Master Apprentice
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Title: Aloneness (What Came After) Part III: The Agonies of the Flesh
Author: Diotima
Editor: Merry Amelie
Email: graphikos@writeme.com
Archive: Yes
Category: Qui/Obi, Angst
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sexually explicit
Spoilers: N.A.
Summary: Obi-Wan is driven to extremes due to his desire for his Master.
Feedback: Yes. Please! Email me!
Part III: The Agonies of the Flesh
"Good morning, Padawan," Qui-Gon said, walking into the common room.
"Good morning, Master." Obi-Wan was already fully dressed, and pulling on his cloak. A packed bag lay at his feet.
"I see you are up early," Qui-Gon remarked.
"I have a lot to do today," Obi-Wan replied, not looking at his Master.
"Were you planning to eat something before you headed out? I can make a quick meal," Qui-Gon offered.
"I already ate. But thank you." Obi-Wan bent down and picked up his bag.
"Do you know when you will be back?"
"No, I don’t. I’d like to see a few friends, then maybe drill, and I have some reading to do…" Obi-Wan said vaguely.
"Sounds like a busy day," Qui-Gon said. "But are you sure you are not pushing yourself too hard?"
"Yes, I’m sure."
Qui-Gon paused for a moment, but then pressed on, "For example, the drilling. Some of the Masters think that you are doing too much, too soon."
"They exaggerate," Obi-Wan said, his voice betraying a hint of exasperation.
"Obi-Wan, look at me," Qui-Gon ordered.
Reluctantly, Obi-Wan met his eyes.
Qui-Gon said gently, "I know you are a perfectionist. I don’t expect that ever to change. But make sure you are not expecting too much from yourself. You are human, you know."
"Of course," Obi-Wan agreed hastily, looking away. "But I really need to get going. I am already running late."
"Have a good time," Qui-Gon said warmly.
"Thank you," Obi-Wan threw over his shoulder, as he headed for the door.
Once Obi-Wan managed to make his escape, he went directly to the place he had been frequenting for weeks, a sparring room where Padawans went to practice their katas and compete against each other in mock combat.
When he entered, a few Padawans nodded in greeting. Obi-Wan, despite the fact that he was still physically weak, was considered a formidable and challenging opponent, and the other Padawans often wished to test their skills against him.
"You are back for more?" Milon Taktos asked jocularly. He was Obi-Wan’s sometime sparring partner, human, but half again Obi-Wan’s size, and heavy with muscle. Before Obi-Wan had made it a habit of sparring, Milon had unofficially been the Padawan champion, and despite his impressive brawn, he had not yet been able to defeat Obi-Wan, so he frequently challenged Obi-Wan to rematches.
"As you wish," Obi-Wan said coolly, putting his bag down and pulling off his cloak. "Practice bladework, or hand to hand?"
"Are you joking? You know there is no way I could beat you with a lightsaber."
"Hand to hand, then? Teras Kasi?"
"How about anything goes? Short of killing each other."
"Fine," Obi-Wan agreed. "What about the mediator?"
"I already asked Master Brabeuo," replied Milon. "I assumed you would agree."
"If it’s anything goes, there won’t be much to mediate," remarked Obi-Wan.
"Makes his job easy, then," Milon replied cheekily. "But I want it to be totally legal when I beat you."
Master Brabeuo, an Iktotchi with impressive horns, strode over to them, sizing them up with his eyes. To Obi-Wan’s intense irritation, he had a concerned look on his face, as if apprehensive about Obi-Wan’s recent injury and convalescence.
"Padawan Kenobi, do you wish to engage in this match?" Master Brabeuo asked dubiously.
Ignoring his implication, Obi-Wan only replied, "Certainly."
"There will be no biting, no gouging with the fingers, or use of the Force. The match only ends when one of you gives up."
"Or is completely incapacitated," chimed in Milon helpfully.
"That too," agreed Master Brabeuo.
The other Padawans had moved aside for the two combatants, clearing half the floor for them, yet remaining at the perimeters, for all the other matches had stopped so that this particular contest could be observed.
The two opponents went to opposite corners, a study in contrasts, Milon tall and broad-shouldered, rippling with muscle, his skin flushed with good health and hours outdoors, Obi-Wan smaller, slighter, and still very pale from convalescence. Oddly enough, considering their stature, it was Milon who was obviously the more nervous of the two Padawans, his forehead wet with sweat and his breath quick as he waited for the match to begin. Obi-Wan, for his part, was utterly collected, calmly regarding Milon with an almost disinterested expression in his blue eyes.
"You may begin," indicated Master Brabeuo, dropping his arm.
Almost immediately, with unlikely speed for someone his size, Milon rushed Obi-Wan, hoping to knock him down with a surprise attack. Nimbly, Obi-Wan stepped aside, so Milon only clutched at empty air.
A few Padawans laughed.
"Silence," Master Brabeuo hissed.
Milon turned, and almost immediately lunged again, but this time Obi-Wan did not avoid his attack, but dropped to the floor and knocked Milon off balance by a well-timed strike to his lower legs.
If Obi-Wan had been back to his full strength, Milon would have dropped like a stone; as it was, Milon managed to barely remain standing, although he wobbled and had to take a few steps back.
Milon grinned. "I hadn’t seen that one yet," he said good-naturedly. At the same instant he attempted a kick at Obi-Wan, who was already springing back to his feet, but as Obi-Wan was not at full health, he did not have his usual speed, and took a glancing blow to the abdomen.
Obi-Wan did not make a sound, although a blow from Milon’s heavily muscled legs must have been painful. Instead, even as he was struck he grabbed Milon’s foot by the ankle and pulled his leg high into the air, knocking his opponent over.
Milon tried to use his other leg to sweep Obi-Wan from the floor, so Obi-Wan would fall with him, but Obi-Wan somersaulted backwards, avoiding the trap, causing some of the Padawans to murmur in admiration.
Milon got back to his feet, and, without hesitation, threw two quick punches in succession. Obi-Wan dodged the first one completely, but the second cut open the skin of his forehead.
"You’re not so pretty anymore," teased Milon as the blood ran down Obi-Wan’s face.
"Sorry to disappoint," replied Obi-Wan. In the same instant, despite the blood dripping into his left eye, he managed to throw a perfectly aimed punch at Milon’s jaw. Milon howled with contact, but to Obi-Wan’s surprise it did not otherwise affect him.
I’m still too weak, Obi-Wan thought in disgust.
Milon rushed at Obi-Wan once more, and this time, although Obi-Wan again dodged, he was off-balance, and between that and the loss of vision on the left, was vulnerable to Milon tripping him with his long legs.
As Obi-Wan fell ungracefully to the floor, Milon pounced on him, slamming Obi-Wan’s whole body with his entire bone-shattering weight. Obi-Wan felt his ribs crunch painfully with the landing.
There go my ribs, Obi-Wan thought, pain throbbing through him.
Milon was now lying on top of him, pinning Obi-Wan to the ground with his entire body. His heavily muscled right forearm was pressed into Obi-Wan’s throat.
"I think we’re done," Milon said, grinning.
In response, Obi-Wan struggled enough to get his right arm free, to throw a desperate punch, but Milon caught Obi-Wan’s fist in his own huge left hand, and despite Obi-Wan’s resistance, he was able to force Obi-Wan’s arm down to the floor. Milon’s face was now so close that Obi-Wan could feel the heat of his opponent’s rapid breath and the wetness of his sweat on his own neck. Milon was no longer smiling, and there was a strained, almost wretched expression in his brown eyes.
"Yield to me," demanded Milon, his voice rough.
"I don’t think so," replied Obi-Wan. His left arm was pinned under Milon’s chest, but not gripped firmly like his other hand was, for Milon’s right arm was occupied by being securely wedged under Obi-Wan’s chin. Barely wiggling it loose, Obi-Wan made as if he was attempting another punch.
In response, Milon moved his right arm from Obi-Wan’s throat so he could block the punch, lifting slightly off Obi-Wan’s body. Obi-Wan had expected this, and it gave him enough space to thrust his left knee up underneath Milon’s chest.
Too late, Milon realized his error, and quickly attempted to pin Obi-Wan’s body back under his weight, but Obi-Wan had already started to straighten his left leg, which provided the opening he needed to get his right leg under Milon as well. With an abrupt motion, Obi-Wan straightened both his legs with a tremendous thrust, throwing Milon off him.
Milon grunted as he fell sideways, quickly recovering, but not fast enough to prevent Obi-Wan from leaping to his feet. As Milon got up, Obi-Wan began punching him repeatedly in the abdomen and chest, each blow well placed and fairly rapid. However, since he was still recovering from his injury, his blows were not as powerful as they normally were.
Milon could not throw his punches as quickly and with as much accuracy as Obi-Wan, but he started to doggedly follow Obi-Wan, punching and kicking constantly. Obi-Wan dodged and weaved, avoiding most of the blows, but Milon punched and kicked so hard that even one of his strikes would cause Obi-Wan to pause for a moment, the wind knocked out of him.
Even worse, although Obi-Wan had been slowly gaining strength back through training, he did not have the endurance he usually had, so he soon began to slow, his arms and legs feeling like heavy weights. He was still dodging, and getting in a few well-placed strikes, but he was starting to take more and more of Milon’s crushing blows.
The other Padawans were murmuring admiration at his determination and capacity to endure pain, although a few shared uncomfortable looks as Obi-Wan continued to get beaten.
Master Brabeuo kept on looking between the two of them, his expression uneasy. It was obvious that he wished Obi-Wan to yield and end this brutal match, but Obi-Wan said nothing, just continued to receive the punches, without even making a sound when Milon’s huge fists made contact.
Milon got in one punch to the jaw so hard that it made Obi-Wan’s eyes water, and it was only by force of will that he kept from falling down completely, as he staggered from the blow.
When he finally struggled upright, one Padawan shouted in admiration, "Obi-Wan has heart!"
Obi-Wan almost wanted to laugh out loud at the choice of words. But I can have no heart, Obi-Wan thought, smiling bitterly. He wiped away the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, before launching back at his opponent.
Obi-Wan knew that his strength and speed had failed him, and the longer this match lasted, the more likely he would be defeated, for he was tiring fast. He had to end the bout quickly, or it would be ended for him.
So, instead of leaping backward at Milon’s blows, Obi-Wan now lunged forward, closing the distance between them. Milon continued to punch at Obi-Wan, but now the distance was too close for his blows to have much force, and his punches fell helplessly on Obi-Wan’s back.
Obi-Wan gripped Milon’s head, tightly and with both hands, as if pulling him in for a forceful kiss. In an explosive motion, he slammed his own forehead into Milon’s nose. There was a sudden loud crack and Milon yowled with pain, clutching at his nose.
Obi-Wan, with the last of his strength, leapt into the air and landed both feet with exquisite accuracy onto Milon’s abdomen, forcing his opponent from his feet and down to the floor with a tremendous crash.
At this, the Padawans burst into a round of spontaneous applause and cheers. A few of the Masters, who had drawn near to watch such an exciting bout, nodded in approval.
Milon slowly sat up, pinching his nose, for blood was streaming from both his nostrils.
"Are you okay?" Obi-Wan asked, concerned about the amount of bleeding, despite Milon’s best effort to contain it.
"I’ll be fine. And you don’t look much better. Your eye matches my nose, so we are a matched set. Except I think you broke mine," Milon said without resentment. "I didn’t expect that last one."
"You never do," Obi-Wan said, without arrogance, "but you are getting better."
"Unfortunately, so are you," Milon said ruefully. He seemed to have some trouble getting to his feet due to pain, so Obi-Wan reached out a hand to help him. Milon flashed him a smile, and delicately taking Obi-Wan’s proffered hand in one of his huge ones, he finally stood up, all the while carefully pinching his bloody nose with his other hand. he two opponents then bowed to their fellow Padawans, who were still applauding.
"I almost thought I might win this time," added Milon, without rancor. "How is it that you always manage to win?"
"I don’t know," Obi-Wan said tiredly. But he thought, Unlike you, I am desperate to win. And I cannot afford to lose.
"Good match, Obi-Wan," said Master Brabeuo, clapping him on the back.
"Thank you."
"Milon, why don’t you go down to the Healers and have them mend your nose?" Master Brabeuo asked, but it was less of a question than an order.
Milon nodded, bowing to Master Brabeuo. He then turned to bow to Obi-Wan. "As always, a pleasure, Obi-Wan," he said gruffly, before heading for the door, still holding his broken nose in his hand.
Master Brabeuo regarded Obi-Wan’s face with a critical eye. "And you too, Obi-Wan. I think you should have your forehead looked at."
"I will in a little while, Master Brabeuo," said Obi-Wan, bowing to him.
Walking away, Obi-Wan’s legs were shaking underneath him with fatigue. A few Padawans approached him, some to congratulate him for such a brilliant match, and a few others to request a contest against him; to the former he smiled politely and inclined his head, to the latter, he indicated that he might be willing after he had some rest.
Off to the side, he could see Master Brabeuo, who was chatting with some of the Masters who had observed the match. Obi-Wan could tell by the way Master Brabeuo kept stealing glances in his direction that the Masters were probably talking about him. He had begun to hear many comments about his recent performances at the sparring room, mostly admiration for his unrelenting dedication; he had also heard more than a few that he was pushing himself far too hard, that he had not yet recovered from his recent injury, and was in danger of being seriously hurt.
Obi-Wan walked over to the jars of water with studied casualness, pretending that no one was watching him. Picking one up, he took a deep drink of water before sitting down, wearily, on a bench.
I don’t care what they think, he thought defiantly, as long as they don’t keep me from sparring.
For they would never understand. He did not mind this suffering. It helped him forget a more profound pain. And more shamefully still, he had retreated to this world of mindless physicality and pain because it was the only way he was now able to dampen what had become almost uncontrollable desire. His body, which the Jedi had taught him to master, was now beyond his control unless chastised and wearied with the very harshest of disciplines.
Before Pyades, it had been much easier. He was a young man, with physical needs, but he had also been utterly inexperienced, not only a virgin in body, but in mind as well.
Master, is this everything that men do together when they make love? Obi-Wan had blurted this awkward question, furiously blushing.
This was after they had been kissing, and Qui-Gon had finally allowed Obi-Wan’s hands on his body. Obi-Wan, his heart pounding hard in his ears and breath coming fast, had taken his Master’s erect penis in his trembling hands. Obi-Wan felt stupid and clumsy, for he wanted to please his Master, and he was not entirely sure how men made love together; all the scientific treatises he had read were concerned only with reproduction.
His ears now burned whenever he realized how foolish and immature he must have seemed to his experienced Master, when he hadn’t even known the mechanics of sexual relations between men—how ignorant he had been!
But his previous ignorance, his inchoate and unformed desire, had protected him from pain, for he had not suffered physically to the extent he did now. Before that night on Pyades, his desires had been vague and mostly innocent; his usual fantasies had consisted of nothing more explicit than his Master holding him and kissing him on the mouth.
Even when he had gotten a little older, and his young male body had begun to need actual physical release, his fantasies had been limited by his own ignorance. He had started to wonder what his Master would look like undressed—and this thought would always make him blush violently because it would immediately cause him to become shamelessly erect.
And sometimes, especially if Obi-Wan was alone when he started having these thoughts, he would begin to wonder about what it might be like if they were both undressed while they embraced and kissed. Would his Master want to touch this mystifying and troublesome male part of him that stiffened against his will and throbbed so urgently?
If he allowed himself to have this thought for too long, the idea of his Master touching him would cause him to have an immediate, furious orgasm, without any other stimulation. But that astonishing reaction was as explicit as his mostly innocent fantasies had ever become. He hadn’t—although he was embarrassed to even think about it now—even known enough to imagine any more.
But now he could. He understood now how men could make love together, and his body ached for such release with his Master. By having sexual relations with Qui-Gon he had not sated his previously unformed desire; he had merely instructed his mind and body as to what form his desires should take.
He burned with desire.
So what choice did he have? He now went down to the sparring room, and constantly challenged every other Padawan he could find in any practice form of combat, never yielding, even if he was obviously beaten, pressing on despite weakness and injury.
When he was finally done, hours later, trembling with fatigue and pain, he would emerge triumphant from a hard-won victory over himself. His body had been punished cruelly for its forbidden and unwanted desires, beaten into utter submission. And when that happened, he would be able to return for the evening meal to sit opposite from Qui-Gon and talk about inanities, for he would be so deeply fatigued he felt almost incapable of emotion. Those were the best nights. After the evening meal he would be utterly exhausted, and finally crawl into his sleep-couch, falling asleep deeply and without dreams.
But Obi-Wan knew that this desire was not dead and only rarely sleeping. Sometimes when he returned to their rooms he would foolishly imagine he was safe, and then Qui-Gon’s hand would brush accidentally against his own, with something so stupid and innocuous as passing him a plate of food, and he would know to his despair that all his hours of drilling and pain counted for nothing.
Whenever that happened, as soon as the evening meal was over, he would quickly tell his Master that he needed to go study in the Jedi Library, but would not be long, and then leave without waiting for a reply.
Alone in the Jedi library, he picked the most difficult and abstruse texts, studying frantically for hours, afraid to return home, afraid to be alone with Qui-Gon in their rooms, with such dangerous and painful closeness.
Then finally, when he was completely fatigued once more, now mentally as well as physically, he would return to their darkened rooms—Qui-Gon always asleep, or perhaps pretending to be—and Obi-Wan would lie down on his own sleep-couch, and struggle for a few hours of restless sleep before the dawn, when it would begin all over again.
He did not mind physical pain. It was one of the few things that made his life bearable.
He swallowed another mouthful of water, and then stood up.
One of the Padawans, a Lowen named Koroebus, whose fleshy tendrils hung down his back, met his eyes. He was one of the Padawans who had previously indicated he was interested in a match. Obi-Wan had never fought him, but Obi-Wan had seen him occasionally sparring with other Padawans. From what Obi-Wan had seen, as an opponent Koroebus would not be as difficult as Milon, but in Obi-Wan’s fatigued state, he would do.
Obi-Wan nodded, accepting the challenge.
The two of them stepped aside to begin the match, but before they could start, Master Brabeuo quickly strode over to Obi-Wan.
"Are you about to start another match, Padawan Kenobi?" Master Brabeuo asked, putting a restraining hand on Obi-Wan’s arm.
Obi-Wan resisted the urge to shake his hand off. "Yes, I am, Master Brabeuo." Obi-Wan spoke with impeccable politeness, but inwardly he was seething. What business was it of his?
"I think that you are done for the day, Padawan Kenobi," Master Brabeuo said severely. "You haven’t been evaluated by the Healers."
"I am fine," Obi-Wan said defensively.
"You haven’t even washed the blood from your face," Master Brabeuo replied.
"I will do that later, Master Brabeuo—"
Master Brabeuo cut him off, but his voice was not unkind, but soft with concern, "Padawan, what are you trying to prove?"
"I am not trying to prove anything."
Obviously disbelieving the denial, Master Brabeuo went on, "Perhaps this is something that you need to discuss with your Master."
Obi-Wan flinched involuntarily at the thought. The last person he wanted to discuss it with was Qui-Gon.
Mistaking the movement as a spasm of pain, Master Brabeuo focused on Obi-Wan’s injuries. "You are in a lot of pain. You cannot continue." He turned to Koroebus, "You will have to challenge Padawan Kenobi another time." Koroebus looked disappointed but knew better than to disagree. He bowed to Obi-Wan and Master Brabeuo, before walking away.
"Padawan Kenobi," Master Brabeuo asked seriously, "now that we are alone, do you wish to tell me what this is all about?"
"There is nothing to tell, Master Brabueo," Obi-Wan replied politely but firmly. He did not meet Master Brabeuo’s eyes but stared fixedly at the wall behind the Jedi Master.
Master Brabeuo let out a long sigh of exasperation. "If you do not wish to tell me, I will not press you. But I will not allow you to spar again until you are checked out by the Healers. Have I made myself understood?"
"Yes, Master Brabeuo," Obi-Wan said, again politely, but his lips were white with anger. "I will go to the Healers. But before I go, with your permission, I will practice some of my katas."
For a moment, it seemed as if Master Brabeuo was about to reply sharply, but he seemed to reconsider his words, for he caught himself, and then only asked calmly, "And absolutely no combat whatsoever until you are checked out? Do I have your word?"
"Yes," Obi-Wan agreed shortly, as if the word was forced from him.
"If you insist, you may practice for a little while. But then to the Healers. And absolutely no physical contact, or combat. If not, I will have no choice but to discuss it with Master Qui-Gon—"
"That won’t be necessary, Master Brabeuo," Obi-Wan said quickly, and then added, cheerfully, "But thank you for your concern."
Master Brabeuo knew he was being dismissed, but it had been done so reasonably and so politely that he was at a loss to object. He looked warily at Obi-Wan for a moment, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, nodded before walking back over to the side of the room.
When he left, Obi-Wan grabbed at a talea, one of the more difficult combat kata used these long wooden staves. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. It was very difficult, for his emotions were in a tumult, and his hurt ribs, which had not recovered from Milon’s assault, stabbed him sharply with every intake of breath.
I don’t know why Master Brabeuo couldn’t have just let me alone, Obi-Wan thought angrily.
Obi-Wan launched immediately into the advanced kata, his form totally controlled and perfect, despite his burning muscles and the pain in his ribs. He swung the length of the talea in graceful, spinning arcs, and then stopped the turn in each of the defensive positions. If he deviated from the form by even the slightest imperfection, he would immediately desist, making a frustrated noise of disgust, before starting again at the beginning.
The beauty of his motion was so intense that many of the Padawans ceased what they were doing to watch, and even some of the Masters as well. Master Brabeuo continued to observe him; each time Obi-Wan ended the beautiful flow of his kata to begin again, he shook his head in disbelief. The sixth time this happened, Master Brabeuo left the practice room, but Obi-Wan was too preoccupied to notice.
It was many hours—and many forms—later when Obi-Wan finally ended the practice. He was still dissatisfied, but he was sore from the match that morning and now completely fatigued; he found he was unable to keep his legs from trembling, no matter how hard he tried, and the cut above his eye had somehow reopened, and he had to blink hard to see clearly.
I am done, Obi-Wan thought, utterly spent. But I will go to the Healers tomorrow. I don’t think I could deal with Master Asklepia and her probing looks tonight.
In the changing room, it took a while for Obi-Wan to shower and to change into fresh clothes, due to the sharp pain in his ribs and the soreness of his body. But he was in no rush to return home.
It is better this way, he thought, if I am very late he will already be asleep.
And looking at his wounds in the durasteel mirror—Milon had apparently given him a blackened eye and a swollen lip, along with all his cuts—he knew it would be better if he did not interact with his Master that night, and not only for the usual reasons.
Looking at me, he would be worried, Obi-Wan thought, prodding his swollen lip with a finger. He grimaced. And have too many questions.
He bent down and washed his face in the sink, flinching when the sting of the cold water hit the wound on his forehead. Carefully drying his face with a towel, he caught his own eyes in the mirror.
And what would I tell him, if he asked? Should I tell him that living in constant close contact with him is agony, and that as my body heals, my desire for him only increases? Or perhaps he would like to hear that I take more and more beatings because that is the only way I can stop myself from making unwanted advances?
Yes, I am sure that will go over well, he thought sardonically, I am sure that is exactly what he wants to hear. So why not tell him?
Peering at his battered face in the mirror, he added to himself, I had better sneak out early tomorrow.
He returned, limping, to their quarters. The cut above his eye had stopped bleeding again, and despite all his pain and weariness, he was happy, as he was purged of all desire and all feeling. He would get another drink of water, change out of his clothes, and then limp his tired body to his sleep-couch, to finally rest.
But when he opened the door, he found his Master sitting up in the common room, waiting for him.
Obi-Wan was very upset that his Master was still awake, but did his best not to show it. "Good evening, Master," he said airily, trying to hurry past Qui-Gon without limping.
He had managed to make it halfway across the room when he heard his Master’s voice behind him. "Obi-Wan. Stop there, please."
"Yes, Master?"
Qui-Gon got up, and then raised the lights so that the room was brightly illuminated, before walking over to stand in front of Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon took a sharp intake of breath. "What happened to you?"
"Nothing."
"This doesn’t look like nothing." His hand went up to the cut over Obi-Wan’s eye. Obi-Wan turned his face away.
"It’s no big deal. It’s not as bad as it looks."
"Obi-Wan, how long were you drilling today? Hours?"
Obi-Wan said indifferently, "I need to get back into shape. It’s been a while."
"But you are still recovering. You have to take it easy."
"I’ll be fine," Obi-Wan said, trying to end the conversation by walking around his Master without limping or holding his ribs, but Qui-Gon was far too perceptive.
"You are not fine. Stop right there, and I will get the medical kit."
"I don’t need—"
"It’s either that, or you go immediately to the Healers," Qui-Gon said sternly, in a voice that allowed no contradiction. "Wait here." Qui-Gon stepped out of the room for a moment but was quickly back with a medical kit and some soft linen cloths. Seeing that Obi-Wan was still standing, he ordered in the same stern voice, while indicating a nearby chair, "Sit down."
"You are overreacting."
"Sit down."
Obi-Wan sat down.
Standing over him, Qui-Gon lifted Obi-Wan’s chin with his hand; Obi-Wan knew better than to jerk his chin away, but his eyes slid away from his Master’s.
"You have the beginnings of a black eye, a bruised cheek, and a horrible laceration on your forehead. What were you doing?"
"Sparring."
"Is that what you do when you say you are going to practice?"
"Sometimes." Obi-Wan shrugged.
"And how many Padawans did you spar with today?"
"Only one."
Qui-Gon looked at him skeptically. At this, Obi-Wan insisted adamantly, "It was only one. Milon Taktos."
Qui-Gon snorted, "That’s more like a hundred and one. He is built like a brick wall. But Master Brabeuo said he had to stop you from starting another match. So is it usually only one?"
"It depends."
At this avoidance of a direct answer, Qui-Gon was visibly irritated, "It ‘depends’. Fine, then. How many Padawans have you sparred with this week?"
"I honestly don’t remember."
Qui-Gon was uncharacteristically losing his patience. "That is not an answer. I asked you—how many?"
"I don’t remember—" Obi-Wan repeated, but seeing his Master’s expression out of the corner of his eye, he added hastily, "I don’t know, maybe eight or nine."
"Eight or nine? That is ridiculous!" Qui-Gon exclaimed. "This will stop. Right now."
"I need to practice—"
"No, you don’t. When Adi Gallia first told me that some of the Masters were concerned about your excessive training, I told her that they were probably exaggerating. Then, Master Brabeuo came by this evening and said the same thing, I still thought it was your perfectionism. I explained to him that you were never satisfied with doing the minimum, but that you were not stupid." Qui-Gon’s sarcastic tone indicated that his estimation of Obi-Wan’s intelligence had been over-optimistic. "But eight or nine? I have never heard of such a thing. Are you trying to get killed? And you are still not back to your usual weight or strength."
"Getting stronger every day," Obi-Wan mumbled, with more confidence than he felt.
"And do you have broken ribs, too? I saw you walking with your hand pressed to your side."
"They are not broken."
"Take your tunic off."
"They are not broken."
"Off. Now."
The truly insane part of the whole interaction was that, even with all of Qui-Gon’s anger and Obi-Wan’s own annoyance, not to mention the sting of the cut above his eye and his bruised ribs aching with every breath, his Master’s command seemed almost agonizingly erotic. Obi-Wan’s hands trembled a little as he fumbled with the laces on his tunic, and he dared not look directly at his Master. He pulled his tunic off, awkward from pain and the situation, keeping his eyes downcast. He then shivered a little from cold and shyness, so he wrapped his arms over his chest.
Qui-Gon said, as if in shock, "Your body is…covered with bruises."
And it was. His thin body, the ribs distinct, had bruises over the shoulders, back, and abdomen, in various stages of healing.
"I’ll have you know that I won those matches. Well, at least most of them," Obi-Wan said irritably, for he did not want his Master’s pity.
Qui-Gon, ignoring him, was feeling Obi-Wan’s ribs with his hands. It was hard for Obi-Wan not to shiver more at finally being touched by his Master. And had he imagined it, or did his Master’s hands linger a moment too long?
"Not broken, amazingly enough. But you still need poultices for some of these cuts."
Obi-Wan cleared his throat, trying to sound normal. "I’ll go to the Healers and have them do that tomorrow."
"Absolutely not. I will do it myself." Qui-Gon had briskly opened the kit and was soaking one of the soft cloths with a healing solution, before carefully applying it to a particularly ugly cut on Obi-Wan’s chest.
"You are going to get scarred up, if you are not careful." Qui-Gon said, shaking his head in disapproval, "particularly since it looks like you haven’t tended to any of these."
Feeling the touch of his Master’s hand, even through the cloth and with the sting of the solution, was almost unbearable. "It doesn’t matter if I am ugly," Obi-Wan snapped. He had spoken without thinking, due to his fatigue and his Master’s distracting touch, and then was immediately furious with himself. How was his Master to take such a statement? That it didn’t matter if his body was ugly because Qui-Gon wasn’t going to see him naked?
Qui-Gon did not answer for a moment, but then finally said quietly, "You could never be ugly."
Obi-Wan swallowed. His heart began to hammer hard in his chest at the comment. Obi-Wan was afraid to look at Qui-Gon, for if he looked at his Master, Obi-Wan knew he was about to utterly humiliate himself.
But before he could say anything in reply, Qui-Gon asked suddenly, "What is that?"
"What is what?" Obi-Wan had no idea what he was talking about.
"On your abdomen. You still have the scar. From Pyades."
"Oh. That. I haven’t had the chance to get a bacta treatment yet," Obi-Wan lied quickly, making a dismissive gesture with his hand, looking anywhere but at his Master. "You know how it is. One of these days I will get around to it."
Then incredibly, softly, Obi-Wan felt the lightest trace of his Master’s finger along the curve of the scar. The touch did not seem suggestive, but rather profoundly tender, but all the same Obi-Wan’s heart pounded crazily, his body shivering, this time not from cold.
When he shivered, Qui-Gon pulled his hand away, and it seemed to Obi-Wan that it was slightly too quickly, as if his Master was repelled by his Padawan’s reaction to his touch, but Qui-Gon did the motion so gracefully and without any change of expression that he smoothed over the awkward moment.
"Forgive me. I was just surprised. I had thought you had gotten rid of it," Qui-Gon said lightly. "Oh, but you must be very cold, since you are shivering! You can put your tunic back on because I have finished with all your wounds."
"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan mumbled, pulling his tunic on. His fingers were clumsy and would not obey. His scar felt tingly and alive from the memory of his Master’s touch.
"We will talk about your training," Qui-Gon continued, "because it seems I will have to supervise you more, since you were too extreme on your own. But you look exhausted. We can talk about it tomorrow."
"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan repeated. He was afraid to say anything more, and limped off to the ‘fresher. Then, preparing for bed, he pulled off his tunic.
He suddenly thought of his Master’s command. Take your tunic off.
His physical reaction to the memory was almost painful. Don’t be stupid, he thought to himself angrily, he didn’t mean it like that, and you know it. But then he remembered his Master’s hand tracing the scar.
You could never be ugly. At the memory of his Master’s words and his gentle touch, Obi-Wan sank down to the floor, holding his head in his hands.
I can take a thousand beatings, but one touch of his destroys me, Obi-Wan thought, in despair.
Take your tunic off. He shook his head wearily at the unwelcome thought. Please. Not tonight. I cannot bear it.
Staggering up, he started to pull his tunic back on. I will go to the Jedi Library and read.
But then he heard his Master’s voice through the door, "Are you okay, Obi-Wan? You are taking a long time in there."
Obi-Wan cleared his throat, "I am fine, Master. But I was thinking that maybe I should go study--"
His Master’s voice was incredulous, "No. It is late, and you need to get some sleep, Padawan."
Obi-Wan balled up his tunic and put it in the laundry and then quickly pulled on his night robe and belted it tightly. I will just sneak out to the Library once he falls asleep, Obi-Wan reassured himself.
When he entered their sleeping room, he was grateful that his Master was already in his sleep-couch and the light was lowered, so he would reveal nothing by his own expression.
"Good night, Padawan."
"Good night, Master," Obi-Wan replied, getting into his couch and pulling up the covers.
Obi-Wan should have listened acutely for the sounds of his Master falling asleep, because he could make his escape while his Master slept. But he did not, because Obi-Wan now realized it was already too late. He was beyond even the distractions of the Jedi Library.
Why did he have to touch me? Obi-Wan thought angrily, as he tossed and turned restlessly on his sleep-couch.
Take your tunic off.
And then, for he had no control over his own thoughts when he was like this, Obi-Wan imagined Qui-Gon repeating his command, but this time not to tend to Obi-Wan’s wounds. At the thought, he let out a soft moan; his penis, which had already started stiffening, became fully hard and throbbing with urgent need.
Unable to stop himself, he began to imagine his Master ordering him to take off all his clothes. Take off the rest. I want to see you, Qui-Gon would say. With this idea, he had to bite his lip hard to keep from moaning again, and his legs were trembling.
This fantasy of standing naked in front of his Master was almost a little frightening, because he would be so vulnerable and exposed, but it was also extremely exciting. He wondered if his Master would enjoy looking at him when he was undressed and obviously aroused. Would it make his Master want to kiss and caress him? Obi-Wan imagined his Master touching him; Qui-Gon would first touch the scar, his fingers tracing it again, but this time his touch would not only be tender, but frankly seductive.
This marks you as mine his Master would say possessively.
And then Obi-Wan would reply with the words he dared not say outside of his fantasies. Yes. I am yours.
Qui-Gon’s hand resting lightly, teasingly, on the scar as he kissed Obi-Wan. You could never be ugly his Master would say. And then, Qui-Gon would ask him huskily, Do you want me to touch you anywhere else?
At that moment, Obi-Wan frantically pushed the thought away, for his reaction was so intense to the fantasy that his body was trembling uncontrollably; he was dangerously close to having an orgasm just from his own thoughts.
Why did he have to touch me? Obi-Wan thought again, this time wanting to weep.
Obi-Wan continued to toss and turn for close to an hour, staring into the dark, unable to sleep, unable to concentrate, unable to do anything but struggle against his feelings and the needs of his body.
Finally, Obi-Wan rose from his sleep-couch, not directly looking at his Master. "Master?" Obi-Wan whispered. "Are you awake?"
There was nothing but the slow rise and fall of his Master’s breath. His Master, who was usually a light sleeper and easily awoken by his Padawan, considerately awakening whenever Obi-Wan needed him when he suffered from insomnia, was in a very deep sleep, for he did not reply or even stir.
Obi-Wan was glad.
"I—I need to shower again," he mumbled, unnecessarily, to his sleeping Master. He locked himself into the ‘fresher, testing the lock a few times before taking off his clothes. He turned on the water full blast, for he needed a cover for what he was about to do. This time, I will think of nothing, he promised desperately, and no one. It is only to find physical relief, nothing more.
He took himself in hand, resolving to mindlessly and mechanically stroke himself to meaningless release, but even as he began he was remembering how it had been to have his Master kiss him.
He had imagined kissing his Master for years, and yet, when it had finally happened, it was still thousands of times better than he had ever thought it could be. Qui-Gon had really known how to kiss: his mouth had been both soft and hard on Obi-Wan’s at turns, and with such exquisite sensitivity and intensity that Obi-Wan had not been able to catch his breath.
That night on Pyades his Master had also taught him another way to kiss, which in his innocence Obi-Wan had never even heard of. They had been kissing each other, and then Qui-Gon had kissed him more deeply, his lips open, touching Obi-Wan’s tongue with his own. At the intimate exploration of his mouth, Obi-Wan had made a start of surprise at this unexpected way of kissing, pulling away a little.
With his reaction, Qui-Gon had been understanding. I won’t do that again if you don’t like it.
Obi-Wan shook his head. No, I do like it, he had replied, It’s just…
Just what? Qui-Gon tenderly cupped Obi-Wan’s soft cheek in his strong and callused hand.
In reply, Obi-Wan had leaned in and shyly returned the intimate gesture, tentatively and delicately exploring his Master’s mouth with his tongue.
Breaking the kiss, he said, breathlessly, I just want to make sure I do it right.
Always the perfectionist. Qui-Gon had laughed, not unkindly. So why don’t we practice it some more, then?
Remembering his Master’s kiss, Obi-Wan sighed with intense yearning.
And kissing is not so bad, he rationalized, I can think about that, a little. I won’t think about…anything else.
But then, by allowing himself to remember how Qui-Gon had kissed him, it was harder not to think about everything that had happened that night on Pyades. After kissing him, his Master had stripped him naked, taking Obi-Wan’s stiff and throbbing penis between his hands, and stroked Obi-Wan to a powerful release.
He suddenly thought about his fantasy of his Master asking him, Do you want me to touch you anywhere else?
Yes. Please. Like…on Pyades, Obi-Wan would answer, even in his fantasies too shy to be more explicit. But his Master, as always, would understand…
Obi-Wan tried futilely to push these thoughts away, but they were too compelling, and he groaned out loud without shame, remembering the touch of his Master’s skilled hands. Qui-Gon had somehow known his Padawan’s body better than even Obi-Wan himself had known it; before Pyades, Obi-Wan had been too inexperienced to be aware of his own preferences, and could not have said how he liked to be touched, but Qui-Gon had intuitively understood in just what manner Obi-Wan had wanted his penis stroked. Now caressing himself exactly the same way Qui-Gon had, Obi-Wan groaned again, remembering that it had been his Master who had first shown him how to do what he was doing to himself now.
Now totally unable to control his thoughts, he imagined it was not his own hands fondling his penis, but his Master’s. At the thought of Qui-Gon’s hands on him, expertly stroking him as they kissed, he instantly had a tremendous orgasm that made his whole body shake.
Immediately afterwards, he was ashamed of his lack of self-control. I thought about him. Again. Disgusted with himself, he squeezed his eyes shut, turning his face to the hot water.
But as he started to scrub down in the shower, he found that despite just having had an orgasm, he still felt an intense need for release. By having those thoughts he usually suppressed, he had aggravated his desire rather than alleviated it; he could still feel the tension in his body.
It’s no use, he finally admitted to himself, helplessly, what I really need is not solely physical. I need to make love with him.
At the thought of complete intimacy with his Master, he became fully erect again. So he did what he always did when he could not find relief the first time; he repeated the act even as he showered, and worse, he did not even try to control his thoughts, but started thinking about his Master right away.
It doesn’t matter, Obi-Wan thought, in anguish. If I force myself not to think about him it changes nothing; my desires are still wanton and depraved. So it doesn’t really matter what I think about, as long as I can make this degrading act end as quickly as possible. He then added to himself, grimacing bitterly in self-contempt, And if I do think about him, it will certainly end much quicker. He closed his eyes, letting himself remember how it had been to be fully intimate with his Master.
Qui-Gon’s body had been very beautiful, long-limbed and graceful yet still very strongly built, as he was a mature man. His arms and chest had been hard with muscle, his large hands hard and callused from use, but his touch had been exquisitely sensitive.
Obi-Wan had asked his Master, after kissing and stroking Qui-Gon’s penis, if there was even more that men did together in the act of love.
Qui-Gon had said, Yes, there is more. But I do not ask it of you.
Ask me. I will give you anything, Obi-Wan had replied.
When his Master had told him what men sometimes did together, it had taken Obi-Wan a few seconds to grasp what his Master was saying, and he was even a little shocked at the idea, as he had been completely ignorant, up to that time, about such things. He was also a little nervous about the act, having now seen his Master’s considerable size.
Would that please you? Obi-Wan had asked simply, but Qui-Gon had refused to give a direct answer.
Obi-Wan understood that his Master wanted to set very clear and careful limits to their intimacy. Moved by his Padawan’s pain, Qui-Gon had initially tried to make Obi-Wan feel completely loved and secure by relieving Obi-Wan’s sexual tension without violating his innocence in any considerable way.
I would leave you as you are, Qui-Gon had said tersely, when Obi-Wan had first asked him to make love.
But Obi-Wan wanted to be changed by his Master in the deepest and most fundamental way. He did not want his Master to protect his innocence by simply helping Obi-Wan find meaningless release, as if what happened between them was of no consequence, little more than masturbation, leaving Obi-Wan isolated from his Master, untouched and unmoved. Instead, that night before execution, Obi-Wan yearned for complete physical intimacy with his Master, so that the act between them would be of profound and absolute significance.
Obi-Wan had thought, If he takes me, it will change me. I will be marked as belonging to him forever. And even as he knew that forever might be as little as a single day—for they were to be led out to die in the morning—this thought of belonging to Qui-Gon so absolutely and without limit filled him with such happiness that he thought his pounding heart would burst, for certainly no heart could contain such joy.
Then Obi-Wan had said, kissing him, You are my Master. I want whatever you want.
Qui-Gon had been so very gentle when he got on top of Obi-Wan, so careful not to put any of his weight on his Padawan, but only upon his own elbows and knees. His fingers had also been very gentle, caressing Obi-Wan deeply inside as he kissed him, before he had, ever so slowly and carefully, penetrated Obi-Wan with his large penis.
It had been beyond words, to finally be one with his Master, to be as completely close to Qui-Gon as it was possible to be.
Are you all right? His Master had asked, once he was fully inside Obi-Wan. His Master had looked deeply into his eyes, kissing him.
And Obi-Wan had smiled, for he knew that his Master, who understood him so well, was not just asking about his body. Obi-Wan was now utterly and completely vulnerable, not only physically, but also emotionally, without any of his defenses, without his usual intellectual detachment from his feelings.
Yes Obi-Wan said, before kissing him back. For although truly feeling his emotions was so strange to him, and even a little frightening, because his feelings were so overwhelming, Obi-Wan knew he was safe in his Master’s arms.
If such emotional intimacy had been all, it would have been more than enough to satisfy him. But Qui-Gon, who was a very skilled lover, had turned the act into something intensely and powerfully pleasurable, so that in the end Obi-Wan was trembling, close to sobbing, and pleading desperately for release.
Master…please, he had moaned, please let me.
Now thinking about this in the shower, Obi-Wan started stroking himself the way his Master had while penetrating him. Allowing himself to imagine this was so violently arousing that within a few moments he had another orgasm, even more powerful than before, so intense that he thought his trembling legs could not possibly hold him, so he pressed his back against the wall.
But if this orgasm was so incredibly intense, and allowed him some physical release, why was he still in pain? For as he came there were hot tears in his eyes, and his jaw was clenched to keep himself from crying out, from relief or agony he could not say.
When it was finally over, he made sure he was completely clean, rubbing himself red and raw in the shower. He then stood there for a while, thinking of nothing, letting the hot water numb him.
He was now exhausted, but finally purged of desire. He dried himself off, before putting back on his night robe. Not wanting to disturb his Master, Obi-Wan silently padded back to his sleep-couch, without ever turning up the light.
Staring up at the ceiling, his last thought was, I failed today. But I must not fail again. I must try even harder. For I will become the perfect Padawan that my Master deserves.
And with this promise, he was comforted, and sleep finally overcame him.
To be continued in "Coda".