Chapter Text
***Three years later***
Obi-Wan sits under a large oak at the edge of the treeline, looking across the meadow to the back of the house. The peko peko chicks are chirping in the branches overhead.
Underneath him, the grass is soft with the lushness of early summer. The sun overhead is still high in the bright blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds, despite it being well after midday.
The quiet inside him is like clear water, mountain air, or sunlight on a cold morning. There is a particular kind of relief like being able to breathe again after being under water. There’s no pain anywhere in his body that he can sense, not in his gut, not in his shoulders, not in his toes. Though seated, he knows can move with ease and with strength. He remembers this state. He used to live here, long ago, before the war. The best and brightest days of his apprenticeship, when he and Qui-Gon moved through the galaxy with a rhythm and flow that needed no words by the end.
He had a few years like that with Anakin, if somewhat less smooth. It wasn’t until the war put them all under permanent pressure that he and Anakin really found a flow, which was more like a high speed jet-stream of adrenaline. Just thinking about it brings an echo of heat and tightness to his limbs and sinews.
He takes a deep breath and steps back from the memory of the war, a harsh vibrant blur of blaster fire, blinking lights, metal and smoke.
The peace inside him is even deeper now because the threat winding in the background, the growing sense of dread and evil staining the Force before the war is gone. The galaxy is not safe now, not really. There will always be danger, violence, cruelty, war. But the scale and scope of the threat has shrunk, broken like a million shards of glass scattered across the stars.
Now, peace is outside him too.
“I’m too old for this,” Qui-Gon says, interrupting his reverie and heaving himself down onto the grass beside Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan laughs. He does not envy Qui-Gon’s task of keeping pace with five year old Leia Skywalker-Naberrie, who is ready to take on the world. She is fiery, wilful, full of sparkle and a bravado that she could only have gotten from Anakin. She can run Qui-Gon ragged over the course of a day.
Obi-Wan cocks an eyebrow. “Now you know how I felt,” he says, not for the first time glad that his charge takes after Padme. Eager to learn, not fearless, but steady, Luke is good-humoured and curious.
“You were thirty years younger than I am now when you were training Anakin!” Qui-Gon protests.
“The Force is a powerful ally,” Obi-Wan quips, with a twinkle in his eye.
Qui-Gon groans and flops back.
“Where is your little proto-padawan?” Obi-Wan asks.
“What’s that? My little hellion? She’s run off to train with Jiya and Anakin. They’re sparring with droids today.”
Obi-Wan looks down, eyes narrowed in concern.
Qui-Gon clasps his forearm from his place on the grass. He runs his hand up and down, a reassuring caress. “Don’t worry, I sent Ahsoka to join them.”
Obi-Wan nods and smiles in relief. The twins’ cousin Jiya can be a handful, and she and Leia can feed off each other.
“Where’s Luke?” Qui-Gon asks.
“He’s learning to knit with Jobal. I think he finds the focus and repetition settling. We will meditate later.”
“Does that mean what I think it means?” Qui-Gon asks, with a hopeful gleam in his eye.
Obi-Wan smirks. “I thought you were worn out.”
Qui-Gon growls as he rolls over to pull Obi-Wan down into a deep kiss.
Obi-Wan returns the kiss fervently, sliding down to join Qui-Gon on the grass. His hands find Qui-Gon’s waist and tug him forward so that Qui-Gon is half on top of him. He runs his hands up Qui-Gon’s back and arches against him, heat growing in his groin. Qui-Gon’s braid flops over to tickle his chest where his shirt has slipped open. He breaks the kiss and looks up at Qui-Gon. The dappled sunlight through the tree leaves casts shadows on his seemingly ageless features. Ageless to Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon jokes when he complains about the ever-increasing grey and lines on his brow.
Happiness warms Obi-Wan’s heart and vibrates under his skin. Suddenly there are tears at the corners of his eyes.
Qui-Gon’s breath catches at the shift. He blinks and swallows. He brushes a tear from the corner of Obi-Wan’s eye with his thumb.
The Force fills Obi-Wan with peace—or does he fill the Force with peace? He can hardly tell in this moment of joy, but he can tell Qui-Gon senses it. He can feel his lover in the Force vibrating with the same feeling.
“We should go inside,” Qui-Gon, voice rough. His hard length presses against Obi-Wan’s hip.
Obi-Wan nods, but he doesn’t want to move yet. The present moment is exquisite. He is anchored but not stuck, connected not entangled, free but not alone, with a feeling he can only describe as ‘home’ flowing through his veins.
Obi-Wan kisses Qui-Gon with a sweetness whose preciousness doesn’t depend on scarcity.
He cups the side of Qui-Gon’s face, feeling the soft bristles of his beard and the heat of his skin beneath. His fingertips sink into the silky hair at Qui-Gon’s temple. He looks into Qui-Gon’s eyes that are the colour of the sky and says, “I love you, in case you didn’t know.”.
Qui-Gon makes a sound between a huff and gasp and wipes a tear from his own eye. He dips his head. “I did,” he says solemnly, and takes a breath. “And I love you too.” His voice has deepened with conviction.
Obi-Wan shivers. He has known this, but it is still a marvel to hear. He closes his eyes, a soft smile on his lips. Above him, Qui-Gon starts to laugh. “How has that taken us three years to say?” he says, exasperated, pressing his forehead to Obi-Wan’s chest.
Obi-Wan kisses the crown of his head and hugs Qui-Gon against him. He shakes his head. “We had other ways.”