Chapter Text
1.
Over the years, Anakin had learned how to read his Master. Behind the air of refinement and the impervious control that kept Obi-Wan’s back ramrod straight in even the most dire of situations, Anakin saw the taut line of his shoulders that spoke of his stubbornness, the deep exhalation that told his exasperation, and the raised brow that revealed his wry amusement. These were things that Anakin liked to think only he could see, though he knew it to be untrue whenever they found themselves in the company of others who had known his Master for just as long, if not longer, than him.
Simply put, it irked him. Not always, but in those first few years of his apprenticeship, it annoyed him that despite spending more time with the man than anyone else, he could never get a thorough read on him. This vexation lasted throughout his teenage years, potent enough that it often made him snappish and irritable, forever frustrated that his Master remained coiled tight and hidden from him when his own emotions flared as volatile as a supernova, available for all to see no matter how hard he tried to impose the Jedi’s urge for self-discipline.
But at the ripe age of eighteen, something changed. On Trevo, after watching his Master be fret and fawned over by the government's elite, Obi-Wan miraculously peeled himself away from wanton eyes and returned to sit by his side, and for the first time ever, Anakin truly noticed the hands that rose to smooth back long copper hair. Anakin sat, speechless, not understanding why the simple action had his stomach twisting oddly. The hands were thick and broad, so strong, with callouses to match his own. Nails were neatly trimmed and veins stood stark against fair skin as Obi-Wan flexed them, bringing one down to pick up his glass. Light, sparse hair covered knuckles and the large surface of the back of the hands, before disappearing beneath his Master’s sleeves where Anakin knew the hair darkened and thickened across forearms.
A deep ache made Anakin squirm in his seat, his cheeks flushing as his thoughts churned up mortifying fantasies. Of those hands pressing and spreading, slick and—
Anakin made a soft, stricken noise and looked away, only for his attention to be drawn back in when his Master rubbed a hand through his coarse beard. The way it looked spread across Obi-Wan’s chin and jaw looked so…powerful, and caught his attention so that it felt like he had been clobbered over the head. His hands were larger than Anakin would have guessed, with rough lines beginning to show his Master’s age, likely to become more deeply etched in the years to come.
That was—it was his Master, it was Obi-Wan, the man who pushed him and tested him and almost made tears spring to his eyes at the slightest praise, who would sometimes give him a rare, private smile, the one that deepened the crinkle lines surrounding his eyes—
Anakin blinked and turned away, feeling fraught and confused. He knew, absently, that Obi-Wan was handsome. He would have had to be an idiot to not notice how men and women and various species lusted after his Master, but it had always been an abstract acknowledgement—he had never given a moment's thought as to why or what exactly it was about Obi-Wan that made him so attractive.
Only now, on this mid-rim planet, with Obi-Wan’s robes slightly dishevelled and his cheeks a soft pink from alcohol, he had never looked so far removed from the composed Jedi Master Anakin knew him to be. Here, he became so handsome. So tempting. So charming.
With a frown, Anakin realised his gaze had returned to Obi-Wan’s hands, snared by their broadness, their strength. Karking hell, but the sight of them lit a line of want sparking up his spine.
Anakin took a deep breath and went to turn away once again, only for his focus to be snagged by something odd, and very interesting. From one of those hands two fingers eagerly tapped at a solid thigh, quick and repetitive. That was unusual, Anakin couldn’t recall any occasion where he had ever seen his Master be impatient. Perhaps Anakin hadn’t cared to notice before and only did now because of this new—reaction he had to Obi-Wan’s hands.
He continued to watch, an ever-growing sense of wanting to boast swelling within him. Impatience was his trait, and he had become well accustomed to listening to Obi-Wan lecture him on its faults. Maybe he finally had a chance at returning one of those incredibly boring speeches.
“Something wrong, Master?” he asked, jovial, if not a little high-pitched.
Obi-Wan turned toward him casually, though it did nothing to stop the persistent tapping of his fingers.
“No,” he finally answered, eyeing him with interest. “What about yourself, Anakin? You’re looking a little flustered.”
Additional heat immediately roiled beneath his cheeks. “I’m okay,” he breathed, reedy and thin.
Obi-Wan’s eyebrows raised then, before he went back to watching the crowd of elite he had just left. Anakin followed his gaze, wondering what it was that had firmly caught his Master’s attention. A cargo worth of tektite might as well have dropped to his stomach when his eyes landed on a graceful, blonde aide. Anakin observed her, his tumultuous Force signature crackling as he did so, flaring deep and jagged when her eyes flicked up, catching his Master’s, and were held there with an intensity that made Anakin’s chest ache.
It shouldn’t have been surprising, but it was. Over the years, he had never actually seen his Master reciprocate any kind of interest, and it made him want to tug at his and Obi-Wan’s golden smattered bond and demand that he stop. Anakin wouldn’t have noticed this before—before those karking hands, and now he knew exactly what Obi-Wan’s type seemed to be—tall and beguiling, with an air of pride, fair hair, and sharp, fierce eyes.
And with that, Anakin realised with a jolt of shock that he was jealous.
Kriff that wasn’t good. He had to let this go, or get Obi-Wan as far away from him as possible.
“You can leave,” Anakin said petulantly, slumping down in his seat.
His Master frowned in confusion at the abrupt dismissal. “Pardon?”
Anakin nodded towards the woman. “You can go to her. I’ll be okay on my own.”
Obi-Wan’s expression went flabbergasted then embarrassed before landing on stoic. “I couldn’t possibly know what you mean,” he said sternly, fingers still tapping away.
Anakin rolled his eyes, unfazed by the harsh tone. His Master always became defensive when he found himself caught in a lie. “She obviously wants you to go to her, Master. Go and get laid,” Anakin huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Anakin!” Obi-Wan said sharply.
“What?” Anakin smirked. “Am I wrong?”
“It is highly inappropriate for you to even suggest such a thing,” Obi-Wan scorned. “We are on a mission—”
Anakin sighed and picked up his own glass, taking a small sip of the scarlet liquid. “We’ve completed our mission—successfully,” he enunciated, waving a hand towards the feast around them, “—that’s why this is being held in our honour.”
He held Obi-Wan’s eyes, defiant, and almost preened when his Master narrowed blue eyes at him. “It would be improper of me,” Obi-Wan said quietly.
Anakin shrugged, feigning indifference, knowing how it would infuriate his Master, and chucked him a strained smile. “But it wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”
“Anakin.”
The confirmation disguised as a warning made his stomach turn over from envy, a steep weight settling there unpleasantly. One thing was certain then, Obi-Wan had been doing this for years, and Anakin had been oblivious to it the whole time. Never let it be said that his Master lacked finesse or tact, Anakin thought resentfully, the man had apparently been roaming the galaxy seducing whoever took his fancy for decades. If possible, Anakin slouched even more so in his seat and scowled down at Obi-Wan’s now still hand.
“I’m an adult now, Master, you don’t have to stay with me,” Anakin said, his voice very small.
Obi-Wan exhaled hard and gave Anakin a tight smile. “I’m aware. Anakin, I hope you know that I’ve always tried to keep that aspect of my life separate from our relationship and your training,” he said carefully.
His Master peered at him with the familiar mentoring expression he always gave when talking Anakin through a particularly difficult conversation. Usually, it was an expression Anakin welcomed, for Obi-Wan’s kindness and understanding were things he held onto when so much else often left him unmoored and untethered. Except now, it only served to remind Anakin of who he was to Obi-Wan, his young Padawan who still required his Master’s support and his forever platonic and unwavering love.
Anakin wanted more, he wanted to be on the receiving end of that look that he shouldn’t have seen, where a heady, elusive passion lurked where Anakin had never thought it to be. He wanted to see his Master without the decorum of propriety, and he wanted to be soothed and held by hands that were capable of many great things, but that always wielded Obi-Wan’s kindness in an earnest, brave grip.
A wave of melancholy swept through him then, and he had to purposefully square his shoulders and strengthen his voice when he replied, “I know, but now you don’t need to.”
Obi-Wan quirked an eyebrow his way, and Anakin rushed out a flustered response, “All I mean is that I understand that—that, you know—” He blushed furiously and sent his Master a look of imploration.
Obi-Wan curled him an amused smile, that playful look he sometimes got sparking behind his eyes and causing Anakin’s breath to hitch in his throat. “Oh, I think I do, but I’m enjoying this far too much to intervene. Please, don’t stop your babbling on my behalf, Padawan,” he teased.
“Obi-Wan!” Anakin said, scandalised.
“Go on.”
Anakin felt so hot, both embarrassed and pleased by this devilish side of his Master. He looked intently at anywhere but Obi-Wan and took a deep breath, “I understand that you have needs. ”
Obi-Wan cast him an impish smirk with a glint in his eyes. “Indeed.”
The low tone and teasing expression made Anakin strangely warm. Both were usually a rarity, and he became very aware that Obi-Wan truly was treating him like an adult, not yet an equal, though that was only a few years off. It felt new and thrilling, his signature rippling warm and open between them.
“Well,” Obi-Wan began awkwardly, standing from his seat and looking down at Anakin, his expression uncharacteristically soft, “I suppose I’ll get going then.”
“Okay,” Anakin murmured, languorously raking his eyes up at Obi-Wan’s figure and masking the pounding of his heart with a smile.
“Don’t be late for the farewell address tomorrow morning,” Obi-Wan said dryly, smoothing down his robes with hands now steady and sure.
“I won’t,” Anakin said, unimpressed, trying to escape the discomfort crawling up his throat. “Have a good time,” he mumbled sullenly.
His Master gave him a rakish grin and strode away, and Anakin watched, slightly sick with longing as Obi-Wan reached his target and leaned in to whisper something in the woman’s ear, one large hand coming down to rest on the small of her back.
Anakin swallowed, hard, and turned away, cursing his Master and those hands that he shouldn’t have wanted to feel on himself instead.