Master Apprentice Archive Braids Quick search:

Rating: NC-17

Archive: M-A, or Jacynthe Demorae's: http://jdemorae.slashcity.tv/lightsaberissues/index.html

Series: none

Categories: O/OMC, Q/O, PWP, Post-TPM AU, angst

Feedback: Dying for it, please.

Summary: Of braided hair and misunderstandings. Lots of misunderstandings.

Spoilers/Warnings: *Surely* you have seen TPM by now.

Disclaimers: Someday I intend to use my own beloved, beautiful characters to write for fame, fortune and glory. Today is not that day.

/.... / Denotes thoughts and bond speak. *.....* Denotes emphasis.

Notes: This one's all character and no plot. I wasn't even going to post it, but since it's been on my hard drive taking up space (way too much space, by the look of it), I thought I'd share the love. This was a hard one to write but damn, that Obi!Muse would not let it go.

Many thanks to Briony, who beta'ed the hell out of this thing at the end, and to Padawan Ghostie, who beta'ed the hell out of it at the beginning. I hoard all errors as my own.

Brief reference made to the "That's not a leash!" challenge from many weeks ago. My thanks to whomever posted that. This started out just one more way for me to play with Obi-Wan's hair, and-- well.

Obi-Wan Kenobi had once been in love with his master.

In fact, he'd been so very much in love that he had been willing to wait, willing to tolerate distance and time in favor of responsibility. He'd been so full of hope and light that he had convinced himself that when his training was done, he could simply go to Qui-Gon with his heart in his hands.

Even when all of that had fallen apart, he had clung to memories with the tenacity of grief. He couldn't say why it was, at first, that he had started the padawan braid up again. After his hair had grown long, he simply continued to trim it shoulder-length while the braided piece grew longer. He tied his hair back most days, allowing the erstwhile padawan braid to swing over his shoulder.

In spite of his bitterness, he had caught himself being hopeful, and so, so stupid.

Now he stood in the 'fresher of his appointed quarters on Pictos 3 the night before he was slated for transport back to Coruscant. He had a small utility knife in his right hand and the braid held taut in his left. His intention as he stared at himself in the mirror, gray-green eyes full of anger, was to re-knight himself in a pretentious moment of rebellion: /The severing of this braid is to signify the end of my mindless devotion.../

He looked back on it from the vantage point of just over two broken years away from Coruscant. As deep as his love had always been for Qui-Gon, it wasn't something he'd wanted to explore during his training. He preferred to keep it neatly under wraps, knowing his master's terminally perfect sense of reservation and propriety. Still, he'd always had a feeling that his master had known of his love; that instinctively they had chosen the wiser path. Obi-Wan had longed for the day of his knighting, when he could finally speak his heart.

Then, abruptly, Qui-Gon had allowed him to find out via Council session that the master wanted Anakin as a padawan learner. Obi-Wan's feelings of betrayal and exclusion made it impossible for him to pursue anything romantic with his master: he was devastated. Then Qui-Gon had striven to get Obi-Wan's Trials pushed up in what appeared to be eagerness to be rid of his old padawan.

Then the battle with the Sith had happened.

The last thing Qui-Gon had said before he'd slid into the coma had been, "Train the boy: he is the Chosen One." There had been great wells of tension between them over Anakin up until that point. Obi-Wan had agreed, readily, out of respect and love for his dying master. He was a little ashamed to admit that the vow had been all but disregarded as, unexpectedly, Qui-Gon healed. Directly in spite of Qui-Gon's request, Obi-Wan had sat outside the bacta tank that housed the slowly healing body; as his master improved, he'd sat by Qui-Gon's bedside. Distinctly not training the boy.

Only when the healers assured him his master would be well again did he allow himself to look forward to times when they would train the boy together, or to days when those arms, strong once more, might be around him. He had stroked his Master's brow delicately and held his strangely weak hand, frightened by the coldness of it. Perhaps when Qui-Gon woke, he would feel the devotion and love that had lasted through all the slights and disagreements. Even through the feeling that he had been ruthlessly shoved aside for the much-vaunted Chosen One, Obi-Wan's love had remained.

Every time he'd thought of it during the nerve-racking days at his Master's side, his heart had sped up in anticipation. At last, to be free of the secret and to have the love laid bare... the thought brought him an almost painful joy. He had stared down at his Master's thin, pale face, at the bacta tubes threading in and out of his body and arms, knowing he was shirking responsibility, but unable to move from the bedside. He swore to himself that once Qui-Gon was well again, he would pick up the boy's training eagerly alongside his master: three generations of Jedi, together.

It was never that Anakin had dropped out of consideration. Obi-Wan simply felt that there was no reason he couldn't help Qui-Gon protect the boy; together, they two were suited to deliver the Chosen One into the age that was so obviously coming. It wasn't an instinct or even a feeling through the Force: it was a fact. He knew that when he and his master finally came together, they would provide a united front. The only united front strong enough to deliver the boy past the murkiness Yoda saw in his future.

Finally, his Master's eyes had opened. Heart racing, Obi-Wan had handed him a cup of water to wet his mouth and throat, cradling him while he drank. Then, the one-time padawan had licked his lips and drawn in a breath. Before Obi-Wan could speak, Qui-Gon had taken his hand in a painful grip and demanded in hoarse, feverish haste, "Where is Anakin?"

It had been too much. Obi-Wan had risen, staring into the intent eyes of his master while the breathless, hot ache in his chest had congealed to a cold knot. He had summoned Anakin: the last errand he would perform for his erstwhile master. Then he disappeared effectively from Qui-Gon's life. Qui-Gon had hurt him in Anakin's name one too many times. Obi-Wan had too long felt the ache of separation, and was no longer willing to spare his heart to a man who couldn't even spare him a word. There were too many other ways in which to serve the Light.

Thirteen years. Thirteen years of training and servitude under a master who couldn't toss a thought in his direction for staying at his bedside every spare moment for weeks on end. Obi-Wan would have called them wasted years, but he was a knight. The time had bought him that, at least. The relationship was the waste. The friendship, the respect and the burgeoning love: those had been peeled off and tossed out, leaving Obi-Wan naked where they had been, more unsure than he had ever been during his tumultuous early years with Qui-Gon.

He fingered the braid. Short though it was, it was all he had of his own training, his own personal coming of age that consisted of the months of trying to find out who he was, beyond Qui-Gon Jinn's padawan.

"There has to be more," he whispered, half in anger, half in pain, studying the black band at the last inch of braid.

After those three careless words had been said to him, he and Qui-Gon hadn't grown apart so much as Obi-Wan had blown a chasm between them. Qui-Gon had cut the first padawan braid in a ceremony that was more circumstantial than heartfelt. Obi-Wan severed the training bond neatly without looking back. Qui-Gon took Anakin as his apprentice in an equally stiff and soulless rite.

Then stampeding banthas couldn't have kept Obi-Wan from the first transport out.

He requested missions that constantly kept him away from Coruscant. He was stifled by his own freedom, by the way he had to use it to distract his mind. He exploited it, doing things that had never interested him before. He grew his hair long, started a well-trimmed beard, and inexplicably found himself braiding that same corner of hair on his nape all over again. He really hadn't been able to pinpoint the reasoning behind it; he supposed it was because it made him feel vaguely rebellious. He took lovers. Lots of them: women, men, even ungendered members of other species, if it suited him.

His most recent and somehow longest-lasting was actually a civilian on lower Coruscant, Rean N'ual. Obi-Wan sighed at the thought of him. He was a beautiful, beautiful man with impish, golden eyes and shining, straight black hair. It had been a gorgeous, brief affair, but it had gone no better than any of the others. With Rean, the difference was that Obi-Wan had wanted it to.

He worked alone as much as the Council would allow it; when he was forced for diplomatic reasons to take a partner along, he limited his contact with said additional Jedi to mission briefings, ceremonial contact and research. Before too much time had passed on each mission, the knights assigned with him on duty came to understand that there was no partnership there at all. They were ceremonial baggage to be deposited summarily on the Council's stoop when the mission was done.

In spite of Knight Kenobi's rather shocking reputation for promiscuity, no one who ever went on a mission with him managed to get involved with him. He never spent enough time alone with anyone assigned to him, and he never mixed business with pleasure. This seemed incongruous in light of the number of people he was reputed to have been with; his apparent amorality never interfered with his ethical standing. In spite of his unfailing ability to find a lover anywhere he chose, never did he attempt or accept a liaison with someone tasked to a mission with him.

Members of the Order also came to know Knight Kenobi as stoic and unyielding. A commendable diplomat, excellent in Force manipulation and 'saber use, a loner, and better off that way. One day as he'd entered the archives to brush up on the equestrian politics of a particular system, he had overheard a few padawans talking.

"Oh Force, look. It's Knight Kenobi," one of them breathed, quietly, but not quietly enough. Obi-Wan remembered many an occasion in which his voice had carried far more than he'd liked to admit. He smiled faintly.

"No!" There was a pause. Obi-Wan eavesdropped, amused, as he flipped through screens to find the data he needed. "Oh. Yes! It is him. Oh, he's just like Master Jinn, isn't he? I can only hope to be as good a knight as he is."

Obi-Wan stilled, unnerved at the comparison. The first padawan snorted. "Depends what you want to be good at. The part with your mouth, or the part with your--"

"Alixa!" the second one had gasped.

Obi-Wan had slumped over the data terminal, feeling more alone than he ever had. Forever would he be branded as the padawan of Qui-Gon Jinn, following directly-- in a business capacity at least-- in his old master's footsteps. It seemed that the Order at large revered him for his likeness to Qui-Gon, and mocked him for his difference. The implication left Obi-Wan feeling cold inside, wondering how long it would take him to grow into a stoic, lonely old Jedi. Just like Master Jinn.

Rarely would he chance upon Qui-Gon. When he did, Obi-Wan would smile tightly, make brief, painfully casual conversation on neutral topics and beg off, explaining that he was expected in a debriefing. It was seldom untrue; Obi-Wan Kenobi was by and large the single busiest Jedi in the Order. He would retreat from these brief encounters, never asking after his master or the padawan they both knew they should have been training together.

After months of this, it became habit. He never questioned it, never considered that it might have been utterly self-indulgent behavior, though when one of his lovers called him such, he knew his former master would agree. He throttled the feeling and shoved it away, wondering why he even thought of Qui-Gon at such times.

Sometimes he would catch himself yearning for a smile, a word: anything, any excuse to rekindle even the most offhand friendship with his old master. When nothing was forthcoming, he would stride away, redouble his shields and squelch the desire under a new mission or a new lover, or both. It was some time before he realized with irritation that he'd started the braid again because it was his only concrete link to the memories of his former master. He would braid that small segment of hair almost reverently, remembering times when Qui-Gon had done it for him.

That realization was what had him in the 'fresher, holding the braid outstretched, wielding the knife at the base of it. /Thirteen years. And all I have to show for it is a foot of extra hair, a reminder of having been left behind./

He sheathed the knife, unable to do it and disgusted with himself. After two years of trying to bury his love alive, Obi-Wan was dismayed to discover it still breathed.

Qui-Gon Jinn stood at the edge of the practice mat in the main training hall. He was watching Anakin, now rapidly approaching thirteen years of age, run through katas. The boy had a refinement to his technique that Qui-Gon had never seen in anyone at this age: not even his own former padawan.

He sighed as he thought of Obi-Wan, wondering where he was, and when he was due back on Coruscant. He found himself wishing for the hundred thousandth time that he had handled things so differently in those final days before Obi-Wan had left. The knight had practically run out of the Temple on a string of rapid, back-to-back missions that had left even Qui-Gon dazed, wondering when he slept.

/Or where,/ he snorted mentally. His proper, reserved padawan seemed to have exploded into sexual activity after his knighting, crossing boundaries and taboos, taking one lover after another with an apparent lack of discrimination. It wasn't as though his lovers were unattractive, certainly not; it was simply that word at the Temple was that he could catch any eye, attract almost any preference. In fact, he did-- quite often.

Other knights sometimes returned to the Temple with frankly amazed and sometimes hurt expressions, speaking of how Obi-Wan had found someone beautiful the instant that they'd debarked. Invariably Obi-Wan dropped that lover the second it came time to leave, with no promise of a future. Indeed, Qui-Gon had seldom seen him with the same person twice, even within the relative stability of the Temple.

It wasn't as though Qui-Gon didn't know why Obi-Wan did these things. He'd seen the signs. He had known for years of the smoldering love that Obi-Wan had tucked away. In fact, Qui-Gon had been proud that his padawan had kept his behavior professional and reserved even during the hellish teenage years. Several of Obi-Wan's peers had thrown themselves in abased offerings at their masters, but Obi-Wan had remained calmly constrained. After his near-consignment to AgriCorps, he wouldn't have dared let love get in his way of becoming a Jedi.

This was a relief and a burden to Qui-Gon, who had long returned his padawan's silent need. He had never been sure whether he should show Obi-Wan, in small ways, that his feelings were returned. In the end, he had continued carrying on as a master should, nothing more. He hadn't wanted to place undue pressure on Obi-Wan in the final years of his apprenticeship.

However, as the months went by, Qui-Gon began to feel anticipation and hope. He had, in fact, expected this long-standing desire to come out in all its burning glory after Obi-Wan was knighted. The sexual tension that had draped between them would dissolve in a blaze of hungry kisses and reciprocation the second Obi-Wan had passed his Trials.

Unfortunately, his Trials had consisted solely of the battle on Naboo. Qui-Gon had spent weeks with the healers, waking to Obi-Wan's concerned gaze on him, padawan braid still intact, though the Council had already declared him knighted. He had obviously been waiting for a proper cutting ceremony, waiting for his master to look on him as an equal, waiting for just the right time.

It was apparent to Qui-Gon that Obi-Wan had hoped it would all bear fruit when his master opened his eyes. His knighthood, his love, his dedication... The master knew the padawan well enough to know that Obi-Wan had wanted these things to yield him something he could take to heart, rather than just to service.

Qui-Gon had killed that expectation with exactly the wrong three words. At first. he had been stunned at Obi-Wan's unexpected and coldly angry reaction: the man had recoiled as though he had been singed, called for Anakin, and left.

Qui-Gon would not see his ex-apprentice until the knighting ceremony, and then they had interacted with a stilted formality borne of rigid tradition and blistering tension. Obi-Wan had bitten out the ceremonial words, and only Qui-Gon had been attuned enough to feel the closely guarded pain underneath them. Anakin had been openly perplexed.

"Congratulations, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon had murmured, squeezing his former padawan's shoulder affectionately, willing him to speak.

"Thank you, Master," Obi-Wan had fairly gritted in reply, then he'd glanced down at the hand on him as though it were something distasteful. Qui-Gon had withdrawn, hurt but beginning to understand as Obi-Wan's gaze passed coolly between him and Anakin.

Pressing the braid into Qui-Gon's hand as another formality rather than as a gesture of fondness or even deference, he had murmured some platitudes and disappeared. Qui-Gon's mistake - admittedly only one of many - had been in not going after him.

"You'd better do something about that," Depa had slipped to his side quietly, and had indicated the door Obi-Wan had left through.

Qui-Gon had shaken his head. "I've done quite enough." Later he would come to realize that he'd done exactly nothing, and that's where he'd gone wrong.

Although the braid had been shoved at him out of mere adherence to tradition, Qui-Gon kept it on his person always, in a small pouch tucked within a fold of his inner tunic. It seemed a maudlin thing to do, but he couldn't help himself. He clung to that braid as his last line back to a simpler time, even as complicated as it had been then. A time when Obi-Wan had looked at him happily, and hopefully, with love thinly veiled as a padawan's loyalty shining in his eyes.

He had come to realize that Obi-Wan was the last person he would ever love.

Anakin swept his lightsaber in an arc and executed a complicated series of aerial maneuvers, tearing Qui-Gon's attention distinctly between the past and the present: his former padawan had always been so fond of complex aerial strikes. Such a strike had saved them all, Qui-Gon mused, his heart aching. His Obi-Wan had saved them, had won against a Sith fighter that his own master had fallen to, and Qui-Gon couldn't be bothered to give him the respect he was due. He gritted his teeth in frustration with himself.

"Train the boy," he had said upon slipping out of consciousness, and upon slipping back in? "Where is Anakin?" Not "I love you," not, "You've saved us," not even, "Nice job, Padawan! Way to do in a Sith Lord." Qui-Gon shook his head, utterly, miserably disgusted with himself all over again. He'd been so wrapped up in the galaxy's Chosen One he'd forgotten about his own chosen one. He had long since stopped being confounded by Obi-Wan's determination to stay away from him. Once he had recognized it for what it was, he'd accepted it with a calm, lonely resignation.

In the early days after Obi-Wan had severed the training bond, Qui-Gon had felt a throbbing pull, an itching to connect with his former padawan, like that of an amputated limb with a phantom ache. He had meditated on it, had searched the Force for answers, and after months of questioning he came to understand that Obi-Wan still loved him, and was running to bury the fact. He was running because of the miscommunication, because of the pain between them over Anakin. Qui-Gon hoped they could talk some sense into each other, but it was sketchy at best, most of the time; Qui-Gon often worried that he clung to false hope.

Obi-Wan had sworn to train the boy; but when that vow was made, neither of them expected that Qui-Gon would live. Between that fact and the strife between himself and his former padawan, Qui-Gon had let the oath dissolve. Since then he had come to discover that Anakin was already breeding uncertainty and hesitation, and Qui-Gon had noticed shielded pockets in the boy's consciousness. His former padawan should be here, should be sharing his light. Anakin represented the future of the Order if not the galaxy; could Obi-Wan not see that?

It took a while for Qui-Gon to understand the depths of the bitterness he had insinuated in the new knight's heart. By then, it was too late. Obi-Wan sought away missions with an almost mercenary singularity, and was seldom seen at the Temple at all. Those times when Qui-Gon had come across him, he'd been cold, distant, and heavily shielded. But there had always been something...

As the months slid by, Qui-Gon came to understand with every subsequent brush with Obi-Wan that, indeed, the love remained. It was evident in the tense line of Obi-Wan's jaw as he clenched his teeth. It shone in the muted fire, torn between longing and resentment in his eyes. It was most evident in the way he pulled his shields more tightly closed around him as he walked away. Qui-Gon ached to contact him, pull him aside, and promise him that things could be so much better, so different. Sometimes he didn't know what kept him from doing just that. Sometimes, he simply knew he was afraid that Obi-Wan would reject him, once and for all.

"...Master?" Anakin was tiredly but politely trying to recapture Qui-Gon's wandering attention. Snapping back into himself, he smiled faintly at his padawan.

"That was ten, Master," he was saying, his breath coming in deep puffs. "Should I continue?"

Qui-Gon nodded toward the practice mat. "Yes, Anakin. Eleven: begin."

He found as he watched his padawan begin another kata that he had reached a place where it no longer mattered what he thought or felt for Obi-Wan. He'd driven them past the point of no return, and had to learn to accept his past decisions and inaction. He was a Jedi, and these things were immaterial.

If only he could believe that.

"Set coordinates back for Coruscant," Obi-Wan instructed the pilot in polite, clipped tones, and settled back in his comm chair. One more mission down, one more set of tensions banked. He liked missions similar to the one he had just completed: diplomatic but not ceremonial, challenging but not dangerous.

He'd been sent to mediate intercontinental difficulties on Pictos 3, the center of a small system near the Rim. The planet was comprised of humanoid inhabitants - two distinct races, in fact - and the differences were religious ones. It was an old theme; the Holy Land of both peoples was set in a remote area, their sacred texts referring to the same spot as the Messianic resting place. It had been tricky, but they had come to an accord without splitting the area down the center and sharing it. The Council had been adamant that was not to happen. There were too many instances in which it had failed bloodily.

After days of negotiations that had always ended in shouting and pitched tensions, it had simply been a matter of analyzing the texts and taking the shipboard geological scanning equipment to determine the exact coordinates of each of the sites. The treaty had been signed, the correct and independent holy grounds pinpointed to within meters, and Obi-Wan was sent on his way.

Now he sat opposite the pilot, mentally remarking on this set of talks or that one, idly swiveling back and forth in the comm seat. His fingertips played over the control panel lightly. He dragged them over the shining metal and the buttons and switches, delicately, not upsetting anything, just touching as his arm swung back and forth with the arc of his movement. He was fidgeting because he was punchy. He half expected the pilot to ask him to stop. In the end, he stopped on his own, put his hands on his knees, and stood.

"I'll be sending a transmission around twelve hundred. For now, I'm going to my bunk." The pilot nodded at him and flipped two switches.

Obi-Wan went back to his tiny quarters, feeling the beginnings of the usual energy roiling up inside him. The post-mission travel back to Coruscant always bothered him: he would come down from the pleasure of a job well done on his way home, crashing into himself, pent-up energy humming in his body. It wasn't just the twitchy desire to have room to stretch his legs. It was the knowledge that he might come into contact with Qui-Gon and his padawan. He tensed every time he went home.

Obi-Wan closed the door to his small cabin and loosened his tunics, immediately kneeling for meditation. He ran his fingers through his hair and pushed it back out of his face, then closed his eyes and cleared his mind. During the brief respite in his thoughts before he allowed his mind to wander, he relaxed his body, sending the nervous energy coiled in the pit of his stomach out into the Force.

He disliked wondering when and if he might run into Qui-Gon again, and disliked even more the physical manifestation of that anxiety. It made his stomach queasy, it gave him headaches and, most appallingly of all, sometimes it aroused him. He had grown so tired of putting it down to the unrequited feelings he had suffered for so long, old habits and so forth. The bodily craving never decreased. After the near-cutting of his braid, he was forced to admit with some consternation that he still wanted Qui-Gon and probably always would.

His meditation took him back to his training and the way he had glowed under Qui-Gon's care. Qui-Gon had never been an overly affectionate man, but that hadn't bothered Obi-Wan. His Master had many ways of delivering praise, not the least of which were the rare, exceptional smiles he bent on his padawan.

He was a little appalled that he found himself missing those smiles.

In those early days after Qui-Gon's brush with death, Obi-Wan had alternated between hurt and numbness. He had expended a great deal of energy releasing resentment to the Force. It had been easier, he thought, than this softening warmth he was battling.

He'd let go of his regret, his anger, on numerous occasions, and easily. Sith take him if he hadn't become familiar enough with releasing things to the Force. But love? Experience showed him plainly that love was much more tenacious. He wasn't willing to admit that the reason was simple: the Force didn't want to take it from him.

Obi-Wan Kenobi disembarked at a busy docking bay near the Temple. The utilitarian yellow markings and flashing directional lights made him squint as he hefted his bag over one shoulder. He navigated his way through the bay, grabbed a shuttle, then moved quickly back toward at the Temple. He was still punchy and edgy, but perhaps he could get in to see the Council in short order. The faster he had a session, the faster he would be off-planet again.

/Sith hells, Kenobi, it has been two years. Let it go./ The words reverberated in his mind, sounding much like his own voice but certainly not with his reasoning. Still... he had to admit that the idea of letting go, of simply forgiving, was an appealing one. To stop running from his feelings, and simply be... and then, to see.

/Be./

He snorted laughter as he realized his inner voice was sounding like Master Yoda now. Still...

He considered the possibility as he walked.

"Well you have done," Master Yoda complimented him when he went before the Council. "A long-standing dispute that was, between the As'halad and the Dkreash. Good thinking you used, hm." He patted the arm of his seat. "Notify you we will when there is something more for you. Dismissed you are."

Obi-Wan stifled his surprise, tucking his arms into his sleeves. The Council almost always had a mission ready for him when he returned from his last; even if he was delayed several days or even a couple of weeks before departure, at least he was slated to leave. All he'd been hearing about in recent months was the increasing number of Republic systems and the decreasing number of deployable knights. No mission?

Yoda was looking at him steadily, waiting for him to clear room for the next session; Master Windu was looking at Yoda and nodding his head. Asking about it, arguing the point would net him nothing. Obi-Wan bowed stiffly and left the rotunda.

No mission. The edgy feeling settled in, almost claustrophobic. He tugged his robe off impatiently, draping it over one arm as he walked. He ran his free hand over the tail at the back of his neck and pulled the band out of it, shaking his head. It seemed almost inconceivable. No mission. It didn't make sense.

He passed his hand over his forehead as if to clear his agitation and nearly ran right into Anakin Skywalker.

"Master Kenobi!" came the breathless exclamation, and Anakin's surprisingly large hands were grasping his shoulders after their near-collision. Obi-Wan could do little more than smile and nod and despite his increasing ill humor, several things caught his notice.

Anakin wasn't as much a boy anymore. The last time Obi-Wan had seen him, he had just had his tenth birthday. Now he was into his twelfth year, gangly and toothy, the dusty blond padawan hair making him appear thinner than he really was. He was nearly Obi-Wan's height and the young knight knew Ani was giving the supply house a run for its credits. /How in all the suns did he get so tall?/

That irrepressible good spirit was still with him. At this, Obi-Wan marveled a little more. Anakin seemed to be pleased to see him. "Oh, Master Jinn will be so happy that you're back the same time we are. How long are you here for?"

Obi-Wan's stomach curled around itself at the mention of his former master's name, but he forced another smile and shrugged. "I believe I've been put off, Anakin. I've no idea when my next mission might be."

Anakin beamed even more brightly, if that were possible. "Wonderful! I'll tell our master you're on-planet, and we can get together for a meal or two."

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to protest and hung on our master. Then he realized that in all reasonability, there was no argument he could give. If this were Qui-Gon, of course, he could say no. His stomach clenched in nervousness again. Still, Anakin was being so kind. Obi-Wan had expected petulance, perhaps, or shyness at best, after the way he had treated the boy the last time they had spent any real time together. This ebullience was quite beyond him.

/Are you sure you're my master's padawan?/

Anakin slapped his arm in gaiety. "Wow. This is just wizard. Can I help you get your bag back to your rooms? I could stop by ours and get Mast-"

"No, no," Obi-Wan waved the boy down hastily. "Really. I'm very-- I need to go take some down time, Anakin. Thank you, really." He was nearly stammering, and he didn't care, as long as he could convince the young padawan not to bring Qui-Gon out. "I-- you know, I'll meet with you later, all right? You have better things to do than lug a wandering knight's baggage to his quarters."

Anakin hesitated a moment, and Obi-Wan watched his gaze turn sharp. "Are you okay, Master Kenobi?"

/No, Anakin, I haven't been 'okay' since you./

"Of course," Obi-Wan drew a calm mantle over himself and lifted his chin a little, smiling again. He was absolutely not going to allow himself to be rattled by a twelve-year-old padawan. "I'm a little lagged. Nothing more."

Anakin did not look convinced, but he had learned prudence and a measure of wisdom from his master. "Good, then. Maybe you should have the dining hall send something to your room? If you need time alone."

"Yes, I might do that," Obi-Wan said, as though the idea of going out in public to eat had ever crossed his mind.

"I'll leave you to it, then, Master," Anakin smiled, shaking off the momentary disturbance he had caused. "We'll be here at least a week, maybe more." He laughed. "We've been put off, too. Isn't that odd?"

Obi-Wan resisted the urge to narrow his eyes in suspicion but couldn't quite suppress a snort. "Yes. Funny, that."

Anakin bowed to him slightly, grinning, looking for a moment as though he might crush the knight to him in a great, affectionate hug. Then he seemed to think better of it, drawing on Qui-Gon's reserve and smiling as he left. Obi-Wan had no doubt that Anakin had already contacted Qui-Gon through the training bond to notify him of the knight's presence back on Coruscant. Truly, he didn't know where the boy's overwhelming enthusiasm had come from. It did little for his confidence.

He unpacked, meditated, ate a grain bar from the pantry, meditated, tried to read a dataslate, and meditated again. For the first time since he'd begun his whirlwind knighthood, he wished he hadn't broken badly with Rean. The relationship had been sketchy during the brief weeks they'd been together-- Rean was opinionated, needy, and too talkative-- but the sex had been good. There had been times there toward the end when Obi-Wan had begun to hold out a faint hope that this one-- this one, at last-- would be the one to make him forget. The one to get him over the past.

It was that kind of thinking that landed him in trouble. Rean's final comment to him had been, "I don't know who it is you want to be with, but it's certainly not me," before throwing Obi-Wan out of his apartments on Lower Coruscant.

Obi-Wan remembered belatedly that he had left a good pair of sleep pants there.

He rubbed his hands over his eyes and thought, unbidden, of his former master.

/Go get him, enough's enough./

"There's no reason for me to think that he'd want me," Obi-Wan muttered to the empty room. /Or even want to speak to me./

/Anakin was happy to see you,/ his mind argued with itself.

Anakin was a child. Then Obi-Wan remembered himself at that stage of training. By the time two years had elapsed between the master and padawan, he had known Qui-Gon's moods well. Surely Anakin wouldn't say his master would be pleased to see him, and not mean it?

"Our master," he had said.

For some inexplicable reason, that warmed him enough to make him leave his rooms.

It was strange to be in the dining hall for the first time in months. Obi-Wan had grown very used to either field rations with water or ceremonial banquets, so the idea of plain, reasonable food suddenly appealed to him. He took up a tray like everyone else, trying his best to ignore the soft exclamations of surprise as the now legendary Obi-Wan Kenobi waited in queue. All the admonishments regarding the equality of the Jedi, no matter their purpose once out of training, seemed immaterial under the stares.

Obi-Wan was receiving some kind of gelatinous Calamarian substance when that deep, thrilling voice cut through his thoughts: "Knight Kenobi in the dining hall. Will wonders never cease?"

Obi-Wan stilled his expression and took a slow breath. "Master," he murmured in greeting, all but abandoning hope that he sounded normal, unaffected, and serene. He turned his face up to Qui-Gon's, lips parted in shock.

Qui-Gon did not smile, but his voice carried mild humor. "Run out of off-planet assignments?"

Obi-Wan cast a startled glance up at his former master. "I-- the Council have postponed me, I think," he blurted out, all nonchalance gone under that warm, blue-eyed stare.

Qui-Gon nodded. "As they have Anakin and me. Perhaps we shall have time to meet later? I would like to speak with you."

/What could there possibly be to say?/ Obi-Wan thought almost frantically. "Certainly," he replied, smiling a little with a mouth that obviously no longer belonged to him.

"I'll catch up with you later, then, Padawan, and we'll visit." He walked away. Qui-Gon headed straight for his apprentice about halfway across the hall. The master met Obi-Wan's gaze once more, completely unreadable, before he turned his back and sat opposite Anakin. Anakin gestured toward the queue more than once before Qui-Gon shook his head sharply and began to eat.

Obi-Wan turned back to the tray he'd forgotten he was carrying and made his way to a table. What had that look been for? What had Qui-Gon and Anakin been discussing? What did Qui-Gon want to talk about? Why was the man still calling him "Padawan"?

/Why the hell can't I calm down?/

He stared at the faintly brown jelly on his plate and pushed it once with a fork. It wobbled at him. He set his tray aside and turned his head, staring at one of the exits longingly. /So much for the charms of pedestrian food. Sith hells./

Before he even knew what he was thinking, he was rising, leaving his tray behind, moving through the crowded hall toward Qui-Gon. His heart raced painfully. Within a moment's time he was standing before Qui-Gon with the man looking up at him questioningly.

Obi-Wan gathered himself together, glanced at Anakin and then looked meaningfully at Qui-Gon. "I think it might be a good idea if we spoke now," he said, his voice clear and steady, though he felt as though the flutter of his heart carried in his words.

Qui-Gon looked at him, a little surprised. "Certainly, Obi-Wan." He moved over on the bench, indicating that Obi-Wan should sit. Shaking his head, Obi-Wan glanced at Anakin.

"Privately, please." He cast an apologetic look in the padawan's direction.

"I'll go, Master." Anakin half-rose, picking up his tray.

Qui-Gon raised his hand and shook his head. "Stay, Padawan," he said decisively, and it stung Obi-Wan more than he wanted to admit that the address was directed so firmly, so deliberately. Qui-Gon turned to Obi-Wan, his voice quiet and his eyes firm. "We will meet later this afternoon. Thirteen hundred, in the lower Gardens."

Obi-Wan opened his mouth, protest forming in his throat: he'd wanted this settled immediately, but to what end? In the dining hall? To his own shock, he heard himself saying, "As you wish." As he walked away, he wondered what stammering idiot had inhabited his body.

He paced in his quarters, unwilling to be a moment early to the appointment in the Gardens. His stomach turned in anticipation and fear. Certainly Qui-Gon couldn't have the same intentions Obi-Wan did. Could he? Obi-Wan raked his fingers through his hair in his distraction. He didn't want to think about it. He would deal with it when the time came. He would wait.

He paced more. He had eaten nothing but a grain bar; the Calamarian fare had been beyond unappealing. Surely he could chalk up his lack of calm to low blood sugar.

/Oh, quit hiding from yourself, Kenobi,/ he told himself brusquely. /You're in love with him. You have been since you were a teenager. It hasn't gone away. A hundred lovers and a thousand missions couldn't stop that feeling. Force knows if your focus really did determine your reality, you'd be wrapped around him constantly, because that's where your head is, whether you want to admit it or not./

He sighed. He remembered Rean's sniping before Obi-Wan had slammed the door behind himself, muttering obscenities and remarking that Rean didn't know him at all. It seemed that his ex-lover had known more than Obi-Wan had given him credit for.

He headed out the door for the Gardens.

Qui-Gon was already there, a half before the hour, standing calmly with his hands laced behind his back. Obi-Wan stopped abruptly, staring.

His former master had changed into civilian attire, something he had rarely done in Obi-Wan's entire time with him. He wore loose, faded gray leggings and a vivid blue tunic that Obi-Wan was sure he had never seen before. Qui-Gon turned and met his gaze evenly, and his eyes were impossibly, intently blue.

Obi-Wan opened his mouth and found he could think of nothing worth saying.

"Hello, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon smiled, and his former padawan, master of protocol on several dozen systems, nodded a dumb greeting.

Qui-Gon could feel the nervousness emanating from Obi-Wan's very pores, though the master knew he himself was just as anxious. The only thing he had on his former apprentice was a number of years' experience in couching emotions. He'd practiced for this day, but suddenly he found his words had left him.

The men stood apart, each well outside the others' reach, regarding each other. Obi-Wan wanted to remark on the Garden, how white and clean the sky looked, how well-groomed the fields were. Regardless, he could do nothing but stare at that overtly blue tunic and try not to look into those overtly blue eyes.

Qui-Gon wondered when his padawan-- former padawan-- had decided to grow a beard. He found it attractive. Actually, he found it sexy, and he wanted to test its softness, see what it felt like under kisses. He banked that train of thought immediately.

Obi-Wan swallowed and it caught, so he cleared his throat. The intent regard Qui-Gon placed on him made him terribly nervous. "Master--" he began without thinking, and then stopped, laughing a little, shaking his head.

Qui-Gon smiled and raised his hand gently. "I think we're both thinking the same thing, Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan's mouth went dry, and his heart sped up. "How-- what do you think we're both thinking?" he asked, feeling rather stupid. Then he remembered the coolness he had maintained during these years, and drew it about him. He straightened himself up under that regard and said, "I find it hard to believe that we're here for the same reason."

Qui-Gon bowed his head a little in acquiescence and spread his hands. "My apologies. You may say what you came to say."

Obi-Wan was caught between gritting his teeth in agitation and staring dumbly again. "You asked to speak to me," he said tightly. "In the line in the dining hall."

Qui-Gon might have found this idly amusing were the circumstances not so tense. "You rushed over to my table, Obi-Wan, wishing to speak to me immediately. If we are not here for the same reason, then I can only assume that your topic of discussion carries much more weight than does mine."

Obi-Wan stared. /He cornered me, the bastard,/ he thought irritably, and said, "I did not rush." He stared at Qui-Gon's dry smile.

Qui-Gon stepped closer to him, half a step, not much, but a major concession. "Look at us." He paused, sighing, the humor gone from his eyes. "We shouldn't play games. Not about this."

Obi-Wan dipped his head, hair falling around his face. "Are we sure we're talking about the same thing?" His voice was low, barely audible. He could not believe it, could not wrap his mind around the idea that his former master might have been harboring the same desires he had.

Qui-Gon took another step closer. "Fairly sure, yes. Unless you had something in mind other than the fact that your former master was an idiot for ignoring your emotions."

Obi-Wan looked up at him, stunned, but Qui-Gon went on, stepping forward again and dropping his voice a notch. "Or perhaps you were thinking of how I should have said something as soon as I recognized your feelings for me? How I could have at least acknowledged you before plowing ahead in my duty to the Order?"

Obi-Wan found himself wanting to protest. Put like that, his hurt seemed petty and jealous. He gritted his teeth against that thought and watched raptly as Qui-Gon closed the distance between them, directly in front of him, stiflingly warm and close. He resisted the urge to step back and close that cool shield around him again, knowing that at this juncture it would do him no good.

Instead, he said, "And what would that have accomplished?"

Qui-Gon paused, then took a great risk and raised his hand. He considered placing it on Obi-Wan's cheek, then thought that might be a bit too personal, and placed it instead on his shoulder. "It might have saved your abhorrent sexual reputation," he quipped, and his mouth quirked up at one corner. He was surprised and relieved to see the younger man's expression go from shocked to flushed and more than a little ashamed.

"Then again," Qui-Gon went on, stroking his thumb over the fabric of the tunic it rested on, "it might have kept you from becoming one of the most adept field operatives in the Order."

Obi-Wan became hotly aware of the large hand resting on him, of the warmth that had suddenly softened his tense shielding. He hadn't realized the extent of Qui-Gon's awareness of his sexual exploits. "I did it because I was running from you."

"I know."

Obi-Wan shook his head minutely. "I am not sure how much either of us know," he said cryptically, and looked almost helplessly at the hand on his shoulder.

Qui-Gon saw the tension in Obi-Wan's clenched jaw, felt it in the shoulder under his touch. He removed his hand and took a half-step back. /Too much, too soon,/ he told himself, and drew in a breath.

Obi-Wan's comm sounded.

Cursing to himself, he fished it out of his utility belt and activated it. "Kenobi."

"Dispatch, Sir," the metallic voice told him. "External call. Rean N'ual. He was attempting to reach your electronic messenger-- should I patch him through there, or do you wish to speak to him, Sir?"

Obi-Wan flicked his gaze up at Qui-Gon, who had shadowed his expression. He didn't know what made him say, "Put him through," unless it was sheer perversity. There was a pause, a hum of electronic interference, and then after an electronic click he said tightly, "Kenobi."

Rean's voice came through sounding slightly tinny: "Obi? Well, by the moons." Sarcasm stitched the words heavily. "I didn't know you were back."

"I know, Rean," the young knight sighed. He ran his fingers through his hair tensely. "What do you need?"

"You left a pair of sleep pants here," the voice informed him loftily, and Obi-Wan winced in spite of himself, resisting the urge to steal a glance at Qui-Gon.

"Great," Obi-Wan muttered. "Thanks. Is that all?"

There was a pause, and Obi-Wan could practically see Rean biting his thumbnail, an annoying habit that he managed to make look vulnerably endearing. "No," the voice on the comm said simply.

Qui-Gon stepped back and politely half-turned away, examining an apparently fascinating stand of trees not far off.

"Rean," Obi-Wan said hoarsely into the comm, "You made it perfectly plain, and you were right. There's nothing--"

"I don't know, Obi. Come get these, and we can talk about it."

"There's nothing--"

"Yes there is. Obi--" The sarcasm had disappeared from the voice, and there was a momentary pause. When Rean spoke again, his voice sounded odd and thick. "Listen to me. Whoever that is that has you so completely, whatever hold he has, you have to --" Rean broke off again, and this time the young knight did glance up at his former master to see him watching Obi-Wan closely. Obi-Wan turned his back somewhat impatiently, wondering what Qui-Gon made of the broken-off comment, and then wondering why he should care.

"Just come over," Rean fairly pleaded, and Obi-Wan sighed and tipped his head down, staring at his boots. "Just come over, Obi, please."

Rean switched off, and Obi-Wan wished he could feel irritated, but there had been such pain in his former lover's voice. He deactivated the comm and shoved it back into its pocket.

"Unfinished business," Qui-Gon observed dryly, arching his eyebrows.

Obi-Wan suppressed a flare of protectiveness on Rean's behalf and looked at the ground. "Yeah." He drew up his coolest, most casual demeanor and put his hands on his hips. "I suppose now isn't the time to finish our little talk."

Qui-Gon's heart clenched painfully. /Yes, Obi-Wan, let's finish it now. Don't go./ "No, I suppose not. Anakin will be waiting for me."

/Ah yes, mustn't keep the Chosen One waiting,/ Obi-Wan thought waspishly. He looked up at his former master, but the expression on Qui-Gon's face was so closed off he could make nothing of it. He grew a little angry. /What else is new? He spent thirteen years being inscrutable with me, why would anything be different now?/ Suddenly he felt silly for coming, silly for suggesting they talk. Nothing had changed.

Obi-Wan shrugged, projecting an air of supreme indifference. "Well."

Qui-Gon sighed. "Obi-Wan, there's something you need to know."

Obi-Wan froze and looked at him closely, waiting. /Say it. Say it... make all of this right, Qui-Gon. Make me not want to go to Rean./ He didn't know if he believed it were that easy, but he wanted to. He had wanted it for too long.

Qui-Gon swept his fingertips over his forehead and rubbed briefly at one temple. That sense of severance had returned, the feeling of the missing training bond throbbing and burning. He wondered if Obi-Wan felt it.

"I just wanted to say that--" Qui-Gon paused. He didn't think Obi-Wan loved this Rean person, but knew that now was not the time for him to be confessing the depth of his own heart. He had waited this long; he would wait a while longer. It was clear that his erstwhile apprentice still had a lot of thinking to do. He inhaled slowly, let it go, and said, "I just wanted to let you know that when you finish your... business... I still think we should talk."

Obi-Wan nodded, disappointed in a way he couldn't express. "Thank you," he said, not bothering to hide the doubt and the hurt in his voice.

He turned away, but Qui-Gon caught his hand. Obi-Wan's heart picked up speed at the contact, and he stared at their joined hands as the other man said, "There's a lot left between us, Obi-Wan. Things we need to talk about. Don't let that go."

Obi-Wan looked up into the deep blue eyes of the man he knew he loved, eyes that questioned and answered at the same time. Suddenly he was unsure. Did he want to go? Was he ready to stay? The thought made him pull away, but gently. "Thank you," he said again, for lack of anything better, and left.

Obi-Wan leaned on the door of the shuttlecab, his chin on his fist. He didn't really want to go see Rean. Honestly, he wasn't sure why he was on his way there. What he really wanted to do was go back to the Temple and have this out with Qui-Gon.

/You tried that, Kenobi,/ he muttered inwardly, staring morosely at the passing skyway traffic. /Rean wants you back... let it go./

Obi-Wan closed his eyes. Even as the thought hit him, he knew that it wasn't that simple. They had been dancing around this very thing for years. Something inside Obi-Wan had been looking for this for so long, now he didn't recognize it when it was staring him in the face. He felt it but he couldn't believe it. He wondered which of the two of them made him more afraid: Qui-Gon, or himself. He'd been running, jumping from mission to mission, one liaison after another until he was dizzy with it, needing to settle but not knowing how. He'd been nearly overwhelmed with Qui-Gon's presence; the reality of him had nearly softened his hard, bitter shell.

Nearly.

Rean welcomed him with open arms and, strangely, silence. Obi-Wan looked at his nearly former lover with a critical eye for the first time. The tawny eyes held a depth of worry, the angular but smooth face looked drawn and tense.

/Don't,/ he thought, wishing he could say it out loud, knowing why Rean had asked him to come back. /Don't feel./

Obi-Wan remembered when he had first seen Rean: they had been in a nightclub. Rean had danced like a courtesan, and Obi-Wan had immediately been drawn to the promise of very, very good sex. Rean was slender, almost slight, but graceful in a way that was different from Qui-Gon's serene smoothness.

Obi-Wan realized dimly that he had been running away from his master on more levels than even he realized.

When Rean finally spoke, it was with a shaky, questioning hesitancy. "Let me try to make you happy," he pleaded quietly, in lieu of trivialities that would fall uselessly to the floor. Still, even as the words left his mouth he knew the answer. His heart ached. He was so close to loving this enigmatic Jedi, but no closer to having it returned.

"I don't think you can," Obi-Wan said, his voice breaking a little. He was genuinely sorry. Of all the lovers he'd left, this one hurt. Perhaps it was because he could see the evidence of the pain in Rean's beautiful eyes. Perhaps it was simply because this time he had deluded himself into believing there might be a chance for something more. He brushed the back of one hand delicately over a high-boned cheek, and Rean caught the hand and kissed it.

"Stay with me, Obi. Just let me try. I'm sorry about before-- You know I've always been melodramatic about you."

Obi-Wan smiled sadly, his hand still cupping the smooth cheek. It was a joke between them: Rean was melodramatic about everything.

He shook his head. "Rean, love, it's not that. We aren't-- we don't--" He sighed, dropping his hand to his side and looking into those sad eyes helplessly. "You know we can't make this work. We're not enough alike. Even if he weren't so important to me--" He stopped, biting his bottom lip.

Rean's gaze never wavered. "Can I ask who he is, at least?"

Obi-Wan nodded bleakly. "My master."

Rean closed his eyes. "Oh." He knew then beyond any doubt that there was no way he had ever stood a chance. Just the look that came into those pale green eyes when the man's name was mentioned-- that was enough to tell Rean that Qui-Gon Jinn was embedded so deeply in Obi-Wan's heart, no one could extricate him now, even if they never came together.

Obi-Wan pulled him close, kissing him softly, displaying none of the passion they had shared, none of the fire. Rean responded, surprised, but with a quiet melancholy. It was done, it was over, and Rean felt it, knew it with every cell in his being. It hurt, but he knew Obi-Wan was right. Qui-Gon wasn't the only issue between them: they were, ultimately, too different.

"At least stay a while," he whispered into a kiss, and Obi-Wan nodded.

He allowed Rean to lead him to the bedroom and undress him, and for the first time since they had been together, they made love softly, slowly. No games, no predatory teasing, no roles. They didn't argue; they didn't even speak. Obi-Wan let Rean take him, let him play with the one-time padawan braid. He moaned into that soft mouth, forcing his mind away from fantasies of the man he wasn't sure he was ready for in reality. Obi-Wan stared into those catlike eyes to keep his thoughts where they belonged.

Rean deserved that much. They hadn't been good for each other, but for a while, they had at least been good with each other. He knew he was going to miss this, even as he knew it had never really been this way and possibly never would be again. The thought filled him with sadness even as he came, clutching Rean to him. Involuntary tears spilled from his eyes.

Shuddering, Rean reached his own climax almost in spite of himself. He sighed into Obi-Wan's neck and sank down over him as he withdrew from that tight, warm body, relishing the feel of those arms that had never held him quite so closely. It would be so easy to love this tender, sad man with him, but this was not the Jedi he had known. This Jedi was for someone else entirely.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, looking into those eyes he'd nearly let himself drown in. Obi-Wan held him more tightly.

"What are you sorry for?" Obi-Wan laughed, sniffing, and shook his head. "I'm the one who can't make up my bloody mind." He reached toward a bedside table that was too far off and called a box of tissues to him to clean themselves with, and wipe his damned weepy eyes. Rean looked up and grinned, not bothered that this would likely be the last time he saw that unnerving talent at work.

He settled into the crook of Obi-Wan's shoulder. When Obi-Wan finished wiping his eyes and nose, he put his arms around Rean again and sighed, kissing the soft, black hair. He didn't know what to say, but somehow Rean did. That had been part of their problem: Rean always had words to say, and he somehow always found his way to the last one.

"Damn you," he whispered, completely without ire. "I didn't need to love you now."

Obi-Wan could hear the resignation. There was no fight there, only weak protest. "You don't love me, Rean. You don't know me. I'm gone too much; I'm too irritable when I am here. And I'm--" He stopped himself, sighing heavily. Rean didn't need to hear any more. /You can't talk someone down from that ledge, Kenobi, you should know that./

"I wanted this to be it, Rean," Obi-Wan whispered. There was so much he wanted to add: how he'd never come back to anyone else before, how Rean had lasted longer than all of his other lovers. That right now, if he only had a little more strength, he would have wanted to try and be happy with Rean. It all sounded trite and arrogant, though, and he didn't have the strength, so he said none of it. "Now I don't think there's ever going to be any one. There is no 'it' for me."

Rean had known he was out of his depth from the first night they were together. /He never invited you home, he never introduced you to anyone. He gets mad and storms out and then comes back, embarrassed and wanting you. You reached a limit of tolerance, then pushed past it just to have him near you, when you know he's strung out on someone else./ Even Rean knew when it was too much.

"Not even him?" Rean questioned, unable to keep the note of hope from his voice in spite of his smarter side.

Obi-Wan shook his head. "I don't think so. I think I blew my shot when I walked out of the knighting ceremony."

"You should try," Rean suggested softly.

"Maybe," Obi-Wan said, and it told Rean all he needed to know.

He shifted closer, if that were possible. "Just let me borrow a few more minutes."

He went straight back to his rooms upon returning to the Temple. He hadn't expected to feel such tenderness for Rean on their parting, but he knew they weren't for each other. Obi-Wan was too hard, and Rean... Rean needed too much. He deserved it, but it was more than Obi-Wan could give him.

He showered, feeling odd with Rean's scent still clinging to him, wrapped around him as Rean had been. Rean had wound himself around Obi-Wan like smoke, like scent, from the beginning, belying the sly, dancing trick he'd met that first night. The immediate intimacy had made the knight uncomfortable, but he thought that perhaps that might have been why he wanted to stay. Perhaps he needed someone to drag him down a little, to hold him still and make him feel.

/Don't feel,/ he'd told Rean in his mind. Or had he told himself that?

The thought gave him a leaden ache that he'd never experienced walking away from anyone. Immediately after he was clean, though, he missed the reminder of Rean's clinging.

He wandered out onto his balcony, listening to the traffic flying overhead. The sky had gone orange with the sunset, and the air smelled cooler and slightly less steeped in ozone.

In the past, on the scattered nights he had managed to be home for a sunset, he tended to avoid them. They reminded him too much of Qui-Gon's evening meditative sessions. Obi-Wan used to lose himself in that voice, soaking up the sound of it just as readily as the lessons. When his master was speaking, Obi-Wan could sink into that voice gratefully and never come up. Now, with the air cooling and the city quieting, he tried to settle back into that frame of mind that used to come so easily then: the relaxed, calm state that enabled him to meditate.

This time, however, he could not reach that state. He found no peace, could not draw enough from the Force to feel it moving through him. Tapping into the living Force had always been his greatest weakness. He felt that weakness now as he fought for control of his emotions, long after the sun had set.

Frustrated, he rose from his knees and walked out of his quarters. He wandered the Temple aimlessly, satisfied only when he found a quadrant of closed offices. The dark corridors felt well suited to his confusion and loneliness. He felt vaguely desolate, caught between an unexpected desire for Rean's company and his long-burning need for his former master's understanding. Absently, he fingered the pouch where his comm unit resided.

A strange burning ache insinuated itself into the back of his consciousness, there but not, like a whisper of Force suggestion, or something felt through a bond.

He scoffed at himself. He had no bond: he had no padawan, no master, and certainly no soulmate. /Not even a boyfriend,/ he thought, rather bitterly, and his hand went to the comm pocket again.

What a ridiculous state he was in. Standing in a darkened hallway, somewhere between the main area and his quarters, digging a comm out of his utility belt so he could--

Could what? He didn't even know what he intended to do. To call Rean would be presumptuous and arrogant, not to mention manipulative. To call Qui-Gon would be dangerous and nerve-wracking, and he didn't know if he was ready to face what waited on the other side of such a call. Really, what could be done after two years? Too much waiting had gone on, too much bitterness existed in his own heart. They could never hope to make it work.

He keyed in his former master's sequence.

"Padawan Skywalker," said the young voice.

Obi-Wan faltered. /Damn it./ "Anakin, I need to talk to Qui-Gon."

There was a long pause, and when Anakin replied, there was unmistakable anger in his voice. "Yeah, you do. What did you say to him? I've never seen him so--" His words faded abruptly to indistinct mutterings in the background.

Obi-Wan stared at the comm. "Anakin?"

"Yes, Master." The title was laced with sarcasm. "I apologize for my rudeness. May I relay him a message?"

Obi-Wan clenched the comm in his fingers, resisting the urge to throw it to the ground and crush it under a booted heel. "Please do," he muttered tightly. "Tell him that at his earliest convenience, I would like to continue our conversation. It is most important to me."

There was another pause. The chill in Anakin's voice increased, if that were possible. "I'll tell him. Skywalker out." He terminated the call.

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth and glared at the comm unit. Such a small, innocent piece of technology. So important on missions, crucial in emergencies, easily repaired and immensely dependable. Right now, though, all the knight could think was that the Sithly little thing represented every problem he'd ever had in his life.

He keyed in another sequence and got the dispatch. When his call relayed through, there was unmistakable weariness in the voice on the other end.

"Yes, Obi," Rean said immediately, flatly.

Obi-Wan started a little. "Rean?" He scarcely knew what he was doing. Apparently Rean did.

"Yes, Obi."

"Can I-- will you let me come over?"

There was a beat of empty air before he heard, "Obi, you said it yourself. We can't be involved-- though what it comes down to, really, is that you can't commit, though what that's got to do with me, I don't know-- and I can't just drink ale and watch podracing with you." There was a surprising coldness to the voice, suddenly talkative after a quiet, almost morose afternoon.

Obi-Wan dropped his head and stared at his feet. He'd done it. His little sexual escapades had finally gone over the line, and he'd used someone badly enough to get stung back. Part of him wanted to plead with Rean for one more chance, but he held his tongue. It would come down to this again and again, and Rean knew better.

Qui-Gon moved quietly down the hallway, unnoticed, then froze. He could make no pretense; this was an out-of-the-way area of the Temple and there was no reason for him to be here other than he'd tracked his former padawan's Force signature in hopes of finally talking. Instead, he stood listening.

It had certainly gone far enough; Anakin was angry now, he himself was angry, and the last thing he needed was his former padawan trying to insinuate his anger into their lives. They'd had enough problems, he and his padawan, without Obi-Wan stirring Anakin's temper through Qui-Gon. Now his cold, brittle speech died in the back of his mind as he heard the words exchanged between his former apprentice and the lover he'd apparently given up.

"You and I ended today," the voice on the comm added. "I should never have asked you over; that's true, but honestly I don't know what you thought to gain by calling me. I've been thinking, Obi, and you know what, it was a mistake on my part to ever have got involved with you." There was a self-deprecating smirk in the tone.

Obi-Wan sighed and leaned against the wall with one hip, suddenly tired. "Rean-- I'm sorry. It's just that I thought I could fix things. I can't. Everything's over, it's not just you and me." His voice broke a little, and Qui-Gon's throat tightened at the sound of it.

Obi-Wan found himself playing with his braid a little as Rean said, "My first instinct is to ask you how you dare call me like this. With this."

Qui-Gon heard a choked noise and cringed inwardly: was Obi-Wan crying?

Rean went on before his ex-lover could answer, "My second instinct is to tell you to fuck off." The voice hitched in a sigh and then said bitterly, "No, I can't dance like this anymore. You did this. You came to me today, and we were fine, I could have left it at that. I could move on from one last little fling, and so could you, but to call me and complain about the other thing you screwed up? Good and great gods. How stupid must I be, really? To say nothing of how stupid you must be."

Obi-Wan stood there, listening, taking it. There was little more he could do, and little less. He'd created this disaster. He'd hurt and angered the two people he might have had any happiness with in the span of four hours, possibly irreparably. It made his heart hurt, it made his head hurt, and that nagging, burning place in his consciousness would not go away.

"Your problem, Obi-Wan," Rean pressed on relentlessly, "is that no one's ever told you 'no.' And damn, I didn't want to be that one person." Rean sighed, tinny and crackling. "But I'm doing it now. I'm telling you 'no.' Don't call again."

Obi-Wan shook his head and swallowed. "I'm sorry, Rean," he started to say, but the call was terminated from the other end before he got two syllables out. He switched off the comm and tilted his body, leaning so that his forehead rested on the wall. He braced his upper body with a forearm. The ache rose in his throat.

Thirteen years of wanting, waiting, and all of it had come down to hurting someone else over this wisp of a dream with his master, and hurting his master beyond repair.

"Kenobi, you are one class act," he muttered to himself, and sighed. So drawn into himself was he that he didn't notice the tall figure moving toward him.

Qui-Gon stepped forward slowly, his heart wrenching at the silhouette of his former padawan leaning on the wall, defeat in every line and curve in his body. In the dimness he could see the padawan braid dangling in the gap between Obi-Wan's chest and the surface he leaned on.

Obi-Wan's hand clenched and unclenched rhythmically around the comm unit, and then, shaking with tension and hurt, he pushed off the wall and turned to go, catching sight of Qui-Gon.

He gasped and froze. "Qui-Gon," he whispered. Obi-Wan's heart pounded. How much had the other man heard heard? Had he followed him here? Then he realized that there wasn't anything that could make the situation any worse. He drew himself up and faced Qui-Gon squarely.

"I'm sorry, Obi-Wan. I was looking for you," Qui-Gon said quietly. "I-- overheard," he added, and pointed to the hand that still clutched the comm unit.

Obi-Wan turned his face away and ran his other hand distractedly through his hair. "I suppose Anakin told you I commed."

Qui-Gon nodded tightly.

"Well," the former padawan said airily, and shifted to step away and back toward his quarters. "I can't imagine what you could possibly want to say. It's clear that you're none too happy with me. Given my track record of late, it's not much of a surprise. So if you'll excuse me, Master, I think I'll go release my emotions to the Force or some such vaunted thing." He turned abruptly and began striding away, the pain in his heart increasing as he heard nothing behind him, no call to stop, no footsteps. Holding in a choked sigh, he kept walking, clutching the comm in his hand hard enough that its speaker left an imprint in his palm.

There was little left he could do. He either had to leave the Order altogether-- Force knew he wasn't any good to it in this state-- or request reassignment to some outer Temple. He needed to be away from here, away permanently.

Qui-Gon was briefly immobilized by Obi-Wan's unexpected self-reproach and his own growing anger. It had been better when his former apprentice was angry at him, but this self-deprecation was unlike Obi-Wan, beneath him. Qui-Gon remained where he was for a moment, unsure what to do.

He recalled the loneliness, the pain he had felt when Obi-Wan had walked away from him in the gardens. After that, Qui-Gon had been completely irascible with his young padawan. Anakin, in turn, had gone stonily quiet, the only indication of his irritation being the way he'd snapped at Obi-Wan over the comm. It had spread from Obi-Wan in ripples, this anger and hurt. Anakin was taking all of this very hard-- they all were, it seemed-- and it was time for that to stop, one way or another. Qui-Gon followed his former padawan home.

Obi-Wan palmed open his door and stepped inside. He was about to turn and key the lock when Qui-Gon caught up with him. Gritting his teeth and couching his surprise, Obi-Wan stepped back and waved him into the quarters, bewildered but saying nothing. He doubted he could talk Qui-Gon Jinn out of much of anything right now.

Immediately Qui-Gon relaxed his stance and stepped away from Obi-Wan. "Now listen to me," he started in. "I'm not too fond of the fact that you call me 'Master' in a tone that implies you can't stand the sight of me."

Surprised, Obi-Wan met his stare. He opened his mouth, but Qui-Gon cut him off smoothly.

"That is a term of respect, or at least deference, and it used to be one of affection, coming from you." He softened his voice as Obi-Wan looked away guiltily. "When did that change, Obi-Wan? When did you come to have such disrespect for me?"

Obi-Wan looked up helplessly. "Qui-Gon, I respected you even when you passed me off for a nine-year-old apprentice the Council wouldn't take. Damn it, I respected you even when you were on a bed still covered with bacta and your first words were 'Where's--'" He bit off the rest of the remark. "There's only so much pushing off I can take before I lose respect for myself." He stopped, stunned at his own words and even more astonished to realize that they were true. Staring numbly through Qui-Gon's chest, he sank into a chair. Only then did he realize he was still gripping the comm unit. Absently, he tucked it into his utility belt and rubbed at the angry marks embedded in his palm.

"I've thrown away everything," he said quietly, almost to himself. "And I did it for those things that were never mine." Hesitantly, he looked into Qui-Gon's eyes. They conveyed something soft and warm that looked like sympathy, so he looked away again.

His throat ached. He'd been wounded so badly by a perceived rejection that he'd allow it to undermine his own self-worth, and now-- now it undermined everything else he'd ever wanted, as well.

Qui-Gon moved in front of Obi-Wan and bent down to one knee. He tipped his head to catch Obi-Wan's eyes. His former apprentice would not meet them, so he sighed and put his hands on Obi-Wan's knees.

"Obi-Wan, those things were always yours." He paused as the younger man looked at him hard, trying to discern the truth.

"I have never been anything but proud of you. You were always-- you will always be my greatest light. Force help me, you're the best contribution I could have made to the Order. But Anakin's situation-- Obi-Wan, he frightens me with his power." Qui-Gon's voice had dropped almost to a whisper. "He desperately needs guidance, the right kind of guidance. I felt that from the moment I met him, and I know you did, too." He shook his head. "I handled it badly but that doesn't change the fact of who he is. What he is. You don't realize... he's shielding now, hiding things. We don't speak the way we should. I don't know how much of it is my doing, my stubbornness, the loneliness I won't let him help with-- or my love for you. Love that I never allowed myself to act on."

Obi-Wan heard the weight in the deep voice and studied his master's face. Then he noticed the heavy, swirling shadows of something he'd never seen in Qui-Gon Jinn before: self-doubt.

Qui-Gon shook his head, a mirthless laugh pealing from him. "And here I am, still on about Anakin. I should have told you the day of your knighting how much I needed you, Obi-Wan. I should have told you any one of a number of times. We've seen each other a half dozen times in two years, and I wanted to pull you aside every one of those moments and tell you how I've loved you since you were young."

Obi-Wan stared at him, stricken. "Then why didn't you?" he asked, afraid of the answer. He looked down at the hands on his knees, those large, skilled hands he'd longed to touch, really touch, for years.

"I knew you would think I only wanted you near to help me train him."

Obi-Wan sighed and looked away, hurt beyond expression. He'd always wanted to be there for Qui-Gon, wanted to help with Anakin. Now he could see the shell of resentment he'd pulled around him, that self-indulgent cushion of cold hurt he'd created and nurtured. It was easy enough to recognize how Qui-Gon could come to the conclusion that his former apprentice wanted nothing to do with the Chosen One. Obi-Wan had never given him any reason not to believe that he'd resent him. For Qui-Gon, as well, it had grown more and more difficult to speak, even as it had become imperative that they do. He'd spent two years running, hiding, shielding, injuring himself and others, and for what? To hurt the man he loved most in the world one last time.

"I have to leave the Temple," Obi-Wan said, his voice just above a whisper. "I need to get away from here. I'm not any good here, not when it's like this between us. Maybe I can establish an outpost on Ord Mantell. There isn't one there. Or take an assignment with the Fleet." He was babbling, he knew. He didn't know what kind of response he wanted. He wasn't even sure there was a right one.

Qui-Gon's grip on Obi-Wan's knees tightened. "No! Why? Obi-Wan--" He cupped his padawan's chin in his hand, dimly relishing the soft prickle of beard there. He forced the man to meet his gaze. "What is there between us that would make you leave? We've waited so long for this moment. Why would you go now that we've reached it?"

Silly reasons raced to Obi-Wan's throat and caught there. Anakin -- but that would pass; Anakin was only irritated on behalf of his master. The past-- but the past was working itself out in the moment. Qui-Gon's pain-- but that would heal, too. It wasn't even the task of taking on the Chosen One as some kind of step-apprentice. It was his own pain that made him whisper, "I'm afraid."

Qui-Gon stared and dropped his hand. "Of-- me?"

Obi-Wan tore his gaze away. Those eyes, those blue, blue eyes ripped further into his soul the longer he looked into them. "I've been running through people since you took Anakin. I want to love you. I do love you. But I'm afraid that I don't know how anymore. Rean told me that no one has ever said 'no' to me, and he's right. It's so easy to walk away that I never stay long enough to be denied. You're strong, and I'm-- I'm just not strong enough."

Qui-Gon leaned so far forward, straight up between Obi-Wan's knees, that the younger man couldn't help but meet his eager stare. "Don't you think I can be strong enough for both of us until you find your own? Obi-Wan, you have more strength in you than you could possibly imagine. Don't bury it any longer. We were meant for this, you know we were." His voice took on great urgency then as he asked, "Tell me, what's the difference between me and everyone else you've ever been with?"

"Everything," Obi-Wan breathed, wide-eyed. "Everything."

"Do you know--" his master reached into his inner pocket and retrieved the first padawan braid, lovingly banded, coiled around itself. "I carry this everywhere."

Obi-Wan stared at it. He traced it with a finger, then absently reached for the braid behind his ear. "I-- I grew this because I missed braiding it. I missed you braiding it." He drew a shuddering breath. "I missed you."

"Then why were you with all those people if you wanted to be with me?" Qui-Gon whispered hotly, staring almost helplessly at Obi-Wan's mouth.

Self-consciously, the knight licked his lips. "To forget the pain with you."

Qui-Gon shifted forward, his forearms now firmly on Obi-Wan's thighs. He was wedged between his apprentice's knees, his hips flush against the front of the chair. He could feel the heat radiating from Obi-Wan's body as he said, "Then forget the pain. With me."

Obi-Wan was snared. He leaned forward, slowly enough that if he were misunderstanding there would still be time for Qui-Gon to retreat. Qui-Gon paused. He looked into Obi-Wan's eyes, no longer trying to find reasons not to do this. They'd waited too long as it was.

Qui-Gon closed the distance, brushing his lips hesitantly over Obi-Wan's. They were soft and moist, and he smelled of soap, ozone and the Temple air. There was a warm, autumnal smell underneath that had always been his apprentice.

The knight made an unintelligible noise in his throat. He tried to resist the kiss, but it was useless. His reflexive shells were crumbling. His hard habits could not remain steady under the sweeping, amazing truth of having his dearest dream come true.

Still, under the light, ticklish scrape of beards and the warmth of moist breath, he felt hesitation. Was Qui-Gon as afraid as he was? He darted his tongue out delicately, anxiously, and Qui-Gon met it with a quick eagerness that surprised him. He pulled back a little, his breathing quickening. He stared down at the man in his lap. Qui-Gon was breathing harder too, and his eyes conveyed a hot need that Obi-Wan had never thought he'd see there.

Qui-Gon reached a hand into Obi-Wan's hair, then stroked it down over the long, slender braid, studying it. He shifted upward again, stretching to reach. Obi-Wan met him halfway, their mouths coming together then in a starved kiss, the kind of kiss that Qui-Gon had been dreaming about for years, the kind of kiss Obi-Wan had long since stopped hoping for. Butterflies burst in his stomach as heat and scent of the man he loved overwhelmed him. It felt like a weight coming off, fairly exploding away from him.

Seeking, tongues reaching and dancing, they tasted each other, desperately needy. Obi-Wan released a quivering, high-pitched moan and sank his hands into Qui-Gon's hair, cupping his head, pulling him closer, unaware that he was leaning forward in the chair until he tumbled out of it into Qui-Gon's arms. They landed on the floor, heaped together. A laugh burst from Obi-Wan into the kiss and was immediately swallowed whole. Qui-Gon's arms went around the slim waist instantly, his hands splayed against Obi-Wan's spine, holding him tightly.

Breathlessly, Obi-Wan arched up away from Qui-Gon's mouth, gasping. He stared down at those glittering blue eyes, no longer distant or unreadable but shining hotly with desire. Desire for him, wide open and plain. "Do you--" Obi-Wan began, but Qui-Gon grabbed the front of Obi-Wan's tunic and tugged him down again, kissing him too hard for speech. Obi-Wan groaned and sank onto the hard body under his, pressing his quickening erection against Qui-Gon's stomach. He forced his mouth away from his master's and trailed it back to one ear, nipping and licking delicately, taking immense satisfaction in Qui-Gon's shudder of pleasure. He pushed kisses lower, past the soft beard to his throat. Qui-Gon arched under him, hissing in a breath.

"Wait," the master groaned.

Obi-Wan sat up abruptly, a sick feeling in his heart, shields constricting automatically. "Don't-- please don't. Don't tell me this isn't right, don't tell me we can't."

Qui-Gon pushed himself up until Obi-Wan was sitting in his lap. He wrapped his arms around that slim waist and buried his face in Obi-Wan's hair. "No-- it's not that, never that," he promised, and his lips found the flushed skin of the younger man's neck. "We've waited so long. I want it to be right, I want it to be perfect. Slow, soft. I want to make it worth all the pain I've caused you."

Obi-Wan tipped his head back under the onslaught of those lips on his throat. His defenses were crumbling; even his instinctive shields were too unstable to hold up any longer. The pain in those words was too much, and he clutched Qui-Gon to him desperately. Even with the two of them wrapped around each other on the floor of his common room, still there was self-blame. He shook his head and pulled back, cupping Qui-Gon's face in his hands.

"I'll tell you what I want, Master," he said, and pushed all the love he'd so long denied himself into that title. "I want everything out, in the open, straight. I want your apprentice to be my apprentice, I want to quit this damned dance. I want you. I want your body, your mind, your heart and your bond, and I don't care how they come to me. If it means on some 'perfect' night, lovely. If it means I just need to tease you and fuck you till you lose that Sith-damned Jedi control and shout it to the stars, then so be it." He laughed a little, loving the smile that was dancing in Qui-Gon's eyes, but grew serious again. "I love you. I need you. I always have. You have plenty of time to make me wait, or tell me 'no.' Don't do it now."

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and let the words register. How he'd longed to hear those words, finally spoken in that beloved, smooth, quiet voice. "Obi-Wan," he breathed. "I couldn't say 'no' if it meant my life." He kissed Obi-Wan again, a slow, sweet kiss that burst hungrily into a demand.

Qui-Gon dropped his shields; Obi-Wan did the same. The burning place flared to life between them, and Obi-Wan knew it then for what it was: the severed training bond had been throbbing, pulsing, trying to reassert itself. They kissed endlessly, mouths tangling as realization dawned between them. Obi-Wan pressed on his ragged end of the old bond and it flared almost painfully, lurching forward into life. He felt a slow trickle of emotion from Qui-Gon as the master did the same, reviving the long-suppressed bond that had suffered under shields and pain for too long, but had waited, nevertheless.

It fed back and forth between them: Obi-Wan's wonder, Qui-Gon's surprise, quickly supplanted by love and need borne of years of longing. Obi-Wan poured his emotions into the raw bond, feeling a strange kind of release. If he'd thought his physical desire for Qui-Gon had been strong before, now it was doubled, trebled, until he was gasping for air under the weight of it. He broke the frantic kiss and stood, tugging Qui-Gon up with him.

They struggled out of clothing with shaking hands, fumbling with buckles and kissing intermittently until no stitch remained and Obi-Wan was grasping Qui-Gon's wrist, dragging him to the bedroom. He pulled Qui-Gon to him, connecting solidly with his chest, his deft hands swarming over the long body.

He stared at the naked chest before him, the dark, curling hair and soft, firm skin underneath it, at the juncture of shoulder and neck, then up into Qui-Gon's eyes.

"You're here," he said, his voice thick with shock and wonder. "And we're--" He looked away, trying to register it. /We're here, we're together, don't feel./ The cold whisper shook him.

Qui-Gon took one of his hands and kissed it, then pressed it to his heart. Obi-Wan felt the strong, racing beat of it and shivered.

But Qui-Gon had seen the distant look in Obi-Wan's eyes and said quietly, "You just got here, Obi-Wan. Don't go away now."

Obi-Wan looked up helplessly, then pressed his cheek to Qui-Gon's chest.

Qui-Gon wrapped his arms around the slim body, understanding. "We let it go too long, Obi-Wan. We are both idiots. But we have a chance now."

Pulling back, Obi-Wan studied the master, then pulled him down, kissing him hotly. He wanted to believe. He needed to. He had an overwhelming sense of finality about being with Qui-Gon, as though this would turn out to be his last chance to be happy, beginning now.

/It is your chance,/ he told himself. /Take it. Feel./

He did, threading his love and lust into the kiss persistently until the doubt was pushed aside for need. Qui-Gon felt warm and solid, real in a way no one else ever had, and Obi-Wan decided that yes, it was time to feel.

He immersed himself in the heat of Qui-Gon's body, in the scent rolling off of him, in the sound of his breathing, increasingly harsh as Obi-Wan's hands and mouth traveled over his skin. Qui-Gon Jinn was here, in Obi-Wan's bedroom, in his arms, and buried in his senses, and it was staggering.

Briefly, he pulled away to retrieve a small bottle of oil from a dresser drawer. Qui-Gon shuddered and pulled Obi-Wan to the bed. The young knight knelt over the lean thighs, leaning forward to press himself down on Qui-Gon's body and kiss him.

Qui-Gon arched up, groaning, grinding his cock into Obi-Wan's. His hips moved rhythmically and Obi-Wan responded, rocking downward. He broke the kiss and rose, just enough to uncap the bottle and splash some of its contents into one hand. Then he settled himself between his master's thighs and pressed his fingertips against his opening, using his other hand to lightly stroke the taut erection in front of him.

Qui-Gon gasped and arched, pressing toward the hand that was entering him. "Yes," he hissed, pumping his hips, and Obi-Wan thought he had never seen anything so decadent and wanton. His stoic, reserved master in the throes of need was the most gorgeous thing he'd ever seen. He pressed further inside, then withdrew, adding more oil to his hand before setting the bottle aside and pushing inside again. He stroked deeply until Qui-Gon was moaning and writhing, whispering his lover's name. Obi-Wan found the sensitive, small place buried in the body beneath him and raked his fingertips over it. The sound of Qui-Gon's sudden cry thrilled him, so he did it again, and again, enjoying the thrust of hips and loud, rasping sounds his master was making.

"Please," Qui-Gon gasped out, clutching Obi-Wan's wrist. The fire in his eyes was undeniable, and Obi-Wan withdrew his hand and moved over his lover's body.

"I love you," Obi-Wan whispered, pushing into Qui-Gon gently, carefully. There was so much more to say, so much emotion, but all he could manage was a choked, "Oh." He tensed with the hot tightness he was barely inside, then bit his lip and released a shaking breath. Qui-Gon wrapped his arms around his lover, plunging his tongue into Obi-Wan's mouth and kissing him desperately. Obi-Wan tried to go slowly, tried to gently breach the resistance he was encountering, but it was too good, unbelievably good, and every sense was heightened by his long-standing desire.

Suddenly Qui-Gon grasped Obi-Wan's hips and pulled, jerking him forward, sheathing him all at once. Obi-Wan shouted through gritted teeth, clenching the bedclothes in his fists, staring down raptly as he struggled for control.

Qui-Gon exhaled. "Please... move..." he begged, so Obi-Wan did, slowly at first, then increasing in speed, stunned at the heat, the wet slickness, the intensity. He kissed Qui-Gon's chest, his mouth sliding over the hot skin with the force of his thrusts, and his braid dragged over the same skin, drifting back and forth, tickling. Qui-Gon ground himself upward into Obi-Wan's stomach, liquid heat rushing through him.

"Obi--" he panted, and his fingers tightened painfully on Obi-Wan's skin as he came, lifting them off the bed with the force of it, semen spilling on them from the cock pinned between their stomachs, hot and wet. Obi-Wan thrust into him more deeply, electrified with the touch of Qui-Gon's impossible hardness pulsing against his skin. He tried to brace, to stave it off, but wanting to make the pleasure last wasn't enough. He joined Qui-Gon, thrusting into the tight, clenching heat under him, screaming as shock after shock of the terrible, overwhelming pleasure rocketed through them both.

He fell into Qui-Gon's arms, heedless of the mess, gulping air, falling and rising with his master's heavy breaths. His hand stroked Qui-Gon's chest, then buried itself in his hair. He inhaled the scent of his master's skin, and for a moment was afraid it was a dream, that he would wake up on a transport bound for some outer system, sticky with his own release and alone. He lifted his head and stared into those sea-blue eyes.

Qui-Gon stared back, eyes shining darkly in the dimness of the room. He stroked the soft russet hair back from Obi-Wan's face, pulling loose strands out of the light beard. "What is it?"

The enormity of his actions crashed in on him: how many times had this man, this man he'd loved for so long, seen him with other people? "I never meant to hurt you," he choked out.

His heart tight at the admission, Qui-Gon pulled Obi-Wan down again, kissing him tenderly. "Nor did I," he said, pulling back, his voice harsh around the ache in his throat. "But I am here, and so are you. That's enough, isn't it?"

Obi-Wan sighed. Was it? The last remnant of the hurt was in his throat as he said, "If this isn't-- if it's not going to work, then--" He swallowed hard, suddenly afraid and needy. "I need to know now. So I can leave. I won't stay if I can't have you."

Qui-Gon furrowed his brow, stunned at the simplicity of the confession. Of course it was that simple. There wasn't any halfway point; they were bound. It could be severed again, but after all this time, he knew that the bond wouldn't have formed unless it was meant to.

In response, he pulled Obi-Wan down to him, kissing him gently, warmly, tracing his tongue over the soft lips. "Stay," he whispered against his lover's mouth. "You have me."

Obi-Wan let out a small whimper and sank himself in the kiss.

The doorchime woke them before first light. Qui-Gon rose quickly; they both knew who was at the door. He cast about for his clothes, slowly realizing that they were all scattered on the common room floor. He rushed out to get them, calling toward the front entrance, "A minute, Anakin."

He grinned at his former padawan as he returned, tugging clothes on.

Obi-Wan smiled sleepily at the sight of his stoic old master jerking into his tunics like a padawan caught running late. "I wonder-- I hope he likes me better than he did yesterday," he said, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. He rubbed his eyes and stood. "Not that I blame him."

"Obi-Wan, Anakin has always loved you. He misses you when you're gone. He talks about you still."

Obi-Wan sighed and closed his eyes. How much pain could have been spared by a simple setting aside of pride?

Qui-Gon went to him and tugged him into a deep kiss, wrapping the braid around his hand and using it as a handle to keep Obi-Wan close when he would have pulled back. Obi-Wan finally smiled at the reference to his padawanship and tilted his head toward the door. "Go tug his braid. This isn't a leash, Master."

Qui-Gon's smile grew fond. "Obi-Wan, I don't tug on his braid."

The tenderness in the statement and the implication of it made Obi-Wan's eyes sting. He put his forehead on Qui-Gon's chest and they held each other until the door chimed again.

Qui-Gon made a low rumbling noise and acquiesced. He stroked the braid one more time and said, "I need time to talk to him. Meet us for breakfast?"

Obi-Wan nodded and stayed where he was until Qui-Gon had left, looking through the bedroom door longingly. Then he sighed and looked back at his rumpled bed, feeling Qui-Gon's residual energy there as he sat on its edge. He stroked the sheets briefly, settling into the memories of the previous night. So much time had been wasted. Before he could allow himself regret, he mentally recreated his first kiss with his master, burning up the brief sorrow in a flash of desire. He had a future now, something more than episodic mission imperatives and trysts. He ran his hand through his hair and for the first time in two years, Obi-Wan Kenobi smiled contentedly.

Anakin's eyes glinted. He fairly radiated mischief, but Obi-Wan would not be embarrassed by it. He met the gaze of the young padawan smilingly, nodding a greeting as they moved through the halls to the dining area.

They walked silently, two generations of padawan with the master they shared, a comfort among the three of them that belied words. Obi-Wan had exchanged nothing with Anakin since the curt comm call save that one amused nod, but it didn't seem to matter, at least not yet. There was a calm about the boy, a relaxed serenity that told Obi-Wan he was accepted. In fact, it seemed as though Anakin had been waiting for this.

As they settled to a table with their meals, Obi-Wan glanced around, noticing with mild humor the not-too-subtle whispers and glances around them. Apparently the news had already made the rounds, or was doing so now. He felt a twinge of guilt at the very nature of his reputation, and wondered how it would impact Qui-Gon and Anakin. Then he released it: people would think what they would. He could only change it by presenting the truth.

He knew Qui-Gon had informed Anakin of the dramatic shift in their relationship, but now there were other concerns to be dealt with. It bothered him to consider it, but it was entirely possible that Anakin might not want two masters. Without Anakin's acceptance, it was unlikely they would manage to make this work, but it would certainly never do for Anakin to think that he was too much of a burden for one master to handle alone. Obi-Wan knew they walked a delicate balance.

He took a sip of tea and addressed Anakin, wanting to get the unspoken things out of the way before they festered. He'd had enough of that for two or three lifetimes.

"I feel I must ask your forgiveness, Ani," he said quietly, reverting to the old nickname without thinking. "Qui-Gon and I have embarked on this relationship without speaking of it to you, though I do want to explain that it was not without considering you."

Anakin stirred his hot cereal and looked at Qui-Gon, saying nothing, smiling faintly.

"At any rate," Obi-Wan went on, "I should like to help with your training. I know you've made great strides, and I think that it might take two of us to keep you challenged." He quirked a smile as he felt a wash of pride from his former master at his care. Obi-Wan took a breath and waited for Anakin's response.

Anakin looked at his master again, then at Obi-Wan. "So you're going to bond?" he asked bluntly.

Obi-Wan didn't so much as blink; he'd been expecting this, though he thought Qui-Gon would have covered it already. Anakin was old enough to know these things, and if they were to work together, the three of them, they all had to be perfectly clear. "All we lack is ceremony." He glanced at Qui-Gon and saw warmth and confirmation in his eyes.

Anakin took a bite of oatmeal and chewed thoughtfully. Obi-Wan was struck again by how large the boy had grown, and yet he still radiated the quiet acceptance of a child. Perhaps that was where the difficulty lay: he was impressionable. It would take narrow channels to keep him steady, and a knight on each side.

"You realize, Masters," Anakin said quietly, "neither of you have told me anything I didn't already know."

Qui-Gon studied his apprentice silently, saying nothing. Obi-Wan sipped his tea. "Really," he asked almost idly, not too surprised. This was, after all, the Chosen One. Inwardly he was pleased that the bitterness seemed to be gone: burned, perhaps, with the regret that went up in the kiss.

Anakin nodded. "I've been waiting for it. I wasn't going to get anywhere unless the two of you bonded." At their surprised expressions, he explained, "There was too much hurt there. After a while, I would have requested another master." He looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, but it was a lot of pain to be around." He looked at his master apologetically.

Obi-Wan wished that they were anywhere but the dining hall just then. "Anakin--" he sighed and leaned forward, but Anakin waved his hand.

"Master, don't. Everything's fine now." He dunked his spoon in his cereal and gave Obi-Wan a pointed look.

Obi-Wan blinked and settled back. He felt briefly along the new link he and Qui-Gon had forged and could hear echoes of the padawan bond within it. It felt, indeed, as though something had snapped into place, something that had been unseated until Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had come together.

/Was that it, then?/ he wondered a little incredulously, testing the new avenue that linked him by default to the boy. Yes: Anakin's pain had been empathic residue, left over from two mulish men who would not acquiesce. Now-- Qui-Gon looked at him, surprised-- now, Ani wasn't even shielding anymore.

Anakin looked back and forth at them, smiled, and then said to Obi-Wan, "Don't hurt my master anymore."

Eyes wide, a bit embarrassed, Obi-Wan said, "No-- of course not."

Then Anakin turned to Qui-Gon and told him, "And quit hurting him, too, right?"

Qui-Gon agreed, chagrined.

Anakin nodded resolutely at them, then tucked into his breakfast.

Obi-Wan considered a moment, looking into his teacup. "You're pretty wise, Anakin," he finally said.

Qui-Gon nodded his agreement, biting into a piece of bread to hide a great, proud grin.

Anakin shrugged. "I don't know about that," he said casually, but both the knight and the master could feel him preening under the praise. He took another bite, then smiled broadly.

"It doesn't take a genius to ask Master Yoda to put off two sets of missions for a week."

End.