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Even before he opens his eyes, Obi-Wan is reaching out to his side. His fingertips brush against the cool sheets – it is that which wakes him, he’s certain. It is a jarring sensation. An absence.
The bed is empty, his mind supplies – the arm that had been draped over his waist throughout the night is gone, along with the man that had slept as though glued to his side. The nose buried insistently in his neck, the curls tickling his cheek – they’re gone as well.
Obi-Wan takes a much-needed moment to stretch before raising himself on his elbows; he squints at the light squeezing in through the door, tinted red. Dawn approaches their hut, inevitably. And where, his sleep-addled mind inquires, is Cody? Where, his empty arms call, has Cody gone?
If he isn’t asleep still by Obi-Wan’s side – he often is, curled close, breathing softly through parted lips – then at least he seldom goes far, in the mornings. Certainly no farther than the first few dunes. He dislikes letting Obi-Wan out of his sight, these days; but if it is a fault, then it is one shared. They hold onto each other like stumbling children clambering over a steep hill, clinging to one another’s sleeves as though some fateful gust of wind might descend and rip them away from each other; as though a sudden avalanche might send them both tumbling down, unable to find the other.
There is nothing, on Tatooine, that has been a real threat to them so far. And still, when making their way through the dune seas, they intertwine their fingers more often than not. It soothes something Obi-Wan can’t quite name within himself; some small, anxious creature curling in his chest.
By the time Obi-Wan is up and evening out their blankets, he can feel the gentle weight of Cody’s presence above him. On the roof, he is on the roof; what he is doing there, Obi-Wan hasn’t the slightest clue. By the time he’s at the table, though, pouring them two cups of light caf, he can also sense the rippling calm pouring down to him in turn. Cody never settles fully, always in thought, one image after another – it is something Obi-Wan adores in him, and something which, at the same time, oftentimes keeps him from proper rest.
Two mugs in his hands, Obi-Wan steps over the threshold barefooted, and squints, as per usual, at the suns. Even the dim morning light beats down on the sands, on the hut – and on Cody, atop the roof. Obi-Wan can’t see him, but with how bright his presence in the Force remains, it matters little. Cody, on the other hand, hasn’t the Force whispering into his ear – so, with a voice too quiet and too dry from sleep, Obi-Wan calls out to him.
“Good morning, robin mine.”
The words are hushed but the sandy winds of Tatooine kind, if only in this moment – they carry his voice upward, and Obi-Wan more so feels Cody startle in surprise than hears it.
One breath, then another, and Cody leans over the edge of the roof, his fingers gripping tightly; he peers down at Obi-Wan as though he were a curious bird glancing down from its nest. A curl’s fallen over his forehead, and his deep brown eyes crinkle at the corners at the sight of Obi-Wan’s smile. That isn’t Obi-Wan’s fault, anyhow: Cody is beautiful in the morning light, always. To be embraced by the suns like this, their kisses bathing his face and body in red – it becomes him. The beauty of dawn, the early sunlight flowing down his face like droplets of thick paint smeared over an already polished sculpture – it’s as though the suns were made only for him.
If Cody could hear him think, he’d go dark in the cheeks; tell him with a shivering sternness to quit his flattery and just say what he means. It is good, then, that one’s mind is such a private space – and so Obi-Wan can think of Cody whatever he likes, can assign him not only the stars but whole constellations and galaxies as well, can see in him the virtues and hardships reserved only for tales told over the fire deep in the night without restraint. He can think such things all he wants, and voice only as much as Cody is willing to bear before he wrestles Obi-Wan down into the sand, one hand pressed over his mouth, his own lips curving in bashful laughter.
He’s toeing the line now, Obi-Wan knows, when Cody quirks one eyebrow half in interest and half in suspicion and asks, “Robin?”
“An early bird,” Obi-Wan offers, and holds out the caf cup for him to take along with the explanation. Cody lifts both cups, wordlessly, and reaches out to pull Obi-Wan up onto the roof alongside him. Obi-Wan doesn’t hesitate in taking his hand, smiling all the while as he adds, “A spectacular little critter, if I may, with a heart so full of fire it dyes the very feathers of its chest. A songbird.” Raising himself on his knees, Obi-Wan leans forward to greet Cody proper. He presses his lips to Cody’s cheek, lined by the curve of his smile, and murmurs into his ear – “As gorgeous and captivating as the beauty of its song.”
Picking up his caf as he shifts to the side, Cody shrugs, his motions that of perfectly crafted nonchalance. Stars, Obi-Wan thinks, but his pretense is both light-hearted and amusing in its fragility. “Too bad beauty rarely survives this heat.”
Obi-Wan scrunches up his nose in the most dignified manner one can do so. Nevertheless, he lets Cody tug him down and sits atop the roof next to him, their feet dangling down from the ledge. “While most robins do prefer the woods of Alderaan, there are beautiful creatures to be found here, too.”
Cody snorts – and Obi-Wan takes the noise to mean, You’d write courtly verse on the beauty of banthas if you wanted to. Once they’re past that, Obi-Wan generally leaves his compliments to settle: Cody would rather believe him a stubborn poet than simply an observant man with eyes to see and lips to speak.
One day, Obi-Wan thinks, leaning back to look up at the sky. One day Cody will hear him wholly; understand what he means to Obi-Wan, his presence, his touch, his love. He’ll see the thread of Obi-Wan’s adoration for what it is – a single string, a straight path that leads from one point to the other. From their first meeting, when Obi-Wan first saw the scarred young face, early lines of stress filled out with steel, a predetermined stubbornness in his expression – to, say, last week, when Obi-Wan watched him nuzzle too close to Obi-Wan’s hair in his sleep and sneeze himself awake. It’s always made perfect sense. Loving him is the only piece that fits into the puzzle Obi-Wan is trying to make of his life; in fact, it’s doing anything other than loving him that seems unnatural.
The cup is warm between Obi-Wan’s palms, and the thick steam slowly unfurling from the liquid seems almost as though it’s rising high enough to join the clouds where the last stars are blinking their goodbyes to one another and down to them. At Cody’s contented sigh to his side, Obi-Wan closes his eyes, and takes a moment to wonder if Cody would understand better how easy it is to love him if Obi-Wan explained as though it were a campaign – one objective to the next, one goalpost to the other. Truly, then, loving him is the most logical thing Obi-Wan has ever done; a natural progression that has led to a natural conclusion.
Obi-Wan shakes his head only to himself, imperceptible. No, no need for battles; they’ve had their fill of war, more than any man should in a single lifetime. He is grateful, Force knows he’s grateful for all the hours Cody spent with him hunched over a holotable, patiently explaining to him the terms and tactics that the upbringing of a peacekeeper, however armed, never outlined. But love should not be defined that way; no matter how many sayings place it beside war, Obi-Wan loathes the unending sorrow the pair create.
It would be better, perhaps, to explain to Cody that loving him feels like creating art – with all the different days they’ve lived together coming to a singularity like flecks of coloured paint. It feels like the satisfaction of a thousand different strokes – however random, however unexpected – coming together perfectly, sinking into the canvas instead of just covering it. It creates a perfect picture, an explanation and a meaning to everything that seemed disjointed before – it whispers, of course, of course, of course.
“My philosopher,” Cody murmurs from his side, and now it’s Obi-Wan who startles. He can’t begrudge Cody the tease; it’s easy to sink into his own head, these days. “What are you pondering?”
Obi-Wan smiles and tells his white lie seamlessly – “I was wondering what you’re doing up here.” Ever-so-slightly, he sways to the side, and lets their shoulders press together. “I felt very lonely without you, you know. I thought you’d up and left me.”
“Aren’t you a handful,” Cody chuckles, shaking his head lightly, and Obi-Wan can’t help but follow along. His laughter is always too sweet to resist. Novel, it seems, each time. “I don’t know. I woke up early, and I came out here. Was trying to – think.”
“Think?” Obi-Wan asks, and looks at his cup. Cody takes a little longer to drink his caf than Obi-Wan – he always finds it amusing, when Obi-Wan looks down at his own mug and finds it empty when he scarcely even remembers taking a sip. “Is your proximity to our bed limiting the coherence of your thoughts?”
“From time to time,” Cody quips, and Obi-Wan laughs first, this time.
“Are you keeping secrets from me?” he accuses, his narrowed eyes far undermined by the smile that just won’t falter.
“No secrets. Only things I’d – wanted to try.” Cody shakes his head, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes appearing there again. Obi-Wan would like to take a holopicture of his eyes, like that. He won’t; he doubts any holo will capture the exact glimmer that makes them so captivating. “Don’t ask what – I won’t tell you.”
“Will you tell me why you won’t tell me?” Obi-Wan asks instead, and earns himself a half-hearted glare for his efforts.
“Because you’ll laugh.”
Obi-Wan blinks.
“Because I’ll laugh?”
Cody waves his hand, and bows his head in the exact way he does when he doesn’t want Obi-Wan seeing his face. “Maybe you won’t laugh. But it’s not… It’s nothing.”
“Okay,” Obi-Wan says, softly, and drinks his caf. Tries to commit the taste to memory; when Cody starts speaking, he’ll drink the rest listening and won’t remember a thing. And Cody will start – he always does. He wants to speak, and he wants Obi-Wan to listen to him; it’s just that he won’t allow himself to want, sometimes, and decide that it’s a secret, or that it’s silly, or that Obi-Wan will laugh – always such nonsense.
And, surely enough, after a few more moments, Cody opens his mouth and says, lightning-quick – “I was trying to meditate.”
Obi-Wan turns his head, and smiles to him. Something strange jolts in his chest, but he ignores it; he can ignore far more, listening to Cody. “Why would I laugh at that?”
“Because I’m terrible at it?”
Obi-Wan has to do his best, indeed, to suppress laughter – but it’s of the incredulous sort, instead. Cody, meanwhile, doesn’t seem to notice – the floodgates have opened, and he’ll tell Obi-Wan just what he thinks of his meditations.
“I’ve been sitting here with my legs in sixteen different configurations, I’ve cracked every bone in my body, and, well, nothing. Happy to announce that I’m still thinking. Haven’t stopped for a second.” Cody raises his hands and drops them again – the one with the mug slightly slower, bless him – in exasperation. “You do it so easily. How?”
“For one, I’ve been doing it for longer than you’ve been alive,” Obi-Wan reminds him, and huffs when Cody’s elbow makes itself known against his side. “And, well – it’s not a one-time process, darling. Every learning curve starts you off at the bottom, I’m afraid. There’s a lot to learn about meditation – and about yourself at the same time.” He tilts his head, puts down his empty cup, and leans forward so he can catch Cody’s eye. “We can do it together, sometime – some other early morning. Just before a sandstorm. Or now, even.”
The way Cody crosses his arms over his chest and falls sideways to rest his head on Obi-Wan’s shoulder is pointedly demonstrative. “I genuinely think I’d rather die than do it again now. It turns out I have a lot of junk in my head.”
Obi-Wan chuckles. The feeling is not too far from his own heart. “That’s only natural. Sometimes it’s that junk which you need to let yourself think through. Let the dust settle, so to speak.”
“Mm.” Cody squirms a little against him before settling more comfortably, and Obi-Wan rests his bearded cheek against the top of his lover’s head. A thought crosses his mind – he’d like to stop time here. If only for a moment. He supposes, though, that that’s what memory is for. “Feels like a flash flood. Everything all at once.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan agrees, and finds Cody’s hand on his thigh to intertwine their fingers affectionately. “But the low tide comes, eventually.”
“It never even rains here,” Cody complains in a small voice, something catching in his tone, and Obi-Wan hums. “Not a single tide to be found.”
Obi-Wan smiles. “You seem tired, darling.”
“I’m not.”
Obi-Wan wonders why Cody keeps trying to tell him things like that when he can feel them as well as he can see him. A comfortable warmth radiates from him, far more pleasant than the blistering heat of the desert, and, just as he always does, Cody speaks, eventually.
“It’s not really meditation if I fall asleep, is it?” he murmurs into Obi-Wan’s shoulder. Obi-Wan shrugs, to Cody’s displeasure.
“Sleep can be better than meditation at times, I’ll admit.”
Cody hums, shifting so they’re pressed together at the side. “Decade too late, but I’ll take it.”
Obi-Wan chuckles, squeezes his fingers as though in admittance, and Cody gives another soft sigh at that. Obi-Wan feels the miniscule brush of his eyelashes against his skin as Cody closes his eyes, and doesn’t open them again.
It’s then that some urge rises in him, all the metaphors and comparisons and purple prose melting on the tip of his tongue like sugar, sweet but short-lived – and to hell, he thinks, with the campaigns and the paintings and the explanations.
Before his lover drifts off, he turns his head and whispers into Cody’s hair, “I love you, you know.”
Cody hums. “I know.” And, after a moment – “Love you too.”
Obi-Wan smiles.
Simple as that.