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“Quin, where the hell are you?” Obi-Wan, or as he decided to call himself as it ‘fit him better’, Ben, grumbled into the speaker of the tiny burner phone he had Garen acquire and hack into for him ages ago for runs like this one, runs where Quinlan felt too rebellious to think straight. It was time for them to rendezvous with the losers on the highway. Ben sighed and rested his head against the steering wheel, waiting for Quinlan’s dramatic grand entrance.
“On my way! Don’t wet your pants,” Quinlan called back from his own phone, he was marching out of the motel with two duffel bags tucked under each arm, his phone between his shoulder and ear, and a cigarette at the corner of his mouth. He pushed the water damaged wooden motel door with his foot and walked outside, his visage brightening at the sight of his apprehensive partner in crime in the red 1993 Honda Accord Ben’s father had left behind for him— or rather, left on the porch during his irresponsible phase, where he ran off with colleagues of his to neglect Ben who only recently had begun to notice who Qui-Gon truly was to him, after digging through paperwork Qui-Gon had previously labelled as ‘ old schoolwork you’ll look at when you’re older’, to find adoption papers and letters exchanged between his father and his friend Mace, who took it as a mission to raise Ben himself if Qui-Gon continued to be neglective and unaware of a whole human being trailing in his footsteps. The addresses on the letters made Ben realise the end of the exchange was Qui-Gon running off to another state, taking a little Ben with him, then dying in a pub fight when Ben was sixteen, having already stolen the Honda and stashed it in Quinlan’s dad’s garage.
Quinlan’s huge grin faltered when he saw the police car approaching, and before they could see him, he lowered the duffel bags to carry them like a normal person. He put on a straight face and secured the bags in the backseat, then sat in the passenger’s seat beside his closest friend whose eyes were burning holes into Quinlan’s high cheekbone. Ben gently pulled out of the driveway as Quinlan reached to raise the volume on an AC/DC song that was playing (Quinlan’s CD that Ben had not so subtly stolen years before).
“What are you looking at me for? Go!” Quinlan exclaimed, grinning mischievously.
“ ‘Night Prowler’? Really?” Ben tilted his head then shook it in exasperation before speeding up and proceeding to sing along with Malcolm Young, head bobbing up and down as his hair curtains moved with the wind and the motion of his head. Quinlan’s head snapped back to the road when he realised what he’d been doing. His cheeks were hot. The police car pulled up beside them and Ben slowed the car to a stop.
“Evening,” Ben saluted at the man wearing a silly cowboy hat, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear and fixing his sunglasses in the sun visor’s mirror. The police officer took off his glasses and raised an eyebrow. Quinlan leaned forward to stare at him as well.
“What are some young fellas like the two of you doing at a motel like this?” His voice rasped with the signs of nicotine addiction, “You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know what kind of people hang out at these places.”
Ben inched back in mock confusion. “Sir, we’re, uh— would you look at the license plate,” he pointed to the front of his car, and when the policeman saw the scratched ‘New Jersey’ in a retro font on the license plate he nodded slowly. “We— ehm, we’re roadtripping.” Ben shrugged and Quinlan stayed put. Emphasis could blow their cover sooner than later.
“Got sick of the coast?” The officer lit a cigarette, and Quinlan considered grabbing Ben’s leg to let go of the brakes. Ben nodded.
“Yeah, it’s our, uh, end of the year trip,” Ben said, “first time in Pennsylvania, so…” he trailed off and shrugged again, “We’re driving spontaneously , his request,” he pointed to Quinlan.
The police officer lit a new cigarette. “Next time, avoid seedy, old places. The countryside,” he pointed behind him, “is much more prosperous. Welcome to Pennsylvania.” He tapped the car door from outside, saluted and drove off. Quinlan sighed in relief, kissing Ben on the cheek in a moment of pure euphoria which made Ben laugh and let go of the brakes, he sped up gradually, the music bellowing from the speakers and both of them singing along to Highway To Hell.
“One thing I really love about this run, is that it would make your dad fucking furious.” Quinlan took a drag from his cigarette and put it between Ben’s lips, he raised a finger, “And not because we literally robbed a bank, but because he wasn’t the one to lead it.” Ben reached to lightly shove Quinlan’s shoulder.
“Quin…” he broke into giggles and Quinlan raised an eyebrow.
“What? I’m right and you know it,” Quinlan smiled at Ben who was shaking his head at the road and laughing in fits. His phone rang then, it was their recruiter asking if they knew when and where to rendezvous with the team that’s tasked with splitting their cuts. Quinlan spent the rest of the drive switching CDs and watching Ben get overjoyed over his favourite songs, his eyes brightening as he screamed the lyrics and drove steadily still.
“Tholme would actually like this run, though,” Ben said after ``High and Dry'' by Radiohead ended, “he’d shake his head, say ‘dear Heavens, Quinlan!’ and you’d think you’re grounded, when he’s just checking you for injuries,” he said. “I’m right when I say you took the mischief maniac trait from him.”
“Cute nickname,” Quinlan huffed a laugh as he took his thermos out of the backpack resting between his legs on the floor of the car, and Ben hit the steering wheel in annoyance.
“What’s this goddamn traffic light taking so long for?” He reached to push his bangs behind his ears and fix his sunglasses on his head, and Quinlan laughed, watching Ben get so irritated as he poured coffee in a tiny cup and put it to Ben’s lips.
Lifesaver, Ben whispered as he sipped the coffee, slowing down for a few seconds. Quinlan couldn’t tear his eyes away at all now, he had to watch the cup, of course, but a drop escaped Ben’s lips and trailed down his chin and Quinlan wanted to jump out of the window. Ben sighed and wiped it with his thumb, Quinlan gulped as his heart quite literally began to race. Embarrassing thoughts clouded his mind and he distractedly hummed to the music that was playing to let them out of his head, but the images kept coming at him like a motion picture. Calloused, pale hands, long, slim fingers, black painted nails and silver rings. The sensation of the auburn stubble he’d known all too well, from years of longing and yearning that never seemed to want to end. And the hair, oh, the hair that he’d rebelliously grown out after Qui-Gon repeatedly insisted on buzzcuts throughout Ben’s childhood, the short then long mullet that curled at the nape of his neck, the slightly shorter bangs that framed his mischievous, beloved face. Quinlan wanted to… he wanted.
And Ben adored coffee, he adored the coffee Quinlan made, the bittersweet taste that no million-dollar coffee shop chain could ever get right, the very smell of it made Ben’s serotonin levels rise to no end, as he slowly sipped the cup Quinlan held to his lips he remembered how lucky he truly was. He had a family, with the exception of, respectfully, his abusive dead adoptive father who did nothing but give him a new birth certificate and a smaller bedroom in an apartment on Fifth Street. He had a family made up of the best assortment of people whom, if having had the choice, he would have ended up picking anyway. And most importantly, the man sitting to his right. Quinlan, who threw rocks at his window at 00:05 every night since high school started, because every night in the custody of Qui-Gon Jinn as an adolescent in 1997 was something akin to hell itself, he’d always spend a few hours away from home, six blocks away, to be exact, dangling his legs beside Quinlan’s sitting on some rich man’s lake’s patio, smoking and smiling and listening to whatever Quinlan had on his Walkman that night. Some nights Ben would bring his flashlight and his copy of Demons by Doestoevsky and they’d read until Quinlan dozed on his shoulder or vice versa. They were one unit, and Ben’s unconscious had promised him that they’ll always be, in one way or another. Bant called them Bonnie and Clyde, but Ben still needed to check if her interpretation was Platonic or romantic, because he so ached for the second one to be true, but sadly knew it’ll never be so. Cere saw it, too, and Ben knew she did, she just never said it, and whenever she made hints, Quinlan would switch the subject to her infatuation with Luminara. Tholme will know, Aayla will, too, and Anakin will, someday, when Ben’s twenty-five and pining like a sixteen year old. When Ben is a tall child, a parentless father, everyone will know he was meant for Quinlan since the moment he landed on this Earth’s unmerciful soil. Ben was lucky, now, at eighteen, surrounded by these people and their stories and their love, able to rest his head on a comfortable pillow each night and sleep his worries away instead of letting them keep him up all night while his father lounged on the smelly couch getting beer-drunk and reciting some poetry verses like a maniac. Ben did worrisome things now, but decided not to let them affect him, and did them out of spite for the childhood that was stolen from him. No one had the right to resent Ben for the path he’d chosen to take. He knew what he was doing. Years of fending for himself in the crèche and after so in Qui-Gon Jinn’s haunted house taught him enough to know what he needed to survive as Ben Kenobi in this world. If he was a filthy robber, then so be it, as long as he had his beloved family by him. If he was the main character in a film titled Wasted Potential, then who wasn’t? Aren’t we all victims of wasted potential? Perhaps some stupid miracle will come and pick him up on the way, like everything else had done for him in his life. Now, he was driving off into the sunset, the heavenly taste of Quinlan’s coffee lingering in his mouth, the stereo softly playing an Enya song as Quinlan sat quietly, presumably with thoughts of his own, too.
“Ground Control to Quin,” Ben turned to tilt his head in questioning following a few minutes of suspenseful silence after Quinlan had abruptly turned his eyes to the road ahead of him, still trying to chase his traitorous thoughts out. He slowly turned his head to face Ben again.
“Just ran outta things to talk about,” he shrugged. The sunset was turning the sky a creamy orange and the sun was shining directly into Obi-Wan’s eyes, his copper locks turning into pure, undaunted gold, his nose wrinkling because of the direct light. My God, Obi-Wan, when he made you he must’ve known what it’ll do to me. I’ll hang myself by my hand out of this car window just to make sure those eyes stay glued to me, even if to scold me for being the reason you’ll get a ticket. I want you to see me. I want you. What was a crush when Quinlan was thirteen and about seventy percent certain he wasn’t straight was something laced with curiosity and eagerness for self-discovery, but now, at the edge of eighteen, Quinlan was in love. In complete and undeniable love. Quinlan had never grown up, as every teacher and counsellor and friend told him, but the only thing that seemed to grow within him, or, with him, was this love. Ben was among many to be the object of Quinlan’s desires, but he wasn’t anyone. This was Ben Kenobi of all people, Quinlan’s Ben. He was the first, the most beloved, and hopefully, the last. Complaining about a boring adolescence to the point of becoming a minor criminal was never for that sole reason; it was an excuse to stay by Ben for as long as he could. Being close to death numerous times by Ben’s side was nothing short of what he wanted forever and ever. He would take a thousand bullets just to look to his side and find the cheeky reddened face framed by locks of pure gold, smiling at him, only him, and nobody else.
Quinlan came out to Cere Junda first, — as expected —, she was the older sister he’d never expected to find, but found in a group of friends he wouldn’t trade for the largest vinyl record collection, or, as a normal person would say, the world. She held him all night as he cried while rambling about John Rambo instead of revising Rutherford's theory’s notes that had been scattered all over his bed, written in his surprisingly sophisticated handwriting, being comfortable in her arms as she knew what it felt like, Cere was a lesbian and had come out to Quinlan first, too. He then proceeded to tell her Rambo wasn’t even his bisexual awakening, that Ben Kenobi was, that it ruined him completely, because Ben had been in love with someone else back then. Quinlan was fifteen then, he’s eighteen now. He hadn’t changed a bit—, well, save for the life-changing suggestion of his father that he should try and grow his dreadlocks which made him look more in his element, more ‘Quin’, as Ben had said when Quinlan told him of the plan. He also came out to everyone sometime around his sweet sixteen, which made Ben himself come out as bisexual, too.
Ben sighed and focused on the road after sneaking four too many glances at Quinlan, he tried to ignore the fact their song, Rock N’ Roll Suicide by David Bowie, was currently playing. The sun was setting way slower than usual, he thought, or maybe it was the time well spent, or the company he had that swept him off his feet, he didn’t know, he just felt good, and so, so light he could fly to outer space. The money, or material, in the backseat was nothing now, the road ahead of him, though, was everything. If he lost even a little bit of self control he’d have reached out and… and what? Are you trying to break off your friendships, too? What kind of game was this, Obi-Wan? You loved him, die with it.
Quinlan was eighteen, eighteen and on the run. He’d promised his father he would return home during his gap year to choose a university and leave once again to major in chemistry. Ben had no father to promise, nevertheless, he had dreams of his own to fulfil. But what if this… this nonsense that they were doing now prevents them from that? From handcrafting a future they dreamed of for years? If Tholme could pull Quinlan out of this mess, then he’s pulling two people. This country had nothing to offer to two stranded adolescents, two young, eager men, full of love as much as hate, so if nonsense was the answer to this ennuie, then so be it. Quinlan thought, and hesitated for a moment of pure despair, because God damn , was Ben subtle, then he took a deep breath of determination and placed his left elbow on the armrest, touching Ben’s that was already resting there, Quinlan relaxed his hand and so his fingers dangled delicately with the movement of the vehicle, brushing against Ben’s fingers every once in a while, and both men gulped silently. What a move, Vos.
“I have a bad feeling about this, Quin,” Ben said after a few more minutes passed, which placed them just over a mile away from the delivery location. Quinlan scrunched his eyebrows and looked at Ben questionably. He began to move his arm away, conscious of Ben’s discomfort, but Ben, in a sudden burst of fury, grabbed Quinlan’s wrist to keep it in place. “Not this, the… the mission. I think we’re being played.” Quinlan turned back to the road just as a dreadful weight crawled up his legs and settled deep in his stomach, his liver, his heart.
“Turn here,” he said, his voice quick and unusually quiet, Ben hesitated. “Obi-Wan, turn the car.” And Ben turned it, in a momentary cease of time and space, into a barely there alley. It took him two minutes to recover from the adrenaline rush, to realise he was clutching Quinlan’s hand all along, and Quinlan himself was panting and squeezing Ben’s hand in what felt like heartbeat form. They dared not look at each other, but their eager eyes stayed glued to the armrest, where two hands clung to each other for dear life. Two hands that had never touched before, never in this manner and never in this way. Ben slowly raised his head, and found that Quinlan wasn’t going to do so anytime soon. He let go of the steering wheel, his foot firm on the brakes, and reached, terrified, to turn Quinlan’s face up to face him, his ring studded index finger gently tilting Quinlan’s chin up. Quinlan’s small face, that will forever remain this carefully structured, but never again so petrified as it was right then, was facing Ben’s concerned one, was cradled into the hold of Ben’s caring hand that fixed so many wounds, that rubbed countless circles onto shaking backs, that Quinlan dreamed of more than anyone could dare make him admit. He was frozen, and Ben took his chances.
“We’ll be alright,” Ben said, nodding gently and watching his fingers trail on Quinlan’s soft face that still held no beard, only the softness it had been born with and glued into Ben’s memories as the only face he was capable of holding this dear and close to him, the only face he was capable of loving this much. He found himself leaning in just when he was halfway there. Quinlan reached to take Ben’s hand that rested on his face and sighed, leaning into the touch.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice small, not eighteen years old, small and regretful. “I— It’s on me, I led us here.” His eyes carefully trained onto Ben’s worried ones.
“Led us where?” Ben tilted his head, a tiny smile tugging at his lips, as his hand gently stroked Quinlan’s cheek, the other hand pulling them closer. “We’re fine. We’ll go home soon and have your awful instant noodles for dinner, won’t we?”
“Obi-Wan, I don’t want to—,”
“Wait here.” Ben cut him off and exited the car before Quinlan could interfere. He tried to tug the door open but Ben had locked it before Quinlan got any ideas. He looked wildly between the three backwards mirrors, searching for Ben, to find him brawling against two unbelievably large men, and he did it cleanly and flawlessly, his silver rings now red, the street light reflecting their crimson tinge in the mirrors, as they trailed after broken noses and bruised eye sockets. Quinlan left a trail of profanities, searching for a way to exit the vehicle, but after a beat, the alley went silent. He looked out the window beside him to find Ben pinning a man thrice his size to the wall by the neck and something in his core gave, and he wished in that moment to melt into a puddle of rain on the ground. He heard, just barely, in a tone he’d heard only once or twice in his life, Ben saying “I could make this wall a mural in your name, no, your blood, if you dare come near me or…” and the voice drowning out near the end due to the poor man’s choking protests. Quinlan stared in bewilderment as Ben growled Got it? and released the bandit to the floor to gasp for air. Ben wringed his arms at his sides, cracked his neck, and turned to look at Quinlan in the car, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and his right eyebrow. He smiled and walked back to the car.
“Told ya, we’re fine.” Ben went to tie his seatbelt and Quinlan reached for his hands to check for any bruising and injuries, he gently wiped the blood from his rings with his dark shirt then moved on to his face, he mumbled hold on , then opened the glove compartment and fished some alcohol wipes and bandaids out of the mess they’d made in there. He took another look at Ben’s face which was smiling cheekily at him and got down to work.
After he was done, Ben pulled out of the alley and drove off, now with The Killers playing on the radio and Quinlan’s hands to himself finally, Ben thought, finally sparing him the heart rush. A few minutes later, as Ben leaned against the opened front hood, looking at the car’s radiator, not out of worry but out of boredom, waiting for the men who were supposed to take the duffel bags and give them their cuts, Quinlan came out of the car holding a photo, and a cigarette, “Weren’t these the guys you beat up back there?”
Ben, startled, banged his head against the hood “Fuck!” and crouched, clutching his own head very steadily to bring the balance back to himself, Quinlan smiled at the sight then brought Ben back to his feet after he recovered. He showed him the photo again and he nodded. “Yeah, why?” He questioned, then it dawned on him.
“Oh, fuck,” he threw his hands in the air, showing despair, then paced up and down the sidewalk. “Should we pull a Trainspotting?” He stopped pacing to look at Quinlan who was leaning against the car, looking at him, and Quinlan tilted his head in questioning.
“The Irvine Welsh novel, Quin,” Ben insisted. “I lent it to you four years ago! You haven’t read it?”
Quinlan laughed and opened the backseat door to retrieve the bags, “Oh, I read it, alright, but you just don’t want to talk about the film because the guy who plays Renton looks like you.”
“He doesn’t!” Ben exclaimed, slamming the hood shut and grabbing a plastic bag from the trunk. He sat beside Quinlan on the concrete, the duffel bags between them.
“He does,” Quinlan smiled his famous smile and placed his elbows on his knees, balling his fists to lean forward and rest his chin on them. Ben threw a stare at Quinlan, one that the latter almost identified as an affectionate stare, and leaned back to place his hands on the concrete, holding himself up.
“What should we do with whatever’s in there?” Ben asked, looking at the suitcases, thrilled, that for a moment, he pretended they were his and Quinlan’s.
“I don’t know,” Quinlan shrugged.
“What if it’s coke?” Ben asked, a playful smile tugging at his lips.
“Oh, shove off, Obi,” Quinlan chuckled. “ You were the one to get us this job, anyway. You said it was relatively safe. Safer than Hondo’s from a year ago, at least.”
“Well,” Ben moved to crouch in front of Quinlan, one of the bags in his hands, “only one way to find out.”
They were young, the only force running through their veins being the things they’d had to endure, or the youth that persisted within them, for many years to come, or the romanticisation of having nothing to lose that had been ingrained into their very minds.
Or, what nobody in 2001 would dare admit (nobody meaning everybody except for Quinlan Vos and Ben Kenobi, albeit individually), that the force driving them on, was something truer than the need to cause mischief, something greater than being feared hustlers in seedy New Jersey neighbourhoods, something clearer than the windshield of Ben Kenobi’s red 1993 Accord, something that this fellowship was always meant to be, always, since Quinlan Vos gave Garen Muln a black eye in kindergarten, since Ben Kenobi’s shirt, which he wore nothing under, was accidentally lifted up as he jumped on a trampoline in third grade, since Quinlan saw David Bowie and Mick Jagger in the music video for Dancing in the Street, since Ben realised how dreadful girls were, after enduring Satine Kryze for seven months and a half, after he admitted to himself he was truly imagining someone in Satine’s place while kissing her under the bleachers, someone who was a better kisser, or whom Ben was absolutely certain was a better kisser.
Someone who Ben Kenobi, gulping as he looked from the bag up, up, up to, saw in dreams, weeped to Lumi over, wrote about in English Lit, gave up freshman orientation — Class of 2005 for.
Someone for whom Ben Kenobi tossed the duffel bag full of money onto the countryside Philadelphia street.
Someone whose lips Ben Kenobi’s were resting on now.
“Oh, Obi-Wan,” Quinlan’s hands had forgone his own chin now, and were holding onto the unbelievably soft, copper locks he loved and pushing Ben’s head towards his, as if they could get any closer. It was something out of…what?
Everything Quinlan imagined. Everything he’d defied his loving father for. Every heroic story he stayed up discussing with tiny, tiny Aayla. Every mixtape and film night and pizza box and Rolling Stones album and love letter under a false name every Valentine’s since 1998. It was exactly the scenario Quinlan dreamed of ending up in. It carried the exact surrealism each enchanting thing Quinlan could presently think of had.
He wanted to stay there forever.
In the bracket of Ben’s strong arms glued to the pavement behind him, in the warm presence of Ben’s lips on his, in the forgiving Pennsylvania night breeze that made New Jersey’s cold ocean breeze seem like live torture.
He would pay with his organs to stay there forever.
Ben thought otherwise.
Ben thought Quinlan hated his guts, Ben reached for this kiss to end his years-long conflict, but instead wished to vanish. He felt like an asshole and a player and most prominently, a bad friend, an awful friend. Ben began pulling away but his Quin held him in place and looked into his eyes with his half-open beautiful rich brown eyes that right now looked like the earth during a sunset on Jupiter, on Saturn, on the most mesmerising planet, looking into nothing, seeing absolutely nothing except for Ben’s ocean blue ones.
It was ironic. They were meant for the coast; their eyes creating a beautiful, red-brown beach.
“Where’re you going?” Quinlan murmured, his nose an inch away from Ben’s. He almost hesitated. “I’ve waited five years for this.”
Ben’s eyebrows bunched, his look carrying something melancholic and loving and guilty all at once, “Five years?”
“I’ve loved you all my life, Obi-Wan,” Quinlan confessed, his back arched in a 45° on the soft pavement, held up like a cable bridge by the arms he stayed up countless nights imagining wrapped around him, “all you had to do was…” and words failed him there, because Ben chuckled against his sensitive, swollen lips.
“Oh, Quin,” was all Ben could say before his face broke into an award winning sunshine runner-up grin. “Could you never tell? It’s always been you. The only crime I’ve ever committed was trying to love other people, searching for any trace of you in every pair of eyes I’ve been this close to, in every mouth I’ve ever kissed.”
“And have you succeeded?” A tiny smirk tugged at Quinlan’s lips, and Ben laughed again.
“Now, yeah, I have.” He pressed his lips against Quinlan’s again before motioning with his head that they return to the car. That they return home.
Quinlan stood alone for a moment on the pavement as Ben started the car, having forgotten all about the money that was within arms’ reach. Quinlan stared at the duffel bag in front of him. He told Ben he was fixing his clothes behind the car and that he would join him soon. He quickly took off his heavy, ugly black jean jacket he wore only on these supply runs, and stuffed the money that would make Ben’s tuition at the English Literature and History college at the university Quinlan would be attending in eleven months in the plastic bag that Ben’d abandoned on the pavement, and his jacket replaced the amount of money lost in their employers’ bag. He put both of the money bags underneath a deadening bush and the plastic bag back into the trunk which Ben left open. He got back into the car, inserted the last CD they hadn’t listened to today, T.Rex’s The Slider, into the audio player, and pecked Ben’s lips on his way to turn the volume up.
The sun had finally set by the time they crossed back into New Jersey, and Quinlan stuffed the money bag into his backpack while Ben argued with the 7/11 employee about whether cherry and strawberry slushies tasted the same or not as Mark Bolan loudly sang in the empty parking lot.
Quinlan loved the thrill of danger, but truth was that it had been a once permanent, now temporary replacement to what had been in front of him all his life, to what Cere would clap for him for. Knowing he no longer has to stare from afar and yearn makes his infatuation with robbery and swindling look like child’s play. Ben looked as if he was willing to stand there and argue for forty more minutes, so Quinlan pulled out his phone. He didn’t hesitate this time.
“Hey, dad, yeah, I’m alright, no, no it’s nothing bad. I.. how are you? good, I miss you, too, how’s Aayla? tell her I miss her, uh,” he looked back up at a red-faced Ben throwing his hands up in the middle of the deli, “he’s good, oh, I called up to ask if you needed something on the way…yeah, dad, we’re coming home.”