Summary: Some pain is all the worse for being shared.
Category: Shades of Obi-Wan/Anakin and Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan.
Rating: PG13 for slight sexual content.
Distribution: If you want it, ask and I'll say yes. Also at
"http://members.spree.com/sip/northlight12/"
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns all.
Date: July 20 - Aug. 3, 2000
Note: This is my very first Star Wars fic -- please excuse any
errors. I'm a remote kind of fan, the extent of my Star Wars
knowledge is gained from the films, and I make no claim as to
being as well versed as some even in that.
Note 2: I really must apologize for this fic. It didn't turn
out at all as I wanted it to. Usually, my stories are born from
an image or piece of dialogue or description. This fic came
about due to a feeling - not at all easy to capture with words.
I suppose I should be happy that I managed to get this done at
all. None of my other fics have been cooperating with me at all
for the past two months :(
Sorrow tasted of ashes. The feel of ashes against his face,
smoke and fire calling tears to his eyes, remained imprinted on
his mind even when Qui-Gon Jinn's image faded and distorted
with the passage of the years. His emotions learned to express
themselves through manifestations of death. Fear was the
searing agony of a 'saber burning through his flesh, hungrily
sinking towards the center of his body. Anger was tension in
his hands, the vibration of the hilt of a lightsaber against
his palms as the lighted blade struck through the sith. Despair
found light flickering against his eyes, the snarling flames of
a pyre feasting on flesh and hair and bone.
Anakin knew that Obi-Wan had not wanted to take him as his
padawan. But that truth had faded to unimportance beneath the
weight of a greater truth. Need was the feel of Obi-Wan's hand,
dry and shaking, wrapping tightly around his own. The bond that
hummed between them was an ever present testimony of the older
Jedi's dependence upon him.
The Council had not approved. It had been far too late for
their words to make impact upon the two left behind, drowning
in the sorrow of Qui-Gon's death. It had taken Anakin years to
discover why his master's mind screamed like a raw wound.
Obi-Wan had held onto Qui-Gon, refusing to let go both in mind
and body as the Jedi's life bled away into the Force. The
severed bond still writhed in Obi-Wan's mind, spitting agony
across his nerves every time its other end was sought and lost.
And Anakin had been there.
He had been as frightened and lost as was Obi-Wan. Slave no
more, but so too had his mother, his friends and his home been
lost to the unexpected swell of freedom. He had flung himself
into the nascent training bond, had drawn upon Obi-Wan for
himself. Mind in mind into something deep and painful and
solid. Anakin hadn't been alone since that moment.
They ate each other alive, unable to let go.
Anakin knew he was strong. Was that not why the Council had
sought to deny him his dream? Force whispered into his soul,
promised the fulfillment of the aching need that had become his
own. In his quarters, blankets tossed to the edge of the bed,
loose sleeping pants eased down around slight ankles, images
exploded beneath closed eyelids. Hand jerking against hardened
flesh, he envisioned Obi-Wan. Strokes in unison, until Qui-Gon
rose between them, the Jedi's name roaring through Anakin's
mind upon his master's voice.
He slid back into himself, unseen, as Obi-Wan wept his loss
into his pillow.
They had told him all about maturing, in their sympathetic,
understanding voices. Normal, natural, muted voices slid past
young ears. Not to be denied, but not to be controlled by
desire. He'd known of desire, of lust. The scent of fresh sex,
sounds of flesh against flesh clung in his memory.
His master had spoken to him, thigh to thigh on the couch,
discomfort drowned beneath the serenity in his voice. Anakin
had lay his head in the curve of his master's neck and
shoulder, drawing in the scent of him. His vision split in two,
his mater at his side; Qui-Gon across from him, the memory
spurring forth Obi-Wan's own words. Sight fractured again,
present and past joined by the memory of a fantasy. Obi-Wan,
his, _their_ hands reaching out across the distance between
them, cupping Qui-Gon's face. Beard soft against their open
palms, a shock of surprise and acceptance as they leaned
forward, lips meeting lips.
Somewhere deep inside of him, Obi-Wan made love to Qui-Gon as
Anakin sat at his side, listening to descriptions of intimacy
that his master would never think to apply to him.
Sometimes, Anakin suspected that he hated Qui-Gon Jinn.
How his teachers would shudder and bemoan upon hearing of such
sentiment. It warmed him when he could not bear to feel his
mater fall away from him, memory and fantasy weaving around
Qui-Gon.
His yearmates found their way into each others beds as he
waited. Body and soul shuddered back at the thought of hands,
mouth, mind not his master's laying upon him.
The mattress shifted beneath his weight. Shaking hands
steadied by force of will, arching out across smooth, bare
flesh rising from beneath the sheets. "Master," his voice
thready with need.
"Anakin?" Comfort. Concern. Confusion held between them as a
shield.
Need. Loss. Love. _Qui-Gon_. Anakin's hands found his master's
face, palms open against his cheeks. He found his lips in the
darkness. Mental fingers stretched out, soothing across the
ragged ends of the torn bond writhing in Obi-Wan's mind. And he
_shifted_.
"Master?"
Hot, eager breath flowed against flushed skin. "Obi-Wan," he
smiled.
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