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Jango's dark gaze surveyed the celebratory scene from behind in the curtain in the hidden nook.
The masquerade had been Arla's idea. Jango had resisted at first, asking her to celebrate her birthday any other way, but then Jaster had caught wind of Arla's request and had encouraged her.
Mandalore was finally coming out of economic recession, and Jango hadn't wanted to throw around what little money they did have in some extravagant party. And for safety reasons, were they to have a party like that, as Mand'alor, he could only host the upper echelon of the influential Mandalorian clans and a few visiting dignitaries. It wouldn't truly be a celebration for the people if that were the case. But Jaster had argued that they could have a public fireworks celebration at the end of the night, that the people of the capital could enjoy along with those attending the party.
“Sometimes you have to play the political game to help cement your role as the Mand'alor,” Jaster had advised him privately. “You haven't been in office that long, Jango. It wouldn't be a bad thing to make nice with those who hold power in our sector.
“And besides,” Jaster had continued, “We should be celebrating this triumph.” Jaster had grinned, clapping Jango on the shoulder. “We're coming up on our third year anniversary of the end of the war. Our people are more united than they have been in a few hundred years, the economic and ecological issues in our systems are being worked on and we deserve something to celebrate.”
In the end, Jango hadn't been able to resist giving in to Arla's pleading doe eyes and Jaster's advice and enthusiasm. So Jango had given in: they'd have a masquerade. He just knew he wasn't going to enjoy himself. He hated parties.
Arla had squealed with delight when Jango had finally given in. Jango hadn't found out until much later, but apparently she'd seen some holomovie recently that had inspired the idea. She had this idea that being able to host a party such as this was part of some elaborate fantasy she'd cooked up to meet the future love of her life.
“You're setting yourself up for disappointment,” Jango had scolded his older sister the night before the party was set to happen. “We don't live in a holomovie, people meeting and falling in love under the guise of a hidden identity doesn't happen in real life.”
“I know, Jan'ika,” she'd rolled her eyes at him. “I don't actually expect to meet the love of my life tomorrow. But a girl can dream, can't she? Now let me into your room, I want to see you in your costume.”
Jango had pushed away her grasping hands as they'd reached the Mand'alor's family wing, in the Keldabe fortress. “Go away. You'll see it tomorrow.”
Arla had stuck out her lip in a ridiculously overplayed pout. “You're no fun, evaar'vod.” She paused at her own door and shook her head at him. “Fine. I won't bother you about it, but then you have to promise me you'll dance a few of the numbers tomorrow and not hide away in some dark corner with Myles the whole night.”
Jango had sighed but agreed, closing his suite's door between them before she could make him commit to anything else.
So now here he was, staring out at a see of masked revelers. The crowd was dancing, chatting, or snacking on dainty hors d'oeuvres provided by masked staff. Faced with the reality of the party before him, he really wished he'd worked harder to refuse Arla's request. He really did not want to go out there.
Many of the attendees had either forgone their armor upon the Mand'alor's promise that the event would be well-secured, or had incorporated it into their costumes in creative ways.
The dressmaker who had made Jango's costume, had insisted he not wear his beskar'gam. When he had fiercely protested, they had let him wear his chest plate underneath the suit, angrily letting out the suit jacket to accommodate the piece of armor.
“You'll mess up the lines!” The Mando had cried angrily, forcing Jango to strip off the rest of his beskar'gam for each fitting.
“Osi'kyr!” A voice cried out in surprise behind him and Jango whipped around, his hands coming up and curling into fists between them, instinctively.
His sister stood there in a flowing dress of deep blue that faded into green at the bottom. A feathered-decorated synth-leather half-mask emphasized her chocolate-brown eyes, drawing attention to their intelligent depths. Her long hair had been carefully twisted into it's natural curls and was spread down across her bare shoulders and back in a way Jango hadn't seen it since they were children. She normally wore it braided or curled tightly into a bun to fit under her helmet.
His hands lowered slowly as he took in her costume. “You look amazing!” He found the words gushing out of his mouth. “Like a graceful, majestic pea-call bird from Dantooine.”
Arla snorted, breaking the elegant illusion of her costume. Not that that surprised him, she was after all still Arla. “That is rather the point. But Jango, your costume is amazing!” She stepped closer to examine him in the low light.
The tailor had worked together with the Mand'alor's personal forge to create a costume that blended formal attire with a hint of metalwork. He was wearing a modern, formal suit, styled somewhere between the New Mandalorian courtly wear (that much of his Parliament had adopted after the war) and Alderaani high fashion. The suit jacket was the deepest green, so dark it was almost black. The suit pants were black, pressed synth-cloth that was reflective enough that every step he took would flash lowly in the dim lighting of the party.
The shirt under the suit jacket was bone white, which matched the full face mask he wore in the shape of a stylized mythosaur skull painted white and made of durasteel. Twisted onto his shoulders, were free-formed pieces of durasteel that looked as if they were coming out of the mythosaur skull as jutting, curling tusks. The metal tusks were unconnected to the mask, but gave the illusion that they were growing out of the sides of the skull. The skull mask itself was held onto his head by a circlet that sat against the top of his head almost like a crown. The way the mask sat was both comfortable and strange to Jango, as the newly sworn in Mand'alor, he'd never worn a crown or circlet, only his helmet. But the tailor had insisted.
“Though the party is meant to give people anonymity, there should be some sign to your costume that you are the Mand'alor,” the tailor had justified the heavy metal mask.
Jango had thought he'd hate the jutting tusks on his shoulders that were lightly attached to the shoulders of his suit, but they were only about as heavy as his pauldrons, and they had been smoothed down by the armorer so the edges would slide smoothly against his throat when he turned his head. He barely noticed them at all.
The entire outfit had quite the presence, and emphasized the strong breadth of his shoulders and warm undertones of his rich, dark walnut skin of his neck and hands (which were the only parts of his skin left exposed).
“You're going to make some man out there very happy with your costume,” Arla's full, rosewood lips smirked from beneath her smooth, pale mask.
“Some man? Arla... Did you ask to have this party not because you wanted to meet someone, but because you wanted me to meet someone?” Jango scowled under the mask, cursing silently as he began to realize his sister's true intentions.
“I'd never!” Arla smiled innocently. Well she would have looked innocent if Jango hadn't known her so well. “Now get out there and dance!” She gently shoved him towards the curtain. “Remember you promised me you'd dance at least three dances.”
“I did not!” Jango protested, digging in the heels of his black boots, and planting his weight to the spot so she couldn't push him any further.
“Jango!” Arla whined, her hands pressed firmly against his chest. “You promised you would dance a few dances. A few means three. So at least three! Come on, I'll even help you find your first dancing partner.”
Jango cursed under his breath and finally let himself be pushed out onto the dance floor, and right into two men who were conversing quietly, not far from the secret entrance.
One of the men was pushed clean to the ground, while the other lost his plate of hors d'oeuvres, when Jango came crashing into them.
“Arla!” Jango snapped back at his sister.
“Oops,” Arla said apologetically, trying to hold back a smile.
Jango reached down to help the gentleman on the ground up, apologizing to both of them profusely.
The man who'd held the plate (a leader of a lesser clan whose name escaped Jango at the moment) waved off his apology with grace, while the man he'd helped up smiled at him and brushed his suit off.
“It's fine. I suppose we shouldn't have been standing so close to a doorway.” The man he'd helped up smiled charmingly, the soft grin stretching wide beneath an auburn beard that was exposed under a plain, black half-mask.
Jango blushed, feeling awkward that he and Arla had been arguing not a few steps from these men and hadn't even heard their approach. He also couldn't help but notice that the redheaded man he'd accidentally pushed to the ground couldn't seem to keep his eyes off Jango, which made him shift his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “Still, there must be something I can do to make amends,” Jango said, irritated and embarrassed.
This was the one of the things Jango disliked about becoming the Mand'alor, having to make nice with absolute strangers.
“Well—” the redhead started and was brutally cut off by Jango's sister.
“How about he accompanies you in a dance!” She said excitedly.
The redhead chuckled lowly, and the sound went up Jango's spine with a soft tingle. “I would be honored to dance with you, as the Lady Arla suggested.”
Jango shot a dirty look at his sister, sure she had somehow set this up. But not wanting to seem rude by refusing, he offered the man his elbow and led them out to the dance floor.
“I don't think I've met you before,” Jango said warily. He would have expected to recognize the other man, even if only vaguely. Really he would have expected to know everyone in attendance. The man's costume didn't look like any form of formal wear he'd ever seen before, but then it was a masquerade. The Mandalorians around them were dressed in a variety of interesting costumes Jango wouldn't have expected to see them in. “I've met most of the leadership in the Clans and the New Mandalorians, but I don't remember you.”
The man grasped Jango's right hand in his left, and slipped his right hand under Jango's arm and just under his shoulder blade. Jango blinked but relaxed into the hold, putting his free hand on the man's shoulder, allowing the other man to lead them in the slow steps of the Alderaanian Waltz.
The man smiled at Jango's acceptance, the small dimple shadowed just beyond the edge of his beard was difficult to make out in the dim lighting. “No, I didn't think you would have. My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi, I am the former Trade Minister of Stewjon and the current Senator of Stewjon in the Galactic House of Representatives of the Republic.”
Jango frowned, confused on why a Republic Senator had been invited to the party. The man seemed to read Jango's confusion on the matter and continued, even as the distance between them closed and they clasped hands and shoulders as a new dance started and they were drawn into the movement of the crowd around them.
“I know Mandalore has been reconsidering it's ties with the Republic, and as one of the closest Republic member systems, I was invited to try and convince your government to join as a member.”
“I... see.” Jango said with a pause of hesitance.
During Mandalore's parliamentary sessions in the last few months, some of the Old Clan leaders and New Mandalorians had brought up the discussion of joining the Republic, considering that their sector's unification now gave them the ability to do so. Jango and his Prime Minister had listened to their arguments, but neither of them could agree with any of the arguments. Their sector had always considered itself separate from the Republic and would probably always continue to do so.
Jango searched for something else to say to the man. He didn't really want to argue with Kenobi about the Republic, and besides, Jango wasn't sure if the other man was even aware of who he was. So such an argument would probably come off as impertinent. Jango hadn't had the opportunity to introduce himself by name and felt awkward at doing so now. He was sure that as he was masked and unnamed, Kenobi wouldn't even realize who he was.
“Your costume looks amazing, by the way,” Kenobi changed the subject deftly, staring deeply into his eyes. “What type of animal is that skull from?”
Jango felt himself blush, grateful for the cover of the mask. Drawn into the magnetic power of Kenobi's entrancing eye-contact, he heard himself begin to ramble. “It's a skull of the mythosaur. They are the symbol of the True Mandalorians. They were giant, ferocious animals that once roamed Mandalore. They were the apex predators of our system before they were slaughtered to extinction by the first settlers: the Taungs. It was said their bite was so strong, it could snap a person clean in two, even if they were wearing armor. And they were taller than...” Jango's brain finally caught up with his mouth. “...I'm so sorry. I promise I don't usually babble on like this.”
Kenobi's face was split wide with a huge grin. “No, don't apologize. I find your passion for the subject endearing and the information interesting.” Kenobi continued to lead them in the slow 1,2,3 box-steps of the waltz, pressing his right hand gently against Jango's left shoulder blade.
“I like your costume too, I've never seen anything like it before,” Jango desperately tried to change the subject.
Kenobi's grin slowly faded and it was his turn to look embarrassed. “I feel very ashamed to admit it wasn't planned,” he gestured with their clasped hands to his patterned leggings and matching patterned sash. “This is actually my formal senatorial attire, inspired by my homeworld's traditional clan clothing. When I arrived and realized my mistake, I asked around for a mask to wear,” he gestured to the black half-mask that covered little more than his cheekbones and eyebrows. “Lady Arla was the one who provided it.”
Did that mean his sister knew this entrancing gentleman well? Jango resolved to extort her for more information when he next saw her. “So then your outfit has a deeper meaning to you?” Jango asked cautiously. At the other man's nod, he continued, “What does it represent? If it isn't too personal, I mean,” he added hastily.
Kenobi shook his head, his round cap had a wide, flat, soft top that gently shook with the movement. “I'd be happy to tell you.
“The pattern of my trews and belted plaid are the traditional Tartan of my family clan,” Kenobi explained and Jango's eyes followed the red, green and white pattern down the man's body. Kenobi's shapely legs were on display through the fitted garment. The sash was loose and heavy, looped over the man's left shoulder and belted over top of the man's leggings.
Kenobi continued. “Our Tartans were a way to identify family members or allies, especially on the battlefield. My original ancestors were people who had to defend their lands from many invading systems through war and violence. Our people had to learn how to fight against more technologically advanced species trying to take our resources, our land, our women and children. Nothing was more important to us than protecting our homeworld. So to be able to recognize an ally and have them at your back in moments, regardless if you knew them or not, was important.”
There was something powerful in how Kenobi described the fighting spirit of his ancestors and a soft shiver ran down Jango's neck. He could imagine this man, sword in hand, the blood of his enemy covering his hands and face, soaking through the loose, pale, yellow tunic under his sash.
“My saffron tunic or Léine was a custom adopted from the other peoples of my planet. They did not wear tartans like my people, but had their own warring clothing customs. It was often dyed this shade of yellow, which was a natural dye made from spice-flowers and meant to be highly visible from far distances. It was made of thick linen, sewn loose, long and billowing, belted at the waist like my people's plaid sash. And then there's my knitted Boineid,” he gently moved his head to capture Jango's attention as the red bobble on top of the blue, floppy hat wiggled happily. “Is made by—”
The music playing through the ballroom slowed to a stop and the rest of what Kenobi was going to say was lost to the loud clapping of the crowd as they cheered the musicians on stage.
The two of them stopped in shock, coming back to their surroundings, but for a long moment they did not untangle their hands and arms.
New music began to play at a much faster tempo and Kenobi looked at Jango with a sheepish expression. “I shouldn't take any more of your time. I'm sure you have other people to talk to.”
Jango looked around at the crowd that was quickly forming back into partners, many with the same partner from the previous dance, or new dancers that were joining the congregation of movement. No one was trying to wave him down or catch his attention. What could it hurt to dance once more with this charming man?
“I'm happy to continue dancing if you are?” Jango said more hesitantly than he normally would have. Something about this man made him cautious. He didn't want to push too hard too fast, or be the reason for Kenobi to walk away from Jango.
Kenobi smiled sweetly at him. “I'd be delighted to.”
Jango's own face was awash with a huge grin. He was somewhat happy that his mask obscured this. It wouldn't do well for his reputation if everyone saw how much he had been smiling these last ten minutes. He'd been smiling so much, his face was starting to mildly hurt. They grasped each other's hands at the faster pace of the music.
The quicker pace of dancing left little opportunity to talk, but the physicality of the dance was enjoyable and their closeness warmed Jango's blood.
The quick-paced dance also seemed to cheer much of the room, and as the song came to an end, many of the guests were giggling and chatting excitedly as they clapped their hands in appreciation for the musicians.
A new, slower song began to play and the crowd began to disperse and reform.
Slowly, Jango and Kenobi's arms dropped, but the two of them didn't move away from each other.
Sweat trickled down the sides of Jango's face where the mask rested against his forehead and cheeks. The temperature of the room had risen quite significantly and the room felt almost stiffing.
“I'm rather warm,” Kenobi said with cheery complaint, as he grasped the low collar of his tunic and waved it away from his body to cool himself.
“What do you say to a walk around the gardens?” Jango asked, his voice croaky as he eyed the fit chest that was being revealed from Kenobi's tunic wafting.
The doors to the gated garden were invitingly open and occasionally guests would wander in or out through them to see the plants that the Royal horticulturists were gently nurturing in his system's damaged soil.
Kenobi smiled at him, clasping the hand that had been joined with his during their dance and led Jango in a twisting path through the other partiers and to the open doors.
For a while, they just walked through the rows of plants, quietly admiring their healthy growth and soft blooms. Jango had been very busy as of late, and hadn't seen the progress of the expansive gardens in quite some time. It was nice to see how much the garden had flourished. His sector was rebuilding so very slowly, sometimes it seemed as if they had hardly made any progress in the last three years, but this garden showed Jango their steady progress was working. So much had been destroyed during their civil war, and yet the healthy growth of these plants told the story about his people's resilience, even despite their toxic foundations.
During the week, the gardens were open for the public of Keldabe to visit, and he hoped his people got to experience it's lively beauty as he was now doing. The experience was peaceful and enjoyable. It didn't hurt that his hand was still being clasped firmly by this intriguing man before him. Just to touch him made Jango's lungs feel too large in his chest.
They walked slowly up and down the isles, admiring the growing plants. Eventually, they strayed further and further from the doors and the chattering of the guests faded. They hadn't seen a soul for rows and rows of plants.
One of the many benches in the garden came up before them and Kenobi paused before it, letting go of Jango's hand and turning to face him.
The dim twinkling lights twisted through the gardens and the soft light of Mandalore's moons shone down on them, highlighting the man's full lips and brilliant red, shoulder-length hair, tucked behind his ears.
Kenobi's fingers hesitantly touched the bottom of his own mask and then removed it, his shadowed eyes thrown into light. He smiled almost shyly at Jango. There was a yearning deep in his eyes as he stared down the Mand'alor.
With his own hesitance, Jango reached up and slipped the heavy mask off his head, revealing his features to the off-worlder.
“Hello there,” Kenobi said softly, his giddiness charming and bewitching.
“Hi,” Jango grinned back, cheeks aching.
Kenobi sat gracefully down on the bench, tilting his head in invitation. Jango sat down next to him. Their knees were touching, their bodies angled, so they could look into each others eyes.
“Kenobi, I—”
“Obi-Wan,” Kenobi said firmly. “Call me Obi-Wan.”
“Then you must call me Jango,” Jango responded calmly. He watched Obi-Wan's face for a realization at who Jango was. From the first moment of their meeting, Jango's name had not been mentioned, and Jango still wasn't sure if Obi-Wan knew who he was.
But the man just continued to smile.
“Jango,” Kenobi said, his Coruscanti accent charmingly drawing out the first syllable.
The longing in the man's voice made Jango want to reach across the space between them and kiss Obi-Wan, but something inside made him hesitate.
Tension between them rose, caught in each other's gaze until finally Obi-Wan looked away, his gaze turning up and contemplating Mandalore's moons through the almost imperceptible transparisteel dome that protected Keldabe.
While Obi-Wan looked up to the sky, Jango looked to Obi-Wan. He admired his long, pale neck, straight nose and auburn eyebrows. He really was a beautiful man.
There were lots of redheads on Mandalore, but none that had ever drawn Jango's attention like this before. There was something about this man that drew Jango to him. He wanted to get to know everything about him.
The silence between them was comfortable, but he wanted to know more. So Jango opened his mouth and asked the other man about his senatorial duties. Usually a conversation about something like that would bore Jango to tears, but Obi-Wan's dynamic and lively speech drew Jango in even further.
The topic soon changed and Jango was surprised to find himself genuinely enjoying talking about art, then music, then food and travel.
Time seemed to speed past them as they conversed, talking about whatever came to mind. One of Mandalore's moons had just begun to set when Jango heard his name being called, distantly.
He turned towards the direction of the party, shocked to realize they'd been out here for hours and the once pleasant chill of the night air was now freezing and he was gently shivering.
The voice calling out to him sounded like Myles, his second-in-command.
“Jango,” Obi-Wan's voice called anxiously, bringing his attention back to the redhead. “Before they come to take you from me and I don't get to see you again tonight... I just want you to know how much I enjoyed your company this evening. And...” Obi-Wan blushed softly in the darkening light, “I will regret this is if I don't ask: can I kiss you?”
Jango blinked in both surprise and elation. Obi-Wan wouldn't be the first person he's kissed, or even the fifth, but it would be the first time since his first kiss that his stomach felt like it had been filled with butterflies. The question made Jango feel tongue-tied and unable to answer aloud, so instead he nodded and leaned forward in the chilly air.
Obi-Wan reached for him and their lips met, everything around them fading away. Jango's hand moved blindly up Obi-Wan's thigh, reaching for Obi-Wan's waist and gripping the other man's hard body as he leaned deeper into the kiss.
Even in their passion, their kisses were slow as they got a feel for the other's presence. Jango's toes curled inside his boots from the simple pleasure of their embrace. He used his hand pressed against Obi-Wan's back to pull the man closer to him at an awkward, yet more intimate angle.
They finally parted as footsteps rounded the closest row and approached them. Jango smiled softly and Obi-Wan grinned back. The phantom warmth of their kiss still lingered on Jango's lips as Myles stopped beside them, waiting for Jango to get up and follow him away.
Jango looked one last time down at Obi-Wan, before he turned to follow his second-in-command. Maybe he really should reconsider his stance on the Republic if it brought a man such as this to his sector. Maybe...
As Jango turned away and picked up his mask from the ground, from the corner of his eye, he saw the redhead put his mask back on as well.
They both had duties they needed to return to, but Jango knew he'd seek out the other man again as soon as he could.
He approached the surge of guests spilling into the garden, excitedly chattering as they waited to view the fireworks. Carefully, he donned the heavy mythosaur mask and let himself disappear into the crowd.