Master Apprentice 
Archive
Theme and Timbre - Gemendo
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Characters-Rating: Q/O - R
Category: Romance, Angst, PWP
Summary: Variations on an expressive sound.
Spoilers: No
Series: Theme and Timbre Series
Ambiance: Nielsen - Symphony #5
Archive: M_A, RavenD's page - anybody else just ask.
Feedback: Yes please! It keeps my plot bunnies fat & happy.
Disclaimer: The boyz belong to George, the poem to me.
Notes & Acknowledgements: Thank you to RavenD for giving this a once-over and letting me play in her & Mac's sandbox. Thank you to Mark for friendship & reality-checks, Layna for enthusiasm and encouragement, and the San Francisco Symphony for aural inspiration.
Gemendo: moaning, moaningly.
The wind moaned among the spires of rock, through the stubs
of ancient, brittle trees, over the curves and hollows of
tumbled boulders, the humped, damp houses. The streams and
puddles were ruffled by the swift air, heavy drops splashed
from every edge and branch. The sky was a high and distant
lavender for the first time in days. Small, cold puffs of
cloud scudded across it. Another storm system could be sensed
building over the horizon.
First rain, now wind, thought Qui-Gon as he watched the
short, tough grass bend and writhe in the wake of invisible,
airy fingers. He was grateful to finally be indoors, the
moaning wind shut out, on the way to being warm and clean and
eventually dry. Only to get soaked and muddy again
tomorrow.
Why did people persist in building in flood plains? Because
the land was fertile, and most of the year the climate more
moderate than in the hills and highlands. An old, old
tradeoff.
His sodden cloak dragged at shoulders that ached from hours
of working to hold the weight of water and earth by will and
muscle, force and Force. Sodden, mud-caked boots dragged at
his feet. He should get out of his wet things, clean his
boots before the leather was stained permanently
purple-green. His stomach rumbled. There had been no time for
food since daybreak. He should turn up the heat under the
ever-present crock of chashgorm, so it would be hot and
reasonably edible by the time Obi-Wan returned from his
labors.
The Master made himself move. Heard himself moan as he let
the heavy cloth slip from his shoulders and then had to turn
quickly to catch it before it made a sticky, wet heap on the
floor he would be forced to bend over to pick up. Stiffened,
chilled muscles protested the movement. He had stood still
too long. He hung the cloak on a peg by the door, promising
to attend to it later, when it would be dry enough to cope
with.
He sat to remove the boots, made himself put down the catch-
cloth and wipe off the worst of the clinging muck, and then
leave the abused footwear to dry by the vent. Without thought
he left room for his Padawan's boots beside his own.
Consciously he flexed and stretched his cold, cramped toes,
peeling off two layers of clammy socks. At least the floor
was warm. These people understood hypocausts, even if they
didn't understand levees and flood control.
Heat up under the food crock. Water on to fill the bath. The
small jet of flame made a comforting hiss, the water in the
pipes gurgled and moaned. Steam began to rise and curl upward
from the big tub in the corner behind the screen. The deep
splash of bath water drowned the cold sound of the wind still
pushing at the expanse of window, the edge of the door.
He tackled his hair while waiting for the tub to fill. He
wished Obi-Wan were there to comb it for him - a task they
both enjoyed - but it would be foolish to wait. The wet
strands snarled around his fingers and knotted in the comb,
but he did not allow the annoyance to ruffle his patience in
this. Patience and care would see it all smooth. He used the
task as a small meditation to release the tangles in his
feelings about the frustrations and exhaustion of this
mission. Patience and long practice would work everything
out.
Qui-Gon sighed as he sank into the deliciously hot water,
chilled flesh tingling with quickening circulation. He
stretched and twisted to work the kinks out of his spine,
making little noises of discomfort and then relief as the
aches and tightness eased. Then he submerged completely,
letting the water seep all the way through his thick hair,
letting the heat soothe his scalp. Tension floated away with
the steam.
Under the water he did not hear the door open, the brief
crescendo of air and water complaining outside before Obi-Wan
could shut it out. Busy with soap and sponge and hair he did
not see his damp and wind-blown apprentice, eyes as
changeable as weather, brighten at the sound of soap and
sponge and scrubbing. Did not hear him breathe deeply at the
sight of the wet planes of his Master's back, the wet strands
of hair framing his Master's profile, the high forehead and
distinctive nose, the startling beauty of wet lashes against
wind-roughened cheeks. Ducking again to rinse away soap and
mud and strain he was not aware of Obi-Wan swiftly ridding
himself of his own sodden garb in gleeful silence.
Qui-Gon surfaced from the soapy depths to find sky-coloured
eyes smiling at him, and a well-grown, well-made, well-loved
and well and truly interested form stepping into the bath to
join him. Ah, the energy of youth. Age did not prevent him
from heating in response. He opened his hands and heart as he
had opened his eyes, drinking in the bright presence even as
he was drunk in likewise. His Padawan was back, at his back,
as he had wanted.
"Obi-Wan." He moaned softly as necks bent and their lips met,
as their bodies met and fit together in the hot silk of
chuckling water.
"Qui-Gon." His apprentice chuckled.
A hand slipped between his legs, clever fingers caressing
him, teasing him hard. An answering hardness sought its
accustomed place between his cheeks, quick and eager. Tongues
twined as lips and hands worshipped.
He moaned again as their mouths parted, but bodies did not.
Obi-Wan was smiling at him, fire and love glinting in his
eyes, sparkling between them. He found himself giving voice,
husky and low:
"O let winds moan and wuther where they will,
Let rain and weather dash against the hill,
Let waters rage, the streams and rivers fill,
Let cloud and tempest smite the land with chill,
For we abide, together, safe within;
These well-wrought walls are strong, no blustering din
May pierce our close content, & no wet wind
Drown this warm hearth, nor our twined hearts unspin.
Such shall not make us moan, or ever
still
The breath that binds the loved soul to its
twin."
Obi-Wan's eyes were laughing, but his voice held only love
and desire. "My poet-Master. The wind may have inspired you
to words, but you inspire me to action." Skin slid against
skin, finding sensitive places. "And I would rather hear you
moan than it."
Teeth were gently nipping at his ear, fingertips running up
and down that spot at his nape. He had to catch his breath as
the wet brush of his Padawan's braid dragged across his
chest, peaking a nipple, kissing his breastbone.
"I would like to make you moan. I would like to make you moan
louder than that wind." More touches. More movement. More
soft, desired noises. "Would you like that?"
All thought of wind and weather was forgotten in the fire and
delight of what Obi-Wan was doing, of what they were making
together. His answer was more moan than words "Yes, oh
yes."
His Obi-Wan's eyes crinkled as his grin broadened and both
love and desire burned between them. "Then I shall."
And he did.