It is mid-morning, and quiet.

After a change of clothes, some instant caf, and a numb exchange of pleasantries with Padmé, Obi Wan had recused himself, venturing upstairs with the vague intention of programing the temple beacon. If he had been surprised when Anakin, with a strange, abrupt sort of ardor, insisted on accompanying him, he hadn't protested. But now he rather wishes he had.

He is standing in one of the narrow aisles between the beacon's jewel-green stacks, silently contemplating one of the most difficult and painful questions of his entire life. His surviving brethren are no doubt spread far and wide across the galaxy. The part of him that wishes to see them return home, wars with the part of him that thinks it might be more prudent for them to stay away. He leans a hand against the glassy peridot pane, momentarily closing his eyes. How will they ever recover from this? How many of them are even left? His chest burns with all the tears he's ever suppressed. He is no Master Yoda. What can he, Obi Wan Kenobi, possibly say to whatever remains of the Jedi Order?

All of this is compounded by the fact of Anakin's physical proximity, which is growing more unbearable by the second. His resonance in the Force, the sound of his breathing, his smell- The young man fills Obi Wan's senses, repelling him with his oppressive brightness, attracting him in ways he barely understands. That warm, golden flesh calls to his own flesh, promising to take away his pain and replace it with something else, something he never would have even dared to contemplate before-

"What's wrong, Master?"

Obi Wan steadies himself against the glowing green surface before slowly turning to face the object of his guilty, confused longing.

"Nothing," he breaths.

"Yeah, right." Anakin crosses his arms, adopting a stern, incredulous look which he has no doubt learned from being on the receiving end of so many lectures. "You are in pain! I can feel it as clearly as I've ever felt anything."

"I'm-" Obi Wan lowers his head miserably. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be inflicting this on you. I will endeavor to control it."

"That's not what I meant." Anakin rolls his eyes and leans his head back in exasperation. "I was going to ask if maybe you wanted to talk about it."

"What?"

"You know..." He steps closer, letting his arms fall to his sides. "Talk."

Obi Wan tries unconsciously to back away, only to collide with the beacon-wall behind him. "You've sensed what's happening," he mouths, quietly. "What is there to say?"

"Whatever you feel like saying!" Anakin gestures expansively, before turning still and serious. "Listen," he intones, "I'm just trying to help you."

"There is really no need-"

"Nonsense. I know how hard all this is for you. But no matter how bad it gets-" He raises a hand uncertainly, before putting it back down. "We still have each other. Right?"

"I- Of course."

"Master," he says, his gaze burning with something new, and potent, and spiritous. "I know I've taken you for granted in the past. Too often I've let you shoulder the burden for both of us. I don't want to do that to you anymore. I want you to know how much I-" he reaches out, with more surety this time, gently brushing his mechanical knuckles against Obi Wan's arm. "How much I care for you."

"Please-" Obi Wan starts, squeezing his eyes shut.

"It's okay," Anakin smiles. "I know you aren't very good at this sort of thing. That's why I want to help you." He takes another step forward, narrowing the gap between their bodies to the point of discomfiture.

Obi Wan looks up nervously. "Your wife knows about... this."

"What?" Anakin's panic and anger are instantaneous, like a crackle of lightning. "You told her-? What exactly did you tell her?! Why would you talk to her without me?!"

"She sensed it on her own," says Obi Wan, simply. "I merely... explained."

"Well, what-?" Anakin looks around frantically. "What did she say? Was she upset, or-?"

"Not at all. She seemed remarkably accepting of the idea. Only- she was concerned."

"Good," he breathes. "Good. So she- She doesn't mind it, then?" He nods madly to himself, palpably relieved. A second later, he looks up, worried. "Why was she concerned?"

"It seems we make an obvious- and unsettling- impression in the Force. She was worried that we might be... suffering."

"What?" he frowns. "Why would she think that?"

"Because..." Obi Wan gestures vaguely. "This connection between us, it- It does violence to the fabric of the Force. Apparently, from an outsider's perspective, it appears to be... hurting us."

"But it's not. It doesn't hurt, it feels-" Anakin looms, looking flushed and dreamy again. "Wonderful."

"Yes, well-"

"You told her that, didn't you? You told her it's alright?"

"More or less, only-" Obi Wan sighs. "Anakin, I'm not sure myself whether it is alright."

"What do you mean?" Anakin cants his head in distress. "Doesn't it feel good for you, too?"

"Well-" Obi Wan blushes furiously.

"Oh, kriff!" The boy's eyes widen in horror. "I'm not hurting you, am I-?!"

"No, no. Nothing of the sort. You aren't hurting me at all. In fact it- your closeness- feels... very pleasant." Obi Wan is utterly out of his depth, and it shows. He cannot, for the life of him, seem to maintain eye contact. "Often overwhelmingly so," he breathes. "It's not that I don't- It's just that- We don't even know what this is yet. It might actually be harmful to us, or to others, in ways we can't yet detect. And even if it isn't, we still have no idea what being... bound to each other like this will turn out to mean, in the long term."

"Of course." Anakin shakes his head knowingly. "You are afraid."

"That's not what I said."

"But it's what you meant!" He smiles, tolerantly, but with obvious pity. "You are afraid of attachment, even now, when it is proving to be so good for you. Oh, Master." He advances, more deliberately this time. "It's a crime, what they've done to you."

"What who's done?" Obi Wan struggles. "What do you mean?" He is fully backed against the wall now, and he is ever so subtly trembling. Desire, unfamiliar and unsettling, lances through him. Even if there was somewhere for him to retreat, he doubts his body would cooperate with him. It's all he can do to stop himself from leaning in closer to the stirring warmth of Anakin's nearness.

And for the first time, the new bond really does hurt. That brilliant shaft of starlight embedded in his chest feels like an open wound, screaming for closure as its mate approaches, aching to be joined, like the north and south poles of a magnet.

Finally, Anakin makes an executive decision, pressing their bodies firmly together and seizing his master's mouth in a deep, forceful kiss.

And it's... not what he expected.

He keeps waiting for passion to take hold, like it does when he is kissing Padmé, but that discreet moment, that kind of crossing-over, never comes. It's not that he doesn't find Obi Wan desirable, at least in the abstract. It's just that, there is something more abiding and elemental at work here than lust.

Although Anakin was the one who initiated this, he is rapidly finding himself no longer in control of it. Kissing quickly turns to petting and nuzzling, as the stinging heat between their bodies subsides into a sweet, tingling warmth. He sighs, rubbing the flat of his cheek against the pleasant scratchiness of Obi Wan's beard. With Padmé, there is always an ecstatic sense of urgency borne of the promise of completion. But this is different. The press of Obi Wan's body against his own offers no sense of momentum, no possibility of satisfaction, no escape. The urge to touch each other is like the urge to breathe. It doesn't build towards anything, but neither does it show any signs of lessening. Instead, it is a constant, regular, unending process.

Obi Wan, for his part, stands perfectly still, making soft, devastated little noises, until the moment when his resolve crumbles entirely, and he can no longer stop himself from throwing his arms around Anakin's neck the way he once saw Padmé do. Anakin responds by moaning loudly into his hair, projecting a cavalcade of emotions and sensations which seem to bypass his shields entirely, and strike directly at the glowing tungsten core of his soul. Obi Wan's mind is reeling, struggling for discipline, serenity, control, but it's no use. Ruthless golden fibrillae are already reaching deep inside of him, heedless of his silent pleas, to rob him of these trusty resources. He closes his eyes against the blinding star-field filling his vision, and when Anakin's face moves hotly against his own, he can feel the boy smile.

"It's alright, Master," Anakin whispers, pressing a tender kiss to the shell of the older Jedi's ear. He might be disappointed by Obi Wan's clumsy, starving touches, if he didn't know it was the best the man could do to reciprocate. His master's body, though a keenly tempered deadly weapon, remains so painfully innocent in some respects, poor thing. "You don't have to be afraid," Anakin coos. He is quite nervous himself, honestly. But his nerves are eclipsed by his eagerness to explore this, this new way of loving, of enjoying another's body, which is so very different from what he has with Padmé. "I've got you..."

Obi Wan opens his mouth to respond, but he can't manage more than a quiet sob as they sway gently on their feet, clutching each other as tightly as possible. It is rather as if their bodies have entered into a conspiracy together, without either of them having much say in the matter at all.

"Oh, Master," Anakin gasps. "I- I love you so much."

And then, just when things seem to have reached their zenith, something else happens, a great switch is flipped, and a process they didn't even realize was occurring is finally being completed. The infinite blanket of the Force is busily mending itself, darning the tear they have made it in with a powerful cosmic needle. The divine will does not tolerate such glaring imperfections for long. The rift their mortal tampering has caused must be repaired- And since Nature follows the path of least resistance, it will repair the rift directly: By simply making Obi Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker into one. The bleeding, golden fissure of chaos is closing, and the seam is being reinforced again and again, until the part of the blanket that was torn is even stronger than before. There is nothing they can do but struggle helplessly like insects in a web, as the very fabric of the universe is pulled tight around them, and sewn up that way, sealing them in together forever.

They sink to the floor, cradling each other and weeping profusely, as the pleasurable agony of oneness obliterates everything else. Minutes pass in this way, whimpering and sighing, until the green light of the beacon sears their reddened eyes, and their knees burn from kneeling.

Anakin is the first to regain the use of his voice:

"Master?" he rasps. "Are you-? Master-?"

"Yeh-" Obi Wan manages.

"My master," Anakin growls, low and close.

"Yes-"

"Mine always?"

"Always-" Obi Wan mouths. "Always yours..." His body wants nothing more than to stay pressed against his companion's body forever. But he has not lost himself to this desire completely. Even now, his will power is immense. He is still a Jedi, and there is still work to be done in the world. "Anakin," he struggles. "Anakin, we must-" With a titanic effort, he hauls them both to their feet. "We must focus."

"Yes, Master."

"I mean it."

"I know, Master." The boy is still rubbing insensibly against him. This won't do at all.

"I'm not going to leave you, Anakin," says Obi Wan, firmly, though he can't quite keep the tremor out of his voice. "I'm never going to leave you. I just need a moment- to breath-" He grasps the boy by the shoulders and pushes, in an attempt to separate their bodies.

"No-!" Anakin protests, clutching at him madly.

And then, all of a sudden, there are footsteps approaching. Master and apprentice both freeze, in an awkward, half-embrace, as the door of beacon-chamber opens, and the owner of these footsteps enters.

"Am I... interrupting something?" he says, with what, coming from anyone else, would have to be considered scorn, but which, coming from Mace Windu, passes for wryness.