The inside of the hangar bay is like the womb of the Nabooan sea goddess, who coaxes each quicksilver globule of fish-germ to fruition in her dark, warm, rushing, vastness. Here, matters of galactic consequence seem so abstract and far away. The beating of hearts and the rising and falling of chests are a novel delight. And life is pink, and raw, and salty, and new.

Anakin's blinks his eyes open. He can feel the solid rubber floor beneath his feet, hear the distant hum of the backup generator, smell the bitterness of motor oil and the astringency of hyperdrive nanofluid. But these familiar elements strike him strangely. A new truth has been born in his soul, in light of which everything else in the world must now be viewed:

Obi Wan is his master.

This is not so much a matter of clerical hierarchy as it is an article of nature, a new law of physics, dropped like a line of code into the program of reality. It seems impossible that it could ever have been otherwise. And yet, he remembers. It almost was otherwise:

The Council didn't want you to train me- Almost didn't let you have me- You had to plead with them-

They are half-embracing, half-wrestling, seizing fistfuls of each others' clothes and hair, and kissing everywhere at violent random. And it feels good, painfully good, but also awkward and strange, because they are still fighting it, still fighting each other.

Why didn't they want us to be together? What were they so afraid of? Couldn't they see that we belong-

There is too much friction between their souls, and as they rub haphazardly against each other, they are gathering too much energy, beginning to glow, like an iron in a fire. They haven't gotten the hang of this yet. They don't know how to contain or control it, this power, and so it just builds and builds chaotically, between them and within them, until they are both forced to let go.

Reeling back, they begin to circle each other, over and over, wearing a kind gravity well in the Force. They watch and wait, enthralled by each other's beauty and warmth, but afraid to touch, afraid of what will happen. They are locked in a binary orbit, like the twin suns Tatoo I and Tatoo II, endlessly basking in each others' light.

Obi Wan holds up trembling hands in self-defense, knowing that Anakin is liable to tackle him again at any moment. His skin is brightly flushed beneath his copper hair and beard, making his usually gray eyes appear much greener. He looks... stirred, in a way and to a degree that Anakin has never really seen him before. The line of his body is a jot of tension and readiness- He wants this, he wants, but he doesn't know how- His lips are parted softly in confusion and wonder.

Anakin's gaze is riveted upon those lips. His heart quickens with the knowledge that he is bound to obey each and every command which might fall from them. He has pledged himself, he can't take it back now. He gulps for air and shakes his head, feeling the onset of panic. All his life, he has known confinement of one sort or another. He has had walls, and fences, and columns, and bars, and binders put around him. But this is different; These restraints are inside. The brilliant golden threads are so tightly, seamlessly woven into the fibrous red tissue of his muscles, that with naught but a gentle, painless tug they can make him do practically anything. Whatever Obi Wan says, he won't be able to resist. Won't even try. Won't even want to try. He is utterly beholden to that voice, those lips-

"Anak-" they start to say. But before they can pronounce a single word which might save him or doom him, he silences them with a desperate kiss.

And this time, he manages to do it right. This time, arms close around waists, and mouths work slowly and sweetly, and the fiery golden nova is a steady pulsing thing between their chests, a burden made light by being shared.

Obi Wan slackens with a quiet groan as Anakin's tongue swipes playfully over his palate. He has never been kissed like this before. This is just so total, so new. He can scarcely comprehend the way his body is reacting to these touches. A surge of possessiveness he hardly recognizes in himself causes him to squeeze Anakin tightly, pulling the younger man's torso flush against his own. Anakin responds eagerly to being handled this way, turning his face against Obi Wan's shoulder, imbibing his smell, glorying in their physical closeness. And at last their bodies are fitted gently but firmly together, forming a fulcrum about which the Force itself seems to rush and pivot.

"Mmmm... This is... Don't stop..."

"What should we-? Oh, haja, Anakin, what should we-?"

"I think that's up to you," Anakin laughs dizzily. "You are the master, after all. I can't- That is- Mmmm..." He buries himself in Obi Wan's chest, shaking with silent giggles. "You have to take the lead."

"But I don't-" Obi Wan protests. "I don't know how."

And he doesn't, really. In his capacity as learned priest and deadly warrior, he has seldom had reason to bother with such mundane, worldly matters as kissing. Anakin is indisputably the more experienced between the two of them.

But he finds he has little choice. This is all part of his role now, as Anakin's master. It is his responsibility to take care of his dear boy, to find out what he likes and how to please him. His movements are halting and clumsy, but he reckons he is beginning to understand the spirit of the thing. He has no particular skill, but effort alone seems to count for a lot, if Anakin's appreciative purring and nuzzling are any indication.

"You'll know what to do. Just trust your body. A lot of it's... built in."

Obi Wan chuckles, rubbing Anakin's back experimentally. "When will you learn," he sighs, "that people aren't like droids?"

Anakin opens his mouth to respond, only to slump forward, speechless, when the touches suddenly change direction and tempo. Obi Wan may be relatively naïve in matters of the flesh, but he is a quick study, and a cunning foe, in this as in all other arenas.

"Mmmmnm..." Anakin moans helplessly, rendered incoherent with pleasure. His vision swims with crackling white sunbeams, as his master's loving touch remakes him.

Oh yes, this! A thousand times this! He would have given up his freedom long ago if he had known that it could be exchanged for this. Obi Wan is running a hand from the nape of his neck to the center of his shoulder blades, over and over again, and he can feel the petting happening, not only on the surface of his skin, but also somehow inside of him. Oh, sweet, merciful Stars! His body and soul are both being stroked, being pleasured, at the same time, in one and the same gesture.

"Master-" he struggles. "Please, this. Always, this."

His master's embrace is so strong, so crushingly tight- He never wants it to end. Tears are streaming down his face, for what must be the twentieth time in two days. Indeed, both of them have probably wept more in the past two days than in the preceding ten years put together.

"Always, Anakin."

"Anything- I'll do anything you say. Just don't stop this- Don't leave me-"

"Never," says Obi Wan, kissing the tip of his nose, his tear salted cheeks- "I shall never leave you. I promise."

Anakin sobs with joy, jamming his head up under his master's furry chin. In all his life, he has never felt so safe, so valued, so loved. For the first time since he left his mother at the age of nine, he is filled to the brim with the knowledge that he is being taken care of. And the gnarled knot of fear which has lain twisting his belly for so many years, the fear of rupture, and loss, and abandonment can finally begin to loosen.

This is where he belongs. This is his destiny. He and his master have finally, truly, become what they always should have been: Two complimentary halves of a single whole. He understands and accepts that he is not the half that makes the decisions. There is even something strangely liberating about this fact.

Anakin smiles to himself as he noses his master's throat, savoring the clean, healthy, sober smell of the pious Jedi's untouched flesh.

All his arrogance and bluster have amounted to nothing. He sees that now, as clear as water. His own will is like a brittle bone, splintered under the pressure of too many responsibilities and choices beyond his meager moral capacity. And the will of his master is like a plaster cast which holds him firmly in place, preventing him from doing any further injury to himself.

Why did you ever think you needed to control everything? You wouldn't have known what to do with control if you'd had it. Now you control nothing, and it's much better this way.

He finds he likes this new, docile, obedient version of himself. This Anakin's thoughts are mild, and tranquil, and pleasant. This Anakin is at home in his own skin. This is the man he wants to be, the life he wants to lead. As this Anakin, he can be trusted around Padmé and the baby.

And maybe, just maybe, as this Anakin, he can finally do Qui Gon and his mother proud.