest and fall of the music, the wine churning in his stomach, Anakin’s warm glow through their bond, his own thumping heart, threatening to beat in time with the music and fall more deeply in love with the man in a-one, two, three. Anakin’s proximity in his mind is like a fire, incandescent, and Obi-wan leans into it, catching fleeting images of Anakin’s thoughts: a shuffling of people, quick steps, a warm body pressed against his. Anakin wants to dance. Flashes of auburn, sturdy hands and strong arms, crinkly grey-blue eyes-- oh. Anakin wants to dance with him.
No one could pay Obi-wan to release his emotions into the force right now. They’re all his to cherish.
__________
“No one ever taught you how to waltz? Maybe I did fail you, my dear padawan.” He says this with fake disappointment, mirth cushioning the words.
“Oh right, dance lessons in between ‘saber training and sorting the libraries, the usual.”
They’re lingering by the drinks, another glass of wine somehow finding its way into Obi-wan’s hands. In theory, they’re surveying the crowd again, taking mental note of who is dancing with who, what intel could be floating around the room. In practice, they are patiently waiting to join the throng of moving people, looking to find an excuse to join in on the festivities for a moment or two. Obi-wan had suggested Anakin find a pretty senator to charm and Anakin had mumbled something about not actually knowing the steps into the rim of his glass.
“Fighting is another form of dance, and dancing can be another form of fighting. Never underestimate the usefulness of a good dance in politics.”
“Alright master, next time we see Grievous I’ll offer my hand to him for a waltz.”
This earns a genuine bark of laughter from Obi-wan, surprising them both, and Anakin doesn’t even try to hide his smug grin. Obi-wan turns to him, setting his wine down on the nearest table and offering a hand out to the man. “Come on, then. It’s not hard.”
Anakin’s eyes widen almost comically, gawking at Obi-wan like he had just suggested they fly blindfolded through an asteroid field. “Here? Right now?” He looks around self-consciously.
“It’s a good time as any, and if we’re to go on future missions like this, I will not have you kark up negotiations just because no one ever taught you how to dance. Now, come.”
“Language, master.”
He levels Anakin with a stern glare, giving a come-hither motion with his hands, and watches with pure amusement as the man steps closer. Anakin holds his hands out in front of him, glancing over at the crowd to find an example of what he should be doing, where they should go. Obi-wan takes his mech-hand and rests it on his lower back, grabbing the other hand in his right and holding it up in the air, letting his left settle on the firm corner of Anakin’s shoulder.
They’re awfully close.
“So I’m going to step backwards with my left and you step forward with your right-- yes, just so-- and then it’s just like walking, right, left, right, and then I’ll step backwards with my right and you-- precisely .” They both chuckle when Anakin manages to step on his feet a few times, but always a quick learner, he picks up the steps after a few minutes of practice. However, Anakin’s upper body is terribly rigid and all wrong.
“You’re learning a dance, Anakin, not combat training, loosen up.” He leans into Anakin’s space, a giant shit-eating grin on his face. He can tell how bewildered Anakin is. Obi-wan doesn’t know if it’s truly the wine or the fact that he’s dancing with a man that he should not be in love with. “Try to woo me.”
Anakin stills, gaping at him, the faintest blush tinging his cheeks, barely visible on his naturally tan face. For once, he doesn’t have a clever comeback. “I have been.”
“Not with this posture, you haven’t been. Listen, slide your hand down a little farther and hold your shoulders up, and for forcesake, Anakin, relax .”
Anakin ignores him. “Trying to woo you, I mean.” He swallows the spit in his mouth, still staring at Obi-wan’s face, not moving his hands or shoulders at all.
Everything in Obi-wan tenses, unsure of the seriousness of his statement, and he steps away from Anakin, aware of the residual heat lingering where Anakin’s hands had been. The entire room narrows down to the press of the floor into his feet, the way the belt of his pants sits a little too tight, the scratchy hem of his shirt collar, the faint prickle of sweat on his brow.
He looks so eager, so intent, and Obi-wan knows he’s being truthful. What that means for the both of them is a different matter entirely; there will be the council to deal with, the war, force, this is hardly the time to start a relationship, especially with another Jedi- Anakin, of all people. Obi-wan forces the anxiety down, neatly shutting it away in a box to be dealt with later. With it gone, hope, optimism, euphoria blooms in his heart, a whole bouquet of joy growing into a meadow in the hollow of his chest.
With more courage than he thought he had, he offers out a hand.
“As have I,” he says. “Care to dance?”
Obi-wan has seen the man take on armies, a Sith, the council’s discipline with a grin on his face- the Hero With No Fear - but right now, Anakin is staring at the hand hovering in the air between them with the fear of death in his eyes.
Anakin takes his hand gingerly, leads them out onto the floor near the edge of the dancers, and Obi-wan gazes at where their hands meet, following the line up Anakin’s arm to his strong shoulders, the back of his neck, his dark curls. He’s quite caught off guard when Anakin turns to meet him, drawing him in close and waiting a beat before pulling Obi-wan into the rhythm of the waltz.
Everything is a blur, and Obi-wan feels like he’s floating, feet moving in time to the cadence of his own heart. Distantly, he catches brilliantly colored swatches of fabric, open smiles, and rare pearls of genuine laughter from the crowd swirling around him. There’s no time to think about how he and Anakin must look and what will get back to the council, so Obi-wan simply moves, letting himself be washed in the radiance of his dance partner, soaking in the happiness bleeding across their bond. Emotion swells in his chest as he glides, and he finds himself inching closer to Anakin with each step, until they’re flushed together, chest to chest.
They move together as if they are one person, drifting across the floor seamlessly. This is better than joint meditation, better than sparring, better than fighting off enemies back to back, because Anakin is so close to him, and Obi-wan can study the grooves of his face, the gleam in his eyes, the fullness of his lips. They’re both a little out of breath from the quick steps of the dance, and Anakin’s cheeks are tinted red.
He looks so beautiful like this.
When the song ends and the crowd slows to a stop, Obi-wan holds onto Anakin, who is staring down at him, something tender in his eyes.
“Have you been properly wooed, master?” Anakin asks gently, teasing.
Instead of answering, Obi-wan surprises them both and leans in to press a chaste kiss on Anakin’s lips, pulling away before Anakin has time to respond.
“I’m not sure I have sufficient data on the matter. Another dance would surely help me decide if you’ve done it properly or not.” Obi-wan schools a fake look of contemplation on his face, and if his hands were free he’d be running fingers across his beard.
Anakin rolls his eyes.
“Six years of trying and you still need another dance.”
“You’ve had feelings for me for six years?”
“Pining for six years and another dance, unfortunately.”
“Careful not to step on my toes then during this next one then, we can always make it seven years and counting.”
“ Master.”
“I’m only kidding.” Obi-wan tightens his grip on Anakin, leaning into him a little bit, reveling in the way Anakin’s eyes dip down to his mouth and back. “I promise I’ve been properly wooed .”
Anakin’s smile is blinding.