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Obi-Wan frowned at the datapad in one hand, his other arm filled with datacards filled with some of the various prophecies his master was having them both study. It was a long, frustrating task when his crechemates were doing things like flying ships, taming animals, exploring outer worlds. But it was interesting, on good days.
This was a good day. And he hoped bringing these files and asked the questions he had in mind would impress his master, perhaps settle them easier into their mentorship, as the past two years had highs, but many lows as well.
He knocked on his master’s door, looking down at the items of study in his arms as he called. “Master? I found a possible mistranslation–” He scanner read his hand and the door slid open, and he looked up in enough time to watch it slam shut in his face. Obi-Wan reeled back, staring at the door. Surely… that was just a malfunction? Surely his master wouldn’t – wouldn’t slam the door in his face like that. Right? “…Master?” He called, wincing as the hurt and uncertainty came clear through his voice. He suddenly felt a swell of warmth through their training bond, a gentle reassurance, which helped relax him but also confirmed to him that his master was in his room, as he had thought. “Uhm,” the teen tried, “I’ll just… tomorrow…”
The door slid open, Qui-Gon’s frame easily blocking the view of the rest of the room. Obi-Wan blinked, face to face with the man’s toned, bare stomach. His eyes traveled up confirming, yes, while his master wore trousers, he wore nothing else, and even his hair was down even though he didn’t usually do that until later in the evening, and it was notably messy. “Nonsense, padawan,” he said smoothly. Were those teeth marks on his chest? “You’ve been studying?”
“Ah–yes,” Obi-Wan nodded, and warmed happily at the pleased expression on his master’s face. “I was going over some translations of old prophecies and I had some questions.”
“Of course,” usually by this time Qui-Gon would beckon him into his room. Rather, he wouldn’t block it at all. Now, though, he tossed a look over his shoulder before finally moving aside. Obi-Wan frowned but moved inside. Ah, well, there were his master’s robes, slung over the couch. Two pairs of boots were kicked haphazardly across the floor as well. Obi-Wan wrinkled his nose – really , was his master this useless at tidying without his young padawan? Except – the second pair of boots were notably smaller… “Padawan?”
“Right, uh,” Obi-Wan blinked, refocused on his master, shuffled the datapad and files in this arms. Qui-Gon gestured to the couch and Obi-Wan gratefully sat, leaning over to set it all down on the low table. “Well, these Togruti ones area incredibly difficult to understand to human ears, because my language guide says they have a lot of words and sounds that can only be fully understood through–”
“Montrals, yes.”
Obi-Wan blinked. That was not his master’s voice. He looked up, and saw the yellow togruta coming out from... his master's bedroom? Master Kethra, he knew, as she was not only his master’s friend but a creche master that had taught Obi-Wan often as a youngling, since before he could remember. She wasn’t wearing her usual crimson outer robe, only her loosely tide brown and tan ones, though they were unbelted.
Obi-Wan’s face burned.
“What is the phrase giving you trouble?” Master Kethra asked smoothly, as if she was not walking half-dressed from a bedroom not her own, even if her yellow skin had patches of orange and the red swirls of her montrals were particularly vibrant.
Obi-Wan turned wide, horrified expression to his own master, who looked only mildly abashed but was smiling nonetheless. “I – uhm – you – and she – but –”
“That’s broken Basic, not Togruti,” Master Kethra said with clear amusement, coming to sit delicately at Obi-Wan’s other side. The teen looked between them both, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Without the fit of the obi and belt, Master Kethra’s robes peeked open a bit as she moved to pick up the datapad, and that was definitely a bite mark discoloring the curve of her breast. “Oh, yes, that is a tricky one–”
A finger tapped his chin and he blinked up at his master, who’s face shone with mirth. Obi-Wan snapped his mouth shut. He patted his padawan’s shoulder, then stood and pulled the tan robes off the edge of the couch, pulling them back on while Kethra read aloud a line of text. “Aah, yes. Here–” she took Obi-Wan’s hand and set it on her montral, close to the tip, and Obi-Wan’s face burned brighter. It wasn’t exactly somewhere you were usually allowed to touch on a togruta. But she spoke again and Obi-Wan startled at the distinct vibration he could feel. “Oh.”
“Yes,” Kethra offered him a grin. “Now, here. Compare – chodesh and kodesh.”
“Oh!”
”Yes,” she repeated with a chuckle. “See? Easily misunderstood. One means month, one means holy.”
“That is – quite a difference.”
“Indeed.”
Qui-Gon set down a plate of fruit – Obi-Wan hadn’t seen him move over to the kitchenette masters had in their quarters – and said, “I put some tea on.”
“Toda, nishmati.”
Qui-Gon stilled, hand hovering just away from the plate he’d just set down, eyes slowly moving up to find Kethra’s. Obi-Wan glanced between them, noting the way Kethra’s montrals got even brighter, and warmer beneath his touch. He pulled his hand away, blushing himself, feeling like he was intruding, again.
“Bevakasha, ahouvi.” His master replied, his voice a little rougher than usual. They stared at one another for a long moment, and even Obi-Wan – not half as adept at reading emotions or the living force as the two masters – could feel the rush of warmth and affection and giddy nerves.
He dropped his gaze, quickly shoving a piece of fruit into his mouth.
Kethra cleared her throat. “So, this line is talking about a holy feast–”
.x.
Later, in the privacy of his own small room, Obi-Wan scoured his datapad for further translations. The casual back and forth of thank you and you’re welcome were innocuous, enough that after half an hour of searching for the other words he heard he nearly gave up, assuming it was just some added very much or the like. But when he recalled the shared looks, the bite marks, his master’s undone hair like fingers had been run through it, the way they watched each other fondly–
Obi-Wan typed in togruti terms of endearment with a pounding heart.
My love.
My soul.
Obi-Wan dropped the datapad, leaned back against his bed, and stared up at the dark ceiling above him.
.x.