Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1.

Over the years, Anakin had learned how to read his Master. Behind the air of refinement and the impervious control that kept Obi-Wan’s back ramrod straight in even the most dire of situations, Anakin saw the taut line of his shoulders that spoke of his stubbornness, the deep exhalation that told his exasperation, and the raised brow that revealed his wry amusement. These were things that Anakin liked to think only he could see, though he knew it to be untrue whenever they found themselves in the company of others who had known his Master for just as long, if not longer, than him.

Simply put, it irked him. Not always, but in those first few years of his apprenticeship, it annoyed him that despite spending more time with the man than anyone else, he could never get a thorough read on him. This vexation lasted throughout his teenage years, potent enough that it often made him snappish and irritable, forever frustrated that his Master remained coiled tight and hidden from him when his own emotions flared as volatile as a supernova, available for all to see no matter how hard he tried to impose the Jedi’s urge for self-discipline.

But at the ripe age of eighteen, something changed. On Trevo, after watching his Master be fret and fawned over by the government's elite, Obi-Wan miraculously peeled himself away from wanton eyes and returned to sit by his side, and for the first time ever, Anakin truly noticed the hands that rose to smooth back long copper hair. Anakin sat, speechless, not understanding why the simple action had his stomach twisting oddly. The hands were thick and broad, so strong, with callouses to match his own. Nails were neatly trimmed and veins stood stark against fair skin as Obi-Wan flexed them, bringing one down to pick up his glass. Light, sparse hair covered knuckles and the large surface of the back of the hands, before disappearing beneath his Master’s sleeves where Anakin knew the hair darkened and thickened across forearms.

A deep ache made Anakin squirm in his seat, his cheeks flushing as his thoughts churned up mortifying fantasies. Of those hands pressing and spreading, slick and—

Anakin made a soft, stricken noise and looked away, only for his attention to be drawn back in when his Master rubbed a hand through his coarse beard. The way it looked spread across Obi-Wan’s chin and jaw looked so…powerful, and caught his attention so that it felt like he had been clobbered over the head. His hands were larger than Anakin would have guessed, with rough lines beginning to show his Master’s age, likely to become more deeply etched in the years to come.

That was—it was his Master, it was Obi-Wan, the man who pushed him and tested him and almost made tears spring to his eyes at the slightest praise, who would sometimes give him a rare, private smile, the one that deepened the crinkle lines surrounding his eyes—

Anakin blinked and turned away, feeling fraught and confused. He knew, absently, that Obi-Wan was handsome. He would have had to be an idiot to not notice how men and women and various species lusted after his Master, but it had always been an abstract acknowledgement—he had never given a moment's thought as to why or what exactly it was about Obi-Wan that made him so attractive. 

Only now, on this mid-rim planet, with Obi-Wan’s robes slightly dishevelled and his cheeks a soft pink from alcohol, he had never looked so far removed from the composed Jedi Master Anakin knew him to be. Here, he became so handsome. So tempting. So charming.

With a frown, Anakin realised his gaze had returned to Obi-Wan’s hands, snared by their broadness, their strength. Karking hell, but the sight of them lit a line of want sparking up his spine.

Anakin took a deep breath and went to turn away once again, only for his focus to be snagged by something odd, and very interesting. From one of those hands two fingers eagerly tapped at a solid thigh, quick and repetitive. That was unusual, Anakin couldn’t recall any occasion where he had ever seen his Master be impatient. Perhaps Anakin hadn’t cared to notice before and only did now because of this new—reaction he had to Obi-Wan’s hands. 

He continued to watch, an ever-growing sense of wanting to boast swelling within him. Impatience was his trait, and he had become well accustomed to listening to Obi-Wan lecture him on its faults. Maybe he finally had a chance at returning one of those incredibly boring speeches.

“Something wrong, Master?” he asked, jovial, if not a little high-pitched.

Obi-Wan turned toward him casually, though it did nothing to stop the persistent tapping of his fingers.

“No,” he finally answered, eyeing him with interest. “What about yourself, Anakin? You’re looking a little flustered.”

Additional heat immediately roiled beneath his cheeks. “I’m okay,” he breathed, reedy and thin.

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows raised then, before he went back to watching the crowd of elite he had just left. Anakin followed his gaze, wondering what it was that had firmly caught his Master’s attention. A cargo worth of tektite might as well have dropped to his stomach when his eyes landed on a graceful, blonde aide. Anakin observed her, his tumultuous Force signature crackling as he did so, flaring deep and jagged when her eyes flicked up, catching his Master’s, and were held there with an intensity that made Anakin’s chest ache. 

It shouldn’t have been surprising, but it was. Over the years, he had never actually seen his Master reciprocate any kind of interest, and it made him want to tug at his and Obi-Wan’s golden smattered bond and demand that he stop. Anakin wouldn’t have noticed this before—before those karking hands, and now he knew exactly what Obi-Wan’s type seemed to be—tall and beguiling, with an air of pride, fair hair, and sharp, fierce eyes.

And with that, Anakin realised with a jolt of shock that he was jealous. 

Kriff that wasn’t good. He had to let this go, or get Obi-Wan as far away from him as possible.

“You can leave,” Anakin said petulantly, slumping down in his seat.

His Master frowned in confusion at the abrupt dismissal. “Pardon?”

Anakin nodded towards the woman. “You can go to her. I’ll be okay on my own.”

Obi-Wan’s expression went flabbergasted then embarrassed before landing on stoic. “I couldn’t possibly know what you mean,” he said sternly, fingers still tapping away.

Anakin rolled his eyes, unfazed by the harsh tone. His Master always became defensive when he found himself caught in a lie. “She obviously wants you to go to her, Master. Go and get laid,” Anakin huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan said sharply.

“What?” Anakin smirked. “Am I wrong?”

“It is highly inappropriate for you to even suggest such a thing,” Obi-Wan scorned. “We are on a mission—”

Anakin sighed and picked up his own glass, taking a small sip of the scarlet liquid. “We’ve completed our mission—successfully,” he enunciated, waving a hand towards the feast around them, “—that’s why this is being held in our honour.”

He held Obi-Wan’s eyes, defiant, and almost preened when his Master narrowed blue eyes at him. “It would be improper of me,” Obi-Wan said quietly.

Anakin shrugged, feigning indifference, knowing how it would infuriate his Master, and chucked him a strained smile. “But it wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

“Anakin.”

The confirmation disguised as a warning made his stomach turn over from envy, a steep weight settling there unpleasantly. One thing was certain then, Obi-Wan had been doing this for years, and Anakin had been oblivious to it the whole time. Never let it be said that his Master lacked finesse or tact, Anakin thought resentfully, the man had apparently been roaming the galaxy seducing whoever took his fancy for decades. If possible, Anakin slouched even more so in his seat and scowled down at Obi-Wan’s now still hand.

“I’m an adult now, Master, you don’t have to stay with me,” Anakin said, his voice very small.

Obi-Wan exhaled hard and gave Anakin a tight smile. “I’m aware. Anakin, I hope you know that I’ve always tried to keep that aspect of my life separate from our relationship and your training,” he said carefully.

His Master peered at him with the familiar mentoring expression he always gave when talking Anakin through a particularly difficult conversation. Usually, it was an expression Anakin welcomed, for Obi-Wan’s kindness and understanding were things he held onto when so much else often left him unmoored and untethered. Except now, it only served to remind Anakin of who he was to Obi-Wan, his young Padawan who still required his Master’s support and his forever platonic and unwavering love. 

Anakin wanted more, he wanted to be on the receiving end of that look that he shouldn’t have seen, where a heady, elusive passion lurked where Anakin had never thought it to be. He wanted to see his Master without the decorum of propriety, and he wanted to be soothed and held by hands that were capable of many great things, but that always wielded Obi-Wan’s kindness in an earnest, brave grip.

A wave of melancholy swept through him then, and he had to purposefully square his shoulders and strengthen his voice when he replied, “I know, but now you don’t need to.”

Obi-Wan quirked an eyebrow his way, and Anakin rushed out a flustered response, “All I mean is that I understand that—that, you know—” He blushed furiously and sent his Master a look of imploration.

Obi-Wan curled him an amused smile, that playful look he sometimes got sparking behind his eyes and causing Anakin’s breath to hitch in his throat. “Oh, I think I do, but I’m enjoying this far too much to intervene. Please, don’t stop your babbling on my behalf, Padawan,” he teased. 

“Obi-Wan!” Anakin said, scandalised.

“Go on.”

Anakin felt so hot, both embarrassed and pleased by this devilish side of his Master. He looked intently at anywhere but Obi-Wan and took a deep breath, “I understand that you have needs. ”

Obi-Wan cast him an impish smirk with a glint in his eyes. “Indeed.”

The low tone and teasing expression made Anakin strangely warm. Both were usually a rarity, and he became very aware that Obi-Wan truly was treating him like an adult, not yet an equal, though that was only a few years off. It felt new and thrilling, his signature rippling warm and open between them.

“Well,” Obi-Wan began awkwardly, standing from his seat and looking down at Anakin, his expression uncharacteristically soft, “I suppose I’ll get going then.”

“Okay,” Anakin murmured, languorously raking his eyes up at Obi-Wan’s figure and masking the pounding of his heart with a smile.

“Don’t be late for the farewell address tomorrow morning,” Obi-Wan said dryly, smoothing down his robes with hands now steady and sure.

“I won’t,” Anakin said, unimpressed, trying to escape the discomfort crawling up his throat. “Have a good time,” he mumbled sullenly.

His Master gave him a rakish grin and strode away, and Anakin watched, slightly sick with longing as Obi-Wan reached his target and leaned in to whisper something in the woman’s ear, one large hand coming down to rest on the small of her back.

Anakin swallowed, hard, and turned away, cursing his Master and those hands that he shouldn’t have wanted to feel on himself instead.

Chapter Text

2.

Anakin’s head whipped to the side, just missing the hum of Obi-Wan’s lightsaber flung his way. His muscles trembled from exertion and sweat trickled down his temple, eventually joining the rivulets that had soaked through his thin training tunic what felt like hours ago. His own azure blade moved fast and instinctively, trying to find an opening in his former Master’s perfect defense. His lightsaber swung up, clashing with the other, and in the glow stood Obi-Wan, staring back at him with an insufferably endearing smirk. It made Anakin fight harder, strike faster, the need to prove himself fuelling each of his hits.

He whirled and slashed and swung, easily using his desired Djem So form, flawlessly combatting the Soresu form of Obi-Wan. He was good at this, at powerful blows and forcing his opponent onto the backfoot. The need to win sung through his veins, the greatest motivator that he had had all day.

He jumped backwards to avoid an incoming blow, parrying it with a downwards cut from above. The blow forced Obi-Wan to stagger back, but he unsurprisingly quickly regained balance and circled Anakin with a dashing grin.

“You’re doing very well ,” Obi-Wan taunted harmlessly, needlessly twirling the pommel of his blade within his hand. It was a flagrant display of his Master’s skill with a lightsaber, and something Obi-Wan wouldn’t have done only a few months ago when he had still been Anakin’s teacher. Now, he sparred with Anakin like he was an old friend, his presence more warm and inviting than it had ever been in the past, so different to the cool, austere Master Anakin had frequented these salles with.

He also liked to tease Anakin relentlessly, and had been doing so ever since he had learned how Anakin both floundered in anger and want whenever Obi-Wan gave him the slightest praise. Anakin sincerely hoped Obi-Wan didn’t know the full strength of that want, how every word of encouragement felt identical to a frisson of electric flaring sharp and sudden in his gut. 

Anakin made a soft noise. Something needy, but underneath the molten heat lingered the remnants of years of yearning that prevailed in his deepest core. Held there alongside thoughts that kept Anakin awake at night—the ceaseless want for more never easing.

Anakin shook such thoughts away and reengaged. He didn’t hold back. He slashed and whirled, ignoring the hot ache in his chest that demanded more, more, more . He would show Obi-Wan that he was a man now, an equal.

He would make his Master proud.

Catching his breath, Anakin came forth and pressed his offense, left and then right, backing Obi-Wan towards a wall. His Master did nothing but block and parry, and Anakin was so sure he had him, but then…

His eyes landed on those kriffing hands. 

They were both wrapped securely around the hilt of Obi-Wan’s lightsaber, one placed above the other and intermittently shifting as his Master loosened and then tightened his grip, the dorsums lightly covered with a sheen of sweat. Force and skill bared themselves in the enticing hold, causing a rupture of white static to pulse in Anakin’s head, awed by the stretch of bare skin and the roaring power that always hummed beneath his Master’s calm exterior.

As he stared, Anakin noticed a subtle transference of weight between the hands, a telling sign that Obi-Wan was about—

A leg rose, kicking Anakin squarely in the chest. He made an embarrassing squawk and landed on his back with an undignified thump, his lightsaber spinning out from his hand as a well-polished boot landed on his chest, pushing him down onto the mat as Obi-Wan’s sweat-lined face loomed above him.

“Yield?” Obi-Wan laughed breathlessly, pointing his lightsaber at Anakin’s neck, eyes bright with amusement.

“Yield,” Anakin agreed, pouting, frustrated that he had allowed himself to become distracted. By now, his Master’s hands were not a new distraction, they shouldn’t have still been intruding on his thoughts. It made him feel helpless with longing, unable to push past this particular want that constantly hovered in his periphery, waiting for any moment where it might peak so that he felt frenetic with need.

“That was too easy,” Obi-Wan teased, offering Anakin a hand, thankfully unaware of the quiet, punched-out sound he made when a warm, calloused palm wrapped around his own and drew him up so that he and Obi-Wan stood side by side. The hand quickly fell away and Anakin had to stomp down the urge to cling to it like a lifeline, to purposefully place it in his wild curls and have Obi-Wan make him submit in a blissful ache of surrender.

Anakin stepped away from his Master, needing distance from the scent of his sweat and the fervid warmth of his proximity. 

“I nearly had you,” Anakin retorted, utterly lacking any true annoyance, too enraptured by the sight of his Master. In these moments, with Obi-Wan so close and radiating such fondness between them, it became impossible for Anakin to deny the similarities of his body and his heart. One became electrified flesh and the other swelled with possessive, unending love, but both quickened in a pitiful display of yearning.

Since his knighting and the offset of the clone wars, his and Obi-Wan’s relationship had strengthened, though sometimes it also felt off. They bickered and bantered more easily now, a natural rapport that spoke of the recent battles fought side by side, where the chaos of war meant that trust in each other coated every decision that they made.

Yet, Obi-Wan simultaneously felt more distant from him than ever before. Their training bond was beginning to wither and fade, as was appropriate after a Padawan’s knighting. Anakin hated it. Hated that Obi-Wan’s presence by his side as a General, an equal, a friend, came at the expense of the loss of that comforting, quietening presence where his Master had always resided in his mind.

Obi-Wan nodded and drew his shoulder up, wiping the sweat on his forehead onto his damp training shirt. “You did,” he concurred. “It was about time I won though. You’ve bested me nearly every time in the past few months.”

If possible, Anakin’s cheeks darkened even more so. “That’s only because of your training, Master.”

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he drew his eyes down to meet Obi-Wan’s. “What’s this? My Padawan being humble?” He asked playfully, though his expression slanted sincere, almost proud.

Anakin ducked his head, his heart pounding. “I’m not your Padawan anymore,” he said on a shaky exhale.

“No, you’re not,” Obi-Wan admitted, pulling his hand back and giving Anakin one of his gentle smiles. “You’re very much a Jedi knight now—I know that.”

Anakin swallowed thickly, his chest near fit to burst from happiness, from the relief of a parchedness now quenched. “Is that melancholy I hear, Master? Do you miss me?” Anakin croaked, teasing.

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes and moved to sit on a bench, picking up his canteen and taking two long pulls from it. “Of course, who wouldn’t miss having a mercurial, forthright Padawan,” Obi-Wan said, a twinkle in his eye.

Anakin grinned and snatched Obi-Wan’s canteen from his hands, taking a large gulp, knowing how such unhygienic manners would offend his Master.

Obi-Wan gave him a familiar, long-suffering look. “Still uncivil I see,” he said, droll.

“Uncivil?!” Anakin protested, hiding the heavy rush of want that arose when Obi-Wan used one hand to swipe at the remaining droplets of water lingering on his lips. “I think you’re the one who’s actually uncivil, Obi-Wan. I once heard a rumour that you’d—”

A damp, sweat-streaked towel was flung his way, which he managed to evade with characteristic grace. “Enough of that, Anakin.”

"What? Don't you wanna know?" Anakin grinned. 

Obi-Wan gave a deep sigh. "No, I don't want to know what the infernal gossip of this Temple has been saying."

“Even if half of it’s about you?” Anakin quipped, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Obi-Wan huffed a laugh. “You know such things are exaggerated.”

“Sure they are,” Anakin laughed.

Obi-Wan’s face turned pleasantly exasperated as they got to changing into less sticky clothing. Anakin tried, he really did try not to stare at Obi-Wan as his broad shoulders and strong chest were revealed, at his sweaty hair and the hands that pulled on a clean tunic as his Master stood, except, as always, he couldn’t seem to help himself and so was left with a hunger to touch, to openly admire, so strong that his chest throbbed in sympathy.

He exhaled hard and looked away, making sure Obi-Wan hadn’t caught him open-mouthed and stupefied like some kriffing teenager. Even if Obi-Wan had caught him, he likely never would have guessed why, he knew Obi-Wan would never consider him like that. Knew that his Master did not feel the heat of arousal or craving for more that haunted Anakin.

They dressed in silence, towelling off their sweat and pulling on clean clothing. Anakin saw some knights lingering outside the room, their faces eager and intrigued. He wondered if they had been there the whole time, and blushed at the implication, both pleased that his and Obi-Wan’s sparring session had captured such attention and embarrassed that he might have been seen blatantly gawking at his Master.

“Should we put a wager on next time?” Obi-Wan said suddenly as they gathered up their things and began making their way through the Temple’s hallways.

“A wager?” 

“Yes, a wager.” Obi-Wan’s voice was playful and cheeky, and Anakin narrowed suspicious eyes at him. “For our next sparring session.”

“You want to gamble?!” Anakin asked, dumbfounded, and stared at his Master as if he had grown another head. 

Obi-Wan grinned, wild and carefree so that all his teeth and the dimples dotting his cheeks showed. “Is it really that surprising?” Obi-Wan said in an almost arrogant tone.

Anakin continued gawping at him, unblinking. What the kriff was going on? Since when had his Master approved of such unethical ways?

“I thought gambling was improper for a Jedi?” Anakin observed dumbly, unable to escape the sensation that he must be in an alternate universe, where his Master had been replaced with an Obi-Wan who was lax about topics that for a decade he had drilled into Anakin as being of the utmost importance. How else was he meant to explain this?

Their eyes locked, and Anakin almost whined over the sheer unfairness of Obi-Wan looking like that after they had just sparred . His eyes were sparkling with good humour, his smile intimate and almost cocky, coy, his hair falling into his face and a wide hand rising to push it back from his forehead. Anakin had to look away, unbelievably frustrated at how attractive Obi-Wan could be at times.

“There’s no harm in it amongst friends,” Obi-Wan joked, his face nearly split in two at Anakin’s continued look of shock. “Aren’t you even a little bit interested in knowing who the other Jedi knights would place their bets on?”

If Obi-Wan truly didn’t care, then who was Anakin to turn down the chance to laugh with this more relaxed version of his Master.

His lips tilted into a smirk and his eyebrows rose, taunting. “I already know who they’d place their bets on.”

Obi-Wan snorted, grinning beneath the palm that scratched at his beard. “Truly, your confidence knows no bounds, Anakin.”

Anakin bit at his lip, attempting to hide his smile. “Confidence that you encouraged, Master.”

“That’s a unique perspective on the past ten years,” Obi-Wan laughed, shaking his head.

“I’m not wrong though, am I?”

“I suppose not…” Obi-Wan agreed, looking at Anakin, so warm and open, “from a certain point of view anyway.”

Anakin rolled his eyes and tried not to openly pout as they came to a stop outside his quarters, already lamenting their separation and missing the bickering that made everything, even the war, seem manageable so long as they were together.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?” Anakin said softly.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said. “You have an early council debriefing if I remember correctly.”

Anakin nodded in agreement and went to turn away when he felt a grip on his shoulder. The hand moved to rest on his neck, hardened due to continuous battles and slightly clammy from their training, yet still gentle, and so intimate that a shiver ran down Anakin’s spine.

“Thank you for today, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, quiet and genuine. “It was wonderful to spend some time with you away from the war.”

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin whispered, his head ducking and neck near aflame from the heat of a hand long desired pressed against it. “Me too. I—thank you.”

Obi-Wan squeezed his neck, just briefly, and Anakin blinked against the sensation, feeling as if his chest had been flayed. Sweat gathered in his hairline, the line of his back suddenly damp. He stared down at the floor, swallowing thickly against the noise threatening to tear free from his throat when Obi-Wan momentarily tightened his hold, then dropped his hand away.

Anakin inhaled a ragged breath, dazed, and could hardly focus as Obi-Wan bid him goodbye once again. He fumbled at his door and scarcely made it inside in time before he slumped against his wall, his head hitting it with a defeated thud, wondering how in the Force he was going to survive knighthood when his heart felt like this: gnawed at and strung taut, ripe and fit to burst from love.

Chapter Text

3.

Gentle hands and patience

Anakin stared at his drooping bowl, frustrated and ready to snarl at the spoken words of the instructor. He scraped the clay off the wheel with fumbling hands and blinked down at the blasted device, hating that he couldn’t get this right.

The instructor came to stand by his side and spoke in a soft tone that only irritated him more, “Is everything okay, General Skywalker?”

Anakin glared at the potters wheel, teeth gritted together and sweat slipping down his temple. There was clay caked under his nails and in the crevices between his fingers of his left hand, whereas the protective glove of his mechno hand might as well have been nothing but a lump of mud for all that it stuck to the material, unwieldy and thick.

Dismay and dubious anger pulsed in his mind. “Everything is fine,” he spat out, before wincing and gentling his voice with a remorseful, “thank you.”

The instructor shifted and wrung their hands in front of them. “Perhaps General Kenobi would be able to offer you some help?”

Anakin immediately bristled at the suggestion, prickly at the idea that he might need help from his former Master. He could barely look in Obi-Wan’s direction without impotent frustration bubbling in his chest like lava. It maddened him that despite the both of them being amateurs in this, Obi-Wan was somehow still managing to succeed.

Rather inappropriately, it made him want to rage and throw a strop as if he were a Padawan once again. Forever resentful at being in the shadows of the famed sith killer, and all because of some kriffing clay, he thought with a grimace. 

“No, that’s okay,” he muttered, looking towards Obi-Wan and barely paying attention as the instructor walked away.

Broad shoulders were hunched forward, elbows tucked in and face pinched in concentration as Obi-Wan worked at his own wheel. From his position, Anakin couldn’t see what he was making, but the finished pieces sitting on a workbench beside his Master had Anakin scowling even moreso.

Admittedly, they weren’t great. They were bumpy and uneven, almost sagging like Anakin’s had been, but at least they were still standing and one could identify what they were. Three bowls, all different sizes and clearly made by an amateur, yet still capturing his attention for they had been made by Obi-Wan.

Anakin frowned and looked away before getting back to his own work and following the steps demonstrated hours earlier. Time passed until he eventually found himself at a now familiar, and hated, stage. His tongue stuck out in concentration, his thumbs creating a decisive hole in the center of the clay and pulling outwards, soon replaced by a finger, all the while trying to smooth out all unevenness and making sure there was no overhanging clay.

A flustered happiness suffused him, euphoric at having made it so far—and then it all fell apart. Before he knew it, the clay had spread too thin, the bowl too large and unwieldy. It collapsed with a pathetic splat and Anakin found himself with his chest heaving, his fists clenching, an aggrieved “E chu ta!” falling from his twisted lips.

Why were they doing this anyway? There was a war on, who cared about some kriffing mid-rim planet, Anakin thought with a snarl. 

Two days prior, the Council had sent him and Obi-Wan to Koji, stating that the planet could provide them with materials needed for the war. They had arrived and learned that the species of the planet would only help should a natural friendship between them be born. Hence, here they were taking pottery lessons. Of all the stupid things requested of us, this may just be the most absurd.

“Struggling, Anakin?”

He startled and stifled a low, wanton sound as his head snapped up, staring at an Obi-Wan who stood before him looking messy, and obscene. Dry clay caked beige trousers, handprints noticeable on the light material from where his Master had absently rubbed his hands dry. Splatters of the mud continued up Obi-Wan’s undertunic and had also woven themselves in amongst his beard and hair. The odd streaks made the specks of grey already there glint even more so, the two variations of the colour sat naturally side by side, giving the illusion of what Obi-Wan would look like when his hair was nothing but trails of salt and pepper.

Something urgent coiled tight in Anakin’s gut and caught scorching heat in his groin, blazing alight when his gaze landed on hands awash with clay. They were dry, though crusted clay sat within crevices and turned the dark hair of forearms stiff. It felt like all the air had been stripped from his lungs—he had never seen Obi-Wan so dirty outside of war before, so stereotypically masculine, and it made his already pounding heart triple in speed from desperate want.

“No,” he gritted out, lowering his eyes and scraping his wheel clean again.

He heard Obi-Wan huff a sigh, his voice amused when he replied, “It doesn’t look like that. Why don’t you let me—”

“No,” Anakin repeated defensively, voice strained.

Anakin didn’t look up as he began the preparation process again, knowing all the while that Obi-Wan still stood before him, observing him, silently critiquing him. It rankled him, his signature chafing under the weight of failing before his Master when all he wanted was to prove that he was capable and good. Minutes blurred by as nothing but a slow agony of concentration and a rising tide of bitterness as the clay beneath his hands once again began to warp. White hot disappointment made his hands tremble, so close to flinging the whole wheel aside—

A broad chest suddenly draped over his back, with strong arms coming around to circle him. Anakin froze, his body locking taut. That wasn’t good. He needed to get away, needed anything besides the heat of Obi-Wan behind him and the humid panting breaths Anakin could feel against the nape of his neck.

“What—what are you doing?” He asked numbly, sounding pained.

“Helping you,” Obi-Wan said softly, shifting slightly to grab at his hands.

Anakin immediately clenched them, stopping him. He forced his breathing even, so sure that Obi-Wan must have felt the way his whole body quivered at the almost action. He couldn’t allow Obi-Wan to purposefully touch him with those hands, not when he had spent hours observing them and admiring each and every indentation and crease.  

“I don’t need help,” he snarled, cornered.

Obi-Wan puffed out a frustrated breath, the type that meant annoyance currently sat twisted on his mouth. A look that Anakin was particularly familiar with. “There’s no shame in it, Anakin, just let me—”

“No,” he bit back, petulant.

The Force sparked irritation between them and he felt Obi-Wan’s resolve tighten, his tolerance wane. “Anakin,” Obi-Wan began lowly, woven with that particular lilt he used when displeased, “stop being so difficult. Now, let me help you.”

Some part of his subconscious must have recognised the warning tone from his Padawan days, for he found his hands involuntarily unclenching, allowing Obi-Wan to gather them in his own. Anakin blinked slowly and forced himself to remain calm, even as his Master’s hands covered his and fingers slid between his own, wet and slick with clay. A desperate throbbing ignited inside his chest as he stared down at them, curiously surprised to see that his own hands were larger, though not wider. Where his fingers tapered knobbly and slender Obi-Wan’s became thick, their palms were of similar size and both were lined with callouses spent from hours holding a saber.

Anakin heaved in a ragged breath, his toes curled in his boots and his presence in the Force bloomed alive with a heavy scarlet warmth.

“Okay?” Obi-Wan asked, likely sensing his turmoil.

No, I’m not, he cried internally. Of all the kriffing ways Obi-Wan could help me… He felt trapped in a fantasy years in the making, and he wanted nothing more than to flee, so sure that should Obi-Wan know of his base desires then he would never look at Anakin the same again. 

Eventually though, he nodded, slow and sluggish.

“Good,” Obi-Wan whispered against his neck.

Anakin smothered down a noise caught in his throat and squirmed as Obi-Wan shuffled closer, their hands moving together as Anakin started up the wheel again. He couldn’t—he couldn’t breathe with Obi-Wan this close, with his soft exhales against Anakin’s throat and the slick feeling of their hands rubbing together, slippery and so lewd that he could only pray to the Force that Obi-Wan didn’t dare question the scorching heat that wound through Anakin’s signature, sharp and deep.

More sweat trickled down his temple and his adam’s apple bobbed anxiously, his entire body still tense, and only growing tighter with each second. He was stuck in nothing but intoxicating heat and the jolting scent of the hair and skin and touch of the man he wanted more than anything.

“Like this,” Obi-Wan murmured, grabbing Anakin’s hands and placing them on either side of the clay, directing him as they began evening out the thickness and pulling the wall in slow, vertical movements. “You need to be steady and patient.”

Anakin swallowed thickly and tried to ignore the slickness of his and Obi-Wan’s fingers sliding together. “I was being patient,” he breathed, licking his lips. “It’s my right hand, it’s not nimble enough—”

“Yes it is,” Obi-Wan interrupted him softly. “I’ve seen you handle machinery that requires finer precision than this. It’s your haste to succeed that’s inhibiting you now.”

He grimaced, knowing that his Master was right and doubled down on his concentration, determined to get this right. His shoulders relaxed and his elbows lowered, and together he and Obi-Wan gently squeezed his hands towards each other, slowly moving the clay up and keeping the momentum fluid. Their interlocked hands applied the perfect amount of pressure, forcing the walls to widen to their desired shape. 

“Just like that.” Obi-Wan’s voice was proud, though slightly husky and the quality of it had Anakin wanting to whine and bear his neck, needing the heat of his mouth on him rather than just the fanning of his hot breath.

“Obi-Wan,” he warbled, choking down the ache and need for more that felt so close to falling from his grasp.

Obi-Wan merely hummed, then he unclasped their hands and carefully settled them atop of Anakin’s, no longer guiding, merely resting and the sight of them—Force—the sight of them covering his own, dripping, had him fumbling and distorting the clay they had so delicately made.

Anakin wasn’t able to strangle down the infuriated groan that fell from his mouth, nor could he hide the way his face contorted with disappointment when Obi-Wan moved away. He glanced up, so sure that Obi-Wan would scold him, only to find his Master with his hands on his hips, his expression so amused and doting that Anakin’s heart skipped a pace.

“Sometimes I think you’re the most impossible man that I know,” Obi-Wan grinned, shaking his head.

“I’ll get it right next time,” he grunted.

Obi-Wan’s expression turned familiar and cocky, and he replied with a mischievous glint that deepened the wholesome crinkles by his eyes, “Remind me to buy that bowl should it ever be made, we’ll need the evidence.”

“Hey!” Anakin cried, unable to stop the smile that graced his face, feeling so terribly smitten at the charming sight and easy teasing of his Master.

Obi-Wan laughed, all happiness and effortless, flourishing warmth in the Force.

Chapter Text

4.

Obi-Wan stared at him oddly when he walked into the command tent stationed on Iradu, the look swiftly disappeared when his Master grappled at his shoulder with a broad hand and chucked him a fierce smile. Anakin wanted to question him on it but found that the way his chest ached at the familiar fondness and relief in his former Master’s eyes yanked and tore at him so that he became distracted.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said when he pulled away, Commander Cody two steps behind him and sending Anakin a nod of acknowledgment. “It’s wonderful to see you. How long has it been? Three months?”

“Yes, Master,” he agreed, fighting past the urge to fall into the man’s arms, wondering what would need to happen for them to ever cross that boundary and what Obi-Wan’s reaction would be should Anakin ever tell him how much he had needed him, how much he had missed him. He was hanging by a thread and had been for a while now, the war, the fighting, the deaths—he only felt a need to scream and rage from the sharp ache of loss that plagued his every thought. 

The war had lasted longer than anyone had believed it would, and now more often than not, Anakin found it difficult to reconcile a time where his life hadn’t been anything but the stench of ion fire and dreams of his men dying in trenches filled with nothing but scarlet and squelching mud.

Iradu should have been an easy assault, but days had soon turned to weeks, then months, and all the while his thoughts would often turn to Obi-Wan. Needing to remember his determined poise and the hands that had guided Anakin through some of his most trying times. Whilst he crawled through mud and hid from ion cannons that turned the sky a violent wine red, memories of Obi-Wan had kept him sane—kept him alive. After nothing but sieges, assaults and entrenchments for months, the blessing of Obi-Wan and the 212th coming to their aid made him want to sob from relief, for he had been so sure that he would die with only memories of the man that he adored more than anything.

Obi-Wan sensed his turmoil and sent him another smile, this one softer and understanding. The Force flourished between them, gentle and supple, and lightly dismantled the grief and trauma that currently pierced through Anakin like a wire cut to hurt.

Anakin’s shoulders immediately sagged, and he answered the offering of Obi-Wan’s presence with his own smile, no matter that it made him feel ripped raw and seen to have his former Master know what he needed so well.

“You and your men have done an incredible job, Anakin,” Obi-Wan observed, eyes piercing. “To have held the stronghold for so long without any supplies or extra support is remarkable. The Council are all in agreement that you and your men will be sent back to Coruscant and the 212th will take over from here.”

Anakin frowned at him. His ears burned bright red from the praise, magnetised, and willing to take anything Obi-Wan gave him, yet outrage made him want to bare his teeth. “I’m not leaving you here on your own without any support,” Anakin snapped.

Obi-Wan let out a low and heavy sigh. “This isn’t up for discussion, Anakin. It’s already been decided.” He sounded so tired that Anakin was momentarily reminded that his Master must have been just as exhausted as him, the weary creases on his forehead and the dark circles beneath his eyes suggested as much.

Anakin gripped at the holo terrain map before him, knuckles whitening. He watched Obi-Wan with a loose tenderness as they held each other’s gaze, something inscrutable passing between them. 

“Fine,” he clipped back, restless.

Obi-Wan’s mouth pressed thin and tight. “Let’s get this handover sorted then.” 

Obi-Wan flicked through screens of blueprints and daily recordings made by Anakin and his men, stroking at his beard and engaging him and Captain Rex in conversation. Anakin watched the meeting unfold and participated whenever necessary, though swiftly found himself unspooling with a virulent hunger when Obi-Wan kept sending him peculiar looks. Never before had he felt so seen by his Master, yet not for the reason he sorely longed after. A surge of bitterness swept through him then, sour at having Obi-Wan's attention in this, and in many other things, but never in the way he wanted.

Tolerance was how he had been able to temper his expectations over the years, keeping them low and manageable in order to stop them from igniting like a match to oil. Only now, his stronghold wavered. “What’s wrong?” He made an aggressive gesture and glowered at Obi-Wan. “Do I have something on my face?”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “No.”

“Stop staring at me then,” he barked.

Obi-Wan cast a measured look across at him, his voice ever dry when he replied, “Seeing as you asked so nicely.”

“Whatever,” Anakin groused, making a frustrated sound. He drummed his fingers on the table and tried not to scowl too hard as the meeting carried on.

By the time the debriefing came to an end, Anakin felt ready to break with a wracked cry, the horrors of the past three months and the sudden appearance of Obi-Wan making him want to shred this perpetual craving. 

It was too much, it was always too much.

They filed out of the command tent and would have gone separate ways had Obi-Wan not sternly ordered Anakin to follow him, where he promptly found himself in his own tent, the lights inside dim and his Master standing before him, once again staring at him.

Incredulous anger throbbed behind his ribs. “Obi-Wan,” he growled, “will you sto—”

“When was the last time you looked in a mirror?” Obi-Wan asked flippantly.

Anakin didn’t let loose the noise of surprise that arose in his throat, but it was a near thing. “What?” He fumbled at the unexpected and caught it with predictable anger. “I thought you said there wasn’t anything on—”

“And there isn’t…” Obi-Wan scrubbed a frustrated hand across his face, attempting to hide his grimace, “not technically, I suppose.”

His mind felt addled. What the kriff was Obi-Wan talking about? 

“What?” he repeated, patience thinning.

Obi-Wan’s eyes hardened and he leaned heavily against the chair placed to the side, a wide hand wrapping around the backrest. Anakin could feel the consideration in his gaze, how Obi-Wan flummoxed with indecision in the Force around them.

“You have a…beard now,” Obi-Wan finally murmured, though it felt more like a question than a statement.

Anakin’s flesh hand flew to his jaw, scratching at the hair. He had barely thought about his grooming routine over the past few weeks, too busy trying to keep himself and his men alive. He muttered defensively, “Yeah, and what about it?”

Obi-Wan winced. Noticeably. “I’m just not used to it,” he rushed out.

Pure mortification welled within Anakin, turning his cheeks red and splotchy and making him cast his eyes down to cringe at his filthy boots, unable to look Obi-Wan in the eye. Obi-Wan hadn’t said it, but it was obvious he thought Anakin looked awful. It made his eyes sting, and he wanted nothing more than to melt into the floor and die, rather that than have Obi-Wan look at him and squirm from dislike. If he had thought Obi-Wan’s forever familial and platonic love for him hurt, it was nothing compared to knowing his Master found him outright unappealing.

“I only thought we’d be here for a few weeks so I didn’t pack any razors and I didn’t want to put any of the men out by asking them,” he said, his voice very small. 

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan began, apology in his tone, “don’t think I’m being cruel, it’s just tha—”

“It’s fine,” Anakin interrupted him. He moved to a nearby table and picked up a datapad to scroll through vacantly, desperately trying to ignore the collapse of his joy that had come with Obi-Wan’s arrival.

Behind him, Obi-Wan ruffled through what Anakin presumed were his bags, dropped off by members of the 212th whilst he and Obi-Wan had been in the debriefing. He startled when a hand suddenly lay on his shoulder and a humble voice spoke from his side, “Anakin, please don’t take anything I said the wrong way, but I think you’ll understand what I mean if you have a look.” A small handheld mirror was pressed into his palm at the same time as Obi-Wan gave him a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder.

At his first glance in the mirror he almost grimaced, then he almost laughed—stars, but he looked ridiculous. The beard, or the wretched wisps of hair that were desperately trying to be a beard, covered his cheeks and jaw in patchy and irregular dark intervals. There was no consistency or thickness, and that, alongside the sallowness of his skin and the grease of his hair from his abysmal self-care over the three months spent on this miserable planet meant he truly did look awful.

The past two hours replayed in his mind and he nearly flung himself from his tent from the rod of embarrassment that drove down his spine, his childishness and immature anger echoing before him on repeat. Force, but how was he to ever earn Obi-Wan’s respect when he always fell so quickly on the offensive rather than rationality.

“Kriff, Master,” he whined with a full body flush of horror, “why didn’t you just tell me that I look like a Padawan suddenly hit by puberty.”

Obi-Wan’s shoulders shook, and a deep laugh sounded throughout the small space. “That would have been rude of me.”

Anakin rolled his eyes and scoffed. “I thought that—” he cut himself off, somehow becoming even more flustered.

“Yes?” Obi-Wan prompted.

He fiddled with the mirror still held in his palm and steeled his resolve. “I thought that maybe you considered me ugly.” The words tumbled from his lips, stilted and clumsy, and his chest felt like it had been flayed, his heart ready for the taking.

Obi-Wan tilted his head, and though Anakin refused to directly meet his eyes he felt the interest of his Master’s gaze. When he replied, Obi-Wan’s voice came resolved and layered with hints of ambiguity, “You are not ugly.”

Anakin inhaled a shaky breath that somehow caught on his years of want and uprooted it so that it felt new and unexplored. “No?” He asked hopefully.

Obi-Wan hummed and leaned even more so against him. “Definitely not.”

The words burrowed themselves within him, burning torrid want alongside the years of desperate yearning and rallying Anakin to work up the courage to speak that which he had held close to his chest for so long now. If not now, then when? His love was beginning to resemble a fracture rather than an anchor, drowning him in grief over every lost opportunity. If the war should dare to take Obi-Wan from him before he had let loose his love then what would he do? He couldn’t bear the thought—

“Take a seat,” Obi-Wan said suddenly, moving away and gesturing to the nearby chair.

“What?” Anakin asked. He shook his head and came to, frustrated that he had let the rare chance to reveal all slip from his grasp. Spitting those words past the barricade that he had formed over the years was proving harder than he had expected, no doubt a result of his still present fear that Obi-Wan would mask his disgust with a polished smile and tell Anakin that such feelings would pass.

“Let’s get that beard sorted.” Obi-Wan turned the dim light brighter and moved to ruffle through his bag once again, coming away with a rag, a straight razor and a bottle of shaving lotion.

Anakin gaped at him. “I can do that myself,” he complained, reaching for the razor.

Obi-Wan held it out of reach and raised a wry eyebrow. “You’re so tired you can barely stand on your own two feet. I’m not letting you anywhere near a razor.”

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin stressed, peeved, “I’m not a child, I don’t ne—”

“Either I’m doing it or you’re going to continue walking around looking like that,” Obi-Wan interrupted him firmly, his stance set with that particular kind of stubbornness that Anakin knew would never fold. 

He rumbled a noise of outrage and threw himself into the chair, eyeing Obi-Wan with accustomed exasperation as he loomed closer. He watched with a growing sense of dread as Obi-Wan smothered his strong hands with the lotion, heat instinctively rising to his cheeks as the liquid squelched and slicked between fingers and across palms that he had dreamt of too many times to count.

“Ermmm—” he fumbled, trying to swallow past the sudden brittleness in his throat. “Obi-Wan—I don’t think this is necessary—”

“Quiet, Anakin,” Obi-Wan ordered, hands rising to press warm lotion onto Anakin’s cheeks and down the long column of his neck.

Anakin desperately bit at his gums, stopping the choked off keen that rattled within his throat. Obi-Wan spread the lotion with sure and solid strokes, it was messy, and infinitely more intense than the clap of a hand on a shoulder or even their hands sliding together when wet with clay, and Anakin felt close to trembling from the intimacy of it.

Sweat trickled along the nape of his neck, against his collarbones, and his breath came out with shaky, loose exhalations. Should a fleet of Separatist battle droids suddenly storm the camp, Anakin wouldn't have noticed, too enraptured by the searing proximity of his Master and the heady effect that was Obi-Wan’s unadulterated attention on him.

He had wanted this, Obi-Wan’s focus on solely him, for so long and—and he couldn’t help himself—

He closed his eyes with a tremulous wrack of submission.  

“There we are,” Obi-Wan murmured, thumb swiping across Anakin’s cheekbone with a tenderness that made his heart seize.

Only sensation shrouded him then: the odourless scent of the GAR issued lotion and the tacky stickiness of it clinging to his skin, his spread knees and the heat of Obi-Wan’s thighs pressed against his own as he stood between them, the large hands that cradled his face and kept him still within a secure hold. It all felt maddeningly unreal for a taut moment, the seemingly purposeful way Obi-Wan’s hands held him so safely, as if he were something precious, the weight of their thighs pressed together despite the unnecessity of it, the unsteady breathing he could hear coming from his Master—

Abruptly, Obi-Wan broke the moment with grated words, “I think I would prefer it if you looked at me whilst I held a knife to your throat.”

Anakin swallowed thickly. “I trust you,” he rasped, opening his eyes anyway and catching Obi-Wan’s expression as it flickered with some unnamed emotion.

“Still,” Obi-Wan shrugged, wiping his hands on the rag flung over his shoulder and picking up the blade placed to the side.

The straight razor shined bright under the harsh fluorescent light, glinting brutal and extreme in their sights. Obi-Wan held it in one broad hand, strong and steady, whilst the other encouraged Anakin to tilt his head back, exposing his neck. His pulse hammered beneath his skin and surely—surely, Obi-Wan could see it pulsing erratically.

The blade was pushed against his throat, curving to its shape as it scraped up and over his jaw. Obi-Wan’s spare hand firmly wrapped itself around the nape of his neck, keeping him in place and moving him as and when Obi-Wan needed. He remained passive, trusting, throughout, watching through heavy eyes as Obi-Wan would wipe the razor clean on the rag before returning back to task. For months now Anakin had felt like a supernova soon due to implode from all the brutalities that he had seen, but here, with Obi-Wan holding a knife to his throat in staunch hands, Anakin had never felt so calm or secure.

It must have been obvious in the Force—his utter tranquillity, how his signature now resembled a placid shore rather than a turbulent sea, usually always roiling and thrashing with unease. It poured from him with tame undulations, lightly lapping against Obi-Wan’s own presence. His Master didn’t say anything though, merely continued chiseling away until he eventually finished Anakin’s throat and moved onto his face. 

Here, Anakin could only stare up at him with something resembling awe, hopelessly enamoured with the flick of hair that had fallen into Obi-Wan’s face, the eyes that were dark with concentration and of course, the hand and fingers that rubbed against his cheek with each rasp of the blade. Grimy and drained on a planet that they had lost and then gained repeatedly throughout this deplorable war, this was what Anakin had needed all along—proof. Proof of Obi-Wan’s care, his kindness, his loyalty to him.

The closer Obi-Wan came to finishing, the tighter the air drew between them. An inexplicable weight saturated the moment, stretching taut when Obi-Wan’s other hand came up to cup his face in a stronger hold, fingers sliding into his dirty hair and thumb quietly brushing against his jaw. Anakin didn’t even think—he couldn’t have stopped himself even if he wanted to—

He leaned into that hand, nuzzling it, and unintentionally causing the last flourish of Obi-Wan’s wrist against his skin to snick at the flesh.

He hissed softly, then immediately quietened at the sight of Obi-Wan’s parted lips and flustered expression that currently bore holes into the hand that still clasped Anakin’s head. 

Anakin couldn’t say why, but something in his gut tightened in anticipation. A thrum of promise crooned in his veins, making him speak boldly, “Am I handsome again, Master?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes snapped to his, dark and blown, before his expression turned stiff. “Anakin—” he warned.

He took in the heaving of Obi-Wan’s chest and, bravely, pressed back into the hand still holding him. “Tell me I’m not,” he pleaded, pulse kicking up another frenzied notch.

Obi-Wan made some kind of stricken noise and dug fingertips into hair, tightening even more so when Anakin openly shuddered in approval. 

“You were always handsome, Anakin,” Obi-Wan croaked out, nearly inaudible.

Anakin sighed, exquisite pleasure unravelling with a precarious breath. “Obi-Wan, plea—”

“General Skywalker, we’ve just received a transmission fro—”

Captain Rex stopped short upon striding into Anakin’s tent, eyes wide and embarrassment so obvious on his face that Anakin momentarily felt bad for him, before promptly wanting to rage at his interruption when Obi-Wan bolted from his place between Anakin’s thighs so fast that the remnants of heat from his hand could still be felt on Anakin’s neck.

“What is it?” Anakin gritted out, hands clenching at his thighs.

Rex shifted uncomfortably, his expression exorbitantly pained. “Jesse’s patrol team have gotten in touch, they’ve found one of the Separatist hideouts.”

It was good news, he should have been pleased, except disappointment sat bitter in his mouth. “Get Commander Cody and go to the command tent, me and Obi-Wan will meet you there.”

Rex departed with a swift nod, leaving him alone with an Obi-Wan who refused to look in his direction. “Obi-Wan—”

“Let’s get going,” Obi-Wan said coolly, chucking Anakin the rag from over his shoulder to clean his face with and putting the razor and lotion away.

Frustration burned in his stomach, and he wanted nothing more than to lash out with words aimed to hurt. Fed up with Obi-Wan and his aloofness, his impassivity, his kriffing compassion and resilience and friendship that had snared Anakin’s love years ago. He was sick of this longing and being denied that which had tormented him for so long now.

“Obi-Wan,” he trembled, “please.”

Obi-Wan pretended not to hear him, and instead, with his expression steely said, “Come on, we’ll be late otherwise.”

Anakin stared after him as he left the tent and tried to breathe through the grief that was his heartbreak.

Chapter Text

5.

“Anakin!”

Anakin ignored the feverish cry, instead choosing to continue to engage with multiple droids before Obi-Wan grappled him with the Force and yanked him behind a singed wall just as a round of blaster fire pummelled the air where he had stood. He tumbled ungracefully into the wall, emitting a quiet umph and chucking Obi-Wan a glare that he could distantly acknowledge was incredibly ungrateful, considering that he had just saved his life. 

Anakin peaked his head around the crumbling brick, catching a glimpse of the tactical droid in charge of the Separatist militia currently reining a fearless assault against the incoming Republic forces. A heavy gust of wind whipped his mangled hair around his face, bringing with it the odour of burning things, the curdling screams of beings in pain—dying—the repetitive thud of concussive weapons, the whining pitch of lasers firing. He ducked back to safety and let out a long, deep breath. 

The tendrils of Obi-Wan’s Force signature prodded against his own, composed and unshakeable and exasperated. Anakin couldn’t quite help his scowl as he glanced over at his Master, where his hands were patiently gesticulating their next plan of action. Quickly catching on, Anakin shook his head, frantic and frustrated. 

Kriff, but why did they have to be stuck on this force-forsaken planet together? After Iradu, Obi-Wan had tried his hardest to ensure that they were kept apart. 

Apart from now, apparently. 

Instead of caving to the anger that throbbed behind his eyelids, Anakin chucked Obi-Wan a familiar cocky grin. His Master noticeably grit his teeth and sent back further instructions, this time with broad hands that were jerky and adrenaline fuelled, their trembles only slightly noticeable.    

Anakin frowned at him; he pushed a mud laden strand of burnished hair away from his face whilst his features momentarily flittered with indecision before landing on determination. That wasn’t what Obi-Wan wanted, but Anakin didn't care. He was fed up, fed up with always caring what Obi-Wan thought and never getting anything in return, and so Anakin gave him an arrogant shrug, twirled his lightsaber within his grip, and then propelled himself to dramatically land on a platform near the tactical droid. 

Exhilaration curled in Anakin’s gut, his lightsaber instinctively rising as he fended off an avalanche of blaster fire that greeted him upon his landing. He spun and twirled, grimacing at the squelch of wet mud moving beneath his feet and preened as he felt Obi-Wan’s reluctant awe through the Force, how he watched Anakin deflect blaster bolts and slice through droids with admirable ease. In these moments, Anakin felt invincible, the Force incandescent and swollen with his strength, succumbing to all of his needs. The azure column of his blade was a beacon of hope in the muggy air and he and his men knew it, fighting with remarkable vigour just so they could be by his side.

His heart hammered inside his chest, his senses screaming when the Force cried out to him—a warning. In one breathless swoop, he flung his lightsaber from his grip, his outstretched hand curling inwards as he called upon the Force and manipulated the blade to slice through a squad of battle droids closing in around him. His lightsaber swiftly slapped back into his palm and through the reverberations of the Force between him and Obi-Wan, he heard two words that lit scorching heat throughout his veins and jolted arousal so heady in his gut that he almost dropped to his knees. 

Good boy 

Anakin blinked and his cheeks turned scarlet, so overwhelmed by the throbbing wantwantwant that pounded within that he nearly forgot the fighting, the men depending on him, the loathsome impasse that Obi-Wan had imposed upon them since Iradu, and gone to the man to plead, please please please I want you, I love you so much—

It was only thanks to his fast reflexes that he managed to block multiple shots suddenly aimed his way, each one bouncing off his blade with a familiar hiss. As he expertly swerved and diverted each renewed wave, a presence joined him, landing on soft feet by his side.

“Took you long enough,” Anakin murmured, his and Obi-Wan’s backs pressed against each other as they fought furiously. The sound and smell of battle filled the air, smoke billowing around them from decimated droids and cries of clones screaming in agony. It made him fight harder, his muscles aching and his lightsaber moving with a ferocity that Obi-Wan would scold him for later. 

Obi-Wan grunted in reply, dragging two super battle droids forward and thrusting his blade through their circuits. “And what was your plan exactly? How do you plan on getting to the tactical droid?” he panted.

He growled a defensive, “I’m not planning on getting to the tactical droid, I’m just distracting their forces.”

The two of them fell into easy synchronisation, the blue arcs of their blades both deadly in their defensive and offensive stances. Together, he and Obi-Wan were a perfect balance, two halves of a single warrior that was both dangerous and beautiful. If only Obi-Wan agreed, he thought morosely.

Heavy drops of rain began to splatter around them, blurring their view and drenching their robes so that they hung uncomfortably from their frames, he thought it might have been enough to distract Obi-Wan from what he had said. Apparently not. 

“What do you mean you’re just distracting their forces? That was the plan the entire time, why couldn’t you have waited and gone with Rex and your men?” Obi-Wan asked sternly, voice openly irritated.

His own vexation flared, as volatile as ion fire. “Can’t we talk about this later?” Anakin snarled.

Obi-Wan quickly rubbed water from his eyes, his tone lowering in annoyance, “No we can’t, why can’t you ever do as I ask Ana—“ 

Hurt erupted behind his ribs, piercing him so that his eyes stung. He had always hated it when Obi-Wan used that tone, so belittling, so disappointed with his always reckless Padawan. Now it wounded him even more—he missed the warmth and affection that was Obi-Wan’s friendship. In the months since Iradu, all Anakin had left of Obi-Wan was his indifference, his harsh isolation, as if he had not held Anakin and leaked desperate want through darkened eyes or through the grasp of a strong hand in Anakin’s hair. He ached for Obi-Wan to hold him like that again, except his Master remained forever out of his reach.

Anakin whipped his sodden head over to look at him, the stance of his body suggesting anger but the distress in his eyes revealing everything that went unsaid. He quickly cast his vulnerability aside, replacing it with a curled lip of distaste. “You were taking too long to get to the front and my men were being bombarded, figured I’d have to come round here and help you out like always.”

His chest heaved and his cheeks flushed red in anger, the heat of his body and the cold rain making his skin clammy, his grip on his lightsaber tightening as the hilt became slippery from the constant rain. 

In the distance, he could make out a proton cannon, its three legs clambering towards them slowly and a mixture of the 501st and 212th attempting to disarm it. With a glance around himself, he saw that he and Obi-Wan had destroyed most of the droids here, so with a decisive nod he said, “I’m going for the tank.”

As he once again flung himself into the air, he thought he heard a contrite murmur of his name, but before he could think anything of it he had landed on the slippery tank, where with a resounding thud his footing slipped and he fell down painfully onto his right knee. Something jagged sliced into him, his presence vibrating with crisp pain. Anakin pushed past it, needing to focus as he dutifully stood and opened the tanks latch door, promptly decimating the droids inside and the controls with them. The tank came to a shuddering stop and when he exited it was to the sight of the remainder of the 501st, led by Rex, securing the stronghold with a severe looking Obi-Wan pointing his lightsaber at the tactical droid's wiring box. 

Anakin allowed himself a brief moment of respite as he leant back against the still-smoking tank, trying to ignore the keen pain in his knee that he knew would cause him later hassle. The cold rain battered at his face as droids around him began surrendering, their blasters dropping to the floor and sergeants of the GAR ordering them into lines of termination. The scorched smell of blaster fire greeted him as he began walking back up to the stronghold, with battle droids dropping around him. 

The super battle droids came to an eerie halt, informing him that someone had managed to deactivate their primary controls. Whereas medics were running frantically across the blackened battlefield as they attempted to identify the injured, the marshy earth squelched under their heavy steps and smeared dirty, wet streaks onto all the men’s armour. It made all those laid bleeding in the dirt even harder to find. Anakin swallowed past the fragility in his throat, his eyes roaming over all the men they had lost and trying to remember their names.

“I can’t believe we finally got through on this force-forsaken planet,” Anakin said when he came to stand by Obi-Wan’s side. They both watched as Rex led the tactical droid away to begin the long march back to their camp. “I can’t wait to get off this absolute hell hole.”

Obi-Wan hummed in acknowledgement. “Don’t get your hopes up, you know that we have to stay here for a while yet to guarantee our hold. The Separatists will likely send reinforcements in the next few weeks.”

“Well thanks for ruining the one good moment of the past month, Master,” he drawled.

Obi-Wan chucked him a tight smile, one he was now unfortunately familiar with. “Always happy to help.”

Anakin didn’t deign to answer him, knowing the words to be an appeasement. Just another lie to join the string of others Obi-Wan had told him recently. The last thing they needed right now was more resentment simmering between them, so Anakin said nothing.

Apparently though, Obi-Wan was still trying to ease things between them, still trying to fight for the stilted friendship that Anakin felt slipping further from his fingers every day. “The men are starting to think of us as some sort of miracle team,” he said, huffing out a stiff laugh.

Anakin attempted to return the gesture, but only managed some form of a half-sigh, half-noise of intrigue. Perhaps he would have tried more if he hadn’t been so tired, except he had no motivation to do so, and somewhat spitefully, he felt that Obi-Wan didn’t deserve his laughter anyway. Not after all he had done, or more appropriately, failed to do.

He hooked his lightsaber back on his belt and glanced down at himself, noting the black singe of blaster bolts on the sleeves of his dark robes. Mud could be found splattered everywhere, smearing as heavy rain continued pelting them and weighing the clothing down near unbearably. He felt filthy, no part of him left clean, the constant rain and fog making him long for a warm, dry bed. Even his fingers were beginning to prune. Anakin frowned in discouragement; he couldn’t remember a time when he had ever disliked a planet this much.

He shifted slightly and grimaced when it caused his knee to jerk in discomfort. He had had far worse in this war, but to have an injury on perhaps the most miserable planet so far felt like a cruelty that he didn’t deserve. He rubbed at it distractedly, then sneered when his already grimy hand came away sticky and dripping crimson. The blood no longer bothered him, having seen it staining the fallen bodies of so many of his men. 

At least we’re still standing. We survived another battle in this pointless wa—

His stomach suddenly kicked over in panic, seeing a steady trickle of blood running down Obi-Wan’s face as he turned towards Anakin. His Master stood with his arms crossed over his chest, panting, his wet lathered hair plastered to his forehead and matted amongst the glaringly red fluid leaking from an uneven wound on his temple. He was completely oblivious to his injury and merely scowled out across at the debris and the men being carried away on stretchers. 

“You’re bleeding,” Anakin murmured, reaching a hand out to touch, to help, before dropping it with a deep ache when Obi-Wan noticeably stilled at the almost gesture.

Obi-Wan’s soot smudged face stared at him blankly, where he then ran a hesitant hand across his face before landing on the wound, prodding at it and frowning at the blood and dirt that came away on his fingers. “It’ll be fine,” he sighed with a shrug of his shoulders.

“No,” Anakin returned curtly, “let’s look at it under some cover.”

He strode away, trying not to limp as the pain in his knee flared but knowing that he had failed as soon as he heard rushed footsteps follow after him. "What happened?” Obi-Wan asked, his brows pulling down in worry. 

It almost sounds like he cares. 

Should he speak those words he worried he might break with a shaken sob, so close to begging Obi-Wan to talk to him, to tell him what he wanted, except his pride wouldn’t allow him to take that step. There was an edge of tension to his presence that refused to leave him be. He tried to hide it but knew he was nothing but a layer of falsehoods—his signature a tangled web of impressions used in the hope of deceiving all around him. Strong and serene and calm—and all a lie, because just beneath the surface one could clearly see the jagged and raw shores of his true feelings. He was an open wound, the edges mottled purple and blue before delving into a sticky crimson, where only anger and hurt could be found.

“I landed on my knee a bit too hard, that’s all,” he bit out, continuing to amble to the high-topped trees. Once undercover, he gestured for Obi-Wan to sit on the damp ground. It was less than ideal but at least it wasn’t flooded and they were protected from the rain battering down around them.

He rolled up his sleeves and ran his hands under the rain, scrubbing them as best as he could until the only dirt remaining was that under his fingernails and the bits etched into the lines of his palms. When finished, he knelt before Obi-Wan and fiddled with the pouch attached to his belt. 

Obi-Wan sat thin-lipped and taut before him, his beige robes sopping wet and clinging to him, frustratingly highlighting the stretch of his chest and the incredibly broad line of his shoulders. He should have looked soaked and pathetic, but he somehow seemed more commanding than ever—forever unwilling to show any weakness. Almost against his will, Anakin’s eyes flicked down to the hands that rested against grubby trousers. They were filthy, dirt sitting in crevices and beneath trim nails, knuckles abrazed and palms hardened with calluses.

Anakin swallowed, hard, still so wrongfooted whenever his gaze lingered on those powerful hands. His brain caught up eventually, and he flushed hot and mortified.

He was furious with Obi-Wan and his continued indifference, what he shouldn’t be doing was thinking about those kriffing hands.

“Are you a medic now?” Obi-Wan said testily, eyeing the antiseptic wipe in Anakin’s hold.

Anakin unwrapped the blasted thing with trembling hands, maddened beyond belief. “Do shut up, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan’s expression went shocked then confused before landing on incensed. “ Anakin,” he began in that particular lilt that meant a lecture was coming, “you may not be my Padawan anymore but that is no way to speak—”

To truly shut him up, Anakin pushed back rustic coloured hair and firmly rubbed the wipe across the weeping wound. Obi-Wan stopped talking midsentence, face slanting in frustration and mouth thinning, and despite being preoccupied, Anakin tried to catch his eyes multiple times as he dabbed at the shallow cut. Unsurprisingly, Obi-Wan stubbornly refused to acknowledge it and concentrated on staring off into the distance, looking at anything but him. 

Dried blood had clotted around the injury and Anakin wiped at it determinedly, cleaning the surrounding area and the cut with a diligence usually only reserved for battle plans or saber training. Something unspooled down his spine as he worked, a lull that he hadn’t felt for months now, and that Anakin knew was because of Obi-Wan. His Master didn’t have to say anything, or even look at him, it was his presence that calmed the turbulence of his mind. The natural lightness that accompanied him wherever and welcomed Anakin, even now, after everything. At the realisation, a shocked, staticky heat bloomed in his sternum and caught a noise high in his throat.

Force, but he had missed Obi-Wan.

“I think it’s time for the bacta, Anakin,” Obi-Wan breathed against his cheek.

Anakin melted above him, mind gone stuttery as he opened the packet, dabbing some onto his fingers and rubbing it onto the cut. Obi-Wan hissed quietly at the initial burn, though he soon quietened and this time, watched Anakin with eyes full of nothing but molten heat.

Furious want struck Anakin in the gut, and he had to stop himself from climbing into Obi-Wan’s lap, so sure that he would be denied again, no matter that his Master currently looked at him as if he wanted nothing more than to tongue along the seam of his lips and breathe him in.

“Now the plaster.” Obi-Wan’s voice was low and needy, encouraging, and Anakin fought past the frantic beating of his heart, fiddling with the wrapper of the plaster, the loud crinkling and the shaky exhales of his breath the only noises to fill the gnawing silence.

Obi-Wan’s hooded eyes never left his face as Anakin patted down the plaster, and he wanted—Force, how he wanted to fist his hands in Obi-Wan’s robes and bring their mouths together. To feel nothing but scorching heat, the burn of Obi-Wan’s beard rasping against his cheek, those broad hands frantically gripping at his hair and tugging him in closer, holding him, caressing him, caring for him—

“Thank you, Anakin,” Obi-Wan suddenly murmured.

Anakin pulled away as if burned, feeling rattled and jaded and so embarrassed that he almost wished a Separatist tank might come and trample them so that he could rid himself of his mortification. Shouldn't he be able to rein this in better by now? How was it that he still felt wrongfooted and awkward like a Padawan when in Obi-Wan’s presence? 

He was tidying up his pouch when Obi-Wan abruptly said, “Let me see your knee.”

Anakin froze. “What?” His eyes rose and fixed on the determined clench of Obi-Wan’s jaw.

“Let me see your knee,” he repeated tersely, fingers delving into his own pouch. 

“That’s not necessary—“ 

Obi-Wan gave him an embittered glare. “So you can look after me, but I can’t look after you?” he challenged, his tone low and heated.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Anakin snapped, attaching his pouch to his belt once again and running nervous hands through his knotted hair.

“Then let me see,” Obi-Wan pressed, voice hard and features sharp.

“Fine,” he conceded, “but wash your hands first.”

A tremor of turmoil wracked through him as he began undoing the bindings of his trousers. Preferably, he would have removed his boots and rolled his leggings up, except he didn’t want to get wet feet, quite possibly the only part of him that was still dry. Pulling his trousers down, he winced at the long, serrated wound sitting diagonally across his knee, oozing a significant amount of blood.

Wet, reasonably clean hands suddenly held his knee, and Anakin glanced up to see concern etched deeply into the lines across Obi-Wan’s forehead, a dirty lock of hair falling into his eyes. “You’re hurt,” Obi-Wan’s voice wavered, his eyes intensely scrutinising the wound. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

“It’s not that bad,” Anakin said gruffly.

Reaching for a dressing from his pouch, Obi-Wan began carefully blotting away the blood and flashed him a sarcastic smile. “And you say I’m as stubborn as a bantha.”

Anakin huffed with indignation. “Are you really lecturing me right now?”

Obi-Wan ignored him, and he watched as his Master considered the lesion closely, eventually releasing a breath of relief. “I can’t see any shrapnel. Bacta should work until we’re back at the camp and Kix is able to give you some stitches.”

“See,” Anakin smirked. “I knew it wasn’t that bad.”

His Master glared at him. “You didn’t know that, Anakin,” he admonished with a disapproving frown. Pulling back and grabbing an antiseptic wipe, he gestured across Anakin’s frame with a harsh flick of his hand. “Look at you, you’re covered in scars, you’ve been exceedingly reckless over the past few months.”

Anakin shrugged it off, refusing to engage in that conversation. They both knew the cause of his increased recklessness, but he wasn’t going to confront Obi-Wan with it. Not when his Master continued to ignore the jarring tension that coiled tight and unresolved between them, waiting to implode at the slightest provocation.

Obi-Wan sighed, his features growing somber as he dabbed the wipe at his wound. “I suppose I can hardly talk, what with all my scars.”

It was an olive branch, and one Anakin accepted with a soft smile. He channelled that warmth through him, allowing him to melt with the pain and to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes, finding them unusually dark and unfocused.

“Now for the bacta,” Obi-Wan rasped quietly, reaching for it and squeezing two drops onto his fingers.

Anakin inhaled sharply, the initial touch littering pain across the sensitive skin, though it felt minuscule in comparison to the torrid want that ignited as one large hand began kneading his knee, rubbing the bacta in with firm, decisive strokes. The other wrapped around his thigh, gripping it securely, familiarly, as if that pale, weathered hand was meant to lay stark against his golden skin.

Anakin sat frozen, feeling struck in the gut by the throbbing need that churned through him. He shuddered in a strangled breath, shamelessly staring at the hands that he had memorised and observed and dreamt of so often that he knew them better than his own. Knew the scar that ran from Obi-Wan’s forefinger, across his hardened palm to his ring finger on his right hand. Knew its texture and depth, had rubbed that scar when Obi-Wan lay immobile in a bed, concussed from another brutal battle. Knew the middle finger of his left hand that was thicker than any other, had longed for it to card through his curls or to press into those places where he yearned for Obi-Wan to be. Knew the hardships they had been through, their soft youthfulness that he had noted on that fateful day when he was eighteen, and their hardened and battle weary form of now, inscribed with deep lines beginning to show Obi-Wan’s age.

He was desperate for them, for them to hold him and care for him and love him, and before he wouldn’t have thought it possible, only now those hands tended to him with a gentleness that belied Obi-Wan’s insistence on distance.

Those hands that were brave and true, that had inflicted necessary damage and fought wars with bleak efficiency, cradled him with a tenderness that revealed all. Filthy and wary on a planet that encapsulated everything he abhorred about this war, Obi-Wan tended to him with nothing but care and longing and—love. Anakin could see it clearly now, and he couldn’t help himself.

Please, he thought, sent through the Force, and distantly wondered how much Obi-Wan had heard when he glanced up with widened eyes.

Please, he repeated, giddy with anticipation as his eyes fixed on Obi-Wan’s lips, hungry to fill that ache that had festered within him for years.

He bent forward, intent on finally claiming Obi-Wan as his. Only, Obi-Wan turned his head aside, causing Anakin’s lips to brush against his bearded cheek. Renewed heartache erupted in Anakin’s chest, the rejection causing it to clinch in anguish. Had he read those hands wrong? He didn’t think so, but doubt filled him anyway. Embarrassment immediately rippled across his cheeks, and he pulled back, urgently wanting to flee, except when he tried a hand grasped the back of his neck and fingers caught in his damp curls. 

Obi-Wan held him there, their foreheads pressed together and humid exhalations brushing across his lips. Something wistful and vast flared between them, Obi-Wan’s usually tightly controlled emotions running amok until he gathered them close and breathed deeply.

Anakin closed his eyes and focused on the warmth of Obi-Wan’s presence, on the hand fervently keeping him close and the quickened heartbeat he could hear as clearly as his own.

“Please,” he begged, I want you, I need you, left unsaid, though he knew Obi-Wan heard them anyway.

Lips moved to brush against his hair, followed by a deep inhalation as Obi-Wan breathed him in. Smelling dirt and sweat and burned ozone, and something beneath that was uniquely him. “Not yet,” Obi-Wan said, voice low.

“When?” he implored.

“You’ll know when,” Obi-Wan murmured, lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

“Obi-Wan,” he whined, “I’ve already waited so lon—”

Obi-Wan hummed and tightened his grip on his hair, his presence in the Force a smouldering furnace of desire. “The war is so near its end, can’t you feel it?”

Indignation rose in his throat. He could feel it, how the Force constantly teetered on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall into an abyss at any moment. But the Force was a fickle thing, always vague and constantly in motion, and Anakin couldn’t wait to see what way it swayed before Obi-Wan could become his. “It could be months yet,” he bit out, petulant despite his best efforts. “Don’t make me wait that long.”

Obi-Wan chuckled. “Have patience, Anakin.”

“Master,” he grumbled. 

“It’ll be worth it,” Obi-Wan whispered. “I promise.”

The promise shuddered through him, electric and wild. "Will you at least stop avoiding me? I thought you were angry with me," he revealed sadly. 

"That wasn't my intention," Obi-Wan said softly, apology in his tone, "but keeping my distance was necessary."

Anakin frowned. "Why?" 

Obi-Wan huffed a noise of exasperation and his voice came out guttural when he replied, "Anakin, you're very tempting."

What. He couldn't—he couldn't help it, he keened out a disbelieving sound, arousal crackling through him as fast as a whip. 

"Really?" 

It seemed too surreal to be true. That all these months Obi-Wan had kept away because he wouldn't be able to deny him, because of temptation. Just the knowledge that his usually impeccably controlled former Master felt so swayed in his presence was more than he could have dreamed of. 

Only the sudden rumble of a quiet groan into his tangled curls revealed all. It was needy, and Anakin felt near mad with the truth of it. Obi-Wan wanted him. Desperately, apparently. 

"Yes, really," Obi-Wan said darkly. 

"Oh Gods," he breathed, shameless, "please."

Another groan sounded, this one pained, and matching Obi-Wan’s face when he pulled back to look at Anakin with poorly concealed longing. "Stars, but you're not making this easy, are you?" he rumbled, the hand in Anakin's hair moving to grip at his jaw, tilting his head so that he ended up staring at an Obi-Wan who looked absolutely wanton. Eyes blown, cheeks flushed and posture rigid, as if his Master was deliberately holding himself back. 

A jolt of want rippled through him, urging him to further encourage the dishabille of his usually refined Master. He would have flung himself into Obi-Wan’s arms had his eyes not narrowed in sudden understanding. "You impossible man," Obi-Wan laughed, his hand dropping away and leaving Anakin horribly bereft without it. "Of course you wouldn't make this easy."

"You're expecting me to wait months when you're looking at me like that," he complained.

Obi-Wan smirked, and Anakin blushed so bright he worried that his cheeks could act as a beacon upon realising it was the expression his Master used when flirting. He had seen it directed at many people, but had never thought to see it aimed at him. It was crooked and charming, and Anakin felt helpless against it. 

"Oh," Obi-Wan grinned, wicked and sharp. "You want it, don't you?" 

Anakin dug flesh and durasteel fingers into his thighs, so close to unspooling and begging from the white-hot drive the words sparked down his spine. “Kriff, you can’t say things like that,” he said, breathy and high-pitched.

Obi-Wan stood and glanced down at him with obvious fondness, even as he looked delighted and roguish at Anakin’s indignation. “I’ll save it for when I can, then,” he said, all amused, glinting eyes.

Anakin’s mouth parted around an unsteady exhale, attempting to regather his composure. “Force, but you’re infuriating.”

Obi-Wan barked out an incredulous laugh. “Me?! Has a kettle ever been so black, Anakin?” He asked gleefully.

“Whatever,” Anakin mumbled, trying not to squirm as Obi-Wan watched him apply a plaster to his cleaned wound.

“What?” He asked, voice strained when Obi-Wan continued staring at him, eyes heavy as Anakin pulled up his trousers and retied them with clumsy hands.

Obi-Wan’s face slanted into a familiar, flirtatious grin. “I’m afraid I can’t say, it falls into the ‘save for later’ category.”

Anakin let out a bashful, resigned groan as he stood, unperturbed by the amused expression Obi-Wan chucked his way at the sound. It was insignificant in comparison to the way his heart vehemently surged inside his chest, something at long last flying loose and screaming at the utter rightness of Obi-Wan’s promise.

“These are going to be a long few months, aren’t they?” He croaked, jittery and strung thin, ready for anything.

Obi-Wan merely laughed, bright enough that the crinkles at the corners of his blue eyes deepened. 

Anakin smiled, not bothering to restrain the breathless joy that thrummed through him in the Force, hopelessly in love and biding his time for when the moment would be right. 

Chapter Text

+1

Anakin hadn’t seen Obi-Wan in three weeks.

Not since the day Anakin had stood before the Council and recounted what he had witnessed that fateful evening—what he had done. Not since the day the man he had considered to be one of his closest confidants had held the promise of darkened possibilities within his fist and shaken them before Anakin. It had been so close, the darkside threatening to smear all that was good and encouraging him to embrace the grief and hatred and fear that had stained his soul throughout that inexorably hopeless war. Its presence had felt familiar and possessive, a cold intricacy of thick, dark tendrils, hoping to latch onto all the luminous pockets of light within him.

Anakin had denied it. He had barred those tendrils, the darkness within him snarling in surprised defeat. Incredulous that it did not get to inflict its greed and misery. 

And now here he stood, on a balcony at a party celebrating the inauguration of Bail Organa as the Supreme Chancellor. Anakin hated it. Hated how he had been fret and fawned over, a speech made in his honour for coming out victorious against the treacherous Sheev Palpatine. Who were these people to congratulate him when they didn’t know how close he had come to falling? How could they reconcile him as a hero, when Anakin had been oblivious to the man’s plans despite having his lies whispered in his ears repeatedly?

He felt like a failure.

Still, propriety demanded that he show his face here. The Jedi needed to show the citizens of the Republic that they could be trusted, and so if he had to attend unbearable parties with uppish senators to do so, then he would.

Upon the orders of Master Windu in his bed in the Halls of Healing, Anakin was to be left alone and given as much space as he needed. But after only three weeks of lingering around the Temple, feeling as if his skin were to soon slink from his bones if he didn’t do something, he had agreed to attend this blasted charade.

“I would advise you not to get too close to the Chancellor, but I think you’ve learned your lesson,” Master Windu had said, his lips quirking and his eyes sparkling with something like amusement. It had been so unusual that Anakin had practically gaped at him until he left.

That had been four hours ago, and Anakin had been going quietly insane since. He had gone longer than this without feeling Obi-Wan’s presence, without hearing that crisp Coruscanti accent, but after learning that his former Master would also be attending the party, he hadn’t been able to do anything. Anticipation drummed through him with such potency that he worried the lining of his stomach would soon be spilt on the floor.

Obi-Wan’s promise echoed before him on repeat, alongside the remnants of the touches that had kept him company since that profound day. He smoothed down his shirt self-consciously, his heart pounding even though he knew he looked good. He was dressed in an all black suit with a silk waistcoat and a jacket streaked with golden threads. His curls sat soft and neatly trimmed, falling to just above his shoulders, with not a patch of stray hair on his jaw or cheeks in sight. 

A heavy gust of wind whipped his hair around his face, bringing with it the scent of fumes from spacecrafts passing nearby, the subtle hint of spiced liquor being drunk by beings from within the brightly lit hall, the sharp evening air that was Coruscant night life.

Anakin breathed deeply and rolled his shoulders, purposefully trying to relax his features as he looked out at the thousands of twinkling lights spread out before him.

“You look handsome.”

He startled and turned towards the refined voice, his mouth suddenly dry and knees threatening to wobble as his eyes landed on Obi-Wan. Desire shot through him so fast he worried that he might become lightheaded.

Obi-Wan wore a suit. Not the garish modern ones Anakin saw in the headlines of Courscant Weekly, or even the ones he saw in the underground scene, ill-fitting and worn. It didn’t look like anything that had been worn by any species in the past few centuries. It looked stiff, like it had been kept from prying hands with the hope that it would one day be worn by someone deemed worthy.

He wore a crisp white shirt, long-sleeved and carefully ironed, that clung to the breadth of his chest alluringly. Over it, there came a rather dreary navy tie, followed by a navy waistcoat, made of the rich cotton that was typical of such garments. It wrapped around Obi-Wan’s waist tightly and pulled itself together by five perfectly spaced buttons at its front. Then came the dark blue jacket, falling to midway down his arse and stretching across his shoulders so that they looked broad and strong, cinched by two buttons and accessorised with a pale blue handkerchief kept in the upper left pocket. The navy trousers were perhaps the least unassuming, though they also seemed to fit Obi-Wan flawlessly, hugging his thighs and arse more than anything Anakin had ever seen his Master wear before.

Anakin swallowed thickly, painstakingly aware that his breathing was unusually shallow as he stared. Obi-Wan looked good—stunning.

“So do you,” Anakin croaked, voice wrecked by want.

Obi-Wan smiled and came to stand by his side, the length of his body resting casually against the balcony’s rail. Anakin barely restrained himself from pushing himself flush against his Master, every part of him yearning to be close to him. A soft, golden strand threaded through the Force and reached out to comfort him, the intoxicating warmth of Obi-Wan’s presence made him shiver and unintentionally shift closer.

“Senator Amidala?” Obi-Wan asked, casting admiring eyes over Anakin’s outfit.

Anakin huffed a laugh and rubbed his neck. “Am I that predictable?”

Obi-Wan chuckled and Anakin’s mind faltered at the sound. Despite the exhaustion that came from after war efforts and the political strangling of remnants of Separatist factions still rebelling in the wake of their leaders' deaths, Obi-Wan looked more rested and content than Anakin had seen in over three years. Even with his temples greying and face lined with new depths of age, Obi-Wan’s eyes sparkled blue and bright. His Master looked happy, and Anakin had to fervently hold back tears at the realisation.

“You are anything but predictable,” Obi-Wan grinned. “I merely know that had you had your way you would have turned up in something drab.”

“I’m still wearing dark colours!” he groused, hands rising in mock affront.

“True, but this gold—” And before Anakin knew what was happening, Obi-Wan had straightened and traced graceful fingers down one of the golden trails of his jacket. “—it brings out the depth of your presence. Something I’m sure you wouldn’t have been able to identify on your own.”

Anakin shivered against the tingle of delight that bubbled beneath his skin and peered at Obi-Wan with an offer in his eyes. “And you?” He challenged smugly, waving a hand over Obi-Wan’s suit. “Bail I’m guessing?”

Obi-Wan’s face contorted in an attempt not to laugh. “That’s Chancellor Organa to us, Anakin.”

“That’s a yes then.”

Obi-Wan playfully rolled his eyes. “Despite potentially being the busiest man in the galaxy, he not only remembered to send me an invite but to also send me a suit.”

His Master made the observation carelessly, as if Bail’s regard of him was of little importance, yet he also leaked warmth and apt pride into the Force. To know that Obi-Wan was so respected and valued, that his sacrifices had been acknowledged—it made the endless agonies of the past three years almost feel like they had been worth it.

“He obviously holds you in high esteem,” Anakin said, softly.

“Perhaps,” Obi-Wan shrugged, his cheeks painting themselves red. “Though if there is anyone here who deserves to be held in high esteem, it’s you.”

The praise ignited that ever present longing within Anakin, once again coaxed alive at knowing that Obi-Wan was proud of him. It used to shame him, this constant want to please the man who was now his equal, and so he would often snarl in disgrace at this urge he felt to supplicate. But eventually that war within him started to abate, and he began to accept the strength of his love that he held for the one person in the galaxy who truly knew and accepted him. 

“Thank you, Master,” he said sincerely. 

Obi-Wan smiled and watched him with a seemingly neutral expression, though his eyes glinted with something Anakin couldn’t name. “I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

“What do you mean?” 

“The speech dedicated in your honour,” Obi-Wan pointed out. “Which I missed, unfortunately.”

Anakin ducked his head shyly. “You didn’t miss much. Just politicians prattling on about things they don’t understand.”

Obi-Wan hummed and they gazed out at the busy skyline in companionable silence for some time. The words that had clogged at the bottom of Anakin’s throat for many years now wanted to spew themselves past his lips and plead for all the things that had embedded themselves in his core. Only, his tongue sat too heavy in his mouth, those words refusing to be spat out. His hands trembled from fear and beads of sweat dampened the line of his back—despite knowing his feelings to be reciprocated. 

He wanted this so much, and he was—scared, so scared, what would he do if he lost Obi-Wan?

“I’ve always liked this band,” Obi-Wan suddenly said, head tilted to the side in an attempt to listen to the faint music coming from the room nearby. 

The turbulence of Anakin’s anxieties stilled, and he blinked, listening intently. “I don’t recognise them.”

Obi-Wan chuckled. “No, you wouldn’t. If I recall correctly you liked to deem this ‘old man’ music.”

“Obi-Wan,” he grumbled, embarrassed by his younger self.

Next to him, shoulders shook from a silent laugh. “Should I expect a similar reaction now?”

Anakin scoffed. “I guess they’re not so bad,” he mumbled, hesitant to reveal the truth. That nostalgia seeped through him at hearing the melodic, orchestral sound. Reminding him of quiet evenings spent in Obi-Wan’s quarters seething over the honeyed, sonorous music when all he had wanted was something boisterous and loud. Now, he would give near anything to watch as the music suffused the air and caused his Master to relax, the stress-infused adrenaline of after war efforts slowly dissipating with the dulcet sounds.

“Then you won’t mind joining me.”

He glanced towards Obi-Wan, his pulse kicking up to furiously beat against his ribs at the sight of a strong, sculpted hand raised towards him in invitation.

“Obi-Wan?” He breathed, head near woozy from longing and need.

“Will you join me, Anakin?” Obi-Wan’s eyes were sharp, piercing, looking like cerulean crystals in the dim light. A tremulous shudder wracked through Anakin as they stared at one another, him a coiled ball of nerves and Obi-Wan stock still, gaze roaming across him with a determined, searching expression.

Eventually, Anakin nodded and grasped that hand, feeling clammy skin. Perhaps his Master was just as nervous as him.

Obi-Wan pulled him into his arms, instinctively leading Anakin around the small space and wrapping his spare arm tightly around his waist. Anakin’s chest rose and fell, cutting inhalations and exhalations that he couldn’t have hid even if he tried.

They moved slowly, the press of their bodies intimate in a way that had arousal unfurling in his gut. They hadn’t been this close together since the day of promise—a necessary unspoken agreement, for Anakin doubted either of them would have been able to stop calloused palms from roaming freely should they have felt the intoxicating heat of the other.

It meant that he finally got to admire the man before him: the copper hair lined with rays of grey, the endearing lock falling into his Master’s darkened gaze, the beard neatly trimmed and adding wisdom to the charming face, the deeply etched lines around sharp blue eyes.

Force, but he was achingly handsome.

Another unsteady breath shook its way through him, catching on all the years of repressed longing. Stars—every inch of him felt as loud and throbbing as an electroblade, and nor did it help when his eyes landed on the solid hand grasping his own within a secure hold.

He smothered down a noise caught in his throat, overwhelmed by the sight of them holding each other. He couldn’t—he couldn’t breathe with Obi-Wan this close, with his soft exhales against Anakin’s throat and the feeling of their hands guiding each other in this, just as he and Obi-Wan had guided each other in all things throughout most of his life. He knew that his presence in the Force flared with molten heat, running desperate and scorching between them, but he couldn’t stop his tremoring display of need.

Something in Obi-Wan’s presence awakened in response then, and though Anakin refused to directly meet his eyes, he felt Obi-Wan considering gaze on him, heavy with sudden understanding.

“What is it about them you like so much?” Obi-Wan asked, tone placid, assessing.

Somehow, Anakin’s pulse ratcheted up another notch, so wild and high he worried that his stomach would turn in on itself. “What do you mean?”

His Master pulled him in even tighter, their bodies flush together and said softly into his ear, “What is it about hands that you like?”

His prosthetic clenched in the suit beneath it, servers creaking alongside the nauseous nerves that roiled in his gut. When he finally spoke, words tumbled past his lips on a shaky exhale, “I don’t like all hands, just yours.”

Before he could flee from the nerve-wracking rush of his confession, Obi-Wan halted their swaying and quietly whispered an epiphanic, “I see.”

Anakin’s heart beat a feral rhythm inside his chest, so frantic that he felt it along the column of his neck. He wanted to say something but found himself robbed of the ability when he finally met Obi-Wan’s eyes. Deep within them was something awed and captivating. Anakin knew love, he had felt it, anguished over it within the depth of his core, but never had he thought he would see it reflected in Obi-Wan’s gaze. He had never seen this. On his Master, it was paralysing in its intoxication.

An abrupt step back of his Master caught his attention again, surprise jolting throughout him when Obi-Wan suddenly clasped his flesh hand and held it between the weight of both of his own, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth against his knuckles. Anakin stood frozen, staring at his Master with wide, blue eyes before looking down at his enclosed hand.

“Master,” he croaked out, overwhelmed.

Spots of red had coloured Obi-Wan’s cheekbones, but his voice was clear when he replied, “Tell me what it is about my hands you like, then.”

Anakin’s eyes momentarily fluttered, and he existed in nothing but Obi-Wan’s touch, the outside world fading into an indistinguishable haze. With both hands, he clutched at one of Obi-Wan’s, turning it over as his fingers stroked across rough knuckles and the large dorsum spattered with fine hair.

Anakin licked his lips, his voice hoarse, “How strong they are,” he admitted quietly, embarrassment twisting in his stomach.

Reverently, he turned the hand over, tracing the toughened palm and the scar that came with it, before he eventually wandered to the fingers of his dreams. “How thick they are,” he revealed, his cheeks blooming scarlet in mortification, then flourishing even further in delight when that hand noticeably trembled.

“What else?” Obi-Wan’s voice was low, filthy, and Anakin had to fight every urge that demanded he bring those fingers to his mouth and tongue along their crevices. He wanted them and whatever else Obi-Wan would give him, so close to sobbing for Obi-Wan to please please—

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan prompted.

He blinked slowly and breathed deeply. “I like that despite everything that you've seen and had to do, they remain true to who you are,” he began softly. “Tempered but still infinitely kind, determined but still patient, strong yet gentle.”

Unexpected emotion rose in his throat, stinging his eyes. It felt like his soul had been flayed, ready for the taking as he bared it to the man he loved.  

Obi-Wan ran soft fingertips across Anakin’s hands, then. Featherlight and tender against his clammy skin. Slowly, and with eyes that shone sincere and full of adoration, Obi-Wan lifted them and gently brushed a tender kiss first to the back of his flesh hand, then to the tight leather of his right. 

Anakin's breath snagged in his throat.

“Why did you choose the light that day, Anakin?” Obi-Wan whispered against leather. 

Anakin took in an unsteady, ragged breath of air. “You already know why.”

Obi-Wan hummed and stepped up to him once again, his lips close enough that Anakin could feel their warmth against his heated cheek. “Tell me anyway, please,” Obi-Wan sighed.

Of course, Anakin knew what he should say. For the Order. For the light side itself. For himself, even. But they both knew it wouldn’t be the truth. 

He met Obi-Wan’s keen eyes and breathed a quavering confession, “Because of you, Obi-Wan.” 

He barely had a moment to take in all the breathtaking emotion on Obi-Wan’s face before he surged forward and their lips met in a surprisingly intimate kiss. Gentle and tender, but nonetheless searingly passionate. Past the timidity of those initial seconds, they sighed into the heat of each other’s mouths, their lips parting, slanting deep and wet as their tongues met in a heated press. Obi-Wan tasted of the blicci fruit tea he liked to drink, dewy green with a hint of saccharine, like a calm breeze bringing relief to the scorching warmth of Anakin’s soul.

Finally, Anakin’s hands wove themselves through the thick strands of copper hair, tugging Obi-Wan in closer and slotting them together in a deeper slide with a wanton moan. The horrid loneliness and exhausting anger that had settled and spun themselves within the fibres of his very being all melted away, until for one heady moment there was only the sighs and groans of unyielding heat. He felt whole and secure, ready to do this a thousand times more.

Obi-Wan broke the kiss with a wet sound of parting lips and levelled him with a look of such utter reverence that Anakin blushed a deep red, abashed and delighted.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said, licking his lips. Anakin was so absorbed by the sight of a pink tongue that he almost missed the words spoken. “I didn’t ask, I shouldn’t have presum—”

Anakin made a distorted, impatient noise, then launched himself at Obi-Wan. This time tilting their lips together in a wild and desperate press. No finesse, just the raw need to feel the scorching heat of Obi-Wan that he had wanted for so long. Panting breaths and sloppily worked teeth over bitten lips had him aching so fast that he felt nearly dizzy from it, and he wanted Obi-Wan to know so.

“I want you,” Anakin moaned against Obi-Wan’s mouth, drawing him back in for another kiss. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

A white-hot surge in the Force had him fisting Obi-Wan’s tuxedo between his fingers to tilt their mouths together in an even deeper pull, a groan escaping him as Obi-Wan knotted thick fingers in his curls and used the palm of his other hand to tilt Anakin’s jaw and rest widely against the long column of his throat.

Eventually, Obi-Wan pulled away to murmur heated words against his jaw, “This isn’t why I’m here. We should talk before anything else.”

Anakin’s hands found their way to Obi-Wan’s shoulders, gripping the solid muscle beneath his fingers. He stared at Obi-Wan, defiance and need thundering alongside the pulse in his ears. They needed to talk, he knew, but that could wait until later, when the heat of Obi-Wan’s lips finally pressed against his no longer felt like a brand seared into him. 

“We can talk late—”

Obi-Wan extracted himself from Anakin’s eager lips, and with that errant lock of hair in his eyes, gave Anakin a knowing smile. “I doubt there would be any talking tonight if you had your way.”

Anakin grinned, full mouthed and stupidly in love. “Why is all the blame falling on me? I reckon that you would be just as bad, if not worse.”

Obi-Wan barked out an incredulous laugh, his gaze so fond as he stared at Anakin. “You’ve caught me, dear one.”

Anakin’s pulse scurried at the endearment, and the arousal that had been squirming in his gut only clenched tighter. “Kriffing hell, Master,” Anakin gritted out, moving forward to run his nose along Obi-Wan’s jaw, his stomach flipping at the scent of musky undertones Obi-Wan used amongst his beard. “Now it’s you not making this easy,” he said, easily referencing Obi-Wan’s words from the last time they had been alone together.

“Now you know how it feels,” Obi-Wan teased.

“Yeah, lucky me,” he whined, petulant.

A playful, reprimanding tug of his curls made him groan out an embarrassing, needy sound that he quickly attempted to smother by pressing himself more amongst the coarse hair of Obi-Wan’s beard. Insistent fingertips nudged his chin away, once again drawing him up to warm yet sober eyes. “I won’t force you,” Obi-Wan said softly, “but eventually you and I must speak about all that has happened over the past few weeks.”

Anakin blinked at him, the deep blue of his irises round with fear—petrified that should he ever reveal all, all his anger and hatred and need for revenge, then his Master would look upon him with horror and leave. And yet—Obi-Wan’s eyes glimmered with tenderness and understanding, and finally, for a moment, Anakin felt safe and known. Obi-Wan wouldn’t be here, looking at Anakin as if he were the only thing keeping him tethered to his axis, if he hadn’t already accepted these things about him.

“Aren’t you—” Anakin began, licking his lips, his mouth dry, “worried?” 

“Worried?”

The space between them became horribly tense, the Force placid as Anakin attempted to gather the insidious threat of his fear and present it plainly. “That I’ll still fall. That the only reason I didn’t was because of you—because of thoughts of you,” he managed. 

“Sometimes, I’m not immune to such worries,” Obi-Wan confessed, and it must have been the most honest he and Obi-Wan had ever been with one another, causing the tautness surrounding them to unwind with a breath of relief. “But I trust that should the occasion ever arise again, you will make the right choice.”

“Why?” Anakin trembled.

Sorrow fell upon Obi-Wan’s face, his eyes so mournful before he leaned forward, cupped Anakin’s cheek and pressed their lips together in a soft, cherishing kiss. “Because I have faith in you, as you should also have in yourself, Anakin.”

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin whispered, voice a hoarse croak, overcome.

Obi-Wan pressed another chaste kiss to his lips, and when he pulled away, Anakin looked upon him, revelling in the scent of his Master so close, the handsome lines telling the story of his life and the eyes that gazed at him too, smiling.

“Let’s go inside, I need to show my face for at least half an hour,” Obi-Wan said.

Anakin knocked their foreheads together and hummed, only just holding back tears of joy. “Then we’ll go home?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agreed, stepping away from Anakin and running a broad hand down his slightly mussed suit. “Then we’ll go home,” Obi-Wan repeated, his expression turning impish and quietly suggestive, “and I’ll show you what my hands can really do.”

The tips of Anakin’s ears reddened, even as he let out a laugh, abashed and enchanted. He strode over to Obi-Wan, boldly grabbing one of his hands and feeling his heart surge when they fit together effortlessly, as easy as two halves of a whole. “I’m going to hold you to that.”