The moment Darth Vader wakes to find himself still wrapped in Obi Wan Kenobi's arms, he is Darth Vader no more.
A false name, given to him by a false master, it no longer has any meaning for him. He sobs against the Jedi's solid chest, gratefully imbibing the steady heartbeat that thrums within it. The computer gently raises the lights to signify morning, pulling him out of his whorling, pitchblende nightmares and into the cozy, white world of his prison. Anakin Skywalker opens his eyes. His hands are shaking, his throat burning, his mind ceaselessly chanting:
It's real- It's real- You are saved-
He feels the buried tremor of a soundless laugh. Whiskers scrape affectionately at his brow. There are hands plunging beneath the covers to grasp him by the backs of his thighs and suddenly, in one fluid motion, he is being lifted out of bed, his own bare chest pressed against another, his legs wrapped around another's hips, his feet dangling in the air. Instinctively slinging his arms around Obi Wan's neck like a child, it takes him a moment to register that the other man is hefting his not-insubstantial frame as if it weighs nothing at all.
"Good morning," Obi Wan smiles.
"G'morning, Master," Anakin slurs, blinking away nocturnal tears. "Whas happen'...?"
"How about a nice, hot shower? I reckon your hair could use a wash," Obi Wan muses before capturing his mouth in a slow, luxuriant kiss. He seems to shudder somewhere deep in his belly, a minute, controlled gasp escaping his lips, before pulling away. Sliding his hands under Anakin's butt for better leverage, he strides confidently through the door and down the hall towards the fresher, a kind of quiet rapture tilting his rosy mouth. His powerful arms are utterly sure in their hold, his back perfectly straight, his bemused expression betraying no hint of strain.
"I can walk by myself."
"But I wish to carry you. And you are a good, cooperative Padawan, are you not? You shall permit your dear old master his minor eccentricities."
"Y-yes," Anakin breathes helplessly, laying his head upon Obi Wan's shoulder. A tide of warmth floods through him like a heady, golden draught, loosening his muscles until he hangs like a rag doll in the Jedi's embrace. "I am cooperative. I am obedient," he murmurs. "I... I am good."
Chest humming with silent mirth, Obi Wan carries him into the fresher and sets him down upon the dark stone counter. He activates the hydro unit first, letting the water grow warm as he sheds his course, beige leggings and loinclothing. His body is immaculate, Anakin thinks, like some priceless Nabooan marble, the jagged pinkish scars that span his back and shoulders, arms and legs, serving only to accentuate his warlike beauty.
So entranced is he by the sight of his master's sublime, heroic nakedness, that he is startled by the presence of hands atop his hips, divesting him of his own leggings. Amused by his distracted, pining look, Obi Wan lifts Anakin's bare feet in the air, bowing to visit a kiss upon each of them in turn.
"Are we... washing together?" Anakin croaks, his throat and jaw constricting.
"If you have no objection."
"I'm not dreaming am I?" he asks feverishly. "Surely not- My dreams are never so sweet." He frowns down at his hands, finding them balled into quivering fists.
"Relax," says Obi Wan, guiding him down from the countertop and leading him into the black-tiled hydro chamber. It is much easier now to read the hesitation in the Jedi's posture as he reaches out to touch, what with all his well-hewn muscles on display. His belly visibly clenches as he fathoms Anakin's naked nearness. This must be, thinks the former-Sith, how he keeps his expression so neutral at critical times, by hiding his anxieties beneath voluminous robes.
"You relax," Anakin retorts.
"I'm trying."
As the steam begins to rise around them like some glimmering chthonic mist, he is made suddenly, sharply aware of the throbbing in this groin. A furtive downward glance confirms what he already knew: that Obi Wan is in the same condition.
"The hot water only makes it worse," he whines, sounding foolish even to himself.
"I know."
"I've tried, ah, rubbing at it, but it just- hurts," he stammers, coloring with shame. "He helped me to purge all thoughts of this. I cannot remember how one is supposed to- That is, how it's supposed to work." He looks up. "Can you... show me?"
"Well, I-" Obi Wan swallows. "I'm certainly no expert in the matter." He takes a halting step forward. "It's been an awfully long time," he says carefully, "since I've had these sorts of feelings. And even before, when I did have them-"
"You'd just... meditate them away. I know. I remember I could never seem to master that particular technique," Anakin grins. "I could tell you were good at it, but I was much too embarrassed to ask you for help."
"And now?" Obi Wan ventures. "What do you want to do about it now?" His voice is nearly inaudible over the hush of the water.
Anakin regards him almost shyly, initiating a tentative press of their souls. He can feel the mind of his master, see him even: The parched, wind-beaten, squinting old anchorite- Looking back at him, smiling that wry, sad, twinkling smile, slowly unfurling wrinkled hands, sunken chest shuddering with such ruined, trammeled, unfulfilled longing-
Ben. That's what I called myself. He hears the hermit's sun-dried voice inside his head.
Ben? comes the feeble rasp of his own inner-self before he can stop it.
Yes. Obi Wan died with you.
They stare at each other, into each other, each one waiting for the other to make the first move, to reach out and pull them both under the hot water. The short distance between them seems momentarily insurmountable. Their tired, old souls are cowering inside these things, these bodies. These eerie automata, these obscene, phantasmagorical toys, these firm, silky-smooth pleasure machines. It's maddening, Anakin thinks, being inside this splendid shell. He feels utterly liberated and yet, at the same time, strangely trapped.
Somehow, slowly, the gap between them closes and they are joined under the water in a slippery embrace. Anakin's self-control evaporates almost immediately- Before he even knows what's happening, his body is furiously grinding itself against Obi Wan's and he is loudly whimpering into the Jedi's chest.
"Anakin-!" Obi Wan gasps. "Slow down!" Seizing him by the wrists, he pins his wayward apprentice against the smooth, hematite wall of the chamber, trapping those troublesome bits between their bellies.
"Master, please-!" Anakin sobs, senselessly rutting against him.
"No wonder you've been hurting yourself. You can't just pulverize it and expect that to- That is, you've got to apply, ah, the right sort of pressure..." With a tentative hand, Obi Wan reaches down to grasp them- his own pink stamen, Anakin's curved, purplish root- and gingerly tries working them against each other, the delicate effort creasing his brow.
"Master-" Anakin moans. When that molten warmth begins to pool in his belly he recognizes it at once, though he has been a stranger to its charms for so long.
"Shhh..." Obi Wan breathes, shaking minutely as he increases his gentle pace, his other hand reaching up to cradle the back of Anakin's neck, bringing their foreheads together. "Be at peace, dear one," he murmurs, his eyes falling shut. "Let me- take care of you-"
Their bond relaxes open like an unclenching fist, allowing the lazy, decadent sensations to wash back and forth between them. Anakin rocks and keens, the pleasure building, the tugs and strokes growing more vigorous, though never violent, the gilded moment dripping like a strand of honey into a cup of temporal tea, sweetening reality itself. They are both so hungry, so unused to this- It's over quickly, and even as they soil each others' bellies, the water washes them clean again.
Anakin clings to Obi Wan's neck, his legs threatening to give way beneath him as his muscles slacken with glory and light. The feeling of their slick chests rubbing against each other as the hot water flows over them is unspeakable, almost more pleasurable than what came before it. He kisses at Obi Wan's buttermilk throat, bows to suck at the hollow of his clavicle, to lap at his sternum. His master's arms close around him, alive with affection and possessive desire.
"I love you this way-" Anakin shudders. "With arms that can crush me. You are so strong, Master," he marvels, drinking in the Jedi's mighty aura. "I think you are stronger now than you have ever been. All this time, those shields were holding you back-"
"That was a choice, Anakin. I suppressed my passion for you because I believed it was dangerous," Obi Wan sighs. "I'm still not certain it isn't. But I've always known that indulging in it might make me more powerful in the Force."
"More powerful... than I can possibly imagine..." Anakin muses, combing his fingers through Obi Wan's hair. His gaze lifts, a lurid blue in the close light of the chamber. "What did you mean by that?"
"It doesn't matter now..."
"Tell me," he hums dangerously, petting the sides of Obi Wan's head. Closing his eyes, he strokes their lips together in a not-quite-kiss. "You know what will happen, if this is real, if this isn't a vision? We will grow old. We will lose all of this again. And then we will die." He opens his eyes again, a fraction too wide. "I don't want to lose this. I don't want to die."
"Death is the way of things, Anakin," says Obi Wan carefully. "Think of Padmé- How she went to her death. Peacefully, without fear, worried only for her children, and for you. We ought to study her example."
"She was strong," says Anakin slowly. "I am weak." He nuzzles their faces together, purring like a temporarily sated beast. "I want to stay like this..." he whispers against Obi Wan's delicious throat, contemplating the red in his beard, the fibers in his muscles, the collagen in his skin. "And I want to keep you like that..."
He remembers what he knows of the teachings of Darth Plagueis, of the mysteries of generation: That the body is a machine which, like any other, accumulates errors in its code and begins to break down. That, like a machine, the flesh can be programmed and upgraded.
He feels the rise and fall of Obi Wan's chest, the intoxicating glow of life, and wants to capture it, to freeze it in carbonite, to keep it forever. Can it be done? He doesn't trust Darth Sidious' teachings anymore. Though the Darkness still flows through him, the Light has joined it, warming him without burning him, giving him balance. He knows the doctrines of the Sith to be as faulty as those of the Jedi. He can't rely on either of them. He is in uncharted territory- But he is not without guidance. His master, his one true master, knows the secret-
"Yes..." he pronounces, bowing his head in awed submission. "I see it now. You are immortal. Truly, you are the greatest master I could ever serve."
"No, Anakin," Obi Wan admonishes him, caressing his shoulders with worry. "The Way of the Whills is an ancient spiritual path. It is nothing like the vulgar Sith quest for immortality."
"Make me like you-"
"That isn't how it works. I cannot make you capable of communing with the Whills. It is a matter of study and discipline."
"Then teach me!" Anakin cries.
"First," says Obi Wan, as he lovingly rakes the wet curls away from Anakin's brow, "you must let go of this fear. You must accept that you will die. Only then," he smiles, kissing the center of his forehead, "can you become a disciple of the most ancient Order of the Force." He gazes into Anakin's eyes, pale lashes sparkling with beaded moisture. "There are ways we could be together, even after death, as beings of pure spirit."
"Would we be able to touch each other?" Anakin asks- nearly begs.
"It wouldn't be like this," says Obi Wan, squeezing him tightly. "It wouldn't be like having flesh. But it could be just as good. Perhaps, in some ways... even better."
"Teach me," Anakin whispers hotly, returning the embrace. "I am yours for eternity. I will do anything you ask."
"Eternity, Padawan?" Obi Wan frowns playfully. "Let me at least get the knots out of your hair. Then we can start worrying about eternity."