Summary: A training match reveals an unexpected surprise
Disclaimer: 1) George is god and I'm just playing around for
the heck of it 2) This was written LONG ago, when the movie had
just come out. Originally intended for a zine, but since that
isn't to be it appears here instead. =)
Obi-Wan reached down to release the catch at his ankle,
slipping the boot off and leaving it slumped beside its mate.
The practice mat was cool beneath his bare feet; he leaned his
weight into it experimentally, gauging the give of the padding.
The training hall was small and sparsely outfitted; it existed
primarily to give the standing guard of the Melaccar palace a
place to practice close combat and drill maneuvers. Several of
them were gathered at the far end of the chamber, engaged in
unarmed sparring. As the hall was much too small for safe saber
practice with others present the Jedi had opted likewise and
Obi-Wan's Master already waited upon the practice mats, large
hands deftly tying off the trailing end of the plait he had
braided his hair back into.
The younger man rolled his head back against his neck, letting
the twinges of tension trail away in the sharp stretch of the
motion. The treaty talks between Melaccar and its closest
neighboring system, Orlon, had been going well. Obi-Wan had
hopes that an agreement would be reached soon, releasing the
Jedi from the assignment. He had nothing against the Melaccar
talks in particular - it had certainly been a better assignment
then some he might have named - but the endless days of sitting
in the midst of argument and rebuttal always made him restless.
It was in deference to that which had made Qui-Gon suggest the
early morning training before the next round of talks began in
the afternoon; the Jedi Master's small smile had let Obi-Wan
know that the older man was well aware that it had only been a
strict attention to decorum which had kept his apprentice from
drumming his fingers impatiently on the table by the end of the
day before.
Bending to place his palms to the mat before his feet, feeling
the tingling stretch across back and calves, Obi-Wan smiled to
himself. Qui-Gon had a way of always anticipating when youthful
energy was on the verge of overcoming statecraft training and
was attentively indulgent in finding ways for his apprentice to
expend the energy at something useful. Of course, 'useful'
usually meant that Obi-Wan would be sporting bruises afterwards
if he wasn't careful. Unlike training for the sake of learning
something new, when his Master was the soul of gentle patience,
Qui-Gon did not believe in holding back during a sparring
session. It was, he had pointed out to a younger Obi-Wan, a
means of keeping a sharp combat edge - practice was only useful
if it could be applied to reality, and if one practiced at half
strength then it blunted the ability to the switch to full
strength during a true crisis. Obi-Wan hadn't liked it then but
he had since conceded the point - he had also gotten rather
used to staring at the ceilings of numerous practice halls, his
back stinging from absorbing the impact of the mat and his ears
ringing. Skill kept both Master and Padawan from real injury
and Obi-Wan was well aware that Qui-Gon could and would pull
the force from a blow at the last moment if he himself failed a
block. It hadn't ever kept him from collecting a catalogue of
bruises, however, which made his Master's 'gift' of indulgence
with Obi-Wan's restlessness a double edged blade.
In the privacy of his own thoughts, buried deep from the
training bond that hummed between the surface of both of their
minds, Obi-Wan readily admitted that he could easily think of a
half dozen different activities that would alleviate both
restlessness and boredom, all of them involving his Master and
not one of them involving getting thrown repeatedly into a
practice mat. The thought of what Qui-Gon would say to that
unorthodox suggestion turned his smile into an impudent grin.
Catching the expression as Obi-Wan straightened, Qui-Gon
briefly raised one brow. "If you're ready?" the Jedi Master
inquired mildly, gesturing for Obi-Wan to take his place.
Schooling his features back into proper sobriety, Obi-Wan knew
he was doing a terrible job of suppressing the lingering hint
of humor that trickled through their bond. Qui-Gon's expression
told him as much, but the mixture of exasperated patience on
his Master's face only fueled the fire. Shaking his head
slightly, the Jedi Master reached to his belt, withdrawing two
items which made Obi-Wan groan. With a smile of his own,
Qui-Gon tossed one to his apprentice. "You need to
concentrate," he reproved, but the younger man knew his Master
was finding his own odd brand of humor in the situation.
Sighing, Obi-Wan shook out the training blindfold. The heavy
lined fabric molded easily over the eyes, efficiently blocking
out all hint of sight. The straps fit over and under the ears,
securing the thing in place against most moves without being
uncomfortable. Deprived completely of the use of his eyes,
Obi-Wan took a breath and stilled his mind, reaching out to the
Force, letting the living ripples of the moment sculpt within
him the knowledge of the edges of the room and his Master's
position.
The first move came without warning, as it always did. Feeling
the surge in the Force, Obi-Wan ducked and sidestepped, the
whisper of Qui-Gon's passing stirring the air between them. For
all his impressive height the large man could move silently,
not even the exhale of his breath betraying his motion. The
Force flowed through the younger man, whispering inaudibly to
his instincts. Whirling, he caught the next blow against his
forearm. Catching the fabric of a tunic sleeve between his
fingers, he grabbed and twisted, aware the move had failed even
as Qui-Gon broke the hold and spun away. Knowing full well
where the next steps of the dance would lead, Obi-Wan
suppressed his body's attempts to brace itself against
anticipation and forced himself to accept the fall loosely,
rolling, as a long leg swept his feet out from under him and
tumbled him down to the mat.
The habit of reliance on sight warred for a moment with the
awareness of the Force, his track of position spinning dizzily
as he rolled heels over head and came back to his feet. He
never lost track of his Master - the other man's presence
gleamed like a light in the darkness, bright and clear. But in
ducking again he lost track of the arena itself and found his
feet at the edge of the mat, the wall less than an armspan
away. Swearing beneath his breath, he drew inward; awareness
blazed into him as Force augmented muscles reacted faster than
conscious thought and spun him away from the next attack.
Memory supplied what sight could not. Qui-Gon, in motion, was a
fluid blur of grace and power; muscle gliding beneath flesh
with a serene flow that seemed better suited to quiet
meditation than the rigors of combat. Obi-Wan had seen his
Master spar blindfolded against training droids - he moved as
though the blindfold were no impediment at all, covered eyes
turning unerringly towards his opponent. Beneath the cloth his
jaw would be relaxed, lips parted slightly as his breath passed
in and out in a focused rhythm that was only rarely winded,
even at the end of a grueling session.
Momentarily distracted by the memory playing before his closed
eyes, Obi-Wan couldn't quite suppress an inarticulate noise of
surprise as a large hand slipped beneath his block and fisted
in the neck of his tunic. A twist jerked him from his feet and
flipped him across a hard hip. The world upended itself and
then the air was being forced from his lungs as his back hit
the mat with bruising strength. A heavy knee planted itself in
the middle of his sternum, pressing the last of the breath from
him for emphasis.
"You need to concentrate, Padawan," Qui-Gon's deep voice
rumbled above him. There was no mistaking the humor in it - his
Master was finding it all quite amusing at Obi-Wan's expense.
The younger man wheezed around the pressure on his chest and
the knee was removed, allowing him to catch his breath.
"Two out of three," Obi-Wan offered, getting to his feet as
Qui-Gon stepped back.
"If you like," the Jedi Master answered. The blow that
immediately followed Obi-Wan blocked, responding with a throw
which succeeded in taking the larger man from his feet. Obi-Wan
heard the smooth impact on the mat as Qui-Gon rolled easily
upright, as well as a scattering of approving noise from the
edge of where they were practicing. The Melaccar guards had
abandoned their own practice in favor of the novelty of
watching a pair of Jedi spar.
More amusement tickled him along the bond; Qui-Gon seemed to
find their audience the height of hilarity. Obi-Wan snorted to
himself. Needed to concentrate, did he? Going to be dumped on
his ass in front of an audience, was he?
Maybe. Or maybe it was time to cease playing.
The flurry of his attack forced Qui-Gon back several steps and
escalated the bout. The Force flowed easily to both men,
augmenting every movement, moving blocks into position before
the blows had even been thrown. They circled in a whirlwind of
defense and attack; dimly, from where the Melaccar clustered,
Obi-Wan could feel threads of amazement and awe as speed and
moves outstripped the upper standard for normal humans.
When those implacable hands caught his kick and threw him back
to the mat, one hand pinned hard against his shoulderblade,
Obi-Wan had to admit that youthful energy and speed would only
take him so far against greater height, reach, and experience.
"Good," Qui-Gon approved pleasantly. "Better. Again?" He wasn't
winded at all, though Obi-Wan was gasping as he caught his
breath a second time.
"Two out of three," Obi-Wan repeated stubbornly, shaking out
both arm and leg as he stood.
"That was two," Qui-Gon pointed out, his voice tracking to the
right as he moved. Obi-Wan turned to follow it.
"That was one," he replied firmly. "The first was just warm
up."
The Jedi Master chuckled. "One, then," he agreed.
An attack did not come immediately, Qui-Gon waiting to see what
his Padawan would do. Obi-Wan could see the Jedi Master in his
mind, relaxed but ready at less than a moment's notice to
spring once more into motion. The rough silk of his hair would
have worked partially free of the braid, tendrils waving around
his face and sticking damply to his high forehead. The one
throw Obi-Wan had managed would have tugged the lightweight tan
tunic into disarray, one side hanging looser across the broad
chest than the other. The younger man sighed, chiding his mind
for the path it was wandering. His Master was unconscious art
in motion and Obi-Wan resented the blindfold that kept him from
unobtrusively watching the display.
The lack of sight, if anything, only strengthened his awareness
of the other man. It was like a pulse of warmth that burned
against his flesh with the heat of the noonday sun, and he the
leaf which turned endlessly towards the light. A thousand small
sensory moments were collected and catalogued, things he might
otherwise not have noticed. He could measure off the span of
Qui-Gon's hand on his own flesh, hard and firm, the fingertips
and palm calloused from the grip of a saber. All the same,
there was an almost gentle delicacy to his touch during a throw
- just enough force and no more, an economy of movement that
was nevertheless as graceful and unstoppable as the flow of
water.
A dozen things or more, Obi-Wan swore quietly to himself, that
those hands could be doing instead of bruising him on the floor
of a training hall. Chop, parry, whirl away before they could
grab him and throw him down once more. He grinned to himself,
his imagination assuring him that those large hands could
indeed be inflicting bruises on the floor. . . but perhaps
under different circumstances and without the audience.
He knew some trace of the errant thought had slipped through
their bond when he felt Qui-Gon falter slightly. Already in
motion, Obi-Wan tried to deflect the arc of his spin in the
scant half second remaining. He only partially succeeded, his
kick connecting with the Jedi Master's chin rather than the
solidly placed blow to the cheekbone that it should have been.
Qui-Gon's head cracked around, dropping the larger man to the
ground. Obi-Wan was already tearing off the blindfold and
dropping to his side, horrified at his own slip. "Master!"
One of the Melaccar crossed to them and knelt down on the other
side of the prone man, a stocky woman whom Obi-Wan recognized
as the guard Second. She nodded to the younger man, a brief
smile lighting her angular face. "That was a good kick," she
approved. When Qui-Gon began to struggle up, hand going
gingerly to his jaw, she placed a staying hand on his shoulder.
"Here now, Master Jedi," she told him firmly. "Go easy. Your
young man clipped you soundly."
Qui-Gon peeled the blindfold away, wincing at the sudden
brightness. Obi-Wan winced as well, trying to sit smaller on
the grey mat as his Master's eyes swept over him. Qui-Gon
looked at him, then nodded slowly. "Indeed," he agreed,
answering the guard, but his gaze never left Obi-Wan. "Well
done, Padawan."
Obi-Wan could feel the embarrassed flush spread heat across his
cheeks but didn't dare look away. "Are you alright, Master?"
The older man pressed exploring fingertip to his jaw, probing.
He grimaced slightly but shook his head. "A bruise only,
Obi-Wan. You pulled that well." He smiled very slightly, the
expression lopsided as he rubbed the point of impact. "For
which I thank you. A broken nose would be harder to explain to
the diplomats. A bruise is much easier concealed." Obi-Wan
nodded hastily, though his eyes could spot the point above the
line of Qui-Gon's silver specked beard where the dark greenish
black of a rapidly forming bruise was spreading.
"Ai, you'll be alright, then," the guard Second declared.
Sitting back on her heels, she nodded warmly. "That was a good
match, Master Jedi, Padawan Kenobi. A rare treat to watch."
Qui-Gon did not immediately respond, the dark blue of his eyes
still scanning across his apprentice's face. After a heartbeat
he turned away to respond to the woman, letting Obi-Wan release
the breath he had been holding.
Sith, what a mess. He raised a trembling hand, raking his
fingers through the short sweat-soaked spikes of his hair. He
had no illusion that his Master was unaware of the attraction
he felt and had felt for some time for the older man. But it
was also an unspoken rule that it remained exactly that -
unspoken and unacknowledged, taking a distant second place to
the training bond that tied them as Master and Padawan.
Flinging a burst of it into the middle of a sparring match was
hardly 'unspoken'. Obi-Wan sighed, the slim length of his braid
twining its way around his fingers as he tugged on it.
Qui-Gon finished speaking to the guard, thanking her for the
guards' voiced appreciation of the bout. Giving them another
smile, she got to her feet and bowed politely, then turned to
chastise the other guards for still being there. "Here, that's
enough of a show, haven't you anything to do?" she called at
them all, sending them on their way. In moments the training
hall had cleared, the doors hissing shut across the voices of
the guards and leaving the two Jedi alone.
The Jedi Master turned his gaze back to his Padawan. Obi-Wan
gulped, casting his eyes down and tugging harder on his braid
until the pressure of it was nearly pain.
Qui-Gon sighed. "Stop that," he reprimanded mildly. Reaching
out, he took hold of the braid and gently unwound it from
Obi-Wan's grasp.
"I'm sorry, Master." Clasping his errant hands in his lap,
Obi-Wan looked down at them and wondered if there was any way
to simply vanish into the floor. He could feel the heat of the
flush from the top of his forehead all the way to his throat.
Shaking his head, Qui-Gon climbed to his feet. A large hand was
extended into Obi-Wan's view, beckoning. The younger man
hesitated, then clasped it and scrambled to his feet as well.
Qui-Gon did not immediately release him, hand closing tight
over his. Blue eyes met grey and Obi-Wan chewed at the inside
of his lip, far too aware of the heat and form of the hand that
held his. The Jedi Master nodded slightly, as though in answer
to a question he hadn't voiced. His tone, when he spoke, was
quiet and unjudging. "What now, Obi-Wan?"
Obi-Wan felt his heart and stomach sink straight through to his
feet. Swallowing hard, he met the older man's eyes. "Master?"
Hesitating a moment, Qui-Gon eyed him steadily, searching. Then
he nodded again, satisfied, and let go, starting to turn away.
In the second of its passing Obi-Wan knew what had been offered
in that moment. When he had first begun to notice the other man
he had made quiet inquiries of other Padawan's his own age. The
consensus had been that fantasies, especially among those
training pairs of the same species, were fairly common. The
manner of dealing with adolescent attachments varied with the
Master, but silent unacknowledgement of it had seemed the most
common. It had absolved Obi-Wan of his own embarrassment about
it, and given him an almost appreciative view of his Master's
skill in simply avoiding the subject at all.
The difference was that Obi-Wan's feelings had not turned away
to another, more accessible target after weeks of the silence.
Nor months, nor, he admitted to himself, going on nearly three
years. They had remained, steady and constant, the physical
attraction only a part of a larger whole that centered forever
upon his Master, the heart of his personal universe. That his
feelings were not returned had troubled him only at the start -
he knew Qui-Gon cared for him, the feeling evident in gesture
and word and the bright warm flow of affection from their bond.
It was enough. There was nothing urgent or heartrending about
what he felt, nothing of bitterness in the silence. It simply
was, and as a part of it there was the silence surrounding it,
something that Obi-Wan had long ago accepted and put into
effect.
And now, for the first time, Qui-Gon had voluntarily offered to
break that silence.
Of its own volition his hand leapt out, catching wrist and
tunic cuff before Qui-Gon could turn away. "Master," he
blurted, then hesitated. "Qui-Gon."
The Jedi Master turned back, gaze open and waiting. Obi-Wan
swallowed, looking down to where their hands once again clasped
in the space between them. "I'm sorry," he sighed.
The older man's response caught him by surprise. "Why?" Qui-Gon
asked, the curiosity gentle but genuine. Startled, Obi-Wan
glanced up. Qui-Gon freed his hand, reaching up slowly to place
the palm feather light against the younger man's cheek.
Obi-Wan didn't know if the slight tremble was in his body or
Qui-Gon's hand, but it hovered there at the point of contact,
shivering and electric. The younger man closed his eyes as the
calloused pad of a thumb swept gently across his lower lip,
unable to bear the searching look in the blue eyes that watched
him. He felt the soft ripple in the Force as his Master closed
the step between them and the warmth that warned him, a moment
before the older man's lips closed over his.
It was a light and questioning touch, the breath of a kiss.
Rough prick of a beard juxtaposed with the soft skin of lip,
infinitely different than Obi-Wan had experienced before or
dreamt in late night dreams. As unique as the man himself,
singular and treasured. He found his hands fisted in Qui-Gon's
tunic, pressed tight to the warmth of that broad chest as he
tilted his head back. Spice and honey in that kiss, and Obi-Wan
knew as they broke apart that he would never again lift a cup
of morning tea without recalling that taste and feel.
Amazement touched him, drifting gently through their bond. He
opened his eyes to meet Qui-Gon's gaze, doubt and startlement
in their depths as though the Jedi Master had surprised even
himself. Perhaps he had. It called forth an answering laughter
in Obi-Wan, laughter that spilled forth as a smile, broad and
delighted.
Startled again, Qui-Gon shook his head ruefully and slowly
echoed the smile. "Two out of three indeed," he murmured. "I
should quit the field before you carry the whole match."
The delighted laughter was bubbling through him like the finest
of wines, bright and vibrant and warm, erasing all else in its
joyous wake. "Would that be so bad?" he asked, the answer
already humming through him, pressed into the memory of lip and
tongue.
Qui-Gon only shook his head again, but bent to softly brush his
lips across Obi-Wan's upturned forehead. "It's enough for now,"
he whispered, and the younger man could only agree. More than
enough, and more than he had ever expected.
Releasing him slowly, Qui-Gon stepped away. The smile still
hovered about his lips and in his eyes, a warmth that
reverberated through both their minds, but his words returned
the world to its rightful place. "Come. It wouldn't do to keep
the delegates waiting." His look caught Obi-Wan, his voice
dropping. "We'll speak of this later."
There was promise in those words. The silence would be broken,
the cards laid out cleanly between them. And perhaps. . .
Obi-Wan bent to retrieve his boots, trailing in Qui-Gon's wake
as he had since he was small. Perhaps two out of three was only
the start.
His Master waited for him at the door to the changing rooms. As
he passed the larger man Obi-Wan glanced up. Grey eyes met blue
and the smile that he had been trying to submerge beneath
proper solemnity burst forth once again. The delegates were
just going to have to wonder why he was grinning like a fool,
for he could no more stop then he could will his heart to cease
beating. The answer to all of his thoughts lay in those deep
blue eyes, momentarily unguarded, and with that to warm him he
could wait as long as he must to hear them finally spoken
aloud.
Reaching up, Obi-Wan dared to press light fingertips to the
other man's lips. "Match," he whispered, laughing silently.
Qui-Gon smiled with his familiar indulgent humor, but he did
not deny the charge.
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