How Kenobi Got His Groove Back:Alchemy Dream

A/N: Thank you so much for following my baby here, and I truly hope you enjoyed yourselves. There will be a short epilogue after this. As always, feedback is welcome, and reviews are love.

The song "Can't Help Falling In Love" is performed by Elvis Presley, and can be available for download on my LiveJournal on request. I highly recommend it.

Warning: Slash, language, steaminess and karaoke.

Summary: All it took was a light-hearted quip from Mace Windu to send Obi-Wan Kenobi off the edge and into insecurity. Anakin is fed up with his ex-master's age-related blubbering and is determined to show him exactly how beautiful he is.

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Obi-Wan Kenobi is thirty-five years, three-hundred and sixty-four days and seven hours old as he lays awake basking in early morning sunlight, contemplating braving the emotional battleground his and Anakin's apartment is quickly becoming. Unsuccessfully scratching his fuzzy thigh with his short, prim fingernail, he rolls to his right to look through the curtains at the traffic, finding solace in its noisy distraction.

Air speeders pepper the saffron sky, catching glints of sunlight that ricochet in rainbows onto his white walls.

This is the first night in nearly a month that Obi-Wan has slept through the night, not waking to watch the shadows of night move on the wall. He is thankful that there are no meetings or agendas whatsoever today, because he no doubt would have missed them, waking up as late as he has. Usually up and going by six thirty in the morning, Obi-Wan glances at the clock, making a whining noise as it displays a bright, blinking nine fifty-four.

Pulling his body-warmed sheets further over himself to block out the cold, his fingers trace the vulgar, now hard stain that rests near his navel. Fighting off a flushed face, he changes his mind about sleeping in further, opting to instead hoist himself from the groaning mattress, gloriously naked, and begins rolling the sheets off of his bed into a pile in the corner of the room for the laundry tomorrow.

Tomorrow he will be thirty-six years old.

Obi-Wan snorts, tossing the pillowcases into the haphazard pile with the bed linens. Another year separating himself and Anakin. Thirty-six. Thirty-SIX! He notes, for the thousandth time that thirty-six is only four years from forty.

Anakin is twenty, almost twenty-one. Anakin is in the prime of his life, frustratingly agile, devastatingly beautiful, youthfully charming, and infuriatingly sexual.

Thinking back to last night, Obi-Wan stands in front of his full length mirror, examining himself. His fantasies must be getting out of control, because it had seemed almost as if Anakin was there with him, coming with him, talking to him. Usually, Anakin is a mute presence, bringing imaginary pleasure to him at the high price of still falling asleep alone in the end. But this time was different – he had heard him. He had felt his entire body flush with warmth at the beautiful, husky voice in his head, like a whisper.

"Ohhhhbi-Wan! Come for me, now!"

Closing his eyes, he recreates the sound of that lush tenor, losing control of himself, the sensation of letting out that long, feral moan. It had been more real than most other things he'd experienced. The boy had reached inside of him, pushed aside his insecurities, and brought him to completion.

But it was all an illusion, and something that would never happen. After all, there was high competition for such affections, the stiffest of it coming complete with breasts and senatorial duties. Running a saber-calloused hand down through the soft hair on his belly, over packed muscles, he wonders if Anakin fucks Padmé the way he does Obi-Wan in his dreams, if he makes her see colours, lights, love where there was none before, if she feels utterly complete when he touches her. He wonders how much experience his former apprentice really has with women, if she takes the time to fully inspect every crevice of his body, give him what he needs and rightfully deserves. He wonders if they make love in the dark, or with the lights on. Surely he loves seducing her back in her quarters, with the ivory basin filled with bubble bath, the lush king size bed covered with pink velvet and black satin sheets. Of course, he has no idea what her rooms look like, but his mind can't help inventing new insecurities. His imagination is a train wreck waiting to happen, and all he can do is watch, relentlessly cover all the angles.

And cry.

Reaching up, he touches a spot of wetness that lingers on his lashes. The only way to defeat this is to let go. Anakin will never be his, he will never see anything of worth, of beauty, in such an old man. It can never work. Biting his lip, he stiffens his resolve, pulling on a white knee-length terry cloth robe. He was able to move past Siri, and Qui-Gon, and he can move past Anakin. Tying the belt, he wipes his eyes one last time before facing that which he hopes to forget.

But no one is home.

Opening the door, Obi-Wan moves slowly and quietly, his bare feet lightly sounding on the tile. Everything is considerably clean, dishes piled in the sink from Anakin's breakfast, which clearly took four bowls, a whisk, a plate, two spoons and six forks to make. Opening up the refrigerator, he instinctually pulls out the tub of butter, opening it just enough to notice that, of course, there are thousands of toast crumbs mixed with the butter. On any other day, he would huff about, spooning out the ruined butter, all the while lecturing Anakin on how "Anakin, you were offered your own quarters, and you refused, and if we are to remain living together we have to learn to respect each other's belongings. Now I know that we both use the butter, but I would really rather not spread pieces of your last meal on my yada yada yada...". He decides to skip that step, as there is no one there to witness his hissy fit. Huffing a little, just for good measure, he reaches into the pantry for a packet of instant oatmeal, a flavour Anakin distastefully dubs "brown". Grinning a little, he pours some milk into the mix, and pops the bowl into the microwave for a few seconds.

With oatmeal in hand, Obi-Wan sits, no, drapes himself over the sofa in the common room, his head tucked into the corner against a plush pillow, one leg stretched out indecently over the rest of the cushions. Slurping up his oatmeal, he tries to relax. Today is his day out with Mace, and he'd better prepare himself to not be a tight-ass. Mace wouldn't have it. He enjoys going out with Mace, he always allows him to relax, have a good time a little more than most do, even Anakin, while still respecting his privacy. He hopes, however, that the night will end early, that he can get back to bed before the stroke of midnight, and life can move on until next year, when he will be thirty-

Let's not go there.

He's so absorbed in thought and the steamy oatmeal that he doesn't notice Anakin slip in.

Anakin is twenty years, two-hundred and seventeen days, and fifteen hours old when he finally falls irredeemably in love.

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He isn't sure if it's the contrast of the furry soft white robe against that freckly, perfect skin, or maybe the half-awake look in his greyish, sparkly eyes, or the way his thin, but plush looking lips receive the spoonfuls of steaming oatmeal, sliding it into his mouth, and pulling out again, empty, licking the swell of the metal. He's pretty sure it has a lot to do with the way the auburn, but peppered hair sticks out in several directions from bed head and static electricity. Willing the door to shut, he clears his throat.

"Good morning, Obi-Wan!" he says, gleefully. "Happy Birthday!" Obi-Wan, startled, glances at Anakin, his eyes crinkling a little, and smiles.

"Good morning, Anakin. And no, not just yet," he sets his empty bowl on the low table in front of him, "The honor of being another year wiser doesn't happen until tomorrow morning."

"Another year of your heightened wisdom. Now that's something I don't think I can take," Anakin snorts, setting a small white sack on the table in the kitchen. "I brought you something," he says in a sing-song voice, pulling out a brown box with a small red and gold ribbon. Obi-Wan's eyes perk up a little as Anakin grins and moves to the couch. He hands Obi-Wan the box, hesitantly letting his fingertips linger on Obi-Wan's for an immeasurably short moment. Obi-Wan grins, fingering the ribbon.

"Oh ho ho, I know what this is," he says, opening it up to confirm his delight, "My yearly cheesecake."

Inside the box, resting on the embossed red tissue paper are four slices of positively sinfully rich raspberry chocolate cheesecake, complete with white chocolate shavings and curls over the top. He reaches out to Anakin with one arm for a friendly embrace. Anakin's heart jumps, and he all but falls on the sofa, nearly in Obi-Wan's lap, for the hug. He buries his face in the crook of Obi-Wan's bare shoulder.

"Mas...Obi-Wan, let's forget what I said yesterday...I had no excuse for that outburst," Anakin says, greedily taking in the sensations of the robe, the hair, the skin, all at once, before pushing himself up to stand again. "Forgive me," he whispers. Obi-Wan looks back with shining eyes and a smile.

"Already done," he says, "Will you put this in the refrigerator for me, Anakin? We can have our feast tomorrow."

"Why not tonight?" Anakin pouts, nonchalantly panicked, rearranging the contents of the shelves in the refrigerator to accommodate the box.

"I'm going out tonight with Mace for a few drinks, and then an early bedtime. Nothing fancy," he says, standing up and self consciously pulling the robe closer around his body. "You're invited, of course." Anakin shuts the refrigerator door and tosses the sack into the recycling bin.

"I was hoping we could have some time to ourselves," Anakin says, face flushing when he realizes what he's said. Obi-Wan cocks an eyebrow.

"We have plenty of time to ourselves, Anakin. Come, come have drink with us tonight, I promise I won't be embarrassing or "masterly" or anything. We haven't been out as friends in ages it seems," Obi-Wan says, making his way to his bedroom. Anakin's eyes follow him until his door shuts softly. "What do you say?" Obi-Wan shouts a little from the other side of the room.

"N..no, Master, I forgot that I had a previous engagement," Anakin says, dejectedly. There is silence for just a moment, before sighing loudly.

"As you wish, you're probably not missing too much, anyways," Obi-Wan lies. Anakin nods to himself and begins fiddling with the dishes in the sink.

Oh, but you are, Obi-Wan.

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Obi-Wan Kenobi is thirty-five years, three-hundred and sixty-four days and nineteen hours old when he emerges from the refresher and a bone in his knee pops.
"Fucker!" he blurts out, reaching down to grab his knee. At the same time, he hears the door buzz. Hobbling to the washroom door, he braces himself for a moment, sighing when the buzzer sounds twenty three more times in a forty second interval, finishing with a long bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt.

"Kenobi!" Mace shouts. Wincing as his leg throws him for a loop once more, he manages to sling a towel around all the right places.

"Anakin, will you let Mace in?" he bellows. "Anakin!" At the ensuing silence, he whines loudly, demanding attention.From the other side of the door, Mace chuckles.

"Come on, Obi-Wan! Hurry up, we have a partay to attend!" Obi-Wan snorts.

"If I can make it there in one piece," he mumbles, alternately walking and limping theatrically to the door. Waving it open, Mace raises his eyebrows at Obi-Wan, much more naked than usual or expected.

"Are you going like that?" he asks.

"'Are you going like that?' he says, ho ho," Obi-Wan mocks.

"What happened to you?" Mace asks as he watches Obi-Wan hobble to the washroom to dress.

"I got old, Mace,"

"Oh, is that implying you weren't already?" Obi-Wan pokes his head out from the washroom to glare at his old friend over the hum of the blow dryer. "Kidding, kidding! No, my friend, tonight you will not feel old, I guarantee. I credit-back guarantee that you will feel young and frisky."

"Frisky?" Obi-Wan questions over the water and the electric razor. Mace simply finds a seat on the sofa and grins. No, tonight Obi-Wan will forget about things like bald spots and knee cricks.

"Is Skywalker coming?"

"No, he didn't want to," Obi-Wan says through a washcloth as he washes his face off again.

"You aren't rubbing off on him, are you?"Obi-Wan snorts.

"Hardly. What do you mean by that, anyways?"

"Nothing, Obi-Wan. Get dressed already," says the older Jedi, as he reclines back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

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Obi-Wan lets the towel fall to the floor, as he pulls a folded lump of clothes from his dresser, surprisingly in neither brown nor beige. It has been years since the fabric has slid over his body, probably since before Qui-Gon died, before Anakin. Back in his Padawan days. Unfolding the smooth, satiny pinstriped pants, he holds them up to his naked waist in the mirror, praying to the Force that those extra six pounds he gained won't matter in the long run. Exhaling, he bends over to pull them on, relishing in the luxuriant feel of the thin cotton over his thighs. And then they stop. He looks in the mirror at the pants, at how they stop an inch and a half below his navel! Had they been so low-rise before? Had it mattered? Would he be able to bend over without showing off all his business? Suddenly, it felt lewd, to show a trail of belly hair, the very tip top of wispy auburn pubic hair. Surely there was no underwear available on the planet to wear with these. Closing the tab, he turned in the mirror, smoothing down his legs, making sure his backside was fairly covered. The navy fabric had a slimming effect on his hips, and he smiled appreciatively at how much taller, longer they made him look. Sashaying back over to the bed, he unfolds the matching sweater-tunic, a long red turtleneck number, dazzlingly tight, and falling just above the crotch of the low slung pants. He slides on his sepia boots, pulling the pants legs over the stalks, something he never does.

And somehow the finished product isn't nearly as disappointing as he imagined it would be.

He waves off the lights in his bedroom, and tentatively emerges to Mace, who is rambling through the fridge. He turns as he hears approaching footsteps and shuffling fabric. Obi-Wan stands before him, looking much more slender than before, vibrant and youthful, with a trimmed, neat beard and mustache, and slightly mussed hair.

"Now that's what I'm talkin' 'bout," is all Mace says, smiling. Obi-Wan flushes a little, looking towards Anakin's bedroom door...wishing he had his stamp of approval. I wonder where he went...

"Alright. Are we ready now?" Obi-Wan smiles, grabbing a small credit chip, and sliding it into his pocket. Mace nods and waves off the rest of the lights, both men making their way towards the hangar to Mace's red speeder.

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Obi-Wan Kenobi is thirty-five years, three-hundred and sixty-four days and twenty hours old when he remembers that there is one pilot in the galaxy that he trusts even less than Anakin.

Mace has become a one man show in the pilot seat of the speeder, that is to say singing, dancing, all the while barely escaping near death through spaces that logistically are about three inches too tight for them to squeeze through.

However, there is something candid and amusing about watching the Senior Council member grooving genuinely to Coruscant's top forty radio.

"Okay, look, Dumpy-Wan. You're gonna have to loosen up if we're gonna do this," Mace says, demonstrating by sliding his shoulders to the beat. "Come on, do it with me, old timer." Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, grinning. Playing along, he moves his upper body in sync with Mace to the happy beat, feeling like the biggest fool in the galaxy.

"This is ridiculous, Mace."

"But you're having fun, right?" Mace asks, dodging a near collision as he unconsciously veers to the right.

Or something, Obi-Wan snorts, white-knuckled and latched to the hand bar on the side of the interior.

"You'll change your tune, soon, Kenobi," Mace says, pulling his speeder to the curb at Trœs. He hops off at the landing, and walks over to Obi-Wan's door, ever the gentleman, to help him out.

"You're too kind, Mace," he says, as Mace yanks him from his seat. Once out, Mace looks very seriously at him.

"Now, look. If at any point you aren't having fun, then let me know. I doubt you'll get bored," he smirks, "but in the case of the impossible...let me know. We're here for you tonight."

Obi-Wan suddenly has a very bad feeling about this.

The two enter through the dark corridor, into the dim hallway. Already, Obi-Wan can feel the deep bass in the soles of his feet. On the walls hang small fluorescent hot pink lights, barely lighting their path. An older man intercepts them, holding a reservation book, ready with a datapen.

"Windu and Kenobi," Mace states plainly.

"Ah yes, follow me gentlemen." The extremely tall man leads them past the jovial, noisy bar, past the main dance floor full of well-dressed couples, to a hallway filled with more dim lights and frosted pink glass booths. He reaches forward and unlocks the two booths, side by side.

"And two, no three rounds of dark chocolate raspberry rum for us both, thanks." Mace winks a little at Obi-Wan before stepping inside the swanky little booth in the near darkness. "Happy birthday, Master Kenobi."

And he disappears behind the soundproof wall. Obi-Wan simply stands, disoriented and confused. Where is the bar? Where is the waiter? Where are they? With little else to do, he furrows his brows and turns the latch on the door, stepping into his own identical booth. Inside is a plush, pink velvet lounge chair, a small table, and...

A stage?

Seating himself in the chair, he sinks nearly to the floor, and tries to get comfortable, finally ending up on his knees in the good-intentioned, though uncomfortable chair. Looking around, he takes in the disconcerting darkness, the two little pink lights, devoid of shadows. The little marble mechno-table sinks into the floor, and rises again with a little whirr, delivering his drink. Picking it up immediately, thankful for something to do with his hands, Obi-Wan stirs it a little, and takes delight in its smooth, fuzzy flavour.

"Thank you," he says to no one at all. There is a thud of bass, a click of a heel, and a sick feeling in his stomach. Looking up onto the stage, he realizes he isn't alone.

Suddenly there are bare breasts, writhing hips and pulsating music. Obi-Wan Kenobi stares up helplessly at the beautiful woman bucking against the pole in the six inch black patent leather stilettos.

Oh, no...

Looking over at him, she smiles a little, pursing her unnaturally full, pink lips seductively, running a clawed hand over her breasts and down her stomach to pull the silver ring in her navel. She squats on the stage, rocking her hips while pulling at the strings on her tiny black bikini.

"Why don't you help me, mister?" she moans, rolling her hips again. Obi-Wan feels his face flush bright crimson in embarrassment, and wants to crawl inside himself. How could Mace do this! Take him to a strip club for his birthday? What ever could have made him decide this was a good idea? When he gives no response, she unsteadily moves down from the stage to dance in front of him, pulling her long white hair back. Taking matters into her own hands, the slender stripper pulls one of the strings loose on her lace bikini, and pries his hand to take care of the other one. Looking away, Obi-Wan wraps his finger around the loop, pulling the knot loose, and watches in horror as the panties fall to the floor. With her sharp heel, she tosses them away into a dark corner, smiling with satisfaction.

"You know, it's always a pleasure to meet a Jedi," she groans, lowering herself into his lap. Obi-Wan shirks back into the chair, feeling the unwelcome fragrant heat in his lap. Soon, she is grinding of her own accord, placing his hands on her soft hips, to the thudding music. The heat in his head is unbearable, as bile rises in his throat. This wasn't exactly the birthday gift he'd been hoping for! What was it Mace had said?

"Now, look. If at any point you aren't having fun, then let me know."

A light of hope enters his heart, and he catapults from the seat, setting the girl on the stage like one would pick up a dirty rag. Pounding on the glass, Obi-Wan screams at Mace.

"I'm not having fun, Mace! I want to go home!" he whines, sounding like a scared youngling.

"He can't hear you, darling. You might as well enjoy yourself." The stripper reaches around to cup at his groin, and he groans.

"No, please. Stop, you don't understand. I don't..." like women, he finishes in his head.

Anakin, help!

And in approximately five minutes, Anakin is there. His knight in shining armour.

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"Master," Anakin pants, turning one last corner to find Obi-Wan seated in the dark hallway on a lone, short stool. He barely hears Anakin over the thudding music and the cursing, unhappy stripper who is currently tying her panties back on. But Anakin doesn't notice any of that.

"What's the matter?" he says, breathless from his impromptu strip club rescue. Obi-Wan pushes his hair back with one hand.

"Well, for starters, I just punched a stripper," Obi-Wan says, closing his eyes, "and I can't just leave Mace behind." Anakin snorts.

"You punched her? As in right in the kisser?" Obi-Wan groans, blushing profusely, a pounding headache immobilizing him.

"Well, she obviously wanted more than to strip for me. And I can't just leave, because...he brought me here, and he paid for it. It would be rude," Obi-Wan says, not quite understanding his own logic.

"Master, in case you haven't noticed," Anakin points to the booth with the two writing people silhouetted against the frosty glass, "Master Windu is busy. Come on, I'll take you home," Anakin says, offering his hand. Obi-Wan had never heard anything so welcoming in his life. Smiling a little, he takes the offered hand and rises to his feet, taking one last glance at the hallway, and turns on his heel to follow after Anakin.

The cool night air brushing against his face is a welcome reprieve from the heat inside the club, and Obi-Wan leans his head back against the black leather seats of his speeder as Anakin drives, surprisingly carefully, back to the Temple.

"So why did you want to leave, Master?" Anakin asks quietly.

"Because I hate that men create those sorts of institutions for women. It's degrading, and I've never liked them," Oh, and I don't like women, he smiles. Anakin nods a little. "I mean, what would you think if Padme did those sorts of things? Those women are wives and mothers, and somehow our society can't create any better jobs for them?" Anakin looks over at him thoughtfully for a moment, before turning his attention back towards not hitting things.

"Well, it is her life, and I guess if it's something she wants to do, then..." Obi-Wan looks atrociously at him.

"You mean you would allow your girlfriend to-"

"She isn't my girlfriend, Master," Anakin blurts. "Only a friend," he adds quietly. Obi-Wan's jaw drops, and he shakes his head.

"But I was sure that you-"

"Never."

"Are you sure you never-"

"Nope."

Silence takes over, and Obi-Wan leans to his left, one square inch of his head bracing against Anakin's shoulder.

"I'm tired. Push me away if you're uncomfortable," Obi-Wan says shakily, all of sudden moody and emotional. How could Anakin not be with Padme? Had he not bought her...oils? Perhaps they were for another woman, but who? Surely not Barriss, she was a little infatuated at one time, but not that easy.

I don't care anymore, I'm just so...tired.

Surprisingly, Anakin's arm left the steering bar and wound loosely around Obi-Wan's shoulder. Cracking one eye open at his former apprentice, he smiles sleepily.

"Are you alright, Master?"

"I am. I'm about to be even better, once I get into bed," he jokes. Anakin smiles broadly at his own private joke.

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Anakin opens the door to the dark apartment, slowly, and not turning on the lights. The darkness is probably more comfortable for what he plans to do. Obi-Wan follows him closely, sighing spiritlessly at his night gone awry. Anakin moves off to his bedroom, possibly to change. He listens half-interested, to the shuffling towards the back of the apartment. Perhaps Anakin is angry at him for calling him in the middle of the night to come pick him up.

"At least I have cake," Obi-Wan says softly, waving a dim light on in the corner. He is surprised when Anakin waltzes back into the kitchen, now wearing only loose, white drawstring sleep pants. Obi-Wan cocks his eyebrow a little.

"What are you doing?"

"Gettin' comfy," he grins, handing Obi-Wan a pair of sleep pants of his own, which will undoubtedly be too long.

"Anakin, did you not do the laundry?" Obi-Wan whines.

"No, I thought you said to take it tomorrow!"

"Well, it should be obvious, Anakin, that the laundry needs to go when the bin is full. Do I still need to hold your hand, young one?" Obi-Wan says, sarcastic and irritated. Anakin purses his lips, and reaches out to touch Obi-Wan's hand. He revels in the feel of the callouses, rubbing his thumb along the dip in his palm. Obi-Wan looks at him with question, his tired eyes not entirely sure what to think anymore.

"You can if you want to, Master," Anakin says, too frightened to meet his eyes.

Obi-Wan's heart jumps into his throat. There's clearly only one course of action here. He runs through thousands of outcomes and possibilities, overwhelmed and finally deciding that this is a chance worth taking.

He closes the gap between their hands, twining his fingers with Anakin's feeling the light hair on his knuckles, the sweat between his fingers.

"You were with me, weren't you? The other night?" Obi-Wan says, barely above a whisper in the darkness. He can almost hear Anakin nod. Insecurity floods him again and he sighs, shutting himself off.

"Embarrassing, isn't it, to have a Master who can't even...get off anymore. I'm getting older, Anakin, and-" Anakin cuts him off, pulling Obi-Wan closer into his arms.

"I think you're magnificent," Anakin says, running his fingers up and down Obi-Wan's spine, nearly fainting from the feel of the tiny roundness of his belly, "Magnificent and hypnotic and sexual. And still so young." Anakin removes one hand from Obi-Wan's belly to wave in the air. "Happy Birthday, Obi-Wan." And sound fills the darkness. Reaching between them, Anakin takes Obi-Wan's hand, and begins swaying slowly, slightly, lazily.

"Wise men say, only fools rush in, but I can't help falling in love with you," he sings along with the quiet, sultry music. It's a slow burn, bodies caressing in haphazard time, with Anakin's breath on Obi-Wan's face, his voice off key, but tantalizing against his temple.

"Shall I stay, would it be a sin? If I can't help falling in love with you." Outside of the window, outside in a world that doesn't really matter to Jedi, to men, speeders rush by, flashing lights that illuminate and disappear against their bodies. Every now and then, one catches a glimpse of the other, Anakin's eyes barely open, looking through his long lashes at the shorter man. Slowly they make their way to Anakin's bedroom, arousal burning through gasps and sighs, as swaying becomes grinding, always achingly slow. Obi-Wan's moans complement Anakin's quiet, shaky singing as they fall into the bed.

"Like a river flows, surely to the sea, darling so it goes, some things are meant to be-"

"Anakin, what are we doing?" Obi-Wan whispers into Anakin's mouth as he is pressed into the bed. Anakin is incapable of singing any longer, and instead breathes into Obi-Wan's mouth, driving him mad. He slowly presses his lips onto Obi-Wan's finding comfort in the moist warmth of his mouth. He has waited a lifetime for this, to taste this man. Hesitantly, he plays with Obi-Wan's tongue, moaning when he grabs at his hips, grinding Anakin against himself.

"Look up, Obi..." Anakin says quietly. Obi-Wan looks at the ceiling, smiling broadly at the galaxy of glow in the dark stars. So that's what he was doing. Anakin buries his face in the crook of Obi-Wan's neck, kissing the skin there.

"I thought...under the stars would be good," Anakin says, tugging at Obi-Wan's sweater-tunic, and pulling it over his head with some difficulty. He looks intently at Obi-Wan's body, so different from his own. Covered in light patches of hair in all the right places, deliciously warm. He runs his hands over the skin, and can't help but thrust again him. Obi-Wan pulls him closer, light-headed from the sounds of Anakin's breathy moans and grunts, his warm breath rushing in his ear.

"I'm-ungh-I'm sorry, Master I..." Anakin apologizes incoherently, "It's like...you're so warm and we're together and-" with one last, delicious thrust, suddenly the space between them is hot and slick. Obi-Wan writhes a little, impossibly turned on. Anakin's breathing slows, and he looks from underneath his lashes at the older man.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" Obi-Wan stops him with a kiss.

"You're twenty, Anakin. You'll be ready again in five minutes," he chuckles lightly. Anakin grins a little and kisses his collarbone.

"Well, you may be nearing forty, but I promise I'll make you feel like you're twenty-five again," Anakin suggests, ignoring the scowl on Obi-Wan's face as he utters the word f-o-r-t-y.

Obi-Wan shifts a little in the bed, sliding his pants down over his hips, tangling the both of them in the sheets under the stars.

"I already do, Anakin."

Obi-Wan Kenobi is thirty six years old.

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