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The footsteps recede. Anakin feels Obi-Wan go still around him, inside him. Something wet and sticky drips down the inside of his thigh. He doesn’t know if it’s Obi-Wan’s come or his own—what a thought—
They stay like that, frozen, Anakin on his knees with Obi-Wan draped over him, pressed together in too many ways. At last, Anakin says hoarsely,
“They’re gone.”
Obi-Wan says nothing. He unsticks himself from Anakin’s back, then slides out of him in one motion. Anakin can’t swallow the gasp he makes when Obi-Wan’s cock slips free of his body. He thinks Obi-Wan might make some sort of sound—a breath hissed through clenched teeth, perhaps—but he can’t be sure over the roaring in his ears.
He hears Obi-Wan stand, hears the rustling as he begins to dress again in the clothes they’d worn to this Sith-forsaken party. His head drops between his shoulder blades; he fights the urge to bury his face in the bedcovers and hide until this strange, exposed feeling goes away.
“Here,” Obi-Wan says. His voice is rough too. Unbidden, Anakin remembers the sounds Obi-Wan had made, the low groan as Anakin’s hips jerked back against his—
Something soft is pressed into his left hand where his fingers are twisted in the sheets. It’s a bundle of cloth—Anakin’s own clothes. He sits back on his heels, taking them, shaking them out and grimacing at the truly ridiculous number of wrinkles they’ve collected. He tries to stand, then staggers a little as his back and hips protest. Behind him, Obi-Wan sucks in a breath.
He doesn’t look. He doesn’t think he can bear to, not with guilt already beginning to curdle in his stomach. Instead, he says, “Thank you,” and snags a corner of the sheet to clean himself up. His trousers are loose when he pulls them on; he’s glad of it, of the distance between his still-sticky skin and the soft material. His shirt is entirely too diaphanous to cover the bruises he knows are darkening on his throat.
Anakin turns at last then, as armoured as he can be without his plastoid and his robes. Obi-Wan is standing a few feet away, pointedly studying a different corner of the room.
“I’m decent,” Anakin says, then immediately wishes he could bite the words back. Decent, as if he doesn’t still have come drying between his legs, as if he hasn’t just spent the last however many minutes being fucked by his best friend to hide the fact that they’d come to this room to steal the holocron currently sitting in Obi-Wan’s trouser pocket. Speaking of which— “You have it?”
Obi-Wan’s hand dips into his pocket. The motion pulls the fabric tight around his upper thigh, revealing defined muscle. Not five minutes ago, those muscles had been pressed against his—
Anakin jerks his gaze away, his eyes finding a spot somewhere beneath Obi-Wan’s right ear.
“It’s safe,” Obi-Wan says. They’re quiet for another long moment. Anakin risks a glance at Obi-Wan; sees a bruise just beginning to bloom high on his Master’s neck, just beneath the edge of his jaw. He knows that mark is in the shape of his own lips, his teeth.
He swallows hard. “Can we go, then?”
There’s a flicker of something in the Force, gone before Anakin can even decide whether to lower his shields or not. Their bond is closed from both sides, has been since they’d sensed someone approaching as Anakin dug through the drawers beside the bed and, in a split second, decided what to do about it.
He doesn’t quite know who had kissed whom first, whether he’d hooked an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders or Obi-Wan had slid a hand around his waist, whether he’d put his tongue in Obi-Wan’s mouth or Obi-Wan had begun to kiss down the side of his neck—
Obi-Wan clears his throat. “Straight to the shuttle?”
Anakin summons a ghost of a smile. “I think we’ve worn out our welcome.”
Obi-Wan’s laugh is more breath than true mirth, but the air is marginally lighter between them.
-o-
Anakin had thought that would be the end of it, somehow. He’d thought there would be a few days of awkwardness, maybe, before they’d go back to being a team, the Team, side by side and so in sync the Force sang when they took a battlefield together. Instead, Anakin is waking up for the fifth night in a week to the memory of Obi-Wan’s body laid over his, one hand around his throat, hips working against him, into him as Anakin writhed in his grasp.
He sits up, pressing the heels of his hands—one flesh, one mechanical—to his eyes.
“Kriff,” he says.
He reaches for the bond, seeking comfort for just a moment before he remembers that it’s still closed, still sealed, his end protected by the windstorm of his shields and Obi-Wan’s by the torrential rain of his own.
“Kriff,” he says again, then: “Fuck.”
Against his will, tears prick at his eyes. It had seemed the obvious solution then, not just on his part but on Obi-Wan’s as well. They’d been in sync just as they always were; the Force had cried its warning and Anakin and Obi-Wan had looked at each other from either side of the bedroom they were searching and come up with the same strategy to discourage anyone from wondering just what they were doing there.
Obi-Wan had shoved the holocron into his pocket and reached for Anakin, Anakin had reached back, and then they were tumbling into the sheets together, stripping each other’s clothes off with an efficiency resembling battlefield expedience. The warning in the Force had grown louder; they’d stopped, naked and staring at each other.
“Make it look real,” Anakin had said then, and somehow it had ended up being real, and now Anakin can’t look at his Master without remembering the drag of Obi-Wan’s cock against his rim and the way they’ve been avoiding each other since.
On the shuttle, they’d split up for a sonic each and reunited in robes and tunics that covered all evidence of what they’d done, and Anakin had looked at Obi-Wan’s closed-off face and realised that this—this, not the screaming death of battle or the taste of each other's blood—this was what would ruin his relationship with his Master once and for all.
“Kriff,” Anakin says again. A tear trickles weakly down his cheek. He doesn’t bother trying to sleep again.
-0-
When he finds Obi-Wan the next morning, his Master is studying a datapad in one of the Negotiator’s smaller briefing rooms, a frown between his eyebrows. He looks up when Anakin enters, and the frown deepens for just a moment before smoothing out into a kind of forced neutrality that makes Anakin’s stomach turn.
“Anakin,” he says, and his voice is so very impersonal.
Obi-Wan, Anakin thinks with a sort of mad hysteria, has gotten very good at pretending he doesn’t know what Anakin looks like on his hands and knees with a cock inside him—with his cock inside him.
“Master,” Anakin says, and some of his disquiet must show in his voice because Obi-Wan sets the datapad down, his eyes meeting Anakin’s squarely for what feels like the first time in days.
Again, in the Force Anakin catches that flicker that he can’t quite parse before those rainstorm shields whirl shut again. “Anakin, what—"
“I’m sorry,” Anakin says. “I know you don’t—don’t want to see me after we—but I just—”
Obi-Wan stands, reaches for him—then hesitates, his hands dropping to his side. Anakin flinches like he’s taken a physical blow.
“You won’t touch me now,” he says miserably. “You won’t look at me, and—”
Slowly, Obi-Wan says, “Anakin, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Anakin opens his mouth, but then Obi-Wan asks, “Do you want me to touch you?”
“Yes,” Anakin says before he can stop himself. He wants to bite his tongue, but it’s too late, words are spilling out of him like a riptide, an undertow, dragging him into a hell of his own making. “And then, too, I wanted you to, I liked it; you should hate me—”
“What are you talking about—”
“I took advantage of you!” Anakin claps a hand over his mouth, but in a show of firmness he hasn’t seen from Obi-Wan since they were Master and Padawan in truth, Obi-Wan tugs his hand away.
“Padawan,” he says flatly. “Please explain to me how you ending up with my cock up your arse constitutes you taking advantage of me.”
Anakin says helplessly, “You agreed to it for the mission, a means to an end, but I—” He takes another look at Obi-Wan, at his Master’s stern, dear face and says, “Kriff’s sake, Master, I liked it; I wanted it.”
“You liked it,” Obi-Wan repeats, disbelieving. “I fucked you nearly raw; you could hardly stand after, and you liked it?”
“Yes!” Anakin cries, “yes, damn you, I came so hard I nearly blacked out, but I told you to make it look real and you did and you didn’t agree to me wanting it, wanting you—”
Obi-Wan is still holding his hand, staring at him. He says, “And you thought I was upset with you. Because you thought you’d enjoyed it—wanted it—and I…hadn’t.” He winces a little as he says the words, and Anakin shuts his eyes.
“You couldn’t look at me after,” he says quietly. “Our—the bond, it’s still closed. I thought—”
Obi-Wan is still looking at him when he opens his eyes again, something tentative breaking across his face. “You couldn’t look at me, after,” he says in turn. “And your shields are up just the same as mine.” He hesitates. “I was worried I’d—hurt you. That I’d been too rough with you.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “That I’d—gotten carried away.”
“Carried away,” Anakin echoes, and Obi-Wan says dryly,
“You’re not the only one who enjoyed that far more than they intended to, dear one.”
Anakin’s eyes widen. “You’ve thought about it before,” he says, startled. “About fucking me.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes don’t leave his. Only the tightness of his grip on Anakin’s hand betrays any sign of nerves. After a long moment, he says, “Yes. And so have you.”
“Yes,” Anakin admits. “And so the reason you’ve been—”
“The Jedi Code hardly dictates how one should behave around one’s former Padawan after indulging in a sexual fantasy under the guise of preserving mission parameters,” Obi-Wan says wryly.
Anakin can’t help it; his mouth turns up at the corners, a familiar fondness welling up inside him and beginning to displace the well of hurt that had taken up residence inside his chest. “It doesn’t say anything about indulging in a sexual fantasy with one’s former Master, either,” he says. “Bit useless, isn’t it?”
Obi-Wan grins at him then, a little shy, a little disbelieving, and suddenly they’re falling into each other: Obi-Wan drops his shields and Anakin does the same and the Force is theirs again, their bond made whole.
“Master,” Anakin says, an acknowledgement.
“Padawan,” Obi-Wan says back, and there it is, that flicker again, but their bond is open now, and down its length Anakin senses—
“Oh,” he says, a little surprised. “You—you really do want me.”
Obi-Wan says, “Was the way I fucked you not enough of an indication?” then snaps his jaw shut as though he hadn’t meant to let those words escape.
Anakin grins at him. “Maybe I need a reminder,” he says. “A very long, thorough, hard reminder. With your hand around my throat again, too.”
Obi-Wan kisses him then, hard and intent, sliding his tongue into Anakin’s mouth in an echo of the way he’d split Anakin open on his cock. Anakin shudders in his grasp, pressing their mouths more firmly together, yielding for it—
“I think that can be arranged,” Obi-Wan murmurs, the Force gleaming with satisfaction as Anakin pants against him.
Anakin is too busy kissing him again to respond.