Symposium

Obi-Wan Kenobi had a problem. 

He was trapped by his own politeness in the formal dining room of the villa belonging to a rather important Archōn on Helas 4. It was an intimate gathering for a festival night, reserved for the most elite members of society—the oligarchs of the Loyalist regime. He was reclined on a couch, slightly too warm in his tunics, eating slices of meiloorun with his fingers, and listening with dread as the conversation slid toward a topic he desperately wished they would avoid. 

Erōs.

The entire reason that Obi-Wan had, to the astonishment of Anakin and half the Council, attempted to decline and reassign a routine diplomatic mission to oversee the reconciliation of rival governments.

The mission seemed to everyone else like a great fit: Obi-Wan was recovering from an injury and was deemed healthy enough for diplomatic missions only ('He was fine, honestly'). He had local connections in the capital from a previous visit ('Not very good ones'). He had a Padawan who desperately needed diplomatic experience ('This was true'). So why was Obi-Wan trying to refuse? ('Reassign, I'm not refusing, just... requesting.')

He couldn’t explain. The mission itself wasn’t the problem. The planet it was on, though, that was the problem. 

Helas 4. 

He still couldn’t believe that he had agreed to bring Anakin to Helas 4. What had he been thinking?

It had been almost twenty years since he had visited as a Padawan with Master Qui-Gon. He had… complicated memories of the place. Beautiful landscapes, graceful buildings, welcoming locals. Far too welcoming. 

He blushed, and took a sip of water, having double checked, again, that it was just water. He wasn’t sure of the identity or source of the aphrodisiac that he had ingested last time, but he wasn’t willing to risk ingesting it again.

Once had been… sufficient.

Master Qui-Gon had been insufferable about it for years, after he had to extricate a much-too-young Obi-Wan from what could only be politely described as an orgy. 

Obi-Wan didn’t tell the Council about it then, and he didn't tell them now. He couldn’t look Master Yoda in the eyes and talk about that particular fertility festival. Even Master Qui-Gon had respected Obi-Wan's intense desire to keep it private, at least publicly—when he wasn't gently teasing him for his dedication to integrating with the locals.

So, without an excuse, Obi-Wan found himself on the blasted planet after all, stuck at an uncomfortably familiar kind of party, among the glittering elite of Heleenic society. He was supposed to be building relations with the core of the Loyalist government, participating in local customs. Standard procedure. 

Everything was fine.

Obi-Wan tried to relax. He was perfectly comfortable—reclined on a long, wide couch, propped up on a rather plump cushion. He lay behind and around a random but beautiful local, in an incense-scented and flower-laden room filled with other couples on other couches arranged in a square to encourage conversation. He was trying artfully to avoid curling too closely to the stranger’s body next to him while reaching for more fruit. 

Ordinarily, this would be a rather pleasant way to spend an evening. Obi-Wan was hardly averse to some occasional light hedonism in the correct context. But, this was not an ordinary evening. The scent of incense was giving him... flashbacks... and his Padawan was more than an hour late for dinner. Conversation flowed around him as he tried to remain calm. 

Where was Anakin? 

Obi-Wan fervently hoped he would not have to go looking for him. Master Qui-Gon was probably laughing at him in the Force. Obi-Wan did not want to find Anakin in an orgy. The mere thought of that made him feel strangely hot and staticky. 

He quickly ate another piece of fruit as memories from 20 years ago flashed before his eyes. Flickering light, incense and sweat. Begging, panting. Pleasure. Golden skin, blue eyes.

Obi-Wan shook his head slightly and tried to refocus on the conversation, pushing the unexpected wave of desire out into the Force. He thought he had long ago successfully repressed those memories. 

Why, oh why, did he have to be here? 

“Where is your paidika, Master Jedi?”

Obi-Wan blinked and turned toward the couch of the Archōn. Hyparch Peisistratides was a man in his forties, with a thick mane of dark hair and full beard. He wore too many rings, in Obi-Wan’s humble opinion. Too many rings, too many thick chains of gold around his neck. He was curled around an unfamiliar young man, presumably his erōmenos, the local term for a youthful beloved, who was smiling like he knew a secret. 

It was that word. Paidika. Obi-Wan knew well what it meant in the local language. Darling boy, dearest student. It made his eye twitch. It was a synonym for erōmenos, but worse, because paidika implied a distinctly eroticized learning and mentoring relationship. 

Obi-Wan breathed steadily through his nose. “If you mean my Padawan, he should be along shortly.” 

He hoped. 

“Your Padawan, yes.” The Archōn smirked. “Risky to let him wander, on a festival night.”

I’m very aware.  

Obi-Wan merely smiled in return. “I trust that he’ll find his way here soon.” He felt out with the Force along their unusually strong training bond, checking to see if Anakin was nearby and alright. He found only silence and absence—Anakin was shielding himself tightly, still sulking after their last fight, no doubt. 

He poked the shield, hard.

Come on, Anakin.

There was no response. Obi-Wan felt a spike of resentment. He knew he should be grateful—Anakin’s raw power allowed them to communicate over unprecedented distances with unprecedented amounts of subtlety. He shouldn’t take it for granted, but he did. Anakin’s presence in the back of his mind for years had been one of his only constants in a sea of chaos. 

Until Anakin was about 16, at which point he learned how to properly shield himself. Initially, Obi-Wan had been proud of his progress with the Force and pleased that he could finally have some peace and quiet in his own brain. However, he quickly realized the downside. The shields also gave Anakin almost complete control over when the bond was open or closed. This was control a Padawan should not have, especially not his Padawan.

“Are you two talking about the Jedi’s erōmenos?” 

The clear voice of Mistress Rous cut across the conversation and broke his concentration.

“He’s not—”

“Yes—”

Obi-Wan and Hyparch spoke at the same time. Obi-Wan’s denial was lost as Hyparch continued. 

“Yes, we were. Master Kenobi is refusing to claim him as his paidika.”

“That’s nonsense,” Mistress Rous replied.

“Pardon me, my lady, but the term is inappropriate,” Obi-Wan said.

“Why is that?” She raised an imperious eyebrow. “It describes perfectly how you behave.”

“Surely not,” Obi-Wan coughed. “We are Jedi.”

“Yes, and?”

“Jedi don’t…” He paused. He did not want to be talking about this with so many important eyes focused on him. He didn’t want to be offensive to the local culture. “The term implies inappropriate conduct for a Jedi.” He ran his hand over his beard. How can he explain what Anakin is to him? “Teaching is a sacred responsibility for a Master. The relationship is not a romantic one.”

“You say that like those are different things, erastēs.”

He frowned. Erastēs. Lover, mentor. No. “Well, they are different, aren’t they?” 

“Not to us.” She smiled, and ran her hand through the soft golden curls of the young man pressed against her. 

Anakin’s hair was the same color, he noted absently, as he tried to formulate a polite response that would end the conversation.

“It would be a severe breach of ethics for a Jedi Master to become… involved… with their Padawan. It would be an abuse of position and violation of trust.” 

There. That should do it. He took another sip of water.

“Would it be, indeed.” Mistress Rous made significant eye contact with Hyparch. She took a long drink from her own goblet and sighed. “I feel for the poor thing.” 

Was she referring to Anakin, or me?

Hyparch clapped his hands and said jovially, “It is decided! Tonight’s topics of conversation will be in honor of Erōs.”

Oh no… How had he managed to do the exact opposite of what he intended? Obi-Wan felt slightly too hot and a little woozy. He looked at his glass again. Water.

“I will begin,” Mistress Rous said, “as I am furthest to the left.” 

She hummed thoughtfully for a moment. Her hand trailed down from the boy’s curls to his shoulder. She began tracing lazy circles on exposed skin with her thumb, holding him possessively. Obi-Wan remembered his name. Paulo Saynias, law student at the University of Atyka. Mistress Rous looked to be in her late thirties, was the current Archōn Basileus, and glittered with diamonds. 

Erastēs. Lover, mentor.  

She cleared her throat delicately and began, speaking in a lofty tone. “Erōs is the oldest of our gods, and confers the greatest benefits to lovers.” She gently squeezed Saynias’s shoulder. “I can’t think of a greater good for someone who is beginning their public life than to have a virtuous and honorable erastēs to guide them through the confusing fog of youth towards virtue, and I can say that there is no greater blessing for an erastēs than having a curious and clever paidika to bring joy and meaning to their life.”

Saynias bent his head down sideways to kiss her fingers, exposing the long line of his neck. She smiled.

“Erōs is the guide for those who would live an honorable life, who would like to accomplish megala kai kala erga.” She had intentionally lapsed back into the local dialect with deliberate sophistication. “I often find Basic fails to gracefully capture so many of our cultural concepts.” She sighed. “Erōs is the instigator and inspiration for people to accomplish great and noble deeds. Would you like to know how, Master Jedi?”

Obi-Wan felt obliged to play along. “How is that, my lady?”

“Think of the person whose judgement and opinion matters most to you.” She paused meaningfully, brow raised. 

Obi-Wan frowned. Master Windu’s evaluating stare flashed in his mind. Master Yoda’s calculating glint. Anakin’s blue eyes, widened in confusion and frustration… 

“Now imagine you are discovered doing something shameful, dishonorable, disgraceful. Who would be the worst person to find you out?”

Obi-Wan tried to imagine a hypothetical scenario that would fit. Someone discovering that he was breaking the Code? Doing what? 

His mind flashed to dark room, licking into a stranger’s mouth, panting, sliding hands along skin, a mouth warm and wet on his…

Force blast his memories. Why were they so vivid? He refocused on the question. Who would be the worst to see him doing that? The Council? Sith hells, what a thought.

Anakin.

Mistress Rous had paused as she watched him think and smirked when she saw him swallow uncomfortably and shift on his cushion.  “Would you not be far more upset at being seen by your paidika, than by being seen by your superiors, or by your companions, or by anyone else?”

Yes. 

“I would prefer my apprentice to not see me doing anything shameful, yes.” He shifted again uncomfortably. “I don’t see the connection to desiring him physically. I’m supposed to be a role model.”

Mistress Rous looked thoughtful. “Why would it bother you so much to disappoint him in particular if he is not precious to you? It is not as simple as just being discovered to be a hypocrite or fraud. You would be a hypocrite and fraud to your dear one.”

“Can’t he be dear without it being erotic? I basically raised him.” Obi-Wan said weakly. He was reaching for solid ground.

Mistress Rous smiled. “He is not a child, now, is he? Is he not something between student and partner? Is the mere memory of his childhood preventing seeing what is before your eyes?” Obi-Wan made to speak, to argue, but Mistress Rous talked over him. “You think your relationship is not one charged with the power of Erōs—you are wrong. I am certain that if I asked your paidika, he would not be able to clearly separate his desire for your body from his desire for your mind. Can you yourself separate your desire to touch his mind from your desire to touch his body? Your desire to shape how his mind thinks and how his body moves? What could be more erotic than that?”

What.

She smiled, all teeth. “He craves your attention, your affection, your validation. He desires to matter to you. This is the push and pull of Erōs.” Mistress Rous slid her thumb slowly along Saynias’s collarbone.

Obi-Wan tore his eyes away and frowned. “If that is true, wouldn’t that be precisely why it would be an abuse of position for me to engage him in a sexual relationship?” The last two words burned in his mouth. He tried again. “His willingness would be coerced by his desire to please his authority figure. Forced.” 

Obi-Wan’s hands, gripping Anakin’s wrists, pushing his body back hard against the wall, blue eyes glaring…

Obi-Wan balked, trying to move past that particular thought as quickly as possible. 

What was that? Not a memory.

Obi-Wan shook his head and continued, “I could never betray the Code in such a way, and never betray his trust in my intentions for caring for him. I appreciate that he… values… my opinion. As a teacher.” He grimaced. “But I assure you he does not think of me in a romantic way—he says I am like a father to him.”

“Does he?” She said, in unfeigned surprise. “You must not give him literally any other way to express his affection without chastisement.” Several people started laughing. She waved her hand and continued, “He’s desperate to connect to you, we all have seen it even in the short time you have been here.”

He frowned. What?

Mistress Rous tried again: “Who do you imagine your Padawan, as you call him, feels the most shame before? You must know that it is you, his erastēs, as it should be. Fear of shame before their erastēs makes young men braver, stronger, greater. Letting him love you would be the greatest service you could do for him, it would not hurt him. You are a virtuous man. Imagine what he might accomplish to merit your affection.”

Obi-Wan looked blankly forward. He could think of nothing to say, which was rare.

She tilted her head, tapping her nails on her wine goblet. “I think that you resist so hard against the power of Erōs that you will lose what you most value—Erōs will take him from you, if you do not take him yourself.” She smiled apologetically. “How to convince you? I suppose you are warriors together, are you not? Fight side by side, defend each other’s backs in battle? Risk everything for each other?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said slowly. The shift in topic confused him. He was stuck on the impossible concept of taking Anakin.

“Would it be possible for you to desert your paidika or fail him in the hour of danger? Would he desert your side?”

Oh.

“Would you rather die than fail to save his life?”

Yes.

His eyes flicked down and to the side. “That would be a sign of strongest attachment, and not the Jedi way. We focus on the mission first, not the safety of other Jedi. I would trust him to look out for himself.”

“You lie very prettily.”

Obi-Wan flushed, more than a little frustrated. 

Hyparch cut in, “Now Ph’aed, be gentle. We don’t want to distress our guest.”

“Of course. I merely suggest that the willingness to die for another is a sign of the inspiration of Erōs and a mark of a great warrior.” She said this like it was the compliment Obi-Wan had been seeking. It was not. “Desire for the survival of a beloved inspires the greatest feats of arms.”

Obi-Wan straightened his posture. He was a Jedi. This was absurd. “I am willing to die for many things, my lady, not just one special person. I have almost given my life for strangers many times, and would do it again. That is the core of the Jedi way, that kind of selfless compassion. It cannot be motivated by something like possession or lust, or else a Jedi can become dangerously strong, dangerously unstable. It leads to the Dark Side. I don’t have to sexually desire Anakin to protect and guide him, for Force sake. I don’t. I can’t.”

“Very admirable, but…” 

“If I may interrupt,” Saynias said as he shifted in his erastēs embrace. “I think we are misleading Master Kenobi.”

Mistress Rous smiled down at him indulgently. “I yield my turn. What would you correct, paidika?” Her voice was encouraging, tender.

“Merely that the Jedi seems to think of desire only in the most base and carnal terms…”

Obi-Wan took another drink of water. He did not particularly want to think about the base and carnal right now. He felt too hot. He poked at Anakin, again. Where was he?

“We Heleens understand that there are two Erōte. One is the Common, the other Celestial. It is essential for Master Kenobi to understand the distinction, so he doesn’t think we are hopeless degenerates who seduce children.”

“And what is the distinction?” Mistress Rous was happily playing along, watching with a keen eye as Obi-Wan tugged down on his tunic to get air to his neck.

“Well, let’s agree that actions generally are neither good nor evil in themselves, but they turn out to be good or evil according to how they were done. Yes?” 

Obi-Wan noted Saynias was a lawyer-in-training even when drunk. Or perhaps especially then.

Mistress Rous nodded. 

Saynias continued, “things done with noble purpose are good, and things done with degenerate purpose are evil. It is not the act itself but how and why it was done.” 

“Alright,” Mistress Rous said, “I agree to your premise. How does this apply to an erastēs and erōmenos? Master and Padawan?” 

She said the words like they meant something they did not. Obi-Wan was doing his best to let the words slide by, let the interaction pass and not engage. He had a lifetime of experience. He shouldn’t be finding it this hard to do. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It did not help. 

Saynias smiled and continued, “It’s about when, why, and how. Common Erōs fills one with desire for a body. Acts done that are inspired by desire for a body without consideration of mind can be harmful and objectifying, not noble. Mere lust. To desire a child who cannot reason, for the sake of their body, that is base.” He shook his head dismissively. “Celestial Erōs, on the other hand…” He smiled, flashing white teeth. “Is about the body and the soul. Those inspired by Celestial Erōs are those who delight in a beloved who is valiant and intelligent, rather than merely handsome.”

Mistress Rous replied, “Yes, good point, darling. An erastēs guided by Celestial Erōs only chooses a paidika who is an intelligent youth whose reason is beginning to be fully developed.” She stroked his face. “You must wait at least for the time at which their beards begin to grow. Then, they are ready to be loved.”

Saynias blushed. 

Mistress Rous continued for him, looking over at Obi-Wan. “An erastēs guided by Celestial Erōs to their erōmenos moves carefully and with best intent. It’s not about mindless lust, or corrupt possession. A true erastēs is faithful to their erōmenos, they desire to pass their whole life in their company, cherish their body and their mind—not to merely take their body through their inexperience, or somehow deceive them, and play the fool with them.” She frowned. “Do you not believe your paidika to be able to think critically yet? What will it matter if he was your ward, if when his reason awakens he will choose to seek your love?”

Saynias added quickly, “Noble intentions make an act good, the act of love itself is neutral, remember? How can such an act be an abuse of power, as you label it, with your intent behind it? Would you increase your intimacy with him in order to harm him? Would you objectify him, treat him as a tool, diminish his self-esteem? Or are you filled with deep inspiration and devotion to make him a better man? Do you feel satisfaction and pleasure in his excellence? He would thrive beneath your hands—an erōmenos craves guidance, and will seek it, even if from the wrong people.” He smiled reassuringly. “Your noble intentions to guide and correct your… headstrong... paidika are clear to everyone here.” 

Several oligarchs who had been present at the earlier session of the Boulē laughed. Obi-Wan flushed as he remembered Anakin’s… audible frustration and abrupt departure.

“Why do you deny what already exists? Why deny yourself such a deep, generous, and lifelong friendship?” Saynias was now looking at him seriously. “Why deny him your love?”

Obi-Wan was overwhelmed. He wanted to be anywhere else. “I’m a Jedi,” he said helplessly. “Calling Anakin my paidika, seducing him, touching him, would be wrong on so many levels I can’t even begin…” He shifted uncomfortably against his cushions again. “Setting aside all the problems it would create for him, it would be bad for me because it encourages me to think of him like he belongs to me.”

“Doesn’t he?” A voice he didn’t recognize from his right cut in. Too interested. Too speculative. Obi-Wan frowned in that direction.

“No. He is not mine. He is… he will be… a Jedi Knight. Someday a Jedi Master. He belongs to himself, and we both belong to the Jedi. I will be… proud… to watch him succeed, but that already indicates an excess of attachment that I need to let go.” He looked at his cup, for the first time wishing it was filled with wine, not water. Anakin’s Knighting was coming too soon. He needed a drink. The slightly-too-interested voice echoing unpleasantly in his ears.  

Doesn’t he? Doesn’t he belong to me? 

No. But. He belongs with me. 

As long as he’s by my side. 

He can’t be mine. He can’t be anyone else’s either, though, which is almost enough.

Obi-Wan frowned intensely. 

I don’t think that. 

I can’t think that.

He needed to leave. He needed to stop thinking. He needed to be someone else, somewhere else. 

Saynias took pity on the stricken face of the Jedi and declared the end to his time to speak for Erōs. Obi-Wan watched briefly as Mistress Rous swooped down and kissed him thoroughly. He looked away, unsettled. 

The couple on the next couch to the right were bickering about whose turn was next. The erastēs was Risto Fanes, a particularly famous comic playwright. He was chubby, greying man in his fifties, wrapped around a sensible looking younger woman—Eryx Makhos, a famous healer. Risto was hiccuping dramatically to force Eryx to talk first, much to everyone’s amusement.

She was good-naturedly suggesting medical cures for the hiccups instead. “Find a way to sneeze on command?” A dramatic hiccup in response. “Gargle with some water?” A louder hiccup, Risto’s whole body jolting with the supposed force of it, his eyes glittering with humor. “Or perhaps you should hold your breath until I finish speaking!” She giggled. “And you know that won’t be for awhile!”

Obi-Wan rubbed his eyes and looked back at his cup. He felt hot, hypersensitive and anxious. His mind was fuzzy.

“You look like that water hurt your feelings.”

Obi-Wan looked up to see his couchmate curiously examining his expression. Obi-Wan smoothed his brow and smiled self consciously. “It might have. Is it laced with anything?” Obi-Wan tried to summon his name. It started with an A...

“No, that’s just water.” 

Obi-Wan smiled in relief. 

“What you’re referring to is probably the incense.”

Obi-Wan’s smile vanished. “I’m breathing it?”

“Yes, you have been since you arrived. Took a long time to get to you, I’m surprised. Outsiders usually notice it almost immediately.”

“What is ‘it’?” Obi-Wan said, panic rising. Memories flashing too fast. Where is Anakin? “Why didn’t anyone warn me?”

“Warn you? It’s not dangerous.”

“It is to my mental health!” Obi-Wan snapped back, trying to push his anxiety into the Force. He took a deep calming breath and then wanted to slap himself in the face. 

It’s in the air, idiot. 

Obi-Wan smoothed his beard and looked apologetically at... Agathon Psydes. Prize-winning poet. Right. “I apologize, Agathon, I was rather unprepared for this.”

Agathon smiled lazily at him, unbothered, resting his chin on his palm. His long, relaxed body curved inside Obi-Wan’s, warmth radiating from his skin. Obi-Wan was suddenly very aware of all the places they were almost touching. 

“So where is he? Your troublesome paidika?”

Obi-Wan sighed. He was done arguing about semantics. “Anakin is late.” He knew it would be impolite to pull out a com at the table, but he really needed to contact him. He should move to the hallway. Obi-Wan found he was having a hard time moving his body away from Agathon’s. Curious. 

He pushed his focus into the Force, seeing if he could purge out the intoxicant. His body was breaking it down, at an accelerated rate, but not fast enough. He was going to feel it for a while. 

Where is Anakin? Why is the bond still blocked? What is he doing?

The image of pulling Anakin from an orgy flashed again, accompanied by a strong pang of arousal. Sithspit. He remembered how it felt to be lost in the full dose of the drug.

Good. It felt good.

Eryx cleared her throat and Risto dramatically shushed for his erōmenē to have the floor. She began: “Well then, since Paulo did not properly finish off the ideas he began so well, I will do my best to add a conclusion now.” It seemed that finally Obi-Wan’s role of cross-examinee for dinner entertainment was over. He was grateful. She continued, “his division of Erōs into two sorts seems to me a good one: but coming from a medical perspective, I have observed that Erōs is not just an impulse of human souls towards beautiful people but the attraction of all creatures to a great variety of things, which works in the bodies of all animals and all growths upon the earth, and practically in everything that is…”

Obi-Wan lost her somewhere along the way, despite her gentle enthusiasm for the subject. His eyes traced involuntarily back over to Mistress Rous and Saynias—to fingers in golden hair. He pulled at his tunic again, took another mouthful of water.

What am I doing? Why aren’t I moving? Leaving?

Obi-Wan slowly pulled his body back and away from Agathon, moving upright, head swimming. He slipped off the couch, heading out towards the door. He was warm, half-hard, and having a hard time keeping his heart rate down. He would certainly appreciate more blood in his brain and less, elsewhere. 

The small party was growing more and more distracted, despite Risto’s best efforts, which made Obi-Wan feel less like he was violating normally strict protocol as he slipped outside. Hopefully they were all done trying to get him to kriff his Padawan. Force, that was a conversation he wished he could take back. Helas 4 was high and moving higher on the list of despised planets. Very high up there for a place that had never technically tried to kill or maim him. 

Emotionally, though? Brutal. 

He finally made it through the door, down the hall and around a corner. The fresh air was a shock and balm to his lungs. He immediately flipped out his comlink, attempting to connect to Anakin. He waited for Anakin to answer, leaning back against the wall, letting his head roll loosely back as he attempted to relax. The drug must be leaving his system. It was just a mild dose. He wasn’t about to lose his virginity again in a mess of bodies totally lost out of his mind on a party drug. Ritual drug. He corrected himself inside his own mind. He couldn’t disrespect the culture. Even if it had disrespected him as a teenager. 

The comlink connected, voice only. A very grumpy voice. “Yes, Master?”

“Anakin! Where are you? You were supposed to return to the villa for dinner! I’ve been worried sick.” His words came spilling out too fast. 

“Master, I’m fine, just late. Are you alright?” The bond was suddenly unblocked, and an awareness of Anakin flooded into the back of his mind, as if he were scenting Obi-Wan’s mood. Anakin’s concern felt good, like sinking into a warm bath. Obi-Wan instinctively relaxed into the feeling. “What is happening? Why are you panicking?”

“I am not panicking.” Obi-Wan was basically done panicking, so it wasn’t even a lie. “I was lightly dosed with a recreational drug, and—”

“What?” Anakin’s voice was sharp.

“If you smell incense, leave the room. The smoke apparently is the delivery mechanism for the aphrodisiac.” He sighed. “Another puzzle, solved.”

Anakin paused, noticeably. "What aphrodisiac, Master? You knew about this?”

“Force sake, Padawan.” He didn’t mean to imply that. His head was still loose. “Why do you think I tried to turn this mission down?”

“I thought you thought I couldn’t handle the diplomats.” The voice was sullen. The bond had gone quiet, again. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Obi-Wan grimaced. He knew he should have. Why hadn’t he? 

“I didn’t know if it would be a problem, and I didn’t want to talk about it? It was hard enough to tell you about why everyone would be calling you erōmenos and trying to take you back to their villas.”

“Don’t remind me, Master.”

Suddenly Obi-Wan had to know. It was driving him insane. “Where are you, Anakin?” 

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, waiting. 

“The University District, I’m with Arys Geiton and a few of his students. I’m getting a lead on the next pro-Separatist meeting on campus. Some of the radicals might be there.” 

Obi-Wan exhaled sharply and smiled. Some tightness in his chest released. “Good work, Padawan. When do you expect to be back?” 

“Soon, Master—I came here with Harmo Dyas, he’s expected back at the villa for dinner like me. Isn’t Hyparch missing his erōmenos?”

“No, or at least he was not reclining alone. How curious.” Obi-Wan didn’t know if it was important. 

“Huh. What a sleemo.” Anakin’s mouth caressed Huttese. No language had a right to sound like that. 

Obi-Wan tried valiantly to forget how it sounded and focused on what was said. Sleemo. Fair enough. Obi-Wan wouldn’t bother to correct a decent character assessment. Anakin clearly noticed the absence of rebuke and huffed a laugh. He could always tell when Obi-Wan’s silences meant agreement. 

“Well, Dyas is almost done here and we’ll come back together.” Anakin’s tone had lost most of its sullen quality. He sounded like he was even smiling. “He has the crown for Agathon, turns out he won the drama competition. Don’t spoil the surprise, Master. I have to go now.”

“See you—” the com dropped. “Soon.” Obi-Wan took a deep breath of cool air and let it out. Anakin sounded sober. Anakin sounded… clothed. Good. 

Anakin sounded good.  

Obi-Wan needed to return to the dining room, he couldn’t afford to alienate his hosts. The level of incense hadn’t been too overwhelming, he estimated he could handle himself. He could just… breathe less. Splendid. Time to go. Just one more moment. One more deep breath.

Anakin will be here soon. He can eat, Hyparch and the rest will be amused to see us interact, the Loyalists will feel supported by the Republic, and we can leave. It’s almost over.  

Eryx was still speaking as Obi-Wan slunk back into the room. He tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, sliding back onto his couch, curling around Agathon’s back, arranging himself on his cushions. Agathon looked back and smiled speculatively at him. His pupils were blown, and he had a faint blush. 

Obi-Wan knew well how potent the combination of the incense and wine was. He saw another couple across the room had moved into the touching phase of the evening. Bare skin, broad shoulders, a hand sliding down. Obi-Wan’s eyes came back to Agathon’s face and he gave his best bland smile. 

Agathon smirked and returned his focus to the opposite couch. Eryx was leaning back comfortably against a besotted looking Risto, her face flushed with wine and enthusiasm. Her melodious voice was discussing harmonics, of all things, as far as Obi-Wan could gather as he tried to catch the thread of the conversation. 

“Erōs, then, is about the reconciliation of opposites!” She said, gesturing widely with her goblet. “Desire is a force that reconciles hostile oppositions, and is what creates all of our happiness and harmony.” She noticed Obi-Wan, and pointed her goblet at him sternly. “We must accept and honor and reverence harmonious love in all our actions!” She scowled at him. “Or else! The impiety of an unbalanced heart will bring only pain and sorrow. As a physician, I know how to reconcile hostile elements and make them loving friends.” 

Obi-Wan was pretty sure he missed an important part of her argument, but nodded anyway. She nodded back, decisively. “I can bring balance to the human body, using my understanding of love. ”

He… will bring balance… Train him.

Master Qui-Gon’s dying words had never actually stopped echoing in his brain on some level, even at the most inappropriate times. The word balance always made his brain snag.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and conjured a vivid memory of Master Qui-Gon in a similar room, at a similar party, looking as relaxed as he did meditating under his favorite tree in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Obi-Wan had never mastered that trick. He was focusing on his anxieties again—he still missed his Master's calming presence, especially times like these.

There is no emotion, there is peace.

The air’s sweetness was a threat, now, and Obi-Wan was reminded of the danger with every inhale. He set his shoulders, reached for a piece of bread, and dipped it in oil—knowing where the drug was really coming from made him much more comfortable eating, and he needed a distraction. He noted that his water cup had been filled in his absence, and his eyes sought the small droid subtly circulating plates of fresh food and carafes of wine. He tried to guess whether Anakin would inexplicably give it a male or female gender.

Eryx turned her head back and poked Risto. “I see that you’re done with your tragic case of the hiccups.”

Risto was indeed cured, and with enthusiasm took his turn speaking in praise of Erōs in a remarkable baritone voice, telling a strange but charming story about soulmates split apart by Zeus, concluding grandly: “And so each of us was separated from our other halves and doomed to always be looking for them. And if one of us should actually meet with their other half, whether they be an erastēs, erōmenos, whatever—that is the greatest possible joy.”

He put an arm around Eryx and squeezed. “The pair become lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the other's sight, as I may say, even for a moment: these are the people who pass their whole lives together; yet they could not explain what they desire of one another. It’s more than mere sex, it’s one soul divided into two bodies longing to reunite with itself.”  

Obi-Wan was very tired of hearing about sex. He could not wait to be done with the mission and off the planet. If Anakin found a way to get information about the Separatist terrorists, then they could begin to solve that particular problem and be one step closer to being back at the Temple. In a place where Padawan meant Padawan, and the world made sense. 

There is no passion, there is serenity.

He was trying to meditate in place, absently poking at the silent force bond like someone worrying a bad tooth. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it was an aching quietness, which was a welcome relief from his overstimulated body. He pulled himself as far into the Force as possible, ignoring the slight friction of his clothes on his skin, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the flood of warmth. He could handle this. He was a Jedi. 

There is no chaos, there is harmony.

The bond with Anakin was slowly opening up. Obi-Wan mentally triangulated the distance from University District to the villa, by various modes of transport and with various stops. How much time had passed? It was hard to tell. 

The speeches in praise of Erōs had grown more and more philosophical—the Heleens were stereotypically fond of discourse—almost in inverse proportion to Obi-Wan’s willingness and ability to appreciate them. He did enjoy some of the discussion by Mistress Tima, the President of the University, who said something about how desire for physical beauty was the first step to learning how to think about the beautiful in the abstract. She was an engaging speaker, with a musical voice. 

Obi-Wan missed most of it. 

The bond with Anakin had suddenly swelled open and Obi-Wan wasn’t alone in his mind. It felt good. Anakin was not intentionally communicating—he was just no longer holding the door shut, and hazy happiness was radiating off his mind into Obi-Wan’s. As a result, Obi-Wan was getting light-headed, and was having trouble focusing. 

There is no emotion, there is… sweat sliding down my brow.

Obi-Wan had no idea why half the group was halfway to going out of their minds with desire while Mistress Tima looked mostly unperturbed. Had she come in later? Obi-Wan circled his eyes around the room, trying to do a fresh count. His eyes skipped over couches where people were kissing and stroking each other with a deliberate blindness. There were indeed people missing, spots on couches being vacated, and there were also fresh faces. 

He hadn’t noticed that many people moving around—he was more than slightly concerned by that fact. It was a custom to not disturb, and they were apparently very good at it. 

Finally, after what felt like a combination of five minutes and five days for Obi-Wan who was breathing as little as possible and trying to look polite, there were a few noticeable bangs that grew louder as they came closer, a crash, a flurry of loud voices that got suddenly quiet before suddenly getting even louder. The bond was beginning to soak Obi-Wan in Anakin’s unusual amount of happiness.

Obi-Wan looked at the door, considered, and then looked at Hyparch. He wondered how often Hyparch hosted parties like this, with stampeding hordes of young people doing minor property damage. Laid out as Hyparch was on his side in the front of the room, curled around an attractive young man, he looked a bit like a satisfied Hutt. He probably had lots of parties. He looked like he really enjoyed being the younger brother to the Tyrannos. 

Dyas and a few other familiar faces came pouring in the door, interrupting stuffy Master Gaton as he declaimed the latest, nauseatingly flowery speech in honor of Erōs. Perhaps, finally, the speeches were over. The newcomers were breaking the implicit rule of being invisible in entering and exiting the room. Perhaps the young and beautiful always have that privilege. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure. 

Obi-Wan realized with a sinking sensation that he could hear Anakin coming down the hallway, which was a terrible sign. Anakin was nearly shouting: “Where is Agathon? Is my Master here? Take me to Agathon! I need to give him this!” 

Anakin was drunk. 

When the kriff did he have time to do that?

Anakin turned the corner and stopped suddenly to stand in the doorway and survey the room. Obi-Wan blinked at him, at the sight he made. Anakin was disheveled, flushed, and crowned with a massive garland of ivy and violets, his head flowing with ribbons. His Padawan braid was a mess. 

“Hello, there!” Anakin spoke to everyone in a loud approximation of Obi-Wan’s Coruscanti accent. A ripple of amusement went around the room, eyes flashing to Obi-Wan, whispers following, and Obi-Wan flushed. His eyes were stuck on Anakin’s Padawan braid, his fingers ached to fix it. He couldn’t look away.

Anakin began talking loudly to the room at large as Dyas pulled him down the row towards the couch with Agathon and Obi-Wan. “I’m sorry I’m very drunk, I’m not supposed to be drunk. I didn’t mean to be.” The crown had fallen down over his eyes as he was being dragged along, tripping nimbly as the alcohol warred with his natural grace.  

Obi-Wan lay back heavily on his cushion, eyes rolling to the ceiling, hand smoothing his beard. This was going to be a disaster. His eyes fell back to Anakin’s flushed face, sweeping over and coming back to his purple-stained lips. Obi-Wan swallowed.

Agathon sat up, excited.

“Hello, Agathon!” Anakin had been pulled into place and was very seriously taking off his crown. “I hereby award you… your award!” He plopped the crown down on top of Agathon’s head. “You won!” 

“Thank you, Anakin, very much.” The room filled with a general murmur of congratulation. Agathon was remarkably young to have won the highest prize for his tragedy. 

Anakin’s eyes drifted past Agathon to the back of the couch, and lit up with recognition.

“Hello, Master!” 

Obi-Wan watched warily as Anakin visibly processed the information in front of him, looking from Obi-Wan to Agathon, back and forth, brow growing more and more furled until— 

“Picked an erōmenos, Master?” His voice was petulant. 

Obi-Wan could hear Mistress Rous’s low murmur to Saynias and tried not to sigh.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said lowly, “Agathon is just sharing the couch.”

“Oh!” Anakin smiled widely. “Can three people fit on this couch?” Before anyone answered, he had begun to lay down between them. It was a close fit. Obi-Wan hastily drew back to avoid Anakin falling into his lap. 

Sithspit. Proximity was not good.

Anakin looked seriously at Agathon. “Can I have that crown back so I can give half to Obi-Wan?” Agathon laughed as Obi-Wan made a spluttering noise of disagreement. 

Obi-Wan watched in disbelief as Agathon passed back his prize to be disassembled. Anakin hummed happily as he pulled apart the wreath and rewound it with surprising dexterity and speed into two smaller, sloppier wreaths. Obi-Wan’s eyes lingered as Anakin’s fingers rolled and twisted the ribbons and the flowers. 

He felt the observation of the rest of the room like a physical itch, and looked away from Anakin’s hands. He observed instead the fresco occupying the opposite wall, noting the bearded man with a javelin and a hand on the shoulder of a young man with curly hair and a shield. He ran a hand across his beard again absently, thumb tracing his lips. He could still taste the meilooruns. He heard faintly the sound of Mistress Tima answering questions about the nature of beauty. His heart was thudding, he felt like he was underwater, he felt like he was burning up. 

Anakin was too close. The bond was open. I need to close it. It would take too much concentration to close it. I can’t focus.

Obi-Wan jolted back to reality as a crown was plopped on his head. “Here, Master!” Anakin flashed his widest smile, the one that gleamed, which made Obi-Wan’s chest hurt. Anakin looked extremely proud of his handiwork, his eyes lingering on how purple flowers in the crown sat in Obi-Wan’s copper hair in the low light. Obi-Wan watched as Anakin’s smile softened as he looked down, finally making eye contact. 

Anakin winced at the incredulous expression he found there. 

“How is this possible, Anakin? You were perfectly cogent not even one standard hour ago!” Obi-Wan spoke in a strained undertone. “What were you thinking?”

Anakin’s eyes widened and his shoulders slumped. “I’m very, very sorry Master.” He did sound extremely sorry. “The wine Dyas had tasted like suulberries and it sparkled in my mouth like that candy from Alderaan.” Anakin paused, visibly thinking hard. “Popping Pebbles. You know I like suulberries. And I love Popping Pebbles!”

Obi-Wan pinched his nose and tried not to breathe deeply. “Yes, more than common sense, apparently, my very young apprentice.”

“Please don’t very young me,” Anakin’s eyes were huge, imploring, his pouting lips stained with the blasted purple wine. “You agreed you wouldn’t do that after I turned 20, and I’ve been 20 for months.”

“I never agreed to anything of the sort, Padawan,” Obi-Wan said tightly. He was hyperaware of having an audience to this conversation. Drunk Anakin had no volume control whatsoever.

Anakin frowned before shrugging. “Well, you agreed in my imagination, Master. You’re a lot more agreeable in my imagination.”

Obi-Wan flushed. Audience.

“We’ve been speaking in praise of Erōs, Padawan Skywalker,” Mistress Rous said leadingly. “Would you care to make a speech on the subject?”

“Please...” Obi-Wan shot her a betrayed look. ”Don’t—“ 

Anakin sat back upright, quickly. “Speeches? Has Obi-Wan spoken yet?”

She looked indulgently at him. Obi-Wan bristled. “We’ve all spoken in praise of Erōs, the god of desire.”

“I don’t think that’s a good subject for a Jedi.” He looked worriedly back at Obi-Wan, the question in his eyes. Obi-Wan shook his head slightly, and Anakin turned back to the room and spoke confidently: “Not a good subject for a Jedi.”

As subtle as a bantha, as ever. Obi-Wan thought, staring fondly at Anakin’s profile. He was growing into his sharp jawline. Suddenly Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed. He looked closer at Anakin’s jaw. Or at the stubble he found there. Stubble. He looked over at Mistress Rous who was looking at him with a satisfied, knowing expression.

“Perhaps,” Mistress Rous said coyly, “as a Jedi, you would like to speak in praise of your Master, instead?”

“Absolutely not—”

“Oh yes, that would work—”

Again, Obi-Wan’s words got spoken over, this time by an oblivious and intoxicated Padawan. He tried poking at the bond. Anakin felt it, presumably, but was ignoring him. 

“I can easily talk about my Master, how he’s the best Jedi. I could do that all day, every day.” Anakin chattered happily. “He’s the best Jedi in the Order. He’s easily as powerful as Master Windu, as wise as Master Yoda. He's the best with a lightsaber out of anyone! He should be on the Council, he’d be better than anyone on there now.” Anakin was speaking easily, like these were simple facts about reality, rather than troubling admissions of very unJedi-like amounts of attachment. 

“How can you possibly say such things, Anakin?” asked Obi-Wan, aghast. “Are you making fun of me? That’s absurd.”

“Come on, Master. Relax. I’m only telling them the truth,” Anakin said in a loud whisper. 

“Anakin—”

“Please, continue, Padawan Skywalker.” Hyparch spoke commandingly. Obi-Wan closed his mouth, and resented Hyparch immensely at that moment. “We are eager to know more about who the Republic has sent as their representative.”

Anakin nodded happily. “I’ll tell you why my Master is the greatest Jedi, so you know how lucky you are to have him here.” 

Obi-Wan wanted to die. He had no idea about how to gracefully end this interaction, and he was having trouble thinking without any blood in his head due to the blasted aphrodisiac. He was trying to push past the physical symptoms of arousal, and give it all to the Force. It wasn’t working. Not with Anakin’s warm body this close and him saying such absurd things. He could smell him, the wine on his breath, the flowers from his hair, the scent of his sweat. 

Anakin began babbling again, very quickly and very loud. “He’s the best Jedi because he is so good at talking to people. He’s so charming and handsome. He says really smart things and is very wise. He can be very clever and funny, but also very serious about the Force. He’s really balanced and level, not too emotional like me. He's hard on me, always very critical, but that's because he's the best and he thinks everyone should be as good. But it's impossible! One time I saw him meditate for 24 hours in a row, get up, stretch and just walk away and start his day. It was wizard. I can barely sit still! He is very strong and patient and can endure anything. In terrible pain? ‘He’s fine.’ Starving for days? ‘He hardly notices.’ Freezing cold or super hot? ‘He is slightly uncomfortable.’” His imitation of Obi-Wan’s accent had not gotten any better. 

Obi-Wan considered interrupting, looked over at Hyparch, and reluctantly sank lower and lower into his cushion with every word. His face was on fire. 

Why did Anakin have to be a happy drunk? Why couldn’t he be weepy? We could have left...

“The sound of his voice is great, I have to admit I’ve asked him questions just to hear him talk as he answers them a few times.” 

Excuse me? 

“He is not a hypocrite like many other Jedi—” Without thinking, Obi-Wan reached out and tugged on Anakin’s Padawan braid. Anakin breathed out sharply, smiled, and continued blithely “—and he is impossible to corrupt, he doesn’t care about money, or honor, or beauty or anything. He really distrusts and dislikes politicians—”

With intent, Obi-Wan reached out again and tugged harder on the braid.

Anakin clicked his mouth shut, looked over his shoulder. He blinked a couple times at Obi-Wan’s blush, his wide-eyed, incredulous look, before turning back towards the party and smiling apologetically. 

“Nevermind. Anyway. He is also the greatest Jedi because he is the best teacher and the best warrior. He killed a Sith Lord when he was still a Padawan! He has saved my life so many times, in so many ways, from so many enemies. We get in lots of trouble, but he always makes sure we’ll survive, and he always finds my lightsaber when I lose it. One time, two missions ago, we were forced to retreat before superior force and Obi-Wan walked deliberately slowly, keeping an eye on everybody so that he was sure that he was at the back of the group, because he knew he could handle it. I can’t describe how incredible he looked doing it.”

He looked back at Obi-Wan again and heaved a dramatic sigh before facing front, his voice growing wistful. 

“I guess if you really were all talking about Erōs, I should end this by saying that you should know that my Master is such a good Jedi that it wouldn’t ever occur to him touch me like that, even when I’m half-naked and in his bed—we spend so much time together, talking, sparring, sleeping, if he was going to do anything, he would have, so I know he won’t. But, just because we don’t touch when I try to get close to him, when I have a nightmare and he lets me sleep in his bed, only ever just to sleep, it doesn’t mean I’m angry about it or resent him about it. I couldn’t do that any more than I could hope to win him over. He’s a really good Jedi. The best. But I guess from what Dyas told me he would be a bad erastēs. He’s a pretty big tease, even though he has no idea he does it.” He nodded as he finished and lay back down. “Master… I feel really warm.”

“Excuse us.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t really put together exactly how they left, or how they got back to their accommodations. He was purging the aphrodisiac from his system as fast as he could, but he had apparently breathed too much there at the end and had ingested a lot more than he had expected. He wouldn’t be able to fall into a healing trance right away, either, because…

Anakin. He had to keep an eye on Anakin… especially while Anakin was intoxicated. Obi-Wan didn’t want his Padawan to wander out into the Heleenic night to repeat his Master’s mistakes. The idea of Anakin being touched by anyone else tonight, or ever, was… disturbingly intolerable.

There is no emotion, there is peace.

Obi-Wan had needed to physically guide Anakin back. The wine and smoke had made Anakin a little unsteady on his feet, and easily distractible—a bad combination. Obi-Wan had walked as straight and fast as he was able to, using a gentle hold on Anakin’s upper arm to keep him moving with him. Obi-Wan found that sometimes he had to use his grip to keep Anakin nearby and sometimes he had to use it to keep Anakin away, keep him from crashing into Obi-Wan’s side, keep him from leaning too close. 

Obi-Wan was hyperaware of his body and Anakin’s body, where they touched and the distance between them. The empty space seemed to crackle with intangible lightning—their force bond so strong, so thickly interwoven, as to make the air heavy with charge.

They were standing silently in the lift as it moved them much too slowly upwards towards the floor of their room. It was too quiet, the sound of their breathing was too loud and harsh in Obi-Wan’s ears, on top of the thunderous sound of his own heart beating. Everything was too much, all at once, the aphrodisiac flooding him with heady warmth. 

They were trapped in some kind of mutually reinforcing desire feedback loop—each having had enough inhibition dampening drugs that it was impossible to keep their bond closed. They felt each other’s arousal. With the strength of Anakin’s unshielded power and his desire at close proximity, Obi-Wan was virtually drowning in it. 

Obi-Wan tried to remind himself that they were both not thinking clearly, and that there was no way that either he or Anakin had ever or would ever have these feelings without being drunk and drugged—but they were still Anakin’s feelings of desire at that moment and they were for him, they were in his brain, and it felt so real. The fact that they were Anakin’s, his Anakin’s, feelings was so arousing that he felt a distant pang of horror. He was thinking unthinkable things. 

Even in the elevator, Obi-Wan hadn’t been able to let go of Anakin’s arm, and he hadn’t been able to step away and stop breathing in the addictive scent of Anakin. His Padawan. His. A spike of arousal shot through Obi-Wan, almost painful in its intensity. His cock had never been this hard in his life. Anakin snapped his head around to look at Obi-Wan.

“Yes, Master?” 

“Don’t, Padawan.” Obi-Wan briefly held Anakin’s upper arm tighter with a warning grip. 

Anakin whimpered quietly at the pressure, the bond flaring briefly incandescent with his pleasure at being held. 

Obi-Wan swallowed loudly and managed to open his hand with difficulty, letting it fall. The sound of Anakin whimpering at his touch replayed in his mind. He closed his eyes and took a step back. The sound replayed in his mind, and he took a deep breath. Another step away, and his back hit the wall.

He felt Anakin’s eyes on his face, on his blush. He began aggressively trying to remove the sound of Anakin’s whimper from his memory. He looked down and focused intently on the carpeted floor as he desperately tried to channel his arousal to the Force without sending it down the bond. 

“Please, Master?” Anakin’s voice was lower than normal, huskier than it should be. Obi-Wan’s jaw clenched. “I can feel what you feel. It’s driving me mad, Master.” 

“Stop talking, Padawan,” Obi-Wan said, a little desperate. Anakin must have noticed the way Obi-Wan’s cock throbbed whenever Anakin called him ‘Master’ with that private, caressing tone. 

Obi-Wan realized that he had no control whatsoever about what was being echoed back through the bond, and he was terrified. Anakin was learning things he never should have known, things that Obi-Wan himself hadn’t let himself know. Things that were never meant to be known at all, and now could not be unlearned. Obi-Wan knew he would never forget how this felt. He felt ruined, gutted, raw… glorious.

Anakin narrowed the gap with a step. Obi-Wan quickly held up a hand, palm out, creating a barrier. The distance between his palm and Anakin’s chest was too small, Obi-Wan could almost feel the texture of Anakin’s tunic without touching him. Their eyes locked for a moment before Obi-Wan pulled his head down, returning his gaze to the floor.

“Anakin, we can’t. I can’t,” Obi-Wan said, pushing his misery into the Force, or into their bond—he wasn’t sure which. He couldn’t tell when Anakin’s power filled the Force around him to the degree that he felt encompassed in the supernova that was Anakin’s Force signature.

“I know you can’t, Obi-Wan. It’s alright.” Anakin’s use of his first name made Obi-Wan look back up. He stared at Anakin’s desperately earnest face. “I just think you should.”

The door of the lift opened, and Obi-Wan moved quickly around Anakin and into the hall. He appreciated so much that he could breathe deeply without fear. He was trembling, unsteady. The aphrodisiac was playing havoc on his control. His mind flashed with images of turning around, putting his hand on Anakin’s long neck, pulling him close, tasting the wine on his lips, holding Anakin in place with a hand wrapped with his Padawan braid, tugging at it again to hear a new whimper, sliding a hand along the skin of his stomach and down inside his pants, pulling them down, sinking to his knees. He released a shaky breath. 

Suddenly a flood of new images all at once: Obi-Wan pushing Anakin hard against the wall, biting his neck, sucking purple marks into the soft golden skin, whispering lowly that Anakin was doing so well, being so good for him, letting him touch him. Obi-Wan’s pace slowed as his body thrummed with arousal. The images kept coming. Obi-Wan taking Anakin on a bed, slicking him up, pressing fingers inside him, easing his cock in so gently before fucking into him hard, taking him, owning him, coming deep inside him. 

All the images and sensations came from Anakin’s point of view. Anakin’s fantasies. Obi-Wan swayed when he realized and stopped walking. He asked without looking back, voice uneven, “How are you doing that?”

“I’m not sure, but you did it first.” 

“What?” Obi-Wan was appalled. He turned around with a frown. “That is not possible, or acceptable!” 

“You did it first!” Anakin repeated, like that fact alone would make it alright—as if Obi-Wan’s actions were the standard for what was possible and for how one should act. He acted like Obi-Wan’s judgement was more important than what was right.

Obi-Wan stared blankly at him, his mind stuck on a loop of so good for him, letting him touch him, coming inside him. He shook his head once, hard, and wondered at himself. Were the Heleens right, about him? About Anakin? Would Anakin continue to need him to guide him, to keep him from going astray—even as a Senior Padawan, or even as a Knight? 

How much did Anakin need him? How much of him did Anakin need?

“I… I did not mean to share, Padawan.” He swallowed. “I don’t know what you saw or felt, but I’m not able to shield, and my thoughts are… not my own. Neither are yours.”

“I think you know exactly what I saw, Master,” Anakin said, drawing closer again. Obi-Wan’s cock throbbed at the word—at how it was said. Anakin smiled. “I think you know exactly what I felt.” 

Obi-Wan couldn’t handle this. They were still in the kriffing hallway. He turned, walked directly to their door, shakily used the Force to unlock it, and walked inside, not waiting for Anakin to follow. “Come on, Anakin. We need to get inside. We need to sleep this off.”

He felt Anakin following him, felt his eyes on his back. Obi-Wan surveyed the too-luxurious suite, moved as steadily as possible to the small kitchen, and poured himself a glass of water. He drained it, filled it, and turned to give it to Anakin. 

Anakin was much closer than he expected. Obi-Wan straightened his spine. He had to look up to meet Anakin’s eyes at this distance, an unacceptable fact about reality.

Why was he this close? Why was he getting closer?

Obi-Wan held out the glass and attempted to insert authority into his voice. “Anakin, drink this water and go to bed.” His breathing was unsteady, his cheeks flushed. 

Anakin tilted his head to the side and moved so close that Obi-Wan’s hand holding the glass almost brushed his chest. His eyes were bright, his lips curled in a mischievous smile. 

“No.”   

Obi-Wan blinked. “What?” 

“Make me, Master.” 

“Make you?” Obi-Wan said, faintly. Incredulously. His eyes unfocused, he licked his lips. Their bond was like a living thing, coiling around him, making him dizzy. Anakin tilted his head to the other side and reached out to carefully straighten the wreath of ivy and violets resting on Obi-Wan’s hair. Obi-Wan had forgotten he was still wearing it. 

Anakin smiled at his handiwork. “Yes, make me.” 

“Anakin…” Obi-Wan said weakly, finally lowering the hand holding the water. Anakin stepped forward into the vacated space. Too close. Anakin reached down and took the glass from Obi-Wan’s loose grip, bringing it to his lips and draining it in several long gulps. 

Obi-Wan stared at the movement of Anakin’s throat. He swallowed, realizing how much he wanted to lick, bite, suck that neck. Anakin wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand. It was obscene, and Obi-Wan couldn’t look away.

Anakin then leaned forward and Obi-Wan leaned back sharply, alarmed. Anakin smiled innocently as he placed the empty water glass back on the counter, and then left his hand there, closing Obi-Wan in. Far too close. Anakin whispered into his ear, “Please, Master. Just this once. Will you? Will you please fuck me?” 

Just this once. Would he? Would he...

Obi-Wan felt simultaneously frozen and on fire. Every part of him that was a good Jedi was muted by the aphrodisiac and by Anakin’s desire. By his own desire, his own attachment.

His hand moved again without thought, without permission, up to Anakin’s braid—trying to grab onto something solid, and regain control. His fingers wrapped around it, and focused on the softness of Anakin’s hair. Obi-Wan stared at the braid in his grasp, his mind caught on what the braid meant, what his responsibility was, what a very good Jedi would do. Anakin’s braid was a tangled mess. His beautiful-disaster Padawan. His. Obi-Wan’s eyes flicked up from his hand to Anakin’s face, studying the naked expression he found there. 

The moment hung suspended in time, Obi-Wan knew he was teetering on the verge of doing something unforgivable.

“Please,” Anakin whispered. 

Obi-Wan felt himself snap, washed with sudden recklessness. He tugged on the braid, hard, and watched as Anakin’s eyes slid half shut, his lips parting, a strangled moan caught in his throat. Obi-Wan finally felt clarity of purpose: to hear that sound again. 

“I am not going to fuck you, Padawan.” The words were heavy in his mouth. Outer Rim slang, Anakin’s words, on his tongue. “Not like this—” Anakin whined, begging. “—But I will touch you.” 

The look of relief on Anakin’s face was breathtaking. The bond sparkled. He opened his mouth to speak again, and Obi-Wan couldn’t have that, he was done talking. This mistake was already made—minutes, hours, days ago. All that was left was to— His free hand snaked up and wrapped tightly around the back of Anakin’s neck, and he pulled his mouth down, crashing their lips together.

Anakin tensed, eyebrows shooting up, before smiling into the kiss and relaxing into his hold, kissing him back. The bond whited out with his relief and joy. Obi-Wan could feel that Anakin couldn't believe that it was happening, finally happening—that he didn't understand the chain of events that had led him to finally getting what he wanted, what he needed.

Obi-Wan’s world narrowed to the sensations of Anakin’s warm proximity, the feeling of his skin and hair under his fingers, the softness of his lips. He claimed Anakin’s mouth, taking control of the kiss, licking into his lips and letting out a low groan as he finally tasted him—wine, berries, Anakin—squeezing his hand on the back of Anakin’s neck when Anakin whined in response. Obi-Wan sucked on his lower lip, hard. 

Anakin’s hands found Obi-Wan’s hips and pulled their bodies together, moving them backward until Obi-Wan hit the counter of the small kitchen. Obi-Wan broke the kiss and gasped for air, meeting Anakin’s eyes, checking for permission. He hardly needed to—Anakin's joy bubbled the back of Obi-Wan’s mind, lighting up the part of Obi-Wan that belonged to Anakin, the part that Anakin had created and filled. His Anakin.

Obi-Wan began kissing and sucking roughly on Anakin’s neck as his hands moved rapidly down to find the fastening of Anakin's belt and the ties of his tunics, pulling them open roughly, hands seeking skin. Anakin moaned when Obi-Wan stroked across the bare skin of his stomach, up the length of his back, removing layer after layer until Anakin stood bare chested. His golden skin was impossibly beautiful in the low light, his broad shoulders and lean muscles impossibly strong—more handsome than Obi-Wan thought possible. 

Obi-Wan let his eyes linger over the details of Anakin’s body that he’d seen a thousand times but never allowed himself to look at, to appreciate, before—the width of his shoulders, the angle of his collarbones and the hollow between them. His mouth felt dry at the strength of Anakin's chest and arms, the pink of his nipples, the collection of pale scars from wounds he remembered having seen when still bleeding, the pale trail of hair on his stomach, leading down. His fingers brushed through it, lightly, before he moved his hand away.

He met Anakin’s eyes, and asked, his voice rough and kind. “What do you want, dear one?”

He immediately almost swayed with second-hand pleasure, and he realized that he should have considered Anakin’s professed fondness for his voice in advance. The Force bond had saturated the back of his mind with Anakin’s reaction to his voice. It was a curious discovery, so he tried again, moving his mouth closer to Anakin’s ear and speaking fast and low. “Be good for me now and say it out loud, I do need to hear you say it, Padawan.” 

Anakin was breathing too fast, his heart was beating too fast, so he spoke too fast, tripping over his words in his effort to please. “T-touch me, Master, please.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow and hummed deliberatively. “Where would you like me to touch you?”

“Anywhere,” Anakin said immediately. “Everywhere.” He paused and heaved a deep breath, wide eyes closing and reopening darker. “Please, Master, wherever you want.” 

Obi-Wan hummed again, thoughtful. Wherever he wanted… What did he want? He wanted to explore—his body craved the touch of skin on skin because of the aphrodisiac, of course, but beyond that. It was like he had finally given himself permission, allowed himself to cross the gap, to actually touch. He reached up to cup Anakin’s face gently.

“Here?” He asked quietly, his palm resting on Anakin’s cheek, his fingers touching his hair. His thumb stroked gently against Anakin’s sharp cheekbone.

Anakin breathed out sharply and tilted his head to press an affectionate kiss into Obi-Wan’s hand. He whispered, “Yes, Master.” 

Obi-Wan nodded and reached up with his other hand, resting it on Anakin’s neck as he said, “Here?” He watched intently as Anakin swallowed, nodding jerkily, before slowly sliding his hand across the breadth of Anakin’s shoulder and down his arm to his hand, interlacing their fingers. He looked back to Anakin’s flushed face.

Anakin’s eyes were fixed on his mouth, so Obi-Wan gave him a soft kiss. Anakin squeezed Obi-Wan’s hand and whispered, “Yes, Master.”

Obi-Wan slid the hand lingering on Anakin’s face down to his stomach, and then slowly dragged it lower. The muscles tensed under his touch. “Here, dearest?” His hand paused, waiting for a response.

Anakin sucked in a breath. “Yes, please, yes, Master.”

Obi-Wan hummed affirmatively and his hand continued down, palming Anakin’s hard cock through his pants, gently rubbing along his length, feeling its thickness and warmth, squeezing gently on the head. Anakin moaned loudly, and Obi-Wan added it to the list of sounds that would doubtless echo in his mind forever.

He withdrew his hands, and Anakin made an offended sound that made him huff a laugh. “Relax, Padawan mine.” He kissed him again gently. “Take off your pants.”

Anakin rushed to obey, baring himself completely to Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan’s eyes traced the newly uncovered skin, from Anakin’s bare feet up his calves to his strong thighs, finally catching on the hardness of Anakin’s cock, which jumped as Obi-Wan’s eyes lingered on it. 

Obi-Wan looked up and smiled warmly at Anakin’s vulnerable expression. “Very good. Step back.” Obi-Wan’s voice had the same cadence he used when talking Anakin through his lightsaber katas, but rougher tone. Anakin moved on beat, eyes seeking Obi-Wan’s, questioning. 

He looked barely contained, like he was at the starting line of a race, about to spring into action. Always so desperate to move. Obi-Wan had him stand there, for a moment, so he could really look at him. Anakin’s body looked like a Heleenic sculpture, or better than a sculpture—he was so alive.  

He glowed incandescent in the Force to Obi-Wan. His immense connection with the Living Force was causing a radiant eddy of power, twining out and pulling in Obi-Wan, seeking him out especially, until Obi-Wan felt like his essential personhood in the Force was starting to blur—like they were melting together into one person, just on the other side of reality. 

Obi-Wan blinked and lost sight of the Force, eyes focusing back on the material world, caught up by the beauty of Anakin’s physical body, his power and grace. Anakin’s chest was moving up and down with his breathing, his muscles stretching under golden skin as he shifted his weight, so very eager to act, to please. 

Something was missing. 

Obi-Wan realized what it was, reaching up absently and pulling off his ivy and violet crown. He put it back on Anakin’s head, where it belonged. “Very good,” Obi-Wan remarked absently, looking him over. Anakin swallowed loudly, the bond an inferno of incredulous pleasure in the back of Obi-Wan’s mind.

Obi-Wan’s eyes slid from Anakin to the high-backed couch behind him, speculatively. “Turn around,” he said. Anakin did, showing Obi-Wan a wide expanse of unexplored skin. “Lean over the back of the couch.”

Anakin’s shoulders went up and down as he took a single steadying breath before moving forward without further hesitation. He has no fear, Obi-Wan thought in awe, not of this. 

Obi-Wan sometimes felt as if he were made of fear. 

Anakin made himself comfortable, bending forward, moaning quietly as he pressed his hardness against the back of the couch. Obi-Wan stepped closer, lightly kicking apart his legs to stand between them, making sure to leave a fraction of space between Anakin’s bare ass and his clothed cock. 

Obi-Wan stroked a hand from the bottom of Anakin’s spine all the way to the back of his neck. He leaned down, nearer to Anakin’s ear, “Here?” he asked, his voice rougher than before. Anakin whimpered. The skin of Anakin’s back was smooth and warm, with more scars that he felt called to learn and kiss, later.

Later... Would there be a later?

Obi-Wan paused with his hand at Anakin’s neck when Anakin remained silent, gripping it tighter, holding him, fingers sliding in the soft short hair. “Darling, I need to hear you say it.” Anakin groaned at that and bucked his hips against the couch, desperate for friction.

“Yes, Master.” His voice was desperate. “Sorry, Master.”

“Do you want me to stop touching you?”

Anakin whined at the idea of Obi-Wan stopping. “No, please, don’t stop.” 

Obi-Wan released his grip on the back of Anakin’s neck and slid his hand back down his spine slowly, feeling each segment of his back as he watched with fascination as Anakin’s muscles tensed and his hips pressed forward. “Very well, Padawan, I won’t stop.”

Anakin was panting. “Thank you, Master.”

Obi-Wan moved back and sank down to his knees. The room was very quiet, silence broken only by the harshness of Anakin’s breathing. Obi-Wan’s hands found the back of Anakin’s ankles and began to drag up, along the soft curve of his calves, thumbs tracing the inside of the back of Anakin’s knees—Anakin’s hips jolted forward, curious—and up, his palms shaping the back of Anakin’s thighs and coming to a rest cupping the curve of Anakin’s ass, his thumbs running lightly along the sensitive skin between his legs.

Anakin whimpered, trembling, and Obi-Wan didn’t recognize his voice. “Here, Padawan?”

“If—if you want, Master, yes, Master, I want, I want that, yes, please—”

“Alright, dear one.” Obi-Wan cut off Anakin’s fervent babble. He pressed his thumbs deeper into Anakin’s soft flesh, spreading him, exposing him. Anakin gasped loudly as he felt cool air against his sensitive skin. 

Obi-Wan didn’t feel in control of his body as he leaned in to lick and kiss at the soft skin around Anakin’s entrance. At the first touch of his tongue, Anakin made an incredulous noise, and his hips jerked sharply.

Obi-Wan smiled and he licked again, harder, tongue tracing around, probing. Anakin thrust involuntarily again, so Obi-Wan grabbed tightly on his hips and held him steady, pushing his cock against the couch.

“E chu ta!” Anakin always swore in Huttese first. “Sith kriffing hells.“ Basic second.

Obi-Wan squeezed his hands, fingers digging in, moving down to bite Anakin’s inner thigh before pulling back. “Language, Padawan,” he said, smiling crookedly as Anakin barked a laugh. “There?” Obi-Wan asked, teasing, as he returned to licking, exploring Anakin’s body. 

“Yes... Master... there.” Anakin’s bliss spread in his voice and the bond like a spell, curling around Obi-Wan in an invisible caress against his soul, not his body. Obi-Wan hummed in acknowledgment—Anakin was reciprocating his touch in the Force through the bond, not intentionally, but it was making Obi-Wan dizzy.

He leaned back to catch his breath, replacing his mouth with his fingers. He sucked instead a row of purple marks down the inside of Anakin’s thigh, letting his fingers rub over the skin of Anakin’s entrance that he had licked wet, pressing them harder, teasing. Anakin was moaning and panting, thanking Obi-Wan over and over.

When Obi-Wan started to suck on the skin behind his knee, and a finger pressing in, ever so slightly, Anakin moaned, “Oh... Oh no... I’m going to come on the couch, Master, I can’t come on the couch.” Obi-Wan stopped and pulled back, using his grip to drag Anakin’s hips back from the friction of the couch. Anakin moaned at being handled, breathing hard, shaking slightly, holding back.

Obi-Wan nodded at his restraint, and spoke, his voice thoughtful. “Very good, Anakin. Thank you for telling me.” He sat back for a moment before making a decision.

Anakin started muttering mutinously as more time passed without Obi-Wan’s touch, and Obi-Wan laughed. “What was that, dear one?”

“Nothing, Master!” Anakin chirped.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Obi-Wan said, standing up. “Well, you can stay there for a moment, please.” He walked over to the ‘fresher, keeping his eyes on Anakin’s figure in the mirror while he washed his face and hands. He came back out. “Alright, Padawan, that’s enough.” Anakin stood up and turned around, breathing shakily. Waiting for instruction. He was flushed, the garland askew. He was beautiful.

His paidika, his mind whispered. The words of Saynias echoing—"Why do you deny what already exists?"

Obi-Wan walked to him, eyes held locked with Anakin's, crowding him, backing him up against the couch. He kissed him fiercely, holding his face still. Anakin moaned into his mouth, deepening the kiss with equal desperation.

Eventually Anakin broke the kiss with a gasp, saying “Please, Master, touch me, I need you to touch me.” 

“I have been touching you, dearest.” Obi-Wan couldn’t help being aggravating, sometimes.

“Master.” Anakin’s exasperated tone was perfect. Obi-Wan smiled. 

“I see.” He slid one hand under Anakin’s balls, cupping them gently. Anakin exhaled sharply. “Here?”

“Kark, Master, yes, there, please.”

Obi-Wan ran the fingers of his other hand along the underside of Anakin’s cock, from base to head, pressing gently on the vein. Anakin groaned in relief, at finally having Obi-Wan’s hands where he wanted them, feeling Obi-Wan’s lightsaber calloused fingers gripping him gently. 

Anakin was so hard, so close, and had been close for ages. It didn’t take much more, Obi-Wan’s just beginning to set a rhythm when Anakin whimpered, biting his lip. He couldn’t last any longer. Before he could say anything, he came, hips jerking into Obi-Wan’s hand. His head fell forward and Obi-Wan caught him with a kiss, sucking the bottom lip out from between his teeth, letting Anakin coat his hands with come. 

“Now, see here, I just washed these, Padawan,” Obi-Wan said, mock exasperated. Anakin leaned his head back, studying Obi-Wan’s face with a self-satisfied smirk. 

“So very sorry, Master.” Anakin panted out, slumping back against the couch.

“I suppose you are forgiven.” Obi-Wan said over his shoulder as he moved to the ‘fresher to clean his hands, again. “It was rather my fault.” When Obi-Wan returned to the room, Anakin was in an identical posture, his long nude body resting loosely against the back of the couch, his breathing returning to normal.

“You’ve done very well, Anakin. I’m pleased with you, paidika.” The word slipped out without permission, and Obi-Wan's eyes widened. He watched the sunrise that took place on Anakin’s face and felt it in the Force with a pang of dread—Is this was Anakin was missing? What he needed? Is this something I can give him? Is this wrong? 

Is this wrong? 

Obi-Wan stopped halfway back to Anakin, some panic flaring up, some distant signal suddenly coming in clear. Is this wrong?

Anakin shook his head and refocused his eyes on Obi-Wan when he caught the question in the bond. “Don’t worry, Master.” He pushed off the couch, coming to meet Obi-Wan in the middle, his hands gently smoothing down Obi-Wan’s Jedi robes—never taken off, only slightly mussed. “Don’t worry about it right now.”

“How can I not, Anakin? What are we doing?” Obi-Wan whispered. He felt like he was free falling. 

“Will you let me touch you, Master?” Anakin asked, moving into Obi-Wan’s personal space, weaving his hand into Obi-Wan’s hair, leaning in, breathing deeply. He kissed under Obi-Wan’s ear, and trailed his lips lower. “Hi chuba du naga? ” He murmured against Obi-Wan’s skin. What do you want?

What do I want? 

Obi-Wan swallowed, his mouth dry. He wanted Anakin to not push him, at that moment—for Anakin to sense that for Obi-Wan, allowing himself to be touched was very different than touching, and that he wasn’t ready—he was too overstimulated, too uncertain. He had crossed so many lines, and he wasn’t sure how many more he could take. 

Anakin looked at his face, somehow reading all of his hesitations and conflicts at a glance. He nodded and Obi-Wan sighed, grateful. He was still painfully hard, but it was a problem he could solve alone, for now. 

“Let me watch, then, Master, while you touch yourself.” 

Obi-Wan was confused. “You want to watch?”

“Please, let me see. I need to see,” Anakin said. He moved back and sat down promptly on the floor in front of Obi-Wan like he was in the audience of his favorite lesson, legs crossed, spine straight. His attentive blue eyes looked up at Obi-Wan, daring him. 

The bond was insistent; Anakin’s desire had been muted somewhat by his orgasm, but this request went deeper. He had been vulnerable in front of Obi-Wan, and so he wanted something private from Obi-Wan in return, something Obi-Wan hadn’t shared with anyone else.

Obi-Wan hesitated before his hand made the decision for him, unconsciously gravitating down to palm his cock at the sight of naked Anakin looking up at him like that. Obi-Wan took a deep breath and slowly opened his clothes, reaching through layers to get down to reach his skin. 

He watched Anakin carefully as he pulled his cock out of his pants, tracking Anakin’s satisfied, curious expression on his face and in the Force. He had just begun to slowly stroke himself when Anakin made a noise in his throat as if he was about to say something and had abruptly stopped himself. 

“Question, Padawan?” 

“Yes, Master.” Anakin looked from Obi-Wan’s hand which was moving steadily on his cock back up to Obi-Wan’s face. “Would you come in my mouth, please, Master?”

Obi-Wan’s rhythm stuttered. “Force, Anakin.” He’d barely started and suddenly felt very close to finishing. He supposed any lingering aphrodisiac was helping, but it was mostly Anakin, saying the most absurd, incredible things. 

“Will you let me taste you?” Anakin’s wide eyes—blue, so blue—blinking up at him hopefully. “Please?” He licked his lips and opened his mouth, pink tongue waiting, showing Obi-Wan where he wanted it. Obi-Wan stared at Anakin’s mouth, at how wet it looked. 

“Come here, Padawan,” he ordered, and took his hand off his cock. He held it out towards Anakin and said, “Spit in my hand, please.” 

Anakin moved swiftly to his knees, eager to obey, his mouth level with both Obi-Wan’s hand and Obi-Wan’s cock. He looked Obi-Wan in the eye as he sucked saliva into his mouth, and then spit it carefully into Obi-Wan’s open palm.

Obi-Wan took a shaky breath. “Thank you, dearest.”

Anakin made a small pleased noise, sitting back on his heels, the bond giving Obi-Wan an additional high from Anakin’s pleasure as he used the wetness from Anakin’s mouth to coat his cock.

Obi-Wan was nearing the edge impossibly quickly, gripping himself tighter, his wrist moving faster and twisting. His gaze flicked between Anakin’s eyes and lips, as though he couldn’t quite decide where he wanted to be looking when it happened. The friction of his hand with the wetness of Anakin’s spit dragged him closer and closer. 

“Please, Master?” Anakin was looking up at him, eyes full of emotion. “I want to see you come.”

Obi-Wan could feel Anakin’s hot breath on his cock. 

It tipped him over, and he groaned as he began to coat Anakin’s open mouth with his come. Anakin darted closer, kissing the tip of Obi-Wan’s cock with an open mouth, and Obi-Wan made a noise deep in his throat. He reached out and grabbed Anakin’s shoulder, holding him in place to use him for support when the strength of his orgasm made his legs weak. 

Anakin had moaned at the first taste of Obi-Wan’s come, happily sucking and licking the head of his cock until Obi-Wan gently pushed him back. Anakin licked his lips and Obi-Wan felt like all the air was stolen from his lungs. 

Obi-Wan looked down at him, his heart stuttering, as a smile started to spread on Anakin’s face—it was Anakin’s biggest one, Obi-Wan’s favorite one, the one that gleamed, as if Obi-Wan had just given him the best gift possible. Obi-Wan shakily slid the hand he was resting on Anakin’s shoulder around the back of Anakin’s neck and pulled him up, kissing him slowly, tasting himself too. 

Anakin melted against him as they kissed for several long moments before he suddenly pulled back, gasping, his eyes wide. “I forgot until now, Master!” He looked concerned and apologetic. “I think that Arys Geiton is more than just a member of the Separatist Ekklēsia. I think he and Dyas are planning on assassinating the Tyrannos.”

Obi-Wan just sighed and did up his pants. “When?”

Anakin grimaced, “Not tonight. Soon.”

Obi-Wan pressed his forehead against Anakin’s and spoke quietly. “Go to sleep, then, dear one. We’ll talk about it in the morning.” They breathed together, for a moment.

“You should sleep too, Master,” Anakin said, equally quiet, as he pulled back. Obi-Wan nodded, and Anakin turned away, satisfied. 

Obi-Wan watched fondly as Anakin shambled off towards Obi-Wan’s bedroom instead of his own. He knew what just happened would likely create many problems in the future. It would likely happen again, and soon, and Anakin would expect things to change forever. He knew, distantly, he should be horrified, but at that particular moment, his limbs loose and his heart full, Obi-Wan couldn’t find it within himself to have any problems at all.

Anakin Skywalker awoke to several immediate problems. 

He did an inventory.

His first problem: the morning sun was far too bright, his head was pounding, his mouth was parched, and his stomach was threatening mutiny. It was an unpleasant but familiar experience, and he could handle it fine. Just give him a minute, a 'fresher, and a large pot of caf. He would be totally fine. In a minute. Once he was able to move without getting sick on himself. But, the hangover wasn't really the problem, the drinking it implied was the problem. It had led to—

His second problem: he was naked. This also wasn't exactly a problem by itself, but a problem by implication. He was laying very comfortably, surrounded by extremely fine, soft, expensive bedding. It could even be considered a wonderful feeling—if one managed to disregard the nausea. It was the reason he was naked that was the real problem. It had led to— 

His third problem: he was alone. 

That was his worst problem of all.

Where was Obi-Wan?

The memories of the night before had come back in an unbelievable flood as soon as he had awoken—a magnificent blur of Obi-Wan's face, Obi-Wan's voice, Obi-Wan's hands... Obi-Wan stealing him from a party, dragging him back to their room, filling Anakin's head with his fantasies—Obi-Wan had fantasies! Obi-Wan had thought of him, imagined him!—and finally, finally touching Anakin exactly how he wanted him to. It was impossible, incredible—a waking dream. 

Obi-Wan, his Obi-Wan, had looked at him like he was the only thing in the room. Touching him, kissing him, holding him, calling Anakin his paidika. His dear one. Dearest. Darling. Anakin couldn’t believe that perfect, distant Obi-Wan had needed him, even for a moment. He knew, now, how Obi-Wan's mouth tasted, how Obi-Wan’s come tasted.

A small, pleased smile twitched involuntarily: Obi-Wan had been his, at least for that perfect moment. Anakin could still hear the beautiful noise Obi-Wan made when he came in Anakin's mouth. It felt like it was branded into his brain.

If Anakin didn't have such an awful hangover, he knew he would be aroused just thinking about it. It was the sexiest thing that had ever happened to him. He was only twenty, and had never had sex before, but still. The point stood. He had a growing suspicion, though, that it would soon become the sexiest memory he would ever have, and nothing more.

It must have been a mistake, Obi-Wan must regret it terribly. Why else would he be alone?

Confusion and hurt began to radiate out from him in the Force like a gathering storm, unshielded and intense. Anakin, miserable, hungover Anakin, was beginning to realize that he had unexpectedly gotten everything he had ever secretly dreamed about—even more than that, everything he didn't even know he needed or could have even imagined—but that it had been nothing but a drugged mistake. Obi-Wan had never had those feelings before, and would never have them again. 

That sense of coming home, of being safe, being wanted—it all had all been a lie.

It was worse than if it had never happened. He blinked away tears, angry at himself.

Where was Obi-Wan? He wanted… It didn’t matter what he wanted.

He managed to make it to the 'fresher before he vomited, but it was a close call. It was miserable to be all alone and throwing up bile. This was the worst. He finally slumped down, curling his naked body to the floor in order to rest his cheek on the cool surface of the stone tile.

Anakin didn’t remember having drunk enough to earn this amount of agony. Maybe it was from a bad combination with the aphrodisiac? Still…This was unfair and awful. He even drank a glass of water before bed, he remembered suddenly, with a sharp pang of everything that came after. He couldn't believe the things he said, the things he did. He guessed he should be lucky that he remembers anything from the evening at all, if he had really been drunk enough to act that way. Drunk enough to say those things. 

Just once, will you please fuck me?

Anakin blushed, alone in the ‘fresher.

He slowly surveyed his body and found six beautiful purple bruises on the inside of his thigh, a light bite mark on the inside of the other, shadows of fingerprints on his hips, and the faintest of marks behind his knee.

Obi-Wan had done that. Obi-Wan was gone.  

He stared at the wall, wishing he was dead. Everything hurt. His body hurt. His heart was starting to hurt. But mostly his brain hurt: the day before just didn't make any sense.

Obi-Wan and he had such a tremendous fight earlier in the day, and then Obi-Wan… 

It didn’t make any sense at all.

He tried to put it all in order: He had first ‘liberated’ a speeder before dawn and tried to find the underbelly of the suspiciously beautiful city of Atyka. Anakin knew that there always was one, and it turned out that he was right. He had finally found the slums hidden cleverly behind tall fences and buried underground, and then followed the inhabitants out to their crushing labor in the mines and plantations. 

There were only nonhuman aliens there: Togrutas, Twi’leks, Wookies, and many others. All trapped in squalor. Of course. It made him sick. He had thought it was a little odd and unlikely that the city was only populated by humans. It was just another city of pretty people, with pretty words, but hollow and rotten underneath.

It was a bad way to start the day, all things considered. It only got worse.

He'd returned to find an angry Obi-Wan pacing their room, just because Anakin had been missing when he woke up. Of course, Obi-Wan's anger was always expressed as a resigned frustration—a painfully incredulous stare, a deep sigh, a pinched nose, a waspish remark. He could cut Anakin in half with the things he said, sometimes.

It drove Anakin a little bit insane that Obi-Wan was never properly angry like a normal person, except maybe when he was trying to kill someone. Even then, it was mostly disdain. His disdain was terrifying, a judgment that he was willing and able to execute with lethal force.

People always forgot that Obi-Wan had killed and would kill again. Anakin never forgot. Obi-Wan threw him down sparring often enough, even after Anakin got taller than him.

Anakin thought his mere disappointment was almost lethally painful too. He wished Obi-Wan would just yell at him, like an equal, instead of being disappointed in him, like a child. 

Obi-Wan had been disappointed with him for not answering his com, and disappointed that he had ignored Obi-Wan's attempt to contact him using the bond. Anakin was sorry, but Obi-Wan's taps had barely registered; he had been so furious about what he had been seeing. But, apparently, being furious is not an acceptable excuse for a Jedi. Anakin obviously knew that, and resented being reminded about at that particular moment. How should he have reacted to slavery—song and dance?

Obi-Wan had also been very disappointed with him because he had done such a risky thing without letting him know first so that he could have come with him. As if Anakin was not competent to handle even a little poking around without supervision. He hadn't been caught, thank-you-very-much. Even his ‘little episode of Grand Theft Speeder’ as Obi-Wan liked to call them had gone totally fine. He had returned it! He had totally not crashed it.

Obi-Wan had just said, pinching the bridge of his nose: “That is not particularly reassuring, Anakin.”

Obi-Wan had then been loudly and pointedly disappointed that they would be late to a very important session of useless people sitting in a room talking. Anakin hated attending the stupid Boulē. At least the pro-Separatist Ekklēsia sometimes devolved into yelling, that was exciting. Direct democracy, apparently, was great for yelling. The Boulē was so fake, so removed, so pointless. Who was the performance even for? 

Obi-Wan had then been extremely disappointed with him during the Boulē, when Anakin started asking questions of very important people who apparently he had no right to talk to without Obi-Wan’s direct supervision. After pulling Anakin away from one such interaction, Obi-Wan had snapped that Anakin needed to be on a leash, sometimes. A statement which Anakin resented for obvious reasons.

Obi-Wan then had been beyond disappointed, verging on disdainful, his eyes almost cold, when Anakin very audibly and publicly voiced a couple of opinions about the answers he received from those fancy, important people. 

It just wasn't acceptable to Anakin that they said that their nonhuman workers were technically being paid—just in currency only valid at the stores operated by their employers, so he said so.

Anakin did not appreciate when they said that nonhumans were absolutely free to search for other employment—provided they first paid back their debts to their employers, so he said so.

He knew tricks like these. He despised tricks like these. 

Obi-Wan had looked like he had wanted to kill Anakin for real this time. Apparently, the “Loyalists” were just corrupt oligarchs would leave the Republic for the Confederacy if the Republic tried to damage their bottom line by making them pay wages, or something equally awful. Apparently,  Helas 4 was too important for strategic reasons to be allowed to leave, so the Republic would let them get away with literal murder. The Jedi were only there to make sure that the "loyal" oligarchs weren't overthrown by a Separatist-supported coup and to "reconcile" the organic pro-Separatist democratic movement with the existing oligarchy.

Not to free slaves.

Anakin hated that, but he wasn’t intentionally trying to cause a diplomatic incident or anything. Not again. 

He just couldn't help but talk sometimes. He hated being a hypocrite or a liar, and was bad at keeping quiet when he had something to say. The oligarchs had turned out to be slavers, because of course they were. Everything was always too good to be true, and nobody ever said anything about it, ever.

And then a completely exasperated Obi-Wan told him to be quiet, or to get out, and that Obi-Wan could handle either the politicians or the truth but not both on the same day. That made Anakin even angrier, to know that despite the fact that Obi-Wan knew there was evil happening, actual evil, he wouldn't do anything about it. Obi-Wan knew already that he couldn’t fix it, so he wouldn't even bother to try. He wouldn't bend stupid, abstract rules to fix an obvious piece of evil, right under his nose:

“Jedi don’t have standing, Padawan.”

“Jedi don’t have jurisdiction, Anakin.”

"Jedi don’t get involved with internal affairs, my very young apprentice.”

So, Anakin had left in a huff, drawing too many eyes. He had probably embarrassed Obi-Wan, but he didn't care. It was better than ruining a "critical" alliance.

The rest of the day had been awful, too. He had stumbled on Dyas and Geiton looking over a city map, marking places suited for ambushes on a religious procession. He had thought Dyas was a friend, and had actually respected Geiton. Well, apparently they were terrorists. Just great. 

The day finally started to get better with the wine—it had been so good, and made him feel so happy, so light, so free. Maybe he should drink more. Probably not, his current hangover was awful, but maybe. 

What had come after was incredible, just totally unexpected. Anakin had thought he would just endure his unreciprocated feelings for Obi-Wan the rest of his life, a perpetual but pleasant ache. It was part of the price he was willing to pay to stay around him.

He had been wrong.

“I am pleased with you, paidika.”

What? Since kriffing when? How did Obi-Wan go from wanting to murder him on the floor of the Boulē to kissing him? Nothing made sense and everything hurt. Anakin shifted miserably on the stone floor, switching his head to stare at the other wall, with cool stone on his other cheek. He didn't think he would be moving for a good long while. The floor felt oddly tilted... 

Where was Obi-Wan now? Had Anakin somehow ruined everything forever? Could he convince Obi-Wan to do it all again?

"You don't look very comfortable," Obi-Wan said genially from the doorway, surprising him. "May I advise you to adopt a less contorted position to rest?"

Anakin groaned and dramatically flopped his head and shoulders awkwardly to get Obi-Wan within his field of vision. "I'm happy here," he croaked.

“You look exceedingly ridiculous, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, with a huff of a laugh. Hearing that happy little sound made Anakin feel like his heart was stitching itself back together. He loved Obi-Wan’s real laughs, of all their different kinds, large and small. They were rare and precious. Anakin smiled up at him, his cheek squished against the floor. Obi-Wan smiled back, his eyes warm. “I have breakfast for you, Padawan.” He sounded a touch relieved—as if he had feared much worse outcomes to their conversation when he approached the door. Perhaps he had, Anakin realized. He hadn’t been shielding how miserable he had been.

Anakin still felt hungover, but his heart and mind were no longer wounded. There was no way he could be mad at Obi-Wan for deserting him, and for not making any kriffing sense, not with his stupid, perfect face looking down at Anakin like he was the most special and important person on the planet. It hadn't just been the drug.

The fond look on Obi-Wan’s face finally soothed Anakin, made him feel like maybe he already knew the answer to why it had all happened. Obi-Wan looked so happy to see Anakin, happy to talk to him, happy to see him smile. If he had regrets, he wasn’t letting them show at all. The bond shone with the bright, gentle glow of their shared affection.

“I think I’ll pass on food,” Anakin said after a pause where they communicated wordlessly about everything that really mattered. “I don’t think it would stay down.”

“I’ll help you with your hangover, first, obviously,” Obi-Wan said, crouching down by his head. 

Anakin groaned in relief. “Ugh yes, please, Master, please do that.” Then he blushed, and coughed.

Obi-Wan just laughed again, another precious little happy laugh. Anakin wished he could catch and bottle them. Obi-Wan placed a gentle hand on Anakin’s forehead, using the Force to ease his headache. 

Anakin sighed in relief and asked, feeling a little bit shy, “Where were you when I woke up, Master?”

Obi-Wan made a frustrated noise and sat down, pulling Anakin’s head gently into his lap and beginning to undo his extremely messy Padawan braid. “Apologies, Anakin, I was at the Boulē. We were called in for some early business.” He gave Anakin a pointed look before returning to his task. “We shouldn’t have to go back there today though, I know you hate it.”

Anakin hummed acknowledgment, and Obi-Wan sighed, untangling a particularly stubborn knot, clearly thinking hard. “It wasn’t like this 20 years ago—something has changed but I’m not sure what.” He grimaced, slightly. “You’re not wrong about them, paidika, you know that right?”

He tugged a little on Anakin’s hair, saying the endearment as if he had decided at some point in the night that he could and would—as if he had decided to be what Anakin wanted, give him what he needed—in these private, quiet moments.

Anakin smiled up at him. “I’m glad you agree, Master." He caressed the word, made it special, made it theirs. "Maybe we can find out what went wrong, so we can set them free again.” 

When Obi-Wan nodded down at him seriously, Anakin relaxed completely. Obi-Wan was on his side. His biggest problem that morning had been a solution in disguise, and maybe, just maybe, he and Obi-Wan might get to free some slaves. Everything was going to be fine.