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Qui-Gon doesn’t realize just how drunk Obi-Wan is, how drunk they both are, until they finally manage to free themselves from the press of bodies and slip out into the blessedly cool and empty air of the hallway. Qui-Gon hates senatorial functions, hates the politics and the oily feeling that surrounds most politicians he’s met in his life, and he leans heavily against a wall once they are a safe distance away from the main room, exhaling in a relieved gust and closes his eyes, feeling the sturdy mask of Jedi Diplomat slipping away.
There is a soft thud and he opens his eyes and tilts his head to see Obi-Wan slumped next to him. He runs a hand through his copper hair, messing it up in a way is so damn becoming. There is a flash of pink as his tongue darts out to lick his lips, and Qui-Gon is transfix by it, by the tiny grin pulling on the younger man’s mouth. Obi-Wan’s eyes are soft and warm and Qui-Gon could swear they hold galaxies, shifting and shining and drawing him in closer.
Obi-Wan is saying something and laughing softly, warm puffs of air, and it sends heat bubbling up in Qui-Gon’s chest like the wine they had been drinking, light and sweet. He closes his eyes, stretches his palms up towards the vaulted ceilings, fingers loosely laced, and smiles, bright and carefree and victorious. His face is free of the shadows of worry and stress that have become increasingly present, and the bubbles in Qui-Gon’s chest pop and spread warmth like crawling vines through every fiber of his being.
Obi-Wan is so beautiful. Qui-Gon has never realized it before, just how beautiful Obi-Wan is. Except, no that’s not true. He’s always known, logically, that his former student is beautiful. But back then, when Obi-Wan had still been a Padawan, it had just been a fact. Now, now it is a realization, like feeling the sun on his face for the first time after a long space travel, or waking up after a long rest. Obi-Wan is beautiful, and it takes Qui-Gon’s breath away.
He is very drunk, Qui-Gon knows, but he can’t bring himself to care. That hardly matters, because he knows he’s right, can feel it in the Force around them, that warms and brightens with Obi-Wan’s giddy laughter as they make their slow way through the empty halls of the Senate building, towards the exit where hover-cabs await. It doesn’t matter, because Obi-Wan’s hand is warm in his, fingers long and slim and Qui-Gon is acutely aware of the feel of them against his own.
He almost trips when Obi-Wan’s grip on his hand suddenly tightens, and Qui-Gon finds himself being pulled into a section of shadow, around a corner from the main hallway. “What―” he starts, but then slim, strong arms are sliding around his waist and there is warms breath against his lips as Obi-Wan presses their foreheads together, meeting Qui-Gon’s gaze and holding it, eyes hypnotic and unendingly deep.
“Qui-Gon,” he says, voice almost a whisper, but it’s threaded through with golden strands of joy and he’s smiling like Qui-Gon just gave him a star to wear in his hair. It’s a beautiful, distracting image; Obi-Wan dressed in the deep blue almost black of the night sky, with diamond-bright stars woven into his flaming hair and beard.
“Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan says again, like a prayer, like hope and moonlight. He leans in closer, until their lips are a mere fraction away from each other, and his eyes never leave Qui-Gon’s. “I want to kiss you.”
Qui-Gon forgets how to breathe for a moment. When he remembers, he manages a whispered, “You do?”
Obi-Wan nods, and his eyes drops to Qui-Gon’s lips. Qui-Gon shivers.
“I do,” Obi-Wan breathes. He licks his lips and Qui-Gon follows the movement with his eyes. “I do. I’ve wanted to all night. All year. All my life.” He giggles, bubbly like the wine, made of some sort of mountain flower Qui-Gon has never heard of but tastes like…like music. Then he sobers, just a touch, and cups Qui-Gon’s cheek with a gentle hand. “May I kiss you?”
“Please,” Qui-Gon whispers, like there was ever any other answer.
Obi-Wan is very drunk. Qui-Gon can feel in his aura, can taste it on his lips. Perhaps that means he should stop this, should say “no” and “not now”. But he can feel no regret from Obi-Wan when their lips touch, no hesitation. And Qui-Gon is drunk too, and filled with warmth and the taste of Obi-Wan’s lips and the scent of his skin and he doesn’t care in that moment. Later, there will be time for the things they need to do, the talks they need to have. But in that moment it is just the two of them, in the dark. Obi-Wan's arms fall from Qui-Gon's waist, and Qui-Gon catches his hand and squeezes it, lacing their fingers together more securely as they kiss, again and again, until Qui-Gon is breathless and Obi-Wan is laughing, and Qui-Gon cannot think of a time where he was happier than he is in this moment.
“Let’s go home,” Qui-Gon murmurs, bending his head to kiss Obi-Wan again. “Let’s go home.”
Obi-Wan nods and smiles, and they pull apart but keep their fingers interlocked. The rest of the trip to the exit passes in silence and is completed much faster than before, both men eager for the privacy of Qui-Gon’s rooms. The cab ride passes in more silence, but Obi-Wan curls up against Qui-Gon’s side, resting his head on Qui-Gon’s shoulder with a contented sigh, and Qui-Gon would not trade the feeling for anything in the galaxy.
Somehow, they end up running through the halls of the Temple like younglings sneaking out of the crèche, and Qui-Gon is certain Obi-Wan’s giggling will get them caught, but doesn’t, and then they are in Qui-Gon’s rooms, filled with his plants that thrum in the Force, and the smell of tea and motor oil from Anakin’s projects. Qui-Gon’s Padawan is staying with Mace for the night, since both Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had known they would be home late, and so the rooms are silent but for their accelerated breathing and Obi-Wan’s muffled laughter as he presses his face against Qui-Gon’s shoulder and shakes with mirth and joy. Qui-Gon joins him, their laughter mixing in the still air, and he wraps his arms around Obi-Wan’s waist and buries his face in soft hair that smell like sunlight to muffle his laughter, because he can’t stop it, can’t stop the bubbling joy that is overflowing in his chest.
He raises his head when he feels Obi-Wan’s fingers dancing over his shoulders, pushing off his robe. The fabric crumples silently to the floor, and those fingers have already moved on, tugging at his tunics until those too have been surrendered to the floor. Obi-Wan traces meaningless patterns across Qui-Gon’s skin, fingers dipping to brush, feather-light, over the ragged scar that paints the centre of Qui-Gon’s abdomen, a vivid reminder of the Sith on Naboo and Qui-Gon’s brush with death. Obi-Wan’s fingers slow when he reaches it, and Qui-Gon feels a flicker of aching sadness. It’s a sharp contrast to the so bright joy Obi-Wan had been broadcasting, and Qui-Gon catches his hands, raises them to his lips, and presses gentle kisses to those wonderful fingers.
“Not your fault,” he whispers, gentle and soothing. “Let the past be the past.”
Obi-Wan closes his eyes, and when he opens them, the peace has return, the sadness fading slowly. He nods, and frees his hands from Qui-Gon's to pull him in for another kiss. This kiss is hotter than their kisses in the Senate dome, running fast as lighting and soaking into Qui-Gon’s bloodstream, burning away his last hesitations.
He goes willingly, eagerly, when Obi-Wan begins backing him towards the bedroom. He wants, feels it sharp and aching in his bones, and Obi-Wan’s lips are intoxicating, addicting; stronger than any drug. He fumbles blindly with Obi-Wan’s clothing, tossing cloak, tabards, and tunics aside with little care for where they land and then his knees hit the bed and he lets himself fall, pulling Obi-Wan with him. The sheets are soft and cool against his skin, a counter-point to the heat of Obi-Wan’s hands and mouth, and Qui-Gon tips his head back, sinking into the sensations with joyful abandon as they crash over him like waves, leaving him blind and senseless to everything and everyone but Obi-Wan.
Later, they lie, curled together in the mess of sheets and blankets that has become Qui-Gon’s bed. In his arms, Obi-Wan is radiating contentment, a point of warmth and life like a star in other-wise empty space. He has his head on Qui-Gon’s chest, ear over his heart, and Qui-Gon can feel his smile in the air around them.
Obi-Wan has long since fallen asleep, his breathing slipping into something steady and smooth, but Qui-Gon stays awake. He counts the freckles on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, illuminated by the thin crack of moonlight that makes its way into the room from between the curtains, and matches them to constellations. The larger ones are suns; big, bright stars that hold together systems and create life. The smaller ones, the ones he almost misses in the dimly lit room, are stardust and meteors, pin-pricks of brilliance on a backdrop of ink.
Qui-Gon cards his fingers through Obi-Wan’s copper hair. They have many things to discuss, come morning, but Qui-Gon doesn’t fear the dawn. There is something permanent and solid to the peace that surrounds them, and he knows, without words, and it is something that is meant to be. Even if this intimacy was a onetime event, he can accept that with a smile, because he knows that Obi-Wan, this beautiful creature of stardust and wonder, is meant to be in his life, in whichever way Obi-Wan chooses.
Though, Qui-Gon thinks, smiling sleepily as Obi-Wan makes a satisfied snuffling noise and curls closer, stretching up so his lips brush Qui-Gon’s throat, he does not think that will be a problem.