Chapter Text
Pour un flirt
Qui-Gon regretted coming.
The music was too loud, his cocktail was warm and too strong, he didn't enjoy the occasional brush of sweaty skin against his body and there was a growing, foreboding feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him he was in for a killer hungover the next morning. He wasn't sure finishing his drink would be a brilliant idea, but his colleague Jaycen had paid for everyone's drink this round and he did not want to seem rude.
Qui-Gon had agreed to it. It had been sold to him as a quiet drink between friends to celebrate Professor Kij's coming retirement, and despite the promising novel and warm tea he could already picture waiting for him at home, he had agreed to join for what he expected to be an hour or two maximum of social interactions with his peers. He hadn't seen any harm in it. He liked his peers, and Kij had been a great support when he started teaching at the University. It was hard to imagine what his work day would look like without the caring Twi'Lek's presence, and it felt fitting to join the little party Hye Jun and Na Latun, two teachers from the sociology department, had organized for him.
Qui-Gon took another sip and hid a grimace. He felt tired. He had a long day and had spent all of his energy on the tests he had graded and the classes he had taught. He should have gone home. Or, realistically, he should have stopped drinking when the evening was still fun instead of drowning his growing boredom in more cocktails.
He scanned the cantina, looking for an excuse to get away from the group and discreetly empty his drink, and was about to mutter something about needing the fresher when he met a striking gaze across the room. He couldn't make out the color, the dim lights of the cantina didn't allow him to, but there was something about the stranger's eyes that left his knees weak and stole his breath, his heartbeat picking up until he could feel his heart hammer against his ribs. Was he-, was he scared? Or was it something else entirely? He swallowed only to find his throat parched and something hot sparkled in his gut when the man smirked.
Na moved in front of him and hid his view. “Are you feeling well?”
“Just a bit tired,” he answered with a smile. “I think I'll head outside for a smoke. See you in a bit.”
“Sure.”
When he moved, the person he had been staring at wasn't there anymore. Disappointed, he headed outside with his warm cocktail, avoiding other inebriated patrons, and figured he could at least pretend for a while. He hadn't smoked in months, and he didn't even have a pack, but it was the only thing he had managed to come up with that would allow him to get out of the cantina and didn't imply he was going to be sick. The fresh air would hopefully dissipate the hot, feverish inebriation that was ensnaring his senses and made his walk unsure at best. Even more hopefully, the others would have forgotten about him by the time he was done and he would be able to slip away unnoticed.
He shouldn't have drunk so much.
The outside air, just as planned, felt rather nice. The loudness had dimmed to a much more manageable level and dimmed even more when he slid into a narrow alley next to the cantina. He let out a relieved sigh when he settled against the wall of the building. Ord Mantell's nights weren't cold by any means, but after the suffocating warmth of the cantina, the crisp air nearly burned his lungs.
He brought the drink to his lips, wanting to wash away the burning feeling and the dryness of his throat, but something behind his tongue curled threateningly, nausea pooling in his stomach. Wisely, he put the drink down on the ground and basked in the fresh air, trying to clear his head. Should he ask for a smoke? There weren't many people outside, even fewer near the alley, and his perceptions felt warped. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea that he talked with anyone when he was feeling this wrecked.
Once upon a time, Qui-Gon would have used the Force to clean his bloodstream of the toxin, but that was then and this was now. He had given up on the higher power for too long to start using it again in a deserted alleyway for something so trivial. He'd deal with it, and deal with the headache and nausea that would assuredly follow him into the weekend. The Force wasn't about getting an easy way out of a hungover anyway.
Straightening made his back scream and his vision blur for a moment, and he had to lean against the wall to avoid crashing down.
He felt old. And drunk. And observed.
Why? Why did he feel observed?
Qui-Gon didn't quite manage to step away from the wall but looked up with a frown and saw a Zabrak smoking, leaning on the opposite wall of the narrow alley. He was staring, and with a startle, he realized he recognized that gaze. It was the man from before, the one that had been looking at him. He stared back, taking in the sharp cut of his jawline, the well-defined muscles of his forearms, the unabashed, predatory look the man was giving him, and a heat that had nothing to do with his previous predicament bloomed in his abdomen.
Gorgeous.
“Do you have a stick?” he asked before he could stop himself, the words tumbling awkwardly from his lips.
It was stupid. He looked stupid. He had drunk too much. He should go home, sleep it off. He didn't even want to smoke, and he certainly didn't want to humiliate himself further by revealing his drunken state to the beautiful being that made his knees tremble. The fact he barely managed to string a sentence and was most likely blushing like a teenager in front of his crush was already embarrassing enough.
The Zabrak raised a brow but pulled out another one from his pack. He put it in his mouth, using his already lit one to light the stick, then handed it to him and let the smoke drip from his lips. His heart missed a beat but he managed to grab the stick with trembling hands and take a drag of it, purposely not thinking about where it had been moments ago. He wanted to cough, the smoke angrily biting his lungs and throat. He tried, but he could not stop thinking about those lips wrapped around the tip of it. When he looked up and met the stranger's gaze once more his entire body shuddered.
“Thank you,” Qui-Gon finally managed, the smoke leaving his mouth as he spoke.
The other shrugged, tossing the butt of his stick on the ground, and took a few steps towards the entrance of the cantina.
Wrong.
He didn't even have his name. He didn't want him to leave. He didn't want to go back inside the sweaty cantina. Jaycen would be gloating about his promotion again, tricking him into getting another drink. If he drank more, he'd vomit. Na was already worried, she would baby him all night instead of finally having fun herself, and Kij-. Oh, he couldn't ruin Kij's party. No, no, he couldn't go back inside. He couldn't and-. He wanted to know his name.
He didn't want him to leave.
“Wait!” he said, his hand outstretched.
The other turned, eyes narrowed, pupils blown wide. “What?” he asked, and his voice was low, velvety, impossibly soft. He took in the extended hand and something in his expression shifted. “Don't like the taste?” he taunted.
Qui-Gon took another drag, intent on proving him wrong, face flushed. “I didn't quite catch it,” he replied, feeling very proud of himself for finding a comeback to the disorienting stranger's barb in spite of the alcohol in his blood.
He didn't think twice about how it could have been interpreted until two warm lips crashed on his and stole his breath. His eyes widened, but he leaned in, lips parting open.
His chest felt like it was being set on fire in the most delicious way, his skin burning from the contact. A hand found the back of his head, shifting their angle, and he sighed into the kiss, his fingers finding the soft fabric covering the other's back and burying into it. He tried to think, to analyze, but his brain was frozen in a drunken stupor and he cared only for the tongue brushing against his. The stranger tasted like smoke and whiskey and sin, his lips warm, demanding, and there was nothing Qui-Gon could have done to avoid melting against him, breathlessly kissing him in that dark alley.
When he woke up, the first thing he noticed was that his head hurt. The pain pounded against his temples, snaked around his neck, and spread along every single one of his nerve endings, kind reminders that heavy drinking was best left to the younger generation.
The second thing he noticed was that he was not at home. The bed was unfamiliar. The room set up told him right away it was a hotel room and not someone's house. The bed sheets were tangled around his legs, the material soft enough to hint at an expensive one. The furniture similarly evoked luxury, and from the large window's view, he appeared to be in one of the towers of the business district or close. A long way from his home, but somewhat close to the bar, if one fancied a ten to fifteen-minute walk across town.
Had they walked?
One-night stands were also best left to the younger generation. Qui-Gon was entirely too old for the questions that coursed his mind. Getting on his feet felt embarrassingly complicated and he wobbled for a bit, trying to find his bearings.
He ignored the headache and inspected the room. He was alone, his clothes scattered on an ominous trail leading from the door to the bed, and there were used protections in the trash. Three. No wonder his legs and core ached. He could barely remember the last time he had sex with someone, and he certainly hadn't pushed himself this far-. Well, ever. A tiny bottle sat at the bottom of the trash can, emptied but still smelling vaguely like artificial cherries. A chemical help, supposed to make any preparation obsolete. He had heard about it but never used it before. He didn't like the idea of skipping through the process, it took away from the experience in his eyes. Na called him old school.
Qui-Gon cast another look at the trash can and raised a brow. Well apparently, his inebriated self hadn't objected to it. Or he hadn't been given a choice. From what he could tell, he hadn't been the one inhaling the gas. He could not picture himself making that decision for somebody else, even after way too many syrupy cocktails.
He grabbed a bottle of water from the room's fridge and let the cold liquid soothe his throat and thoughts. He couldn't recall exactly how they had gone from the cantina to the hotel, nor put together a cohesive timeline, but his memories were slowly coming back. Tearing at each other's clothes, letting the Zabrak push him onto the bed and straddle him, then-.
Qui-Gon sighed. His head was killing him, he should find a way to go home and take some medicine then try to sleep it off, musing over the acrobatics he had pulled wasn't going anywhere productive.
He gathered his clothes, lightly put off by the stench of alcohol and smoke, got dressed, and found his comm unit and wallet under the bed near the bedside table. A failed attempt, most likely, but at least drunken-him had tried to be thoughtful. Sweet.
It didn't make his descent toward the ground floor any nicer. He knew what he looked like, he had met his reflection in the refresher's mirror. Disheveled, covered in bite marks and reddish bruises his shirt didn't fully hide, with heavy dark circles and creased clothing. The picture of someone that had spent the night getting wrecked. He wanted nothing more than to flee any social interaction, his headache still crippling, but if his unnamed lover had left like a thief, there was a good chance he hadn't handled the room's fees and he was an honest man.
“May I help you?” the receptionist at the front desk asked when he stopped in front of her.
He gave her the room pass, that had been left on a table near the door. “I wanted to return this, and pay for the room, please.”
“4102. Hm. It has already been paid for, sir,” she replied, vaguely confused.
Surprising. “Perfect.”
She took the pass and gave him a fake smile. “Have a good day, sir.”
“You too.”
He got out, took in the street he was in, and hailed a cab to take him back to his flat. The hotel had been located in a part of town he seldom went to, lodged in between the business district and the posh avenues where the high-end stores were situated. It was an expensive one, not the type of hotel he would have expected a random guy he had met at a cantina to pick. Was it meant to impress him? He couldn't picture it being a split-second decision when it was decently far from the cantina. Had he been on a business trip, and taken him back to his room? Had he told him? He couldn't remember them discussing. He could only remember himself blabbering about how great the man was and making sure he was okay, but from what he recalled they hadn't chatted about the room or the hotel or anything unrelated to what they had done or were doing at the time.
The sight of his familiar building was a relief and cut short his unkind thoughts about the type of room he deserved for following a stranger for sex after drinking his weight in photon fizzle. The wind chimes rang when he opened the door, light and airy and terrible for his migraine, and he immediately headed for the medicine box he kept in his refresher, pulling out a pill for his headache and swallowing it dry.
Sleeping didn't seem too appealing, so after a long, hard shower he spent questioning his life choices he settled in front of the HoloTV with a teapot and opened the new book he had downloaded on his datapad. His initial plan to end the work week on a pleasant note.
He huffed and dropped the datapad once he realized looking at the screen made his head feel ten times worse.
He couldn't call his night unpleasant if he was honest with himself. Unexpected, sure, intense, definitely, and out of his comfort zone, but not unpleasant. He couldn't recall anything particularly negative about the encounter and his indulgent, intoxicated self had thought it was the best lay he ever had. Which, if it didn't mean much considering the context, at least told him he had enjoyed himself thoroughly.
The stranger hadn't given him his name, nor left a frequency behind. He wasn't interested in seeing him again, most likely, and Qui-Gon wasn't either.
Ord Mantell was simple, easy. He was teaching galactic history, had found some great friends in his colleagues, and lived a quiet life. Something he had wanted. Needed. He had never been looking to settle down with someone, and if he had, that man wouldn't be his first choice. Appearances were often deceiving, sure, but he looked fairly young and exuded trouble by all the ridiculously small pores of his skin. The idea he was some sort of rebel or outcast added to his attractiveness, if Qui-Gon was honest with himself, but it wasn't what he sought out in a partner. Even if it was, and it wasn't, it was not, old pledges were hard to forget. He wasn't sure he would be able to commit to anything. He wasn't sure he wanted to, either. The last time he had sworn himself to someone-.
Qui-Gon gritted his teeth and avoided the memories threatening to swarm him. It was easier to stay general. Forming attachments had been against his creed for too long not to leave marks on his way of approaching relationships. Right? It had nothing to do with the rest. Nothing. That guy didn't mean anything to him, and even if he did harbor a desire to see him again, which he did not, he hadn't even left a note behind.
He didn't care, most likely. He had picked up Qui-Gon like he probably picked up a new guy every week, and he doubted he would even remember his face by the end of the weekend. He could have anyone he wanted, he was hot and young, and mysterious, whereas Qui-Gon was a middle-aged teacher in an unimpressive university that wore homemade knitted jumpers and had an alarming amount of gray hairs. He probably hadn't even been the Zabrak's first choice that night, just the easy one.
The thought hurt. More than he expected it to. It never felt good to admit that he wasn't special, that to this man he might already be a vague memory. Then again, Qui-Gon had been raised a humble Jedi, and the idea that this whole thing was a one-time occurrence that wouldn't disturb the shallow peace he had created for himself on Ord Mantell was somewhat comforting.
He hold on to it as he dozed off, and figured he would not waste another day thinking about the one-night stand. It had been nice, it would not happen again. End of the story.
By the time Qui-Gon went back to the university to teach, the stranger he had met the past Zhellday was but a distant memory and he felt back to normal. He had taught his first two classes as he usually did, then went to grab lunch with his colleagues before the afternoon started.
Hye Jun and Kij were already seated when he joined them and greeted him as usual. It soon appeared that they were discussing their outing, and Qui-Gon followed their discussion with mounting unease. Rationally, he had done nothing wrong. He didn't have to justify himself for leaving early, especially when Na had noticed he wasn't feeling well, and he was quite sure nobody had caught him snogging a much younger man behind the cantina. Relationships weren't all rational, though, and he had no wish to be judged or perceived differently because of his actions. What happened was none of their business, and if push came to shove, he would either lie or omit the part of the truth that didn't suit his narrative.
“You left early,” Hye Jun half-stated, half-questioned. “Na told us you didn't look too well.”
Qui-Gon hummed in assent. “I went outside for some fresh air but it didn't help, so I took a cab home. What happened after?”
Kij smiled. “You didn't miss much, Jaycen started a fight with a Falleen at least twice his size about spilling his drink not even twenty minutes after you left. It was getting nasty, so we dragged him outside, went to grab some food, and headed home.”
Unsurprising. Out of their group of friends, Jaycen was his least favorite. He was hot-headed, impulsive, and arrogant. He was also generous and loyal to a fault, and it made his abrasive behavior easier to tolerate, but sometimes he just wished the man would close his mouth.
A whisper at the back of his mind told him Jaycen hadn't left his friend's party without even saying goodbye to get railed by a stranger in a fancy hotel room, though. He quieted it.
Na joined them, closely followed by Jaycen, and both commented on their outing as well before switching topics. Jaycen looked mildly embarrassed about the fight, and Na mentioned stepping outside to find him, but by the time she had gotten out of the cantina, Qui-Gon was already gone. He briefly thanked the Force for its mercy and repeated his lie.
Nothing came out of it, everyone believed him and the topic soon switched to the preparation of the end-of-term exams. The discussion reignited his thoughts though, and he found himself thinking back on it at home that evening while looking at the remnants of the marks left by his wild night.
It wasn't like him. He didn't understand why the man had troubled him so much, nor why he had been so forward. He remembered his words about the taste of his stick, and he hadn't been half as smart as he had thought when he had pronounced them. He had blurted out his desire at the Zabrak's face from the moment their gazes had met, had all but dissolved in his embrace. He recalled how his body had burned for him, shutting off his common sense and leaving him a vulnerable, eager mess in his hands.
He had never felt this attracted to someone, alcohol or not. The pull in his chest, the heat in his gut, it had been so distinctive, so strong he could still remember it clearly days after. Thinking back on it still made his breath short and his legs wobbly.
Qui-Gon had no answers as to why and decided to bury it back and leave it there.
----
Maul twirled the card between his fingers and let out a sigh.
Why had he taken it?
He hadn't wanted to join Ziton and Moj in their stupid weekly debauchery in the first place, but one of his shipments had been intercepted by the Hutts and he had needed an outlet that didn't involve dismembering someone. He was scaring his men by doing shit like that, behaving like the Master, and that wasn't what he wanted.
The stranger's eyes had caught his in the cantina, and he hadn't missed the blush that had spread on his neck, nor the expression on his face. Lust. Curiosity. Want. He had known the man would throw himself at him given the right opportunity, and he had provided it anyway.
Why?
Maul frowned, and settled deeper in his armchair, looking over the city. He knew why. He had been frustrated, lightly buzzed, and the man had been too stupidly pretty, with his soft light hair and striking blue eyes, for him to resist kissing him when he so obviously craved it. He had started toying with his pants in the alley, desperate for more, but Maul hadn't been that buzzed and offered to bring him to a hotel instead. They had walked there, pulling each other into every dark corner of the streets for heated kisses, and by the time they got there the man was disheveled and their pants were more than a little uncomfortable. It had been unbecoming, they had pawed at each other like beasts in heat, tearing off clothes. Maul had barely managed to find time to inhale the gas, and waiting for it to act had been excruciating.
Leaving the room with the man still alive and sound asleep in the bed they had shared hadn't been more glorious.
Everyone he slept with had to die.
It had been a matter of personal safety before, he couldn't let any information about his preferences or weaknesses get out, or else it would be used against him. The Master had done it, once, tortured and killed the poor sod he had debased himself with to punish him for a stupid mistake he had made on his last mission. He had wanted to hurt Maul. He had succeeded. Maul had sworn not to let it happen ever again.
It had been infrequent, but when he had felt the unfamiliar ache pulse in his loins, he had gone for meaner people, people he wouldn't care about killing afterward. He knew how to spot them, heard their vile thoughts through the Force. They tended to reveal their darkest self pretty fast. They spoke nice and smiled and all before, but as soon as they thought they had the upper hand, as soon as Maul was under them, they got nasty. They took, if he let them, and then tried to get more, to make him bend, submit. Maul had very little tolerance for disrespect and even less for foolish attempts at blackmail. It was just easier that way. They fucked Maul, and then they died.
Maul hadn't slept with anyone since he had gotten free. He was trying to curb his habit to kill people for petty reasons. Not being like the Master and all that. It had been easy. Most people weren't particularly interesting, and he had no taste for parties. Maul worked, assigned himself missions when he felt the need to move, got back to Ord Mantell, and worked some more. No waves, no incidents, and no stupid kills. He tried to listen to his men's opinions, even when he didn't care what they thought. He tried to tame his darker feelings when things did not go his way, he even went to a couple of appointments with a specialist when he started to realize how strange his upbringing had been. Maul had been doing well, according to Maul, and frankly, he did not miss the nasty feeling that used to cling to him like mud when he snapped someone's neck after sleeping with them. He had thought all was good. Safe. He had thought he had found some sort of balance, finally.
That guy had triggered something, the pull he felt towards him stronger than anything he had felt before. It had been strange, to want someone, and not simply want someone to quell his existing desires. He had been nice, too, gentle, even in his drunken state, asking what he liked, if what he was doing felt good, if he could do this or that. He had praised him, told Maul how perfect he felt, how beautiful he looked, how grateful he was to be spending the night with him. He had been honest, he could tell. Maul had never experienced anything even remotely similar to that. He didn't remember one time when people had tried communicating with him during sex, apart from degrading words and the usual non-verbal cues that they were enjoying themselves. He had liked it. A lot.
It hadn't stopped him from standing above his spent lover after he had fallen asleep, the blade he always kept in his boot trembling in his hand.
He hadn't done it. He couldn't. The man had been too nice, the sex too good, and he had just been laying there, his face serene. Kriff! He had even wriggled closer when Maul had lowered the blade and sat on the bed, sighing when their skin brushed once more. Maul had pushed his unruly hair out of his face and pressed his hand on his cheek. The man had leaned in, completely trusting Maul, and he-. He hadn't been able to kill him. Not this time.
He had taken the stupid card from his wallet, and he had left.
He gazed at the card, the name of the man taunting him. Qui-Gon Jinn.
“Who are you, Qui-Gon Jinn?” he whispered, nails grazing at the name.
Maul had his address, on the card. He could still correct his mistake and kill him. Purge the weakness before it became a liability. He should go there and snap his neck. Make it seem like he fell down the stairs or whatever made the most sense. He should.
He would.