Lost in Translation
by Helen
"Six down, eight to go," Obi—Wan said and fell heavily onto the couch.
"They're banquets," Qui—Gon said mildly, "so perhaps it's unnecessary to act as though someone's attempting to separate your fingernails from your body." But he sat down with relief as well, leaning his head against the back of the chair.
"It wouldn't be so bad, if someone," Obi—Wan said pointedly, "hadn't managed to convince the chancellor of my deep and abiding love for stewed ocalla."
"No more than you richly deserve, Obi—Wan, for informing the chancellor that my favorite color is lavender."
"I didn't inform him. I merely agreed when he asked me whether I thought that lavender robes would be appropriate for such a momentous occasion as the coming together of the people of Tratheum."
"Yet, I notice that your robes are quite a lot more brown than mine."
"Not nearly so diaphanous either." Obi—Wan grinned as the light breeze through their chambers sent the bifurcated outer layers of Qui—Gon's robe into a small frenzy.
"Well. A Jedi cares not for his appearance."
"That's exactly what I told Master Windu when he asked why you were tricked out like a Ovadi specialty dancer."
"I wasn't aware your relationship with Master Windu had reached a level at which you felt comfortable exchanging holos," Qui—Gon said stiffly.
"It's hasn't; the holos were in the official report."
"You were such a quiet obedient child," Qui—Gon said. "I can't even begin to imagine what went wrong."
"Exposed to bad influences, I expect," Obi—Wan said cheerfully.
Stewed ocalla and gaudy robes aside, they were both in good moods; the negotiations to unite the upper and lower continents of Tratheum were going well, offset by huge banquets and a lot of the two sides beaming at each other. It had been a good harvest, the first in which the two factions had cooperated, and no one would go hungry this year. Qui—Gon and Obi—Wan were as a gesture of good faith on the part of the Republic, but hadn't, so far, had to do very much beyond appear at banquets and look approvingly at dignitaries of various sorts.
Two days later, a series of terrorist attacks along the shore of the southern continent tore the negotiations apart, and Obi—Wan arrived back at their quarters to find Qui—Gon, wearing his usual robes, packing a small bag.
"I'll get my things," he said.
"No need, you're staying here."
"But—"
"One of us needs to stay here to keep the negotiations going; you'll do well." Qui—Gon checked the grip on his lightsaber and hooked it to his belt. "It shouldn't take more than a few days to ferret out the perpetrators. I'll try to check in once a day at least, in case you're having any problems."
"Yes, Master."
"Weren't you just complaining that you never got a word in edgewise at diplomatic summits?"
"I didn't mean you were supposed to go charging off alone."
"Someone has to go charging off alone, and the southern continent is quite marshy."
"Oh," Obi—Wan said. He'd nearly flunked the marsh tracking portion of the upper level survival course. In deserts, the force came to him easily, but marshes, all that sickly soft mud, all those insects and rats and amphibians, each with their peculiar twitches of the force, tended to confuse him.
"I'll be back in a week," Qui—Gon said, clasped his shoulder, and walked out the door.
The talks were nothing he couldn't handle, although they weren't as congenial as they had been. He raised his voice when he had to and found that forcing people to compromise wasn't quite the magic trick it seemed when Qui—Gon did it, luckily, as it turned out, since the com—links from the southern continent were spotty, crackling with static. They couldn't manage to relay any useful information, but he was glad of them anyway, glad to know that Qui—Gon's search was progressing. Then, for four days, there was nothing.
"Deep in the swamp, you can't get any tech to work, Ambassador Kenobi," the chancellor shrugged. "I wouldn't worry; even if Ambassador Jinn is alive, he wouldn't be able to contact us."
"I thank you for your words of assurance, Chancellor," Obi—Wan said taking a careful breath and letting it out slowly. "If you will excuse me, I have some proposals to go over."
"Of course."
On the fifth day, the leaders of the terrorist attacks were apprehended by the Tratheum south army. There was no sign of Qui—Gon.
On the sixth day, the chancellor knocked on the door of Obi—Wan's quarters. Obi—Wan let him in and he fidgeted nervously in the doorway for a moment before, saying
"Ambassador Kenobi."
"Tell me," Obi—Wan said. He could feel the dull thud of his pulse in his throat and when he closed the door behind the chancellor, his hand shook slightly on the doorknob.
"Oh. He's not dead."
"Oh," Obi—Wan said faintly.
"Yes, he's really quite well. He ran into a nest of those terrorists and managed to get a superficial blow to the head, but that's all."
"I see."
"Quite."
"Thank you for telling me," Obi—Wan said, surprised to find he could breath again.
"He'll be back tomorrow."
"Just in time for the conclusion of the talks—he should be able to make the closing remarks, if you'd like."
"There's just one thing," the chancellor said quickly.
"Yes."
"I want to emphasize, first of all, that he's really quite fine." The chancellor waved him onto the couch and took a seat opposite."You said that."
"There's just a little matter; are you familiar with the tribes that live in the southern swamps at all?"
Obi—Wan shook his head, "They're fairly traditional, tech—resistant."
"Yes, and they're quite skilled at mind conversion."
"I'm not familiar with that term."
"Technically speaking it's the superficial alteration of certain notions of identity and—"
"It's a mind wipe," Obi—Wan said tersely.
"Yes; they're usually used for therapeutic intervention, but—"
"What did they do to Qui—Gon?"
"It was a mistake."
"I'm well aware that it was a mistake."
"It's completely reversible."
"They took away some of his memories," Obi—Wan hazarded.
"Not quite."
"Chancellor," Obi—Wan said quietly. Across the room a vase fell off the mantel and bounced on the carpeted floor.
"The thing is," the chancellor said, putting out his hands conciliatorily, "Ambassador Jinn was somewhat disoriented when they found him. And apparently, the first time he woke up he said your name."
"Oh."
"So they assumed that he was you, and since you're the only Obi—Wan currently on Tratheum, it wasn't too difficult for them to figure out who you were."
"What did they do?"
"It was meant to be a gift, for Ambassador Jinn; it's only, you see they had quite an outdated Standard lexicon."
"I don't follow you."
"When Jedi began coming here, there was some initial confusion about the exact role of a Padawan. And it didn't really help that Padawan sounds a great deal like P'doaen."
"Which means?"
"It's dialect. And it means." The chancellor winced. "It means pleasure slave."
"What?" Obi—Wan yelped.
"Ambassador Jinn is under the impression that he's your. bed. slave."
"Why?"
"I told you, it was supposed to be a gift."
Obi—Wan shook his head and gave up. "You said it was reversible."
"Oh, it is."
"Where's the difficulty, then?"
"It's not reversible right away; it's too dangerous."
"How long?"
"10 standard days—easily by the time you return to Coruscant; it's a relatively simple procedure. It shouldn't be any trouble for your healers."
"Good."
"I have to say you're taking this quite well."
"Is there any other way that I can take it? Is he on a transport back here?"
"Yes."
"And I take it the situation has been explained to him."
"Of course not."
"Why not?"
"Ambassador Kenobi, how much to do you know about mind conversion technology?"
"Apparently not enough," Obi—Wan said, leaning back against the couch and trying to look calm.
"The first few days, the recipient is unstable; if he starts to doubt the implanted supposition, it can cause cascading disintegration."
"He could die."
"Not die, exactly. It only interferes with higher brain function."
"So what exactly am I supposed to do?"
"Take him back to Coruscant, keep him happy. I know Jedi aren't in the habit of keeping pleasure slaves, but I'm certain you'll work it out."
"When did you say he would arrive?"
"Tonight."
"Good. We'll leave tomorrow."
"As you wish."
After the chancellor left, he put the vase back on the mantel, resisted the urge to hit something and to give in to hysterical laughter and then sat down to try to memorize his closing remarks. He fell asleep on the couch, notes on his stomach; he hadn't slept very much since Qui—Gon had been missing. He only awoke when the door to his chambers was opened.
"Oh, I'm sorry—I thought you weren't here. I just came by to drop off—." he stopped abruptly and then said something, too softly for Obi—Wan to hear, to the man who was hovering behind him, who stepped around him and came swiftly across the room. It was Qui—Gon. Obi—Wan started to rise to greet him, but before he could, Qui Gon had slid down into a kneeling position and buried his face in Obi Wan's thigh.
"Well, then, there," the Chancellor said, clearing his throat. "I shall see you at the ceremony tonight, Ambassador Kenobi."
"Kneeling isn't necessary, you know," he said, trying to strike a decent balance between kindly slave owner and a Padawan who wanted to remain alive after things were set to rights. Qui—Gon lifted his face then, settled back on his haunches and nodded.
"Would you like something to eat? Are you hungry?" Obi—Wan asked.
"A little."
"Good." Obi—Wan got up with some relief and went and found some bread and cheese left over from breakfast. Qui—Gon was still kneeling when he got back.
"Thank you, Master," he murmured, and Obi—Wan winced and said.
"Perhaps it would be better if you called me Obi—Wan." Qui—Gon looked doubtful. "You always call me that," Obi—Wan elaborated. "We have, uh, a close relationship, and so, you see."
"I understand."
It was all very well, Obi—Wan thought, to have a pleasure slave in theory. It wasn't, in fact, as though he hadn't fantasized about having one in the past. It was quite another altogether to have your master happily sprawled at your feet, watching you read. Qui—Gon hadn't said much in the hour since he'd been here, had only eaten slowly and neatly, watching Obi—Wan avidly the entire time. It was unnerving. He got up and shrugged on his ceremonial robes and said
"I'm going to the closing ceremony; will you be all right here? Is there anything you need?"
Qui—Gon looked as if he almost didn't understand the question, but then he smiled and shook his head. "I will await your pleasure," he said, and stopped short, visibly avoiding saying 'Master.'
"My. um. Good evening," Obi—Wan said, and left.
The ceremony went well enough. Most of the company was quite drunk by the time it was his turn to talk, so he omitted several paragraphs in the middle about peace and brotherhood and galloped on to the end bit about partnership between worlds and the gift of the future. After his speech there were only various ceremonial items and some rather piercing children's choirs. Before Obi—Wan could make his escape, the chancellor sidled over and plunked himself in the next chair.
"I've taken the liberty of arranging a flight to Coruscant for you."
"That wasn't necessary," Obi—Wan said politely.
"I realize that, but I wish to make an apology for your difficulties here, and also to make the flight as easy as possible for you and your master."
"In that case, I thank you."
The chancellor nodded along to the music for a few minutes and Obi—Wan began to think the conversation was over, but then the chancellor said, abruptly,
"You should watch for headaches; it's dangerous to allow him to begin to question the situation he finds himself in, especially at first."
"I see."
"We are trying very hard to make this type of mind tampering illegal, but it's an uphill journey."
"I wish you every success," Obi—Wan said tiredly and looked around for the wine.
"Here, by the way, are your papers."
"My what?"
"Ownership; the blue is his copy."
"But I don't—don't you think this is a little excessive?"
"Perhaps. But the crew of the ship you're on don't, for obvious reasons, know that he's a Jedi knight, and there might be some instance in which you needed to prove you owned him."
"Yes."
"And some slaves find ownership papers comforting."
"You might consider, Chancellor, trying to make slavery illegal on Tratheum."
"Jedi Knights are both skilled fighters and skilled diplomats, but I've found they do have a strange streak of progressivism," the Chancellor laughed, and clapped him on the back.
It was late when he got back to his quarters; he would get only a few hours sleep before their transport left. Qui—Gon had left one light on in the outer room, and he flipped it off absently as he walked toward his bedroom, already slipping open the ties on shirt. The door was slightly ajar, and as he opened it further, he saw that the candles in special niches in the room that he had never bothered with had been lit and were half burnt down, casting gentle shadows across the bed, where Qui—Gon was sleeping, breathing softly, hair down, and completely naked. The candles smelled faintly of fresh hay and plums and the flickering light they cast made Qui—Gon's skin look like, look like—
All right, that's quite enough, Obi—Wan told himself. He stuck his arms into the light and looked at them; they looked, of course, creamy and smooth, muscles falling into sharp relief. He shrugged his shirt back on and went to sleep in the other room, where his arms looked as they always did.
Walking through the hallways to the transport the next morning, he could almost imagine that there was nothing the matter. Rising early had always made both of them surly, and it wasn't unusual for them to carry out their last minute preparations in silence. Qui—Gon walked slightly behind him, moving silently on the stone floors. They were early; supplies were still being loaded into the hold. A small man came out of an office behind them and, consulting a datapad in his hand, said,
"You're Kenobi, Obi—Wan and slave?"
"Yes," Obi—Wan said.
"That him?"
"Yes."
"Not bad." He nodded approvingly and leaned back against the wall. "Interested in selling?"
"No."
"You're sure? I could pay you quite a bit." He waved the datapad expansively, "Good home, and all that, of course."
"Isn't he a little old for you?"
"Isn't he a little old for you?"
"But I'm—. He's not for sale," Obi—Wan said firmly.
"All right. No need to get excited," the man said, and disappeared, miffed, into the office.
Obi—Wan risked a glance at Qui—Gon, who was looking at the ground, hands tucked into his sleeves. Before he could look away, Qui—Gon glanced up, and gave him a half—sly smile, quirking an eyebrow. It was Qui—Gon's smile, no different, and Obi—Wan returned it, suddenly amused at the consternation he'd felt. Qui—Gon was perfectly all right, and he certainly didn't seem to be particularly affected by the mind wipe—only a bit disoriented.
All this was short lived, because when they got to their cabin, Obi—Wan went to get a glass of water in the kitchen nook and returned to find Qui—Gon pulling his shirt over his head. His robe was already neatly folded beside him on the couch.
"What are you doing?"
"Taking off my clothes."
"Well, put them back on."
"Why?"
"Why? What Why?" Obi—Wan said, flustered. Qui—Gon turned placid eyes on him and said,
"The pleasure slave is required to maintain himself in a state of readiness for his master. A state of readiness includes, but is not confined to, nudity, appropriately anointed skin—."
"Yes, thank you," Obi—Wan said, holding up a restraining hand. "What, there are rules?"
"There's a handbook."
"A handbook," Obi—Wan repeated. Qui—Gon took off his pants. "Not a great deal of leeway on this is there?"
"No," Qui—Gon said.
"Put on your robe," Obi—Wan said, with as much authority as he could muster.
"Inappropriate."
"You wore it yesterday."
"That was the first day."
"That makes a difference?"
"Of course."
"I'm your, um, owner. And so, if I tell you to wear clothes, can't you just wear clothes?"
"I don't follow meaningless orders," Qui—Gon said, fixing him with a stern gaze.
"You don't," Obi—Wan said.
"No," Qui—Gon said, and settled himself comfortably on the couch, arching his back in a stretch and then running one finger across his left nipple.
"I have some things to attend to," Obi—Wan said and all but fell out the door.
He leaned against the wall in the hallway outside his room and mumbled as much as he could remember of the meditation on unexpected events, which wasn't very much since he couldn't stop thinking about Qui—Gon, or, rather, Qui—Gon's body and how it had looked arranged against the couch.
He should have known, really; they had studied mind wipe technology in ethics and the reason that it had been abandoned by all but a few cultures several hundred years ago was that it barely worked. It was possible to alter perception, but not basic nature, which explained the reason that Obi—Wan, instead of having a intractable, insubordinate Master, now had an intractable, insubordinate pleasure slave. That 'meaningless orders' comment was only the beginning of a diatribe he had heard Qui—Gon direct at the council under six weeks ago. He took a deep breath and went back inside.
"Let's compromise," he said. "You wear your sleep clothes."
Qui—Gon looked skeptical.
"It'll be just like you're about to go to bed all the time," Obi—Wan said persuasively.
"All right," Qui—Gon said grudgingly.
"Good."
Qui Gon only wore the shirt for the first few hours, but since he seemed to be managing to keep the sleep pants more or less on, Obi—Wan said nothing. Tratheum was a warm planet, so they were, unfortunately, the thin summer weight pants issued by the temple, and Qui—Gon's were worn and soft, threads gone pale at the knees and crotch. Obi—Wan knew this because Qui—Gon was fairly insistent on curling up with him on the couch. At first, he tried moving, but the minute he began to concentrate on anything again, Qui—Gon would be back, half in his lap, or pressed up against his back, sighing comfortably into his shoulder, and finally he just gave up and let Qui—Gon stay while he worked. It was really nothing they hadn't done before, on cramped transports, or the time he'd caught a blaster shot in the chest and lost quite a lot of blood and had repeatedly passed out in Qui—Gon's arms. The ship wasn't very well heated, either. And Qui—Gon's hair was very soft.
There was only one bed.
"Of course," Obi—Wan mumbled to himself, standing in the doorway.
"Are we going to bed?" Qui—Gon asked, standing so close that Obi—Wan could feel the heat from his body.
"I guess," he said weakly.
At that, Qui—Gon ambled off enthusiastically to the bathroom and he changed, bitterly regretting not replacing the buttons on his sleep shirt that had fallen off. He was already in bed when Qui—Gon came in, still wearing his sleep pants at least, and
"Did you do something to your skin?" Obi—Wan asked
"You don't like it?"
"It's shiny," Obi—Wan said, wondering if he was going to spend the rest of the trip saying idiotically obvious things. He raised his hand almost instinctively and before he could put it down, Qui—Gon was under it, sliding down to lie on the bed, Obi—Wan's hand skidding across his waist, and his skin wasn't shiny so much as glistening, warm. He snatched his hand back. Qui—Gon's eyebrows came together slightly, but he only said
"Good night," and curled in on himself, closing his eyes.
Obi—Wan extinguished the light next to the bed, lay in the dark and didn't allow himself to smell his hands.
He awoke to find Qui—Gon's mouth on his nipple, sucking softly, with a hand beneath the waistband of his pants, stroking firmly on his cock. The stars in this part of the galaxy didn't throw enough light for him to even see a shadow above him, and he grasped Qui—Gon's wrists and flipped him over onto his back entirely by touch.
"What are you doing," he said, realizing that his neck was wet, that there were delicate trails of moisture all across his torso, that his other nipple was hard and very wet and that Qui—Gon was naked. He could feel Qui—Gon's thigh against his knee.
"I was—" Qui—Gon stopped, gave an irritated sigh, "You were. In your sleep, you—"
"Yes, that's quite, that's enough," Obi—Wan said. He let go of Qui—Gon's wrists and reached over to flip on the light. "Put on your clothes, please."
"Are you sure you don't want me to—"
"Yes."
It was a reasonably enough hour to be awake, so he got up and went to make some tea. Qui—Gon followed some minutes later wearing his sleep pants and looking annoyed. Obi—Wan handed him a cup of tea and cleared his throat.
"Qui—Gon. In the future, please don't. erm. do anything while I'm asleep."
"All right."
"And you really shouldn't be sleeping in my bed; I don't see why—"
"It is the duty of a pleasure slave to share his master's bed in the event that—"
"Right, right, yes," Obi—Wan said, forestalling any further elaboration. "You can sleep there if you don't do anything else like that."
Qui—Gon's mouth tightened, but he nodded his agreement.
"Right."
"But now that you're awake, I could maybe—"
"No, you could not."
"You could punish me for incorrectly anticipating your wishes," he said, and Obi—Wan blinked at the faintly hopeful gleam in his eyes.
"No."
After that, he spent as much time as he decently could doing katas in the hold. If it had been heated, he would have worked on his official report down there as well. As it was, he did it in their rooms, usually with Qui—Gon sprawled across him. Qui—Gon, unfortunately, was increasingly insistent as days went by, and had somewhere picked up a habit of twisting himself nimbly, presenting his face for a kiss, at every opportunity. Obi—Wan hadn't kissed him yet, but he thought about it: thought about dragging Qui—Gon up from his lap and licking his lips, the curve of his neck, resting his hand in the hollow of his back, about how Qui—Gon's thighs would slide apart for him. Thought about how Qui—Gon would look at him when this was over.
"What's a synonym for appease?"
"Placate," Qui Gon muttered sleepily, rolling to his side, nudging his face into Obi—Wan's stomach.
"Doesn't work."
"Propitiate."
"Better."
Qui—Gon approached it as he would any other problem; Obi—Wan had seen that considering look before. He'd narrow his eyes and stare out at space, absently petting Obi—Wan's knee and then his face would clear and he'd do something startlingly provocative. This morning, he had touched himself through his pants and then licked his fingers, and Obi—Wan had pulled away, averting his eyes. Qui—Gon face fell and he got up and went into the bedroom, shoulders held stiffly back, and slid under the covers. Obi—Wan made himself leave before he apologized.
It was distracting, he reflected, wiping at his forehead with the back of his sleeve and starting the twenty—ninth part of the exercise. Qui Gon lying in his bed like some enormous—bed slave. There ought to have been something funny about it; he'd seen bed slaves before and they were nearly always slender, small, lush asses and lush tits, soft pink mouths and cheeks, and so it ought to have been funny: Qui Gon's scarred massive body curled on his bed, hard mouth, hard hips: but it wasn't.
And fine, yes, he had thought about it before, but only briefly, only in passing, and he hadn't ever really gotten beyond Qui—Gon pressing him up against a wall and kissing him; he hadn't thought about how it really might be, how Qui—Gon's body would feel pressed eagerly against him at night, how many times he told himself that a few kisses wouldn't make a difference. He knew that they would.
On the eighth day, Obi—Wan came back to their quarters after practicing in the hold and found Qui—Gon in the arms of a crew member. They were kissing, just inside the door, Qui—Gon pressed up against the wall, gasping eagerly; neither of them noticed him until he'd pulled them apart, and even then Qui—Gon looked startled.
"You wait here," he ordered, and hustled the crewman out the door. "Just what do you think you're doing," he said.
"I was dropping off some supplies for you," the man shrugged.
"And what does that have to do with, with kissing my—"
"You're obviously not using him."
"I don't see what that has to do with anything."
"It's practically mistreatment, a slave like that."
"Meaning?"
"He needs it; it's one thing that you can't get it up, but do you really need to make him unhappy, too?"
Obi—Wan clenched and unclenched his fists, then pinned the man against the wall and said, levelly, "If you touch him again, I'll kill you."
"I'm sorry," Qui—Gon said, almost immediately when he walked in the door. He was still flushed, and there was a mouth mark on his shoulder.
"Yeah," Obi—Wan said shortly, not looking at him. "Just don't do it again."
"I was only—"
"I know what you were doing."
"I can't imagine why it bothers you."
"Oh, you can't?" Obi—Wan said, snapping his head up and taking a step towards Qui—Gon.
"You don't want me, you won't fuck me, you barely touch me," Qui—Gon glared at him suspiciously "you don't really have the faintest idea what to do with a pleasure slave."
"Well, I suppose I didn't realize that pleasure slave meant you try to go down on everyone you meet," Obi—Wan sneered.
"I haven't gone down on anyone, thanks to—," he stopped, wincing and going pale.
"What's wrong?"
"My, um. My head hurts," Qui—Gon admitted.
"Sit down," Obi—Wan said and tried to steer him towards the sofa, but Qui—Gon shook him off.
"you just don't act very much like someone who owns a pleasure slave—and, look at you, you're so—"
"That's it," Obi—Wan said, and shoved him roughly down on the couch, following him down, knees on either side of Qui—Gon's thighs, and yanking his head up for a kiss. Qui—Gon struggled for a moment, but Obi—Wan had him by the hair and was forcing his mouth open, kissing him fiercely. Qui—Gon moaned beneath him, opened his mouth, brought tentative hands up to rest on Obi—Wan's hips and Obi—Wan kissed him until he was squirming, acquiescent, and then he stopped, ran a soothing palm along Qui—Gon's bare shoulder, and said
"You're my," licked his lips, hesitated, "mine. All right?"
Qui Gon nodded hastily.
"Any doubts?"
"No."
"How's your head?"
"better."
"Good. Why don't you go lie down," Obi—Wan said.
"Are you going to come—"
"Why don't you let me worry about that." Obi—Wan kissed him again, this time gently, and stood up. Qui—Gon looked at him a moment, and then stood and walked slowly into the bedroom. Obi—Wan fell back onto the couch and sighed. He scrubbed at his face with his palm, touched his lips, slid a hand down his torso to touch his cock. Then he got up and went to meditate until he knew Qui—Gon would be asleep.
Unfortunately, the next morning, bygones were bygones. He woke up on top of Qui—Gon, who had worked one hand under his sleep shirt, was stroking his waist gently.
"What are you doing," he asked, catching the hand.
"Nothing."
"Nothing."
"It's not as though I was touching any erogenous zones," Qui—Gon said patiently.
"Fine," Obi—Wan said and rolled off the bed, changing quickly, back to Qui—Gon, trying to conceal his erection.
"Would you like me to make breakfast?"
"You can do that?"
"A pleasure slave shall be well versed in the niceties of domestic duty, so as to provide a tranquil setting in which his master may better enjoy his talents." He took a breath, obviously ready to go on, and Obi—Wan said,
"Breakfast: why don't you go make breakfast?"
He wasn't entirely certain what to expect, since Qui—Gon was really more of a "here's a bag of oats, what do you mean all the milk's gone sour?" sort of person; Obi—Wan usually did the cooking, such as it was. He half expected Qui—Gon to present him with a ration bar cut into tasteful pieces and insist on feeding it to him, but Qui—Gon, in a half an hour, produced a group of risen sweet biscuits, fruit salad, tea and juice. Then he sat down and watched Obi—Wan eat.
"You can eat," Obi—Wan said. "These are really good," he added, waving a biscuit vaguely in Qui—Gon's direction. Qui—Gon took a biscuit and sat down on the couch next to Obi—Wan, tucking his feet neatly underneath him.
"Can I rub your feet?" he said, through a mouthful of biscuit.
"Let's not get carried away," Obi—Wan said, and Qui—Gon nodded, finished the biscuit, produced Obi—Wan's datapad from somewhere behind him and then slouched bonelessly down next to Obi—Wan, nuzzling into his side.
And the next day they were back on Coruscant, Qui—Gon sent off to the healers, Obi—Wan making their report to the council. It was routine, except for the last bit, in which he gritted his teeth, stared just to the left of Yaddle's shoulder and managed to say 'pleasure slave' only twice. There was a long silence when he was finished. Finally, Mace Windu said
"Very well, Padawan Kenobi."
"Is that all?" he said.
"Unless you have something further to add."
"No," he said, bowed, and went off to the infirmary, where he was firmly told that untangling an amateur mess like this one took time, and that yes, Qui—Gon would be fine, and that no, he couldn't stay. He went to dinner, although he didn't feel hungry.
"Heard you were in a compromising position with your Master," Bruck said, sitting down across from him. Obi—Wan poked studiously at his dinner and said,
"Who isn't, at some point?"
"True enough," Bruck shrugged.
"What'd you hear?"
"Nothing really; all very vague, Kenobi and Jinn up to their usual hijinks."
"What's that? We're never up to any hijinks."
"Who knows how these rumors get started? Cruzo was doing offload on that ship you came in on and he said one of the crew claimed you were hauling some hot pleasure slave around and that you threatened to cut off his hands if he came near him."
"Ah, yet another blow struck for the public image of the Jedi," Bant said, joining them, stealing a piece of bread off Bruck's plate.
"Yup. All a lot of insane violent whoring nutjobs," Bruck grinned.
When he got back from dinner, Qui—Gon was in their quarters. It was startling to see him wearing clothes again. Obi—Wan smiled, with an effort, and said,
"So you're well."
"Yes, I'm well."
"I'm glad to hear it. Oh. I have your." He went into his room and retrieved Qui—Gon's lightsaber."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"I meant, um, just. Thank you."
"Oh. You're welcome."
He hadn't realized before how much he thought about. He and Yoda were monitoring the unrest on Wn'tha and he had agreed to teach an seminar on emerging despots on the Outer Rim, his left high guard was weak, Obi—Wan wouldn't know a logic precept if it hit him in the face, and, for that matter, really needed work on hand—to—hand, and Mace Windu had designed a new training droid which he'd agreed to help test. All very interesting things: his job, no, rather, his vocation, his life's work. He found himself, however, almost wistful for having only two things to think about: when Obi—Wan would be back, and whether Obi—Wan would kiss him. Not, of course, that those thoughts didn't cross his mind now, but he did make an effort to squelch them. Obi—Wan was not often in their quarters. He looked tired when he was. Qui—Gon said nothing about it, knowing that Obi—Wan needed to get the taste of him out of his mouth, needed to touch someone he actually wanted to touch.
Lately, Qui—Gon mostly meditated on self—pity.
Perhaps it would have been easier if he didn't remember it in such great detail. They'd somehow rearranged him so all he could pay attention to was how Obi—Wan looked and felt; it wasn't that he couldn't remember being a Jedi or, for that matter, emerging despots on the Outer Rim, only that compared to getting Obi—Wan to fuck him, other things had seemed unimportant. In the night, he had waited until Obi—Wan fell asleep before inching across the bed, pressing himself close, sometimes grazing his lips against Obi—Wan's neck. During the day, he remembered, Obi—Wan had usually flinched from his touch. He still watched Qui—Gon guardedly across the breakfast table, and when Qui—Gon had told him that Knight Elbar would be handling his hand—to—hand training, Obi—Wan had looked faintly relieved.
"Bant's worried about you," Bruck said, swinging his lightsaber towards Obi—Wan's ribs.
"How do you know?" Obi—Wan parried and they exchanged a flurry of blows before locking sabers.
"She woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me," Bruck panted.
"Woke you up? Wait a minute. You're," Obi—Wan lost his concentration and stumbled, dropping his lightsaber.
"Yes," Bruck said, waiting for Obi—Wan to get up.
"But why?"
"Because I'm, um, a little. in love with her."
"Since when?"
"Six months ago. Where have you been?"
"She loathes you," Obi—Wan said accusatorily.
"She used to loathe me. Things change, I guess. Ready?"
Yes, let's keep that in mind, he told himself. Things change. Qui—Gon appeared for an hour in the mornings to complain about his poor grasp of the lightsaber and dump increasingly difficult logic reading in his lap and then disappeared until the evening. He was barely ever without his robe in their quarters—even though he had often complained that the temple was overheated, remarking that Yoda should really be removed from the living conditions committee. Obi—Wan remembered the last time Qui—Gon had decided that hand—to—hand had been neglected long enough, when he'd spent a fair amount of time ambushing Obi—Wan and sitting on him, lecturing him on the virtues of vigilance until he fought his way free. Now he reported to Knight Elbar every day, who flipped him onto mats until he was a mass of bruises, and then let him go.
"Nothing happened, Mace."
"I know."
"Nothing happened."
"Can you hand me that spanner?"
"This one?"
"The one with the red—yes."
"You're sleeping with Bruck," he said to Bant, leaning in her doorway.
She shrugged, one shouldered. "His homeworld is humid," she said. "He doesn't give me a hard time about the climate control in my room." But she gave him a small secret smile.
"You couldn't have told me?"
She sighed. "You've been gone."
"It would have hurt you to send me a short message: 'Am having it off with Bruck. Fondness for moisture quite overrides the fact that he used to regularly beat the shit out of you.'?'"
"Perhaps I didn't tell you because I, completely erroneously I see, thought you might disapprove."
"Well—"
"And you're such a prude."
"I'm not a prude."
"You are a prude. I couldn't very well tell you I'd finally found someone who enjoyed having sex in a bathtub, could I?"
"I almost had sex with Qui—Gon," he blurted.
"In a bathtub?"
"Bant."
"That's what's wrong, then."
"Yeah."
"He didn't," she said slowly, "try to make you."
"No, of course not."
"Are you—"
"Perhaps it would be better if I just made a few more insulting comments about Bruck," Obi—Wan said.
"All right," she said gently.
There were things he'd been taught to notice: Obi—Wan's hands and mouth and skin, the way he moved his shoulders when they were sore, the slight frustrated pinch of his lip—all things he had noticed objectively before. He'd known for years the tight look around Obi—Wan's eyes when he was on the edge of exhaustion, not admitting it, the tremor in his hands when he was trying to rid himself of anger, but he hadn't been in the habit of relating those things to himself, to how he ought to slip in under those hands and touch the skin, how the anger might feel forcing him to the ground and fucking him, holding his wrists, choking him with cock, all things he'd been waiting for, that he'd wanted.
"You may have some. let's say—left over impulses," the healers had said. "It shouldn't last more than a few days."
But instead of disappearing, they faded, transmuted, and he was left with how Obi—Wan might feel lolling against him in bed, slipping in between his thighs, kissing his stomach, whispering against his throat.
Residue, he told himself. Left—overs. Side effects. But watching the back of Obi—Wan's neck as he made tea, he knew it was a lie.
He made an effort not to be in their quarters when Qui—Gon was there, mostly because of the way Qui—Gon looked the first morning when they passed each other, half—dressed. He timed his stops—to shower, to get new clothes—as carefully as he could to avoid Qui—Gon, and he came as late at night as he decently could. Sometimes he failed, which was the reason he was at home when Qui—Gon limped in with a raw red burn across his cheek.
"Are you all right?" Obi—Wan said, already on his feet.
"I had a run—in with that new droid of Mace's."
"What happened?"
"It went berserk," Qui—Gon said shortly. "Do we have any of that burn ointment left?"
"I don't think so."
"There's some new the cabinet, top drawer." Qui—Gon went into the bathroom and dabbed gingerly at his cheek with soap. The top drawer was Qui—Gon's, the division left over from when Obi—Wan had first moved in and been too small to reach the upper drawers in the cabinet. Inside were some spare lightsaber parts and an old cloak that needed repair, a tangled ball of twine, a broken communicator, the floorplans of the Shupani embassy, several packets of seeds, a stash of ration bars, a flare gun, a crumpled box of holos, and Qui—Gon's slave papers. Obi—Wan took a shocked breath and turned around to see Qui—Gon watching him from the bathroom door.
"You kept these, why did you keep these?"
"Didn't you?"
"No. I. I got rid of them. Where did you get them? I didn't give them—"
"They were in my bag."
And Obi—Wan remembered: he'd carried them on the ship, but thrust them carelessly, embarrassed, into one of the bags, both of which had been, of course, in the one bedroom.
"Oh."
"I—"
"Wait, I'm sorry, it's none of my business," Obi—Wan said, suddenly certain he didn't want to hear.
"Your business more than anyone else's," Qui—Gon said, calmly.
"Don't."
"I find I need a reminder of humility, occasionally."
"I see."
"Does that bother you?"
"That I humiliated you?" Obi—Wan said, starting to feel a flush creeping up the back of his neck. "Why would it?"
"Obi—Wan—"
"It was humiliating for me, too."
"Oh, I'm sure it was," Qui—Gon stalked across the room and plucked the papers out of Obi—Wan's hands, tossing them back into the drawer. "Perhaps, Obi—Wan, you should be working on accepting the odd humiliating situation with a little more grace, and a little more thought for those who are trapped in it with you."
I didn't mean, I never wanted—" you, Qui—Gon thought, as Obi—Wan floundered for words. I never wanted you. Before Obi—Wan could say it, he said,
"I know. I'm aware of that."
"I—"
"Burn ointment," Qui—Gon said harshly, finding it quickly and slamming the drawer shut. He took it into the bathroom and closed the door. When he came out again, Obi—Wan was gone. He hesitated, then went to the cabinet and found the papers. He sat down on the couch and unfolded the thin blue pages, smoothing out the creases. He stared at them for a long time before putting them away.
"Is this where you've been spending your time?" Qui—Gon said, coming around a large shelf. The library was in one of the earliest parts of the temple, which had taken so long to construct that it was an odd combination of architectural styles, full of unexpected corners and windows, of which Obi—Wan had found himself one, uninhabited except for a table and great shelves of books that had not been deemed important enough for the climate controlled vault.
"Yes."
"You can study in your room."
"I wanted to let you alone for a while; I thought you might like to be alone."
"What's wrong?" Qui—Gon said, coming around the table and sitting down next to Obi—Wan. Obi—Wan angled his chair out to face him.
"I should think that would be pretty obvious by now."
"Well. Yes." Qui—Gon smiled at him wryly. "But, Obi—Wan that's no reason to—"
"You wouldn't say that if you knew."
"If I knew what?"
"The entire time," Obi—Wan faltered, "I was worried that they wouldn't be able to put you right, that you'd be stuck and I. I wondered how long it would be before I began taking what you offered. Before I had you naked all the time, before I—," Obi—Wan took a deep breath and said, sickly, "I enjoyed it. When you touched me, I couldn't." he shook his head and stopped, pinching his lips together.
"You wanted to?"
Obi—Wan laughed shortly. "yeah. I wanted to."
"Oh."
"That surprises you?"
"I guess, I thought if you wanted to, then," Qui—Gon stopped, and made an indeterminate hand gesture.
"I wouldn't do that. You think I'd. do that?"
"Unusual circumstances—"
"You think I'd rape you," Obi—Wan said flatly.
"It wouldn't have been rape."
"Of course it would have been rape. That's what—. It's bad enough that I even touched you."
"Is that why you're upset?"
"Yes. What did you think?"
Qui—Gon hesitated. "I thought you were perturbed. um. offended by my behavior."
"Well, this day is just getting better and better."
"Obi—Wan—"
"No, let me see if I have this straight. Not only do you think I'm a rapist, you think I'd hold it against you, how you—when. that I wouldn't understand it wasn't your fault?"
"I think you're taking this entirely too much to heart."
"No, that's fine," Obi—Wan slapped his hand on the table, "You're right. I'm a pervert and I wanted fuck you like nobody's business and I was afraid to tell you because I thought you liked me. respected me, I don't know. But since you think I'm." He took a breath that was not quite a sob and began to gather the things he'd been studying. "I have to go."
"You do have an unfortunate habit of burning your bridges, Obi—Wan," Qui—Gon said from the doorway of his room.
"I know," he said, and Qui—Gon came in and sat down on the end of his bed. The bedroom was dark, but Obi—Wan made no motion to turn on a light.
"I don't think you're lacking in self—control," Qui—Gon said.
"I know."
"You did well; did I say that?"
"Yes, but I thought you were lying."
"Obi—Wan, have I ever hesitated to tell you about your substandard performance?"
"No. In fact, you usually manage excruciating detail."
"Am I a gibbering idiot? Am I staring blankly into space and drooling?"
"No."
"So you did your job."
"Is that what would have happened?"
"So I'm told."
"About what I said earlier."
"We both said things we oughtn't to have."
"True."
"Well, then," Qui—Gon said, and wandered out.
Things changed after that, small things and large: summer came early and Qui—Gon left off his robe, Obi—Wan learned how to make several new, rather palatable, breakfast foods, which Qui—Gon ate happily and deliberately didn't comment on, and they went on a short but disastrous mission in which they had to fight their way off a congressional floor and hijack a ship and it was sometime during the return trip, trying to work out how to actually fly the ship because they were both getting headaches from force—guiding it that Obi—Wan saw they were very nearly as they had been.
"I think I just jettisoned the landing gear," Qui—Gon said.
"Why'd you do that?"
"I don't want to erode any sort of hero worship you might still be harboring, Obi—Wan, but I don't know very much about flying ships."
"Oh."
"Also, I think jamming your lightsaber into the security mechanism damaged some subsystems," Qui—Gon said, poking cautiously at several unlit buttons.
"It damaged the security subsystem, Master," Obi—Wan said. "Enabling us to steal the ship."
"There is that," Qui—Gon said. "Do you think that's the aft thrusters?"
And Obi—Wan stopped feeling guilty about the time on the ship because he realized that he hadn't really enjoyed it: Qui—Gon in his lap, in his bed. He'd been too worried, too annoyed, too busy trying to do the right thing; he hadn't actually wanted it. Because it came to him now, this new thought, that he wanted Qui—Gon, and it was exotic and not entirely comfortable, and perfectly, terrifyingly unfamiliar.
It would come upon him unexpectedly; he'd look up to see Qui—Gon tapping meditatively at his datapad and think—realize, really—that Qui—Gon had once touched him, slid fingers into his pants. The night they were sitting in the dining hall eating a hasty dinner, Qui—Gon actually had to snap his fingers in front of Obi—Wan's face to catch his attention. He had been watching Qui—Gon snap off a bite of carrot and forgotten to even chew, somehow amazed, as he hadn't been at the time, that Qui—Gon's mouth had touched his neck, his nipple, his mouth.
"Obi—Wan?" Qui—Gon said, eyebrows raised.
"What? Yes?" he said.
"It's generally considered polite to close one's mouth when one chews," Qui—Gon said.
"Not on Kolvidas 3," he said, a little too late.
Remembering how Qui—Gon had moaned at his kiss made Obi—Wan's stomach hurt. Not even a real kiss, not the way he would kiss him now. He found himself wondering how it might have come out between them before, if he would have eventually kissed Qui—Gon anyway. Circumstances had rendered it impossible, and although he allowed himself to think of Qui—Gon when he touched himself, he knew he would have to stop soon. He hoped he'd grow out of it, but when he looked in the mirror now, he looked tired and hard, fully formed.
A small thing, a kiss. And not even really a kiss, not affectionately meant, but part of an act. It had been his experience that small things generally lead to large, an unsaid word, a caught thread. It takes only fifteen hours for a piece of meat to be falling to pieces, infested with squirming maggots, seemingly from nowhere, from a chance insect landing. And he had waited, made contingency plans, spent time leaning against the railings of the practice areas, looking down, figuring out who else could teach Obi—Wan.
Habits are hard to break; ripples in a pond disperse quickly enough, replaced by the skittering business of water bugs and frogs and Natural History, Qui—Gon thought, is a thoroughly uninformative analogy for personal relationships.
They weren't forgetting about it, but it was smoothed over, averaged out by the sheer weight of their years together. Obi—Wan had taken to napping on the couch again and reading aloud, in a sarcastic voice, precepts of logic he found pompously reductionist. Ten days couldn't change what he was to Obi—Wan. This was mostly a relief.
A small thing, that kiss. Obi—Wan had bitten his lip.
"I need some friends," he said to Bant across her kitchen table.
"There's me. There's Bruck."
"Does he count?"
"Default."
"I don't think he likes me much."
"Well, you're sort of a goody two shoes, Kenobi," Bruck yelled from the bedroom.
"Are you here all the time?"
"I live here."
"Congratulations," Obi—Wan said sourly. "I'll get you a housewarming present."
Bruck came into the kitchen, gave him a snarky smile and hoisted himself up to sit on the counter.
"And wait," Obi—Wan said. "You don't live with your master?"
"Who does?"
"I do."
"Yes, but hadn't you noticed that when the rest of us turned nineteen or so our masters said that they could train us in the deep and mystical ways of the force even if we lived on another floor?"
"I hadn't really thought about it."
"What about my room?" Bant asked.
"I just thought you had it because of the. your. the temperature."
"There's plenty of extra room in the temple these days, and I'm fond of my master and all, but I didn't want to spend the next five years cleaning her wet socks off the bathroom floor," Bruck said. "Whereas you're still holed up happy as a clam with Master Jinn, learning the formal forms of address in Huttese, or whatever it is you two do in your spare time."
"What's your point?"
"You can't exactly moan about not having any friends when it's perfectly clear that anyone who wants to be your friend will have to go through your master first."
"He doesn't stop me from having friends," Obi—Wan said.
"Of course not," Bant said. "It's just you spend all your time together."
"We're off—world a lot."
"He doesn't even call you padawan anymore," Bruck said. "You don't have friends; you have friend."
"Qui—Gon is—. I mean."
"There's nothing wrong with it," Bant said.
"He enjoys working all the time; you enjoy working all the time," Bruck said. "You have similar interests." He leaned precariously off the counter and touched the back of Bant's neck with two fingers. She hunched her shoulders briefly, shivered, and poked her elbow into his kneecap.
The first time Qui—Gon had called him padawan after they returned, he'd stumbled over the word and then blushed painfully. He hadn't done so since.
Their next mission was cold and damp, but otherwise unremarkable. After seventeen days of sodden boots, neither of them were in the best of moods. Qui—Gon negotiated passage with the first ship he found,
"I'm telling you, it's a cargo ship," the captain had warned nervously.
"Does it have hot water?" Qui—Gon had said tersely.
"Yes."
"Good," Qui—Gon nodded and credits changed hands.
Their room was an enormous corrugated metal bin that jittered with the faint deep hum of the engines, but it was such a relief to be dry that neither of them cared. Obi—Wan had made Qui—Gon take the first shower, and when he got back from his, Qui—Gon had spread out the blankets they'd been given on the floor and unearthed a somewhat sticky packet of fruit bread.
"Worlds with good weather never have political unrest," Obi—Wan said, sitting down and taking a piece of the fruit bread.
"Mace actually teaches a class on that," Qui—Gon said. "The exigencies of the something something climate correlation."
"Sounds awful."
"There's a field trip to Ravabe."
"That's the one with the weather. and the. um. everyone with no clothes."
"Popular class," Qui—Gon nodded resignedly.Obi—Wan leaned back against the wall, which was a little warm, and scrubbed his feet against the blanket.
"Why didn't you have me move out?"
Qui—Gon stopped chewing. "Move out."
"Isn't it usual for apprentices to move out of their master's rooms? Something like five years ago?"
"It is."
"So why didn't you?"
"It never occurred to me. We seemed to suit." He looked down at the blanket then back up. "I'm sorry Obi—Wan, I should of course have realized. Would you like to have your own quarters?"
"No."
"You won't hurt my feelings by saying yes. Believe me, I understand—"
"I don't want to move out," Obi—Wan interrupted. "I like. living with you."
"I see."
The water dripping from their cloaks made tinny sounds on the floor. Qui—Gon put one hand flat on the wall and made a faint pleased sound at its warmth, then leaned back against it as well. The engine rumbled and murmured. Qui—Gon closed his eyes.
"Bant's sleeping with Bruck," Obi—Wan said.
"Hasn't that been going on some months now?"
"You knew?"
"Was it a secret?"
"No," Obi—Wan said glumly.
"Is this? Were you and Bant, er."
"Bant? No, of course not. She's—salty."
"Ah."
Obi—Wan drew up his knees and rested his elbows on them. "She's so happy."
"That bothers you?"
"No. A little. It's all right."
"What's all right?"
"Just. Not everyone is cut out for great sex in bathtubs."
"I don't follow."
"It's. They want each other and it's. It's stupid. I just. I'd like to be wanted."
"You are."
"Well. Before we left I did overhear someone in the third level practice room say he'd do me," Obi—Wan laughed mirthlessly, "But it's not really the same."
"I meant, I do." Qui—Gon sounded as though his throat hurt. "I want you."
Obi—Wan turned to look at Qui—Gon, who looked as startled as he felt, who leaned over and kissed him, fisting one hand in his shirt and licking his lower lip. When Obi—Wan didn't object, he jerked him forward across his lap and kissed him harder, sliding a hand down his back. Obi—Wan clutched at his shoulders and opened his mouth and fell backwards, pulling Qui—Gon down onto the blanket. Qui—Gon slid his leg between Obi—Wan's thighs and cupped his jaw, kissing him wetly before tilting his head back and kissing his neck. Obi—Wan moaned, long and low, tilting his head pliantly, but when Qui—Gon nuzzled appreciatively at his collarbone, Obi—Wan stiffened and grabbed Qui—Gon's shoulders, pushing him away.
"You're not fixed. They didn't fix you," he accused.
"What are you talking about?"
"You're still, you're," Obi—Wan tried to struggle out from underneath Qui—Gon, who grabbed his arms and said, loudly,
"They fixed me; there's nothing wrong with me."
"You have Stockholm Syndrome!"
"Maybe you're the one with Stockholm Syndrome."
"What?" Obi—Wan said, confusedly, partly because Qui—Gon was still mostly on top of him, holding one of his wrists gently against the ground.
"Hm," Qui—Gon said, and kissed him again. Obi—Wan slid a hand under his hair to touch the back of his neck.
"I love you," he said, when Qui—Gon lifted his mouth.
"I thought you might."
"When?" Obi—Wan said, vaguely outraged.
"Just now, really."
"So. You?"
"What?"
"Do you, uh,"
"I'm not going to make any declarations of love if you're going to insist that I'm still brainwashed."
"I won't," Obi—Wan said, sliding his thumb around to stroke Qui—Gon's throat.
"Are you certain?"
"Absolutely."
"In that case, it's been brought home to me, rather forcefully I might add, that I'm in love with you."
"Oh good," Obi—Wan said. "Oh," he said again when Qui—Gon reared up over him and clumsily pulled his shirt off. He dropped it and slid a hand under the small of Obi—Wan's back and peeled his shirt up over his head. When Obi—Wan's arms were free, he reached up and caught Qui—Gon's head, kissed him on the mouth, pressing his mouth open, arching at the feel of Qui—Gon's hands tracing restlessly over his shoulderblades, down his back.
"We should take off our pants," Obi—Wan gasped, pulling his mouth from Qui—Gon's. Qui—Gon nodded, and rolled off him, pulling off his own pants and watching Obi—Wan's shaking hands slide down his pants down his legs.
"I'm thinking," Qui—Gon said, when Obi—Wan was back, wrapped around him and busily licking his neck. "I'm thinking you could fuck me." Just saying the words made his cock harder. Obi—Wan didn't answer, but slid down Qui—Gon's body, kissing his sternum, biting his hipbone, sliding a heavy hand up his thigh. He mouthed Qui—Gon's cock and then put a firm hand on it and said,
"I don't know. Maybe—"
Qui—Gon reached down and caught his arm, pulling him up until their faces were level. He traced the stubborn arch of Obi—Wan's forehead with a finger.
"I've been waiting a long time, is all." His hips rolled, involuntarily, pressing into Obi—Wan's stomach.
"Me too." Obi—Wan slid a thumb across his lips, and replaced it with his mouth.
"I told you the first—aid kit was worth the extra weight," Qui—Gon said, panting, one hand grasping Obi—Wan's shoulder for balance. He moved impatiently above Obi—Wan, who was sitting against the wall, knees bent, one hand between Qui—Gon's buttocks.
"Mm." Obi—Wan removed his hand and scooped at the small container of anti—bacterial ointment, moving lazily as Qui—Gon slid his hand down to play with his nipples.
"Can I— "
"No. Wait a minute." He replaced his hand, "Isn't this good?" he asked, wiggling his fingers a little, sliding them deeper, holding Qui—Gon's hip with one greasy hand.
"Good," Qui—Gon agreed. His hair was still damp, sticking to his shoulders and Obi—Wan's face. He pinched Obi—Wan's nipples a little more aggressively, until they were pink and hard, until Obi—Wan said,
"Now, I think," and clutched at his hips as he slid down Obi—Wan's cock.
"You were, by the way, a terrible pleasure slave," Obi—Wan said, letting Qui—Gon curl closer around him.
"I thought I was rather good."
"You were pushy. and grumpy."
"I made you breakfast."
"Twice. The rest of the time you mooched around and quoted that awful handbook every time I tried to get you to do something. Or, rather, not to do something. Ow," he said, as Qui—Gon bit him on the shoulder. Qui—Gon kissed the back of his neck in apology.
"How long do you think it would have been?" he asked, quietly.
"What?"
"Before you had me naked all the time."
"Oh. Not very long," Obi—Wan said, voice serious.
"Would you have then touched my ass when you were actually awake?"
"I didn't—"
"Yes, you did."
"Often?"
"Repeatedly."
"I wouldn't, um. expect that to change, if I were you."
"Oh good," Qui—Gon said.
(end)