Summary: During a spare pocket of time, Obi-Wan finally ruminates on Qui-Gon's death. Set scant weeks after Episode I. Written unofficially using flashslash's Round 7.1 prompt: Prelude, hole, spirit, rough. Title comes from Florence and the Machine's "Over the Love," from the The Great Gatsby soundtrack. Contains softly-explicit Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan.
And I Don't Want to See What I've Seen (to Undo What Has Been Done)
He's busy in the early weeks following Qui-Gon's death, not enough to avoid thinking about how crushing his Master's absence is - never enough for that - but enough so that he can move through time on autopilot, not quite living but alive nonetheless. Helping the boy acclimate to life at the Temple keeps him moving, at least, gives him a purpose. It's enough, and then suddenly, it's not.
The prelude is a rare day trip, one which keeps his young Padawan away for several hours. Morning meditation, a brief meeting, and some chores present an unusually leisurely day for Obi-Wan; and then, he finds the note. Half-crumpled, lying unobtrusively in the closet of the small room which Obi-Wan's newfound Master status has mandated that he move into, it's nothing important, a scrap of paper from a years-ago mission, though Qui-Gon's familiar scrawl, the shorthand he had taught Obi-Wan to read, blurs his eyes. It aches to be here suddenly, and yet, he is compelled towards the bed, legs nearly buckling. He sprawls across the mattress and curls into himself.
The linens still smell of Qui-Gon; it's not a romantic notion, merely an assessment: Despite frequent laundering, the natural scent of him remains, musky, weathered, a little obtuse. Obi-Wan presses his cheek against a pillow and then, indulgently, inhales, lets the air out through his mouth, shuts his eyes against the welling emotions. It hurts, being here alone. Before, he'd entered Qui-Gon's private nook only under extraordinary circumstances; and then, under slightly less extraordinary circumstances once he and his Master had begun to navigate the complicated terrain of carnal relations. "A Jedi craves not attachments," Qui-Gon had admonished him before pressing that first fatherly kiss to Obi-Wan's mouth, and Obi-Wan had agreed (too eagerly, his Master must have seen right through him, but they had proceeded anyway).
Here, now, the scent does not do the heady pressure of Qui-Gon's long form pinning him to the mattress justice, but it's enough to draw up the image. "Be mindful of the present, Padawan," he hears, and recalls Qui-Gon's surprised delight on the occasion of his Padawan's spirited straddling of him. "Cheeky," he had rumbled, and now Obi-Wan's hand goes to his cock. "Your biggest flaw is trying to please me too much," his Master said, and Obi-Wan remembers Qui-Gon's hands cupping his lower back, how he had gasped and keened prettily and very nearly begged until his Master demonstrated the strength in those big, gentle, callused fingers. "Patience, Padawan," Qui-Gon said into the side of Obi-Wan's face, and sometimes, "hush, Obi-Wan," and he was never rough, never even raised his voice in twelve years ("the Council will decide his fate, that should be enough to you" was the closest he'd come to yelling), and even if Obi-Wan thought he could have handled Qui-Gon pressing punishingly into his ass hole, pushing him to his knees, wrapping his long, bead-encrusted braid several times around those thick, deft fingers, his squirming would still.
"Good," his Master said sometimes, and occasionally "yes" when he was surprised, and Obi-Wan says "yes," too. His hand moves briskly now, perfunctory masturbation mixing with bittersweet imagery. Once, Qui-Gon had even sighed Obi-Wan's name into his neck, the soft scruff tickling his throat. Obi-Wan rubs his free hand across his neck, but all he can feel is his own smooth skin (he should grow a beard, he thinks absently). Feeling foolish, his strokes become more definitive; he zeroes in on that moment, replaying it, recalling how the corners of Qui-Gon's eyes crinkled when he smiled, the bit of canine that stuck out when he favored Obi-Wan with his small, crooked grin. "Obi-Wan," he hears, and it's breathless, wanting, beautiful, "Obi-Wan," and Obi-Wan ejaculates into his hand, back arched, hips bucking once, twice, and then he sags against the abused bedding and sighs.
He comes down quickly, limbs sluggish as he maneuvers himself onto his side and settles heavily. Qui-Gon's scent is still there, and more predominantly his own, and his throat tightens because it aches, knowing he'll never have this again, knowing that Qui-Gon's touch and taste and eventually, even the smell of him will gradually whittle away until he has trouble remembering them at all. In this moment, however, he's gone and yet somehow everywhere, and while the first sob is usually all it takes for Obi-Wan to reel himself back in, he gives in this time, gasping and clutching the pillow to muffle what turns into harsh, wracking sobs. He cries and thinks he might never be able to stop, but of course eventually there's no more, just fatigue and a fuzzy pain that will pass, he knows, with time.
He has time, he knows, time to heal, to teach, to grow, and when he awakens anew to an energetic Padawan ruminating about his own day and needing dinner, an attentive audience, probably a bath, he knows he will view this, as he should, as moving forward, as a proper syncing of past lessons learned but not mourned. ("Be mindful of the present, precious Padawan. Obi-Wan.") And yet, as sleep envelops him, he allows himself selfishly to fixate on that which is so dearly missed, for now, while it still hurts, until it doesn't, until he can learn to balance the two within himself, until they mingle like lingering essences on abandoned bed sheets, harsh and gentle, there and gone forever, never forgotten, cherished always.