Obi-Wan Kenobi walked steadily, avoiding eye contact, from the battlefield to the transport and then directly from the landing bay to his room. He held his posture erect and his face neutral, avoiding medical at all costs. He just needed rest.
He made it there without being intercepted, doubtless aided by the men’s tacit pact to not disturb the General when the blood on his tunics wasn’t his own. He was grateful for that. The bedroom door closed softly behind Obi-Wan, the familiar shutting sound a relief. He was finally alone. The sudden silence of his insulated room shocked his ears, pressing in on him. The recycled air was clean, free of smoke and dust. He sucked in a deep breath and began to take himself apart.
Obi-Wan took off his boots first. They needed to go. He let out an involuntary sound somewhere between a moan and a groan—he had been standing in them for too long. He had been walking in them for far too long. He had been fighting in them for far, far too long. He stood them neatly by the side of the bed, toes facing out, ready to be slid on in a hurry. It was habit. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.
He unclipped his lightsaber and dropped it next to his pillow. His hands were shaking, slightly. The adrenaline didn’t evaporate after the battle finished, unfortunately. Obi-Wan was relatively sure that he had been in a fight-or-flight state for years now. He heard vague mutterings about cortisol and hypertension when in medical, but that always felt secondary to the broken ribs or lacerated flesh or whatever catastrophic injury forced him there in the first place. He pressed a hand against his side, testing for tenderness. He was healing.
It was not like Obi-Wan would willingly go for wellness checkups. He smiled to himself at the mental image, at how Kix would probably commit him to an observation ward. Surely Obi-Wan would have lost his mind to go to medical on purpose. He usually didn’t have the time or the inclination—he was sorely lacking the mental bandwidth to think about himself and his body, except the extent to which he could wield it like a weapon. It otherwise seemed a triviality, an indulgence. He had a responsibility to his men, to the Jedi, and to the Republic. A responsibility that he couldn’t just set down.
He sighed and pulled the comlink off his utility belt, checking one last time to make totally sure there was nothing new, nothing that would interrupt his first quiet moment in days. Nothing. Finally. Cody must be filtering his messages. He didn’t mind, terribly. Not right now. He tossed it on the bed. It bounced and landed near his pillow, too. Just in case.
He undid the fastener of his belt with one hand, absently, listening to the ringing silence of his room. His mind had reached the numb kind of quiet that only came from total exhaustion. Total overstimulation. He laid the belt carefully over the back of his chair. The brown leather was so broken in that it was soft under his hands. Obi-Wan’s posture dropped, slightly. The belt always kept him contained, kept him together, kept him composed. He only took it off when he was safe and alone—when he was positive he wouldn’t need an energy capsule or his lightsaber in the next twenty minutes.
They were in hyperspace. He genuinely hoped he would not.
Obi-Wan sucked in a deep breath. He slid his fingers behind his back between his obi and his tabards, rubbing the soft, familiar wool gauze as he carefully untied the knot. His obi was a bit too snug, as usual. When he had wrapped himself—it felt like forever ago—he had been anxious, so every time it went around his waist he had pulled it tighter, in unnecessarily sharp tugs. It was a ritual since he was a boy and the other younglings still made jokes about Obi’s obi.
Those memories felt a lifetime and a galaxy away from his small officer’s bedroom on the top deck of a Star Destroyer. His Star Destroyer, because for some Force damned reason someone decided that Obi-Wan Kenobi was fit to have a Flagship.
Jedi do not have attachments. Jedi do not have possessions.
Just undoing the knot of his obi was a relief, and as he unwrapped his waist the obi began to loosen further, until it slid down and away and he was free of it. Nothing held him upright anymore—his posture dropped further, his shoulders slumping down, his head falling slightly forward. Obi-Wan was tired.
At least unwrapping the obi was always soothing. It was familiar. He proceeded to bundle up the fabric with a lifetime of muscle memory, moving to set it aside before remembering the war. Remembering the blood. Remembering who he was, where he was, what he was. He pursed his lips, swallowing down his emotions, and opened his hands, letting the fabric drop to the floor. He would clean up later.
His tabards were hanging loose over his shoulders and he shrugged them off. They joined his obi on the floor. He was accustomed to usually turning next to finding and tidying Anakin’s obi and tabards that had been haphazardly strewn somewhere inconvenient—or he used to be, before his world imploded and his Padawan was suddenly a Knight, fighting on the other side of the galaxy, away from him.
Time seemed to both stretch and compress during war. He felt like killing the Sith on Naboo happened yesterday. He felt like the war had been going on for millennia. Anakin’s childhood seemed like it was still going on, and had been over for decades. Obi-Wan felt like a youngling, felt like a Padawan, felt like an aged Master. All at once, all the time, eternally shifting between versions of himself. He never felt like the right person at the right time, never exactly what people needed when they needed it.
He missed Anakin. When they were together, he was in sync with himself. The world made sense. Anakin seemed to him these days to be both a boy and a man, a Padawan and a peer. He seemed to shift and morph in Obi-Wan’s mind depending on context, whatever was right for what was happening. Sometimes Obi-Wan felt almost like a father—the sixteen years between them seemed like a chasm of maturity, and Anakin steadied him by letting him pretend to explain the world, letting him pretend to have control, letting him pretend he had the final say. Sometimes Obi-Wan felt almost like a brother—the sixteen years seemed to disappear in comradeship, and Anakin steadied him by making him laugh, making him relax, making him feel safe.
Obi-Wan had watched Anakin risk everything to save his life—watched him nimbly slip through the jaws of death to merely stand between Obi-Wan and danger—so many times that Obi-Wan was almost used to it. Almost counted on it. Almost. It grated at him. He should be standing in front of Anakin, be his shield, not the other way around. Anakin risking his life for Obi-Wan should be a violation of the natural order of the universe. Like earlier that day, when Anakin—
Obi-Wan realized that he was staring vacantly into space, heart pounding. He shook his head hard, trying to focus. The cool recycled air seemed to burn his lungs. He was so tired. The artificial light hurt his eyes, he wanted to close them forever, sink into the black, let it all go.
Jedi do not have attachments. Jedi do not have possessions.
Obi-Wan swallowed and tried to straighten up. His outer tunic needed to come off next, the wool gauze was filthy with dust and blood, though not his blood, for a change. One of his men, Rash—who Obi-Wan had fought bitterly to protect—had bled out in his arms. Obi-Wan smelled like iron and sweat. It was disgusting. It was familiar.
He pulled roughly at the knot, and it gave way after some resistance. The tunic fell open and he shrugged it off his shoulders, pulling his arms slowly out of the sleeves. It was heavier than it should be, with the blood. He dropped the soiled garment onto the floor, watching it settle in a filthy pile. His inner tunic and socks followed immediately after, leaving Obi-Wan standing unsteadily in just his heavy woolen pants, chest bare. One of the knees of his pants had been ripped through, he noted absently, but he wasn’t sure exactly how or when.
Obi-Wan abruptly turned and sat down on his bed, suddenly too exhausted to stand. His face fell into his hands, his elbows digging into his knees. How could he possibly keep this up? He felt the weight of everything that was depending on him—his judgement, his strategy, his lightsaber—all the lives of his men, the lives of the civilians whose homes were destroyed in Obi-Wan’s effort to protect them from worse. The civilians who died anyway. Rash’s blood soaking his tunic, tacky on his hands. The weight of it all pressed his shoulders down. He slid his face through his hands and pushed his hands into his hair. He gripped tight. His hair was clumped and sticky in places.
Obi-Wan stared hard at the floor. He absolutely could not fall apart.
The sudden knock on his door was almost a gift, saving him from himself. It was somehow also the worst thing that could possibly happen to him, robbing him of himself. He had a moment of indecision—did he pretend to be asleep? Did he ignore the summons? Was there an update on one of the key sieges happening in the Outer Rim?
“Obi-Wan, I know you’re awake.” It was Anakin. How was it Anakin? There was a noticeable pause as Obi-Wan attempted to assimilate the information that clashed with his understanding of reality. “I’m coming in.”
The door opened. Obi-Wan looked up, blankly. There was a continuing element of unreality, a sense of having summoned Anakin through his thoughts alone. Obi-Wan felt punch-drunk. He scanned Anakin up and down, taking in his sudden appearance. Anakin’s clothes were filthy, same as Obi-Wan’s had been. It had been an ugly fight. He looked uninjured. He was in the same condition as he had left him, back on the planet.
“What are you doing on my ship?” Obi-Wan asked, thoroughly confused. “I thought you were supposed to be going to aid the 137th.”
“Hello to you too, Obi-Wan,” Anakin said, chidingly, as he entered and closed the door. He leaned back against it. His eyes darted quickly over the clothes strewn on the floor before he looked up at Obi-Wan, concerned.
“Hello, Anakin.” Obi-Wan was already too tired for this; he needed this; he wasn’t sure that he wasn’t imagining this. “Why are you here? How?” His voice came out suspicious.
“Orders changed,” Anakin said briskly, likely realizing that the interaction could not proceed until General Kenobi was satisfied. “The 501st is going with you as far as Felucia. I boarded just before we entered hyperspace. Windu is relieving Master Luminara instead. ”
“Master Windu, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said automatically. The response was almost conventional at this point, part of their usual patter. It was meaningless. It was familiar. “Why are you on my ship? Where is yours?”
Anakin looked at him skeptically. “Are you alright, Obi-Wan?”
Obi-Wan frowned. “Probably.”
“Probably?” Anakin pushed off the door and walked over to the small desk across from Obi-Wan’s bed. He surveyed the collection of mugs and the stacks of data pads and flimsy with a raised eyebrow. “That’s not a good enough answer, Master.” He sat against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms, looking down at Obi-Wan seriously, his eyes demanding a better one.
“I am probably alright,” Obi-Wan repeated, shrugging vaguely. “I will be better after I sleep.”
“Obi-Wan, please go to the ‘fresher and look in the mirror.” Anakin said it like a command, not a request. Obi-Wan wanted to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it.
Who was the Master, here and now? Was anyone?
Obi-Wan decided to obey without arguing and pushed himself up, swaying a fraction. Anakin’s hands twitched, his eyes were running up and down Obi-Wan’s bare chest, and back up to his face. Taking stock, checking for injury.
Obi-Wan made it the short distance to the ‘fresher mirror, and leaned forward heavily with hands against the sink, gripping the edge tightly. The blood spatter did not come as a surprise. He sighed, resigned. It was for the best that Anakin had come—Obi-Wan despised waking up to discover that he had accidentally passed out from exhaustion with his face pressed into a bloody pillow. He despised that this was a repeated problem. He despised this war.
Anakin came to stand behind him, his eyes briefly meeting Obi-Wan’s in the mirror before studying the dark shadows beneath them. “Master, you look awful.” He frowned, looking him over again. “Can you stand up well enough to take a shower?”
“I think so, Anakin,” he said, defeated. “I can keep a hand on the wall if not. It’s not a big stall.”
“No,” Anakin scoffed. “I will not let you fall and hit your head in the shower. That is not how you will die.”
“Why not? Seems like it might be quick. Depends on how you land.” Obi-Wan’s banter came out too hollow. Anakin frowned again, his eyes flicking between Obi-Wan’s in the mirror, evaluating. He looked down at Obi-Wan’s white knuckled grip on the sink and seemed to make a decision.
Anakin swiftly unclipped his lightsaber, his comlink, his belt. He kicked himself out of his boots and sighed in relief. Obi-Wan watched blankly. Anakin unwound his obi, shrugged off his tabards, tossing them behind himself carelessly. Obi-Wan’s diffuse laundry pile was growing, covering the floor of his small bedroom with a mixture of Anakin’s leather and dark fabrics with the bloody cream of his own. It was a sharp contrast in the artificial light.
Anakin pulled at the knot of his filthy outer tunic, and it came loose. He shrugged it off, slipping it from his arms and letting it drop behind him too. He smelled like blood and sweat, just like Obi-Wan. The smell of Anakin’s sweat was familiar. It was soothing. It reminded him of countless hours of sparring, it reminded him of home. The ‘fresher was not big enough for both of them. He was too close, too near the skin of Obi-Wan’s naked back.
Anakin slid his inner tunic off with a mix of a sigh and a groan. The scent of him now was clearer, cleaner—missing the tang of blood. Obi-Wan breathed him in, guiltily, looking him over in the mirror. Anakin’s shirtless chest was broad, golden, and scarred. Obi-Wan’s eyes traced the familiar lines. He hated all those scars, all those marks of Obi-Wan’s failure to protect, but he also loved all those scars, all the marks that Anakin had survived—the fact that he lived to scar was beautiful. Obi-Wan’s sweeping eyes fixed on the scar over Anakin’s eye, noting again how very close his face had been to a lethal blade. He swallowed, pushing down a swell of emotion.
Jedi do not have attachments. Jedi do not have possessions.
Anakin broke the silence, meeting Obi-Wan’s eyes in the mirror again before flicking down to his mouth, chest and back up. Obi-Wan had not moved, his jaw was clenched, his heart pounding. “Alright, Obi-Wan. Take your pants off.”
“Why?” Obi-Wan asked reflexively.
“Are you seriously asking me why you can’t wear pants in the shower?” Anakin said, unbuttoning his own. “C’mon.”
“The shower is hardly big enough for two people, Anakin.” Obi-Wan said, looking away when Anakin started tugging his own pants down. “You can use it first.”
“And let you fall and hit your head?” Anakin was not amused. “Stop it. Let me help.”
Obi-Wan didn’t know how to let him. He didn’t know what that meant. “Help me shower?”
“Yes, Obi-Wan.” Anakin suddenly sounded just as tired as Obi-Wan felt. “Obviously.”
“It’s not obvious,” Obi-Wan said, slightly wry. “I probably need a lot of different kinds of help.”
“Well, we all know that, Master.” The corner of Anakin’s mouth lifted briefly in a small smile before dropping. His voice was quiet. “Let me help you get the blood off so you can sleep.” Anakin reached out his hand and put it on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, squeezing gently. Steadying him. Obi-Wan involuntarily leaned into his hand.
Obi-Wan sighed, sensing that this was a battle he would not win. “I do have a lot of water rations saved up.”
“Good,” Anakin replied. “I was really not looking forward to racing the clock.” He smiled. “Though it is interesting to hear that you stink most of the time.”
Obi-Wan pretended to look offended. He was not. Seeing Anakin smile was softening the sharp edges of the day. “People enjoy my natural musk, I am told.”
“I doubt it, Master.” Anakin quipped as he turned on the shower, dialing up the temperature. He looked back at Obi-Wan. “Pants?”
“Pants?” Obi-Wan echoed, confused. He looked down. “Ah, yes. Pants.” With effort, he released his grip on the edge of the sink, standing up as straight as possible. His hands ached. He unbuttoned and pushed off his pants clumsily and kicked them into the corner, wobbling again as he did so. Anakin’s hand found his shoulder. Obi-Wan looked up, meeting his eyes. “Thank you.”
Anakin nodded before he let go, squeezing again gently. His eyes were full of concern, unusually gentle.
Obi-Wan swallowed and broke eye contact, looking down. And then he looked back up quickly, blushing lightly. He was unsure why he was suddenly shy, they’d seen each other countless times over the last decade.
Anakin was laughing at him, quietly. “Really, Obi-Wan?”
“Shut up, Padawan,” Obi-Wan said, automatically reverting to his instinctual dialogue. He shook his head once. “Anakin,” he corrected. “Shut up.”
“Alright, Obi-Wan.” Anakin continued to sound amused. “C’mon.” He stepped under and through the fall of water, turning to make room for Obi-Wan in the small stall.
Obi-Wan spent another long moment looking at the size of the shower skeptically before stepping inside, closing the small door to keep the water from spilling everywhere behind him. They were very close. Obi-Wan dipped his head forward to wet his hair, swaying forward noticeably under the hot water before he caught himself.
“Why is your balance off, Obi-Wan?” Anakin asked, grabbing him again by the shoulder. He did not let go this time. “Do you need to go to medical?”
“I am merely extremely tired,” Obi-Wan said, defensively. He really, truly, deeply hated medical. He wanted to be left alone. “I should also eat something. Then I would be fine.”
Anakin looked extremely unconvinced. “We’ll see.” He moved his hands to Obi-Wan’s upper arms and swapped their positions, leaning Obi-Wan against the wall. Obi-Wan did not protest, just allowed himself to be rearranged, focusing on the heat of the water, the nearness of Anakin’s body—the roughness of his calloused fingers, the smoothness of his palms, the strength of his grip on his arms. Anakin squeezed once as if to nonverbally tell Obi-Wan to stay put.
Obi-Wan’s eyes slid closed briefly as Anakin quickly washed the blood and dirt off his own skin and out of his curls. As he leaned against the wall Obi-Wan methodically began tightening and relaxing his muscles, starting at his feet and working his way up. There were pockets of tension everywhere, and unexpected twinges of pain. He wanted to drift off to sleep, the heat and noise was so calming—Anakin was so close. He felt safe. He could feel a prickle of Anakin’s force signature, a remnant of their training bond. It felt stronger at that moment than it had in years.
“No sleeping, Master,” Anakin said. Obi-Wan hummed in acknowledgement, not opening his eyes.
Obi-Wan then spluttered when a washcloth suddenly swiped across his face. Anakin’s eyes were bright.
“I wasn’t,” Obi-Wan defended himself, sounding drowsy. “I was not,” he tried again, straightening his posture a little.
“Sure, Obi-Wan,” Anakin said. “I believe you.” He scrubbed at the spatter on Obi-Wan’s face and beard, smiling as Obi-Wan spluttered again. Anakin then slid the washcloth down and around Obi-Wan’s neck, rubbing off the blood gently, still looking far too pleased.
Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes at him. “I can wash myself...” Anakin raised an eyebrow, and Obi-Wan huffed. “Give me that.”
Anakin did not. “Let me help you.” Anakin spoke earnestly, making eye contact and holding it. “Please, Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan studied him and noticed for the first time that there was some kind of need shining in Anakin’s eyes. He realized that it would help Anakin somehow to let him help, though he was not sure exactly why. Obi-Wan should be taking care of Anakin, not the other way around.
“Very well, Anakin, I suppose, if you want,” Obi-Wan said, relaxing back against the wall. He let Anakin continue to wash his chest and arms and agreeably leaned forward to Anakin’s nonverbal request to access his back. His eyes slid shut, his focus moving around his body under Anakin’s hand—the skin beneath the washcloth the only thing that was real. “Thank you.”
“Of course, Master,” Anakin said. His voice was so quiet, so sincere. “You nearly died today.”
“It was not that close,” Obi-Wan murmured, defensive.
“You can lie to other people, Master,” Anakin said lowly, “but please don’t lie to me.” He put extra stress on the last few words. “Don’t lie to me.” He repeated, quieter.
“It really wasn’t that close, Anakin, I had it under control.” Obi-Wan’s voice was strangled. Anakin had begun washing each of his fingers individually, surrounding each of them in turn with the washcloth and pulling, slowly stretching out his cramped hands.
“Don’t lie to yourself, either.” Anakin switched to his other hand. “Why did you engage Dooku alone? I was only five minutes away.”
“I know, Anakin.” Obi-Wan sighed. “I didn’t have a choice. He engaged me, I had to fight back.”
Anakin hummed, unconvinced, releasing Obi-Wan’s hands. Obi-Wan clenched and released them as he drew away. The looseness that Anakin had worked into them felt good.
Anakin gave Obi-Wan the washcloth so he could continue washing himself, a fact that Obi-Wan appreciated greatly, quickly washing between his legs as Anakin dispensed a glob of shampoo directly on Obi-Wan’s head with a satisfied smile. He began to rub his hands through Obi-Wan’s hair, spreading the shampoo and scratching his scalp. Obi-Wan focused on keeping his weight balanced, staying upright despite the sudden shudder of pleasure. Anakin’s hands were gentle, thorough. Obi-Wan’s eyes had drifted closed again, it felt too good, he felt like he might pass out.
Anakin noticed Obi-Wan beginning to go limp and moved his hands down to catch hold of his elbows, pulling him forward into the stream of water to rinse off. Obi-Wan leaned his head forward, his forehead meeting Anakin’s shoulder. He was so tired. Anakin’s hands came up, drawing him in, rubbing soothingly on his back. They stood under the spray, so close together, skin touching skin.
The moment was quiet, peaceful—a million miles away from where they’d been, even thirty minutes ago, back planetside amongst the smoke and the dead. They breathed together, slowly, falling into sync, appreciating each other’s presence in the Force. Obi-Wan tried to think, tried to understand who they were to each other now, what they were doing. Anakin was his fixed point, his perpetual reference. Anakin was home. He turned his head, pressing his forehead instead against Anakin’s neck, breathing him in.
Jedi do not have attachments. Jedi do not have possessions.
He was so tired, so caught up in Anakin: Anakin was so close. Anakin was holding him. Anakin was pushing him back, propping him back up against the wall. Anakin was stealing the washcloth from his limp hand and kneeling down.
“What are you doing?” Obi-Wan asked, alarmed.
“Washing your legs and feet,” Anakin said, like it was obvious. He ran the washcloth slowly down his calf towards his ankle, rubbing gently.
“Why?” Obi-Wan asked, panicking slightly.
“Obi-Wan.” Anakin looked up at him, amused. “Did you hit your head? Do you actually have a concussion?”
“No,” Obi-Wan said, defensively. “You’re just… close to… me. Closer than normal.”
“I know, Master. Relax.” Anakin’s eyes met his, searching. “I almost lost you today.”
“I’m not something you can lose, Anakin.” Obi-Wan meant to say that Anakin should give up his attachments. It came out as a reassurance instead, a promise.
Anakin shook his head. “Yes, you are. If I hadn’t arrived exactly when I had, you would be dead.” He sounded vulnerable, exposed. He rested his forehead on Obi-Wan’s thigh briefly before looking back up. “I can’t lose you. I need you.”
Obi-Wan looked down at him, the situation suddenly so surreal that it was as if he were seeing Anakin for the first time—as if there were a stranger kneeling before him. Anakin was more than handsome, he was strikingly beautiful, a realization that kicked Obi-Wan in the teeth. He had seen it before, in abstract, but he hadn’t let himself know how Anakin’s beauty would made him feel before, never let himself appreciate what he saw. He couldn’t look away, caught by the realization.
This man was the same man who had shared his life, who was part of his identity, his very self. They’d grown up together in all the ways that mattered, they’d grown together into one. Their lives were woven together, still twisting around each other, even when apart.
Who were they? Who were they to each other?
“You need me?” Obi-Wan sounded it out. The words were heavy. “What do you mean by need?”
Anakin looked up at his face, and then looked back down. He moved the washcloth to the other foot and began to wash it too. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts before speaking, for once. Obi-Wan’s face softened briefly into a private smile.
“I need you to be alive.” Anakin began speaking abruptly. “That’s what it all comes back to, Obi-Wan.” His voice was barely audible over the sound of the spray. He looked up. “I need you to be near me. I need to hear you talk. I need to see your face.”
Obi-Wan studied Anakin’s eyes and tried to read the emotions there. They knew each other better than anyone. They had spent more than a decade looking at each other, studying each other, trying to understand and predict each other. Nothing in Anakin’s eyes should be foreign, or surprise him. He couldn’t read them now.
Anakin was standing up, with Obi-Wan’s chin rising at the same rate—their eye contact remained unbroken. Anakin reached his full height, straightening his spine, rolling his shoulders back. Obi-Wan looked up at him, heart pounding. They were so close.
Anakin breathed in deeply and resumed speaking, voice low: “I need you to look at me. I need you to listen to me. I need you to want me.” Anakin’s eyes were dark, his face slowly pushing closer to Obi-Wan’s, leaning down. “Do you want me, Obi-Wan?”
“I… yes, I… I don’t know what you mean by want. I don’t know what kind of wanting you want.” Obi-Wan’s brain was stuck on the word. “Of course I want you.” The second part surprised him too. “I mean—”
Anakin kissed him.
Anakin was kissing him.
Obi-Wan kissed him back.
It felt inevitable; it felt right; it felt like coming home. Everything weighing on Obi-Wan’s mind seemed to slide away, the day, the war, the blood, the horror—all that existed in Obi-Wan’s world now was Anakin. So close, not close enough. Obi-Wan leaned in, pressing closer, kissing harder.
Anakin made a satisfied noise and deepened the kiss, his hands coming up to gently cup the back of Obi-Wan’s head, supporting its weight—keeping him still and keeping him upright. His lips pressed insistently against Obi-Wan's, lingering and moving slowly, his tongue licking softly along Obi-Wan’s lower lip, tasting his skin.
Obi-Wan melted into him, hands pressed flat against Anakin’s broad chest, lost in the incredible sensation of Anakin’s mouth on his and Anakin’s hands sliding in his wet hair, the overwhelming heat of the shower and the wetness of their skin as they pressed together, closer and closer—Obi-Wan moaned as Anakin sucked his lower lip.
Obi-Wan broke the kiss at the sound, jerking his head back slightly and gasping, eyes wide, blinking rapidly.
A long moment stretched out between them, Obi-Wan’s head resting gently in Anakin’s supportive hands, their breathing heavy and in sync. They were looking at each other seriously, aware of the importance of what they’d just done but unable to predict its consequences.
Obi-Wan absently reached over and turned off the water without looking—no need to waste his rations. It seemed impossible, what had just happened. It seemed essential that it had. He couldn’t possibly look away from Anakin—Anakin’s pupils were blown, his skin flushed. He was beautiful—
Obi-Wan kissed him again.
Anakin moaned, his hands finally sliding down out of Obi-Wan’s hair and gliding along his neck, his shoulders, his back. Holding him close, holding him steady, holding him gently. Obi-Wan couldn’t believe the spike of arousal that went through him at Anakin’s touch, couldn’t believe his body’s reaction, couldn’t understand how he could be hardening, here, now, with Anakin.
Anakin was licking into his mouth, his tongue meeting Obi-Wan’s and he moaned again. The sound pierced through Obi-Wan, his cock throbbed, blood was leaving his head so fast that he felt dizzy. He leaned forward against Anakin, limp in his hands, gripping Anakin’s shoulders, desperate for balance. Anakin held him tight—he would not fall. He was safe. Anakin left his metal hand behind Obi-Wan’s back, keeping him there.
Anakin's other hand slid between them, questing down, moving slowly. He was letting Obi-Wan resist, letting him decline, letting him withdraw. Obi-Wan did none of those things, the sensation of his hand the only thing in the world that mattered, the only thing that existed. He needed Anakin, needed him to touch him. He whined.
Anakin moved faster, his hand slowly meeting Obi-Wan’s cock and stroking his fingers along its hardening length, feeling the soft skin. Obi-Wan’s cock jumped under his hand, becoming so hard Obi-Wan could barely stand it. He whined again and Anakin’s fingers circled the base of his cock and stroked down once, gently, loosely, catching on the head and squeezing before doing it again, and again, faster and faster, gripping tighter and tighter, wrist twisting.
Obi-Wan was lost, breathing hard, sliding closer and closer to the edge, disbelieving that this was happening, the surreality making it feel like a dream, the exquisite pressure making it feel like the most real thing that had ever happened. He was closer, and closer, so close to coming he was panting.
Obi-Wan pulled his head back off Anakin’s shoulder, seeking his eyes, seeking connection, seeking that nameless emotion that filled him with reckless feeling, the feeling of being wanted, being needed. Anakin.
Their eyes met, and with a final twist of Anakin’s wrist on the head of his cock, Obi-Wan came.
Anakin caught him as his legs gave out, Obi-Wan’s come coating his stomach, coating his own hard cock. Obi-Wan was shaking in Anakin’s arms, groaning as a final spurt of come left him empty, the dizzying pleasure filling his consciousness.
Anakin moved his hand quickly to his own stomach, sliding his fingers down through the wetness of Obi-Wan’s come, and he groaned. He deliberately spread the come over his own cock, and then began stroking himself firmly as Obi-Wan watched, dazed, at the way his come looked as it was spread on Anakin's body, its shine, its slickness.
Obi-Wan stared at how Anakin's hand moved, gripping himself so tightly—Anakin was so hard, so close to coming already, so turned on by what had happened. He stroked himself fast and abruptly came too, his body tensing, moaning quietly, his eyes falling shut. Obi-Wan felt the warmth of Anakin's come spill on his body, and would never forget the look on his face. He was so beautiful.
They held each other, then, both trembling slightly. The tiny stall of the shower was hushed except for their breathing, the rest of the world non-existent. All there was, all that mattered, all of it to Obi-Wan was there, contained in the warm body of Anakin, holding him so tight, wrapped around him.
He was home.
They looked at each other, Anakin wordlessly reached over and turned the water back on, washing off the evidence of what had just happened. They were still tangled up in each other. Obi-Wan’s legs were weak, and he clung to Anakin’s broad shoulders as Anakin held him tightly with his metal hand. Obi-Wan relaxed, trusting his weight to Anakin’s strength.
Anakin’s other hand came up to cup Obi-Wan’s head again, and he kissed him gently. They still did not talk, the silence full of their affection, no need to articulate what they could both feel, humming in the Force. Obi-Wan felt the training bond again, that precious link between their infinite selves, tied beyond and outside the material world, always connected, never apart. They were one, divided into two, reunited briefly.
Suddenly, Obi-Wan yawned, breaking the moment inadvertently. He smiled apologetically. “I am tired, Anakin. We probably need to talk about this, but…”
Anakin was nodding, still holding him tight, the hand in Obi-Wan’s hair sliding down to rest loosely on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, his thumb making gentle circles on Obi-Wan’s skin. “You need to sleep, Obi-Wan.”
“I need to sleep,” Obi-Wan agreed, nodding back. He was starting to get cold without the warmth of the water. He poked at Anakin’s chest and ordered fondly, “Move.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Anakin smiled. “Alright.” He slid his hand from the top of Obi-Wan’s shoulders down, clasping his hands together behind Obi-Wan’s back, pulling him even closer, and then suddenly lifted up, picking up Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan made an indignant noise. “Anakin!”
“No, Obi-Wan,” Anakin said. “You’ll slip and fall, this is for your own safety.” He laughed quietly, moving them both backwards out of the shower. “Don’t resist.”
Obi-Wan was so tired and so totally disarmed by the laugh and what had just happened that he didn’t struggle, and let Anakin move him where he wanted him. Anakin put him on his feet in front of the sink, and grabbed Obi-Wan’s towel, handing it to him before searching for another.
“Under the sink, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, shifting out of the way. “More towels are under the sink. You are dripping all over my ‘fresher. It’s uncivilized.”
Anakin rolled his eyes, hard. “Yes, Master.”
“There are extra toothbrushes under there too. Take one, you must keep your teeth clean.”
“Yes, Master.” Anakin’s voice was long-suffering, but his expression was immeasurably fond.
Obi-Wan smiled warmly back at him, before his eyes fell past Anakin to the floor of his bedroom. The blood on the clothes felt like a slap in the face, his smile dropped. Anakin turned to see at what Obi-Wan was looking at and sighed.
“Who was it, Obi-Wan?”
Obi-Wan swallowed, memories flashing past. “Rash, did you know him? You might not have, he was almost a Shiny.” Anakin clenched his jaw and shook his head. “Ghost Company, but a recent transfer. He was…” Obi-Wan trailed off. He couldn’t keep talking.
Anakin nodded. “They aren’t getting enough training. They’re getting sent out too quick.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan said crisply. “They are. He was.” Obi-Wan looked down and swallowed. “He wasn’t ready. I need to talk to Cody, see what he thinks. He might have simply been an exception.”
“I’ve seen too many just like him for him to be an exception, Obi-Wan.” Anakin’s voice was dark, dangerous. “It’s unacceptable.”
“I agree,” Obi-Wan said. He rubbed a hand over his face, inexplicably feeling closer to tears than he had been in a long time. He felt raw, vulnerable. “I agree.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Obi-Wan.” Anakin was sensitive to his mood, as usual. “I don’t know what happened, but I know that for sure. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Thank you, Anakin.” Obi-Wan swallowed thickly, rewrapping himself in his towel, pulling it tighter, pulling himself together. “It’s one thing to know and another thing to feel, but you know that.”
“I do,” Anakin said, resigned. “I do know that.”
Anakin reached out and collected Obi-Wan, pulling him closer, wrapping himself around him, holding him tight. Obi-Wan pressed his face into the hollow between Anakin’s neck and shoulder, trying to catch his familiar scent. He was so tired. It felt so good to be held, to feel skin touching skin. He still felt starved for it, and Anakin was surrounding him and containing him.
Anakin squeezed tighter and Obi-Wan felt safe.
“I need to sleep,” Obi-Wan eventually said, speaking against Anakin’s skin, voice muffled. “I am tired.” Anakin nodded and used his hold to pick Obi-Wan up again and began to walk backward out of the ‘fresher. Obi-Wan just raised an eyebrow. “I promise you, I can walk.”
“Don’t care.” Anakin dropped him back on his bed. “There.” He smiled down, looking satisfied. “No blunt force trauma to the head, and you are clean. You can’t say I never did anything for you.”
“I would never.” Obi-Wan yawned again. “I would never.”
“Do you mind if I sleep here? I don’t want to find a bunk.”
“If you want.” Obi-Wan scooted over, making room on the small bed.
“Thanks.” Anakin said as he lay down next to him, sliding his arm under Obi-Wan and pulling him close, arranging him so that his head rested on his chest, legs tangled together. Anakin’s strong arms held Obi-Wan in place for moment, squeezing tightly before relaxing.
“Of course, Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmured. “Thank you.”
“Any time, Obi-Wan.” Anakin yawned too. “Every time.”
Obi-Wan smiled softly, and fell asleep.