Chapter Text
It becomes a recurring activity for days to come, his milk replenishing just as fast as it drains. Evening after evening, they settle into a comfortable position in bed, Obi-Wan bares his chest, and Anakin relieves him of the ache and the heaviness that has built up in his breasts throughout the day. They never go as far as the first time again - neither of them ever ask for it, which is a good thing.
It’s nice to have a routine, despite everything. The Stewjoni aren’t so different from humans in that way - Obi-Wan starts to crave a quiet moment in the evenings with Anakin, a few minutes of stolen peace for the two of them to recline, and be at rest. It isn’t something he should want, or indulge in; feeding between mates is meant to encourage closeness, and he can feel that thread between them grow stronger and stronger with every night. Obi-Wan doesn’t know which is worse - the idea that Anakin doesn’t care about how strong the bond between them is growing, or he does, and he chooses not to mention it.
The routine carries on in ship bunks and war tents, as they're assigned together to lead an offensive campaign against an illicit Separatist occupation in the Mid Rim, then a rescue mission on a battered system in the Outer Rim, and then as backup to a fierce battle near the neutral systems. His body takes charge before his own willpower can, and soon enough, the breast tissues fades. He has nothing to look forward to but their monthly consummation, touch for the sake of relief, and nothing more.
He should want nothing more.
So he sets his thoughts firmly on the task before them at all times, doing his best to protect the civilians, protect his men, protect Anakin. They emerge from the battle victorious (or at least as victorious as a battalion that has lost dozens of squadrons can be). As soon as they exit the gunship, a comm call from the Council comes through.
"Stewjon?" Anakin blurts. The system is barely involved in Republic politics, that it feels almost otherworldly. "You want us to convince them to declare allegiance to the Republic? The council of neutral systems can't be happy about this."
Anakin’s gaze flicks to him, to which Obi-Wan only nods slightly. “It seems like an unnecessary risk,” he concedes. “If we come across as too pushy, we may just encourage them right into the arms of the Separatists.”
“We don’t expect them to ally with us in one meeting,” Windu says, his form cracking over the line. ”Just leaving a positive impression for the temple, and for the Senate, will suffice.”
Obi-Wan shares a look with his former Padawan. In the end, there’s nothing to do but accept. The Council lays out their meeting with the prime minister and gives them a time frame to work in, and that is it.
“...Well,” Obi-Wan muses, running a thoughtful hand alone his chin. “At least we’re away from the battlefield, for a time.”
Anakin presses his lips together pensively, and says nothing.
They set their course to Stewjon then, the planet not too far away, considering they are already within the territories of the neutral systems. Their arrival is almost unceremonious — most of their battalions have been sent to join the 327th on a different front, so they have only a squadron of clones as escort. It's strange, the feeling Obi-Wan gets when they lower their altitude and prepare to land on the planet. Stewjon was never truly his home, given the age at which he was whisked to the temple, but some odd wistfulness grows within him as they fly over the rolling moors and towering cliffsides. The landscape is as beautiful as it is dramatic, large swaths of it seemingly untouched by technology - or maybe those who live here live on in symbiosis. As soon as he and Anakin’s ship touches down, a small delegate greets them in a large shuttle to bring them back to the government complex.
“You must be the Jedi generals,” says a diplomat. She has a certain bearing of authority about her (the delegate head, no doubt), and she introduces herself as a native Stewjoni. “The Prime Minister will see you in a couple of hours.”
Her eyes linger on Anakin for just a second, but long enough to notice. Obi-Wan dips his head with a gracious thanks, barely holding himself back from frowning. The diplomat’s gaze was too piercing for comfort.
The shuttle flies over the capital city. The architecture fits in perfectly with this aesthetic, with multicolored brick houses, wooden balconies and raised flower beds with sweet statues rising from roughly hewn (yet charmingly so) streets. There are some larger, taller buildings boasting carved columns and stained glass windows - they are likely as much historical monuments as they are functional. The people, too, are of some interest. They seem like humans, but they don't smell like humans, and every individual's hair is some variation of auburn.
They land in the yard of a large lodge, meant for off-planet visitors judging by its somewhat streamlined look (compared to the rest of the city). The shape of the building remains the same, but the materials are more transparisteel and synthetics, the colors cool and sharp rather than hearty and homey, with a minimalistic edge that seems to state its conformity with galactic standards. The delegate leads Obi-Wan and Anakin to the hotel’s reception and bids them goodbye.
“Would you like a double room, sirs?” A voice pipes up, sounding quite young and slightly halting. The steward who greets them at their lodgings has flaming red hair, and a bright, if bashful smile. They look at both he and Anakin expectantly, seemingly proud of the question.
Obi-Wan's head tilts slightly as he glances at Anakin for confirmation. Anakin only shrugs, shooting him a smile. “So long as it has a large bathroom. I’m looking forward to taking a break from sonics.”
“Yes, sir. Stewjon has one of the largest freshwater reserves in the galaxy.”
"Then that would be fine, thank you," he politely says, his hands tucked into his sleeves. Something about it sticks out to him - most offer he and Anakin separate rooms, before they're informed of the Jedi preference of staying together. "You're quite accommodating. Have you had Jedi guests before?"
“Oh, no, sir,” the steward demurs, gaze turning down to work with the touchscreen of a sleek datapad. “We haven’t welcomed a Jedi Master in an age. I’ve never met one before.”
“Now you’ve met two,” Anakin offers, grinning. His air of comfort puts Obi-Wan a little more at ease.
The steward smiles shyly. “Right this way, sirs.” They walk, their footfalls cushioned on soft carpeted floors, before coming to a stop at the very end of a corridor. A freshly printed keycard slides out of the datapad, and the Stewjoni demonstrates how to swipe it along the edge of the door. A handle pushes out from beneath the surface, allowing them to pull the door open.
The room beyond is furnished in mingled shades of dark blue and emerald and violet, patterned with criss-crossing bands. There’s a modesty to the soft simplicity of the decor; it’s not so much a set of living quarters as it is a bedroom suite. Obi-Wan takes one step inside, and pauses. The bed takes over most of the space, the bedspread in a tasteful tartan.
The bed. Singular.
One giant couple-sized bed.
Ah.
His eyes turn back to the steward. “I’m sorry, I misunderstood; I thought you meant double beds.”
The steward blinks, glancing between he and Anakin. “Ah, but based off the scent, I thought—” They cut themself short, face flushing with mortification. “I mean—Sorry sirs, the mistake is mine. Right this way.” They quickly bow their head and lead the way back down the hall, Obi-Wan fighting to control his own blush as he holds his head high and follows after.
That… Explains a good deal. The eyes on them. The eyes on Anakin. Looks from the native Stewjoni, who are much more receptive to scents than humans. They must have smelled the pheromones on Anakin. Does it help that Obi-Wan had just had his cycle little more than a week ago? He could imagine what the two of them look like to the rest of the native population - and he should have imagined it sooner. He shouldn’t have underestimated the social consequences of this.
Oh, Force have mercy…
Anakin follows suit behind him. Obi-Wan is much too ashamed to even turn around to look at him. He walks on autopilot, nearly trapped in the spinnings of his mind. Is their attachment so obvious to everyone else? Does the Council know, then? And more importantly, does Anakin know?
There is at least one thing that Obi-Wan is certain of. He is incapable of sustaining this untruth any longer. He intimately knows how many times he has tried, and failed, to meditate this away.
The door opens and closes. The steward bows again and leaves them be, and Obi-Wan keeps his expression smooth as ever, turning to set his pack by one of the beds. A certain truth is staring him in the face, too big and bright to be ignored.
He glances up. Anakin’s face is tinted pink, even as he gives a huffed laugh. Obi-Wan feels a pang of guilt - his oversight has caused Anakin such undeserved embarrassment, and he doesn’t even know how to begin to apologize.
“Poor kid,” Anakin says, casual, setting down his pack. “Is that a thing native Stewjoni could do? Guessing… based on scent? Do you think anyone else would make the same assumption, Master?”
“It isn’t guessing, most likely,” Obi-Wan says, his voice quiet. “Pheromones can carry a good deal of information. To them, we smell like we’re mated.” He rubs a hand over his beard. This isn’t a conversation they can hold back any longer. With a tight feeling rising in his throat, he settles down at the edge of his bed, and looks up at Anakin. “...We should discuss this.”
All traces of a smile fade from Anakin’s face. His throat bobs as he swallows almost audibly. "Discuss again?" he laughs, voice strained. He shrugs and sits down, next to Obi-Wan rather than on the opposite bed. "Don't worry, Master. If anyone asks, we'll just tell them Jedi don't get married."
“Not just that, Anakin.” Obi-Wan clasps his hands together to stay the tremble. “We should discuss... everything.”
There’s a sinking, terrible feeling squeezing in his chest, like a hand tight around his heart. He isn’t ready for this to end - which is all the more reason why it has to. Eyes falling shut, he takes a slow breath, attempting to steady himself. As always, Anakin’s gaze is fixed on him, so intense it’s almost physical. There’s the slightest reverberation in the Force, on Anakin’s side of their bond, carefully hidden behind his mental shields so that Obi-Wan cannot decipher it, but it feels like turmoil. Or perhaps he is only reading too much into it; only projecting onto it the turmoil within himself.
When Obi-Wan opens his eyes, he doesn’t feel ready. When Obi-Wan says the words, he still doesn’t feel ready.
“...I fear I’ve become too attached to you.”
Anakin blinks. His lips part silently. He doesn’t even frown, just stares as the moments pass. And then he blurts, voice hoarse, “What, what do you mean?”
Anakin can’t be pretending that he hasn’t realized it, so that means... Obi-Wan grits his teeth. Force, so this really has been one sided. He nearly shivers from the sheer hurt that pierces him. It’s alright - he deserves it.
“I’ve been... rather selfish, I’m afraid,” he says. His voice is fainter than he likes, Obi-Wan swallowing past the growing feeling in his chest. “All of it, positing the eggs, feeding you; I’ve been forging a connection that shouldn’t have been there.” And isn’t it so very pathetic that with every word he says, the memories come back, every gentle touch, every heady gaze, a pulsing maelstrom in his heart, reminding him of what he can’t have anymore. He looks down. I deserve this, for not letting go.
“I,” he continues, “I wanted to help you, but it seems to me that I’ve only been helping myself.” His voice is as smooth and steady as he could manage, yet he isn’t sure if he can keep the sadness and the longing to himself when he glances up again.
Anakin is still watching him - has been watching him this whole time. His expression is openly baffled, his hands balled into fists, bunched up in his robes. Obi-Wan sighs. If only he’d been strong enough to put a distance between them, he wouldn’t have made a fool of himself like this. Wouldn’t have dragged Anakin down with him.
“I’m sorry, Anakin. You’re one of the best of us. I’ve been holding you back from becoming the best Jedi that you could be.”
Anakin slowly blinks. If Obi-Wan trusted his eyes, he would’ve seen the slight shiver in the line of Anakin’s shoulders. But he doesn’t dare.
“I don’t understand why you’re apologizing, Master,” Anakin begins, voice wavering. “You didn’t ask; I offered, and you agreed. What’s this ‘holding me back’ that you’re talking about?” He pauses for a beat, clenching his jaw. “What kind of… connection, do you mean?”
“I’ve come to…” Obi-Wan exhales, slowly. He’s known this truth for a long time - longer than even the whole business with the cycles began, when he saw Anakin, bright and beaming, emerge victorious from trials. When he was handed the braid, and coiled it in a box beside his own. It would be plain foolish to try and couch the sentiment in yet more diplomatic phrasings and fancy expressions. It’s undeniable. Still, the words feel new when they leave his mouth. “I love you.”
Anakin sits there, eyes wide and mouth agape in stunned silence.
Then his eyes flutter. Something brims over his long lower lashes, glimmering in the morning sun, catching light as it trails down his cheek. Then another, and another, rolling, dripping from his chin. His breathing quickens and quickens into raggedness, and when he finally makes a sound, it’s a choked, hiccuped little thing, matching the quivering lines of his mouth corners.
Obi-Wan blinks, taken aback by the display. He can’t remember the last time he’s seen Anakin cry; when he was a padawan, maybe, righteously frustrated at the state of the galaxy. But Anakin’s parting his lips, and speaking, and just—
“Obi-Wan.” His voice is nasal. And small, and quiet, and cracking. “I love you too.”
Obi-Wan’s heart stops.
It can’t be true. Anakin—Anakin deserves more than him, doesn’t he? But damn it if he still has the focus to think about shoulds or who deserves what in this moment. He leans forward, scoots closer, wrapping his arms around Anakin and pulling him to his chest.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Anakin…”
Anakin clutches back at him with fierce desperation, sniffling gracelessly. He presses his wet eyes to the crook of Obi-Wan’s neck. Obi-Wan revels in the solid warmth of his form against his chest, caught between joy and pain. “I didn’t think—I never thought—” He’s half hiccuping and half laughing, giddy and ridiculous and so wonderfully dear to him. “Never thought you would...”
“And yet I do.” Obi-Wan sighs softly into Anakin’s hair. “I should be better for you, Anakin. We shouldn’t… We are Jedi.”
At those words, Anakin shudders, and Obi-Wan’s heart could break right there. He lets his fingers curl in Anakin’s robes, pulling him closer and closer despite his misgivings. The Order and the Code have been his entire life - but then again, isn’t Anakin?
“I know, Master. But I can’t, I can’t stop loving you,” he whispers hoarsely. “I can’t do it just because I’m told to.”
There’s such real desperation in Anakin’s voice. Obi-Wan reaches across their bond, and Anakin allows him in, allows him to feel the strangest mix of defeat and hope, fear and determination. So he lets down his shields as well - not just the outermost layers, but all of them, such that Anakin may feel every ounce of love and concern and everything he feels for him.
It’s not sustainable, to indulge. With power comes responsibility, and a Jedi has so much of both. It’s not responsible for the likes of them to feel so sharply for each other, to love so deeply that they would put each other above all others. But Anakin is right - maybe there is no point in trying to quash a love that has refused to extinguish for so, so long.
He takes Anakin’s face in his hands and tilts his head up, dabbing the tears from his face. “...Neither can I,” he admits, his smile slight, but there. “And no amount of meditation or reciting the Code will change that.”
Anakin’s eyes slide to half-mast, fresh tears straying down his face. He sniffles and smiles back, covering Obi-Wan’s hand with his own and nuzzling against his palm. His hair tumbles from behind his ear, brushing so soft against Obi-Wan’s fingers. Obi-Wan’s heart seems to have grown too big for his chest, his pulse surely loud enough for the entire lodge to hear.
“It doesn’t have to change.” Anakin blinks out the last drops from his eyes. “I’m just happy you told me. Now, when you touch me and I think I love you, it won’t hurt. ‘Cause I know you love me too. That’s enough.”
Backlit by pale daylight, Anakin’s figure glows softly at the golden edges of his curls and sun-kissed skin. His smile is tear-stained and tender, and his eyes shine; his Force presence pulses, spun from pure joy itself. Obi-Wan’s thumb skims over his reddened cheek, wiping away the wetness, marveling at the brilliant man before him, savoring that he can finally let himself feel this. He’s so beautiful, isn’t he? And how many times has this thought strayed into his mind while Obi-Wan is busying himself with other things?
“Nothing has to change, Master,” Anakin whispers, turning his head to kiss Obi-Wan’s palm. “Nobody has to know this. Only us.”
A smile curves across Obi-Wan’s lips, broad and bright. Both his hand cradles Anakin’s face, guiding him close. For the first time, he leans in with parted lips, softly meeting Anakin’s. Anakin freezes for a split second, seemingly still taken by surprise; yet as soon as the first hesitant beat passes, he’s desperate, shivering as he tilts his head to kiss him deeper. His fingers curl into Obi-Wan’s robes, into his hair; he tastes like the salt of tears and the sweetness of overripe longing, and that is alright. Obi-Wan gentles him with a squeeze on the nape of his neck, peppering little pecks to his mouth as their lips pillow together. Anakin’s shaky breath mingles with his own. When Obi-Wan opens his eyes, he finds Anakin’s eyes squeezed shut.
“Will you, um”—Anakin pants in bated breaths, as quiet as such quick breathing can be—“do that again? Please...”
Anakin is a live wire against him. His fear and desire is palpable through their bond, if not in his breathless voice alone. The question sounds like he is asking if Obi-Wan would ever do that again, and Obi-Wan can’t have such doubts plaguing his darling any longer.
“I won’t leave you bereft, dear one,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss between his eyes, to one cheek bone, then the other.
Anakin shivers again, smiling, basking in the affection, relishing the gentle kisses and the ticklish brush of Obi-Wan’s beard on his skin. "Master..."
Obi-Wan brings him in for another kiss. This time, Anakin knows, laying himself so sweet and pliant for him, so Obi-Wan lingers, lips parting, tongue sliding against Anakin’s. Anakin lets him in, lets him taste, lets him hear the soft little Mmn at the back of his throat. There's no urgency nor necessity in place for an excuse, because they don't need any. It makes his stomach flutter and his chest warm, to be able to do this without the expectation of going farther. He can just pull Anakin back, feel the warm, welcome weight of him in his arms, and just drown in the sensation. He’s never felt this oneness before - oneness with Anakin, and oneness with the force, as if he finally found his whole.
His hand drifts down Anakin’s chest just to slip within his robes and press flat against his heart, fingers spreading wide against the heated skin, splaying over his heart. “I suppose this was always an eventuality,” he murmurs when they finally part to breathe. “Cycle or no.”
Anakin’s breath stutters. He raises a hand to cover Obi-Wan’s, smiling, flushing. "Was it?" He leans their foreheads together, smiling. "I never dared to hope, Master."
Obi-Wan laughs, kissing the corner of his smile just because he can. “Because you think far too much of me. I’m hardly an infallible Jedi.” He doesn’t mind nearly as much as he makes it out to be, just smiling as he kisses along Anakin’s jaw, then a spot beneath it, lips lingering on his pulse. How beautifully it quickens.
"You certainly make it seem that way." Anakin gives a small laugh, tilting his head back to make way. Anakin likes this, Obi-Wan notes, likes being touched warm rather than searing, being kissed sweet and deliberate. Obi-Wan supposes he always been noting everything Anakin likes, everything that makes him receptive, everything that makes him sigh and hum and moan - but this is the first time he dares to acknowledge it. He’s grateful for it; so grateful that he decides he should let Anakin know exactly how fallible a Jedi he is.
“I knew what the Stewjoni thought when they looked at us in the transport,” Obi-Wan murmurs against his skin, his face warming. “I like that they can smell me on you.”
Anakin hums. "Oh, so do I," he says, fingers threading through Obi-Wan's hair. "I like being yours."
“Just as I am yours.” No matter what Anakin calls him, they are absolute equals - Anakin holds his heart just as he holds Anakin’s, both of them perfectly matched. He doesn’t so much pull away as rearrange them, laying back, keeping Anakin close. They lower themselves onto the bed, tangled together, Anakin burying his nose in his hair, Obi-Wan’s lips still blessedly close to Anakin’s neck. Like this, Obi-Wan is free to press small kisses to his pulse whenever he wants, just as Anakin can kiss the top of his head at his will. Their warm breaths roll over each other’s skin, and they can wrap each other tight in their arms like they have longed to do for so long now.
“It may be difficult to rise when the Prime Minister calls,” Obi-Wan remarks, kissing a trail up Anakin’s jaw. He will never tire of those sighs - especially now that he knows just why he affects Anakin so. Perhaps Anakin was right. Just knowing is enough.
"I guess so," Anakin says, not even a bit concerned, his smile bright even just from the sounds of his words. When he shifts, it’s only to fit their bodies closer together. "It's fine. We’ll have all night.” A pause. “I wish we hadn’t switched rooms, though.”
Obi-Wan shakes his head, laughing quietly against Anakin’s skin. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll make this work just fine.”