Chapter Text
At fourteen, Obi-Wan Kenobi craved his master’s touch.
It had been more than a year since he had been made a padawan, but the little things Qui-Gon did made it hard for him to imagine that his life had been anything but totally entwined with Qui-Gon’s. A congratulatory pat on the back after sparring, a reassuring shoulder squeeze when Obi-Wan was feeling discouraged, the way Qui-Gon’s long fingers deftly braided his padawan braid every morning. Obi-Wan knew that his fellow padawans braided their own braids. He didn’t care. He liked feeling a little dependent, a little needy, if only in these small indulgences. He knew that Qui-Gon understood this, and never thought twice when Obi-Wan reached for his master, returning every physical contact with the same gentle care that accompanied everything the master did.
Perhaps this need for almost constant contact grew from his wholehearted respect and gratitude for his master. Perhaps it was the product of nostalgia for the chaotic, full body affection of his creche-mates, the type of affection that was considered well-meaning but childish now that he was a padawan. Perhaps it had sprung from the deep-seated feeling of inadequacy that never quite left him after his close brush with a lifetime in the AgriCorps. Whatever the case, Obi-Wan felt the absence of his master’s touch acutely, often multiple times a day, and always sought to remedy it as quickly as possible. Whenever he and Qui-Gon were in the vicinity of each other, especially outside the safety of their quarters, he found a way to touch him. Fingers grasped on the hem of Qui-Gon’s sleeve, his bony hip brushing Qui-Gon’s thigh through their robes when he stood too closely, his small smooth hand wrapped in his master’s large callused one. The feeling grounded him; it quieted his jittery nerves when he was surrounded by what felt like thousands of people who knew how close he had been to a life of dirt and solitude.
But now, everything had changed.
It had been several cycles since Qui-Gon had sat him down over cups of tea before bed and explained to him that although Qui-Gon himself was not opposed to physical displays of affection, everyone--even some in the Jedi Order--did not share their facetious view of such conduct. Apparently eyebrows had been raised at Obi-Wan’s effusive behavior toward his master--completely normal behavior, Qui-Gon was quick to assure--and, as he was approaching sexual maturity, his displays of affection would become less and less appropriate. The master-padawan relationship was one frequently viewed by non-Jedi as being inherently and scintillatingly sexual, and it was a stigma that the Order was loathe to perpetuate.
“You are a loving boy, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon had said with fervor, his serious eyes gentling at the corners. “There is no reason whatsoever to be ashamed or made uncomfortable by that side of yourself. It is a side I treasure dearly. However, I would ask that you keep the physical manifestation of this quality within our chambers, as all creatures do not understand that your intentions are merely platonic.”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan had replied, lowering his eyes to focus intently on his untouched cup of tea. He still didn’t understand Qui-Gon’s fascination with the stuff. The beverage didn’t have a particularly good taste, and the health benefits were negligible. Many people, adults and children alike, didn’t bother with it. He certainly hadn’t in the creche. It was one more thing to which he was getting accustomed since having become a padawan. One more little change to add to his tally of “things that are different now and won’t ever be the same.” And now on that list: being affectionate with his master. His throat tightened at the thought. It all was starting to feel like too much change.
“Obi-Wan?”
He felt a callused finger brush the underside of his jaw and raised his head to find Qui-Gon looking at him with a crease between his brows.
“Do you have any questions for me?”
“No, Master.”
A heavy pause, then: “Off to bed with you, then. It’s getting late.”
Despite the embrace that had followed their discussion, and the return to seeming normalcy that had immediately followed it (as was Qui-Gon’s way with nearly every lesson--“fix it and forget it” Obi-Wan called it bitterly in his head), it had been weeks since master and padawan had touched, except in function or in passing. Obi-Wan had initially tried not to let the conversation bother him, appealing to his own sense of logic to rationalize it and releasing his negative emotions about it into the Force, as he had been taught. Soon, despite the encouragement to maintain his behaviors inside their private quarters, he found himself seeking out his master’s touch with less and less frequency. Eventually he didn’t approach his master in a physical manner at all, and stifled flinches when Qui-Gon approached him unbidden.
One morning, Obi-Wan emerged from the fresher with his padawan braid already plaited and tied off. Qui-Gon, although initially surprised, merely nodded once and said nothing. Obi-Wan pretended he hadn’t noticed the sadness in his master’s eyes.
In the cycles that had passed since that conversation, Obi-Wan had grown increasingly tense. He spoke only when spoken to, and spent the rest of the time in a sullen daze. He maintained a distance of at least a meter between Qui-Gon and himself at all times. Unfortunately, this change in behavior only brought about more stares from passersby who had come to recognize the pair of them as being joined at the hip. His classes were suffering, especially lightsaber, in which he was focusing less on technique and more on graceless power. Although his sheer strength won him nearly every battle against his peers, he knew he was losing ground quickly in form. He had no focus; his connection with the Force was taught like a bowstring. Every day, he felt Qui-Gon’s eyes watching him in sparring practice, examining every move. The previously reassuring gaze now made him grit his teeth in frustration.
“Stop.”
Qui-Gon’s quiet but authoritative tone broke his battle haze, freezing him mid-lunge. Coming back to his senses, he helped his fellow padawan to her feet, trying to ignore her wide eyes and the way her legs trembled with exhaustion. They bowed to each other, and turned to face the Jedi master for critique. Qui-Gon merely stroked his beard thoughtfully, drawing out the silence until Obi-Wan thought he might scream.
“Thank you, Padawan Tachi, you are dismissed,” Qui-Gon said to the girl. “Obi-Wan, come with me.”
Obi-Wan huffed, clipping his lightsaber to his belt in an exaggerated movement that he knew came across as petulant. He scrubbed the sweat off of his brow and pounded down the stairs of the practice ring, following Qui-Gon’s enormous form. The walk back to their quarters was spent in complete silence, Obi-Wan fairly fuming for reasons even he didn’t understand. His mind roiled like thunderclouds before a storm, passing through emotions faster than he could examine them. Frustration, anger, loathing, directed at himself, yes, but also at Qui-Gon, for reasons he couldn’t explain. The toxic feelings he was having toward his master unsettled him deeply and left a sour taste in his mouth.
Upon entering their quarters, Qui-Gon pointed firmly at the couch, indicating for Obi-Wan to sit as the other man left the common area and entered their shared fresher. Obi-Wan sat, feeling uneasy and anticipating a lecture, though he sensed nothing negative from his master. Qui-Gon returned, a bottle of massage oil in his hand, and told Obi-Wan to remove his tunic. Shortly after, he felt his master’s broad hands set to work on his neck and shoulders, pressing and pulling at the knotted muscles there. It was far more painful than any other massage he had experienced, and it wasn’t until he felt Qui-Gon’s soft rumble of a voice in his head saying relax that he even realized he had been holding his breath. He dropped his shoulders, which had somehow wound up around his ears, and focused on belly breathing as the tension was forcibly removed from his muscles.
Nearly an hour later, Obi-Wan was humming with contentment, luxuriating in the firm strokes of his master’s hands. He nearly whimpered as the hands withdrew, opening his eyes slowly to see Qui-Gon, silhouetted by the beginnings of the Coruscanti sunset, wiping his hands on a towel and taking a seat next to Obi-Wan.
“Now,” Qui-Gon said, tossing the towel gently onto the table in front of them and folding his hands neatly in his lap. “Although I feel as though I understand the cause of your recent behavior, I am not as certain that you understand it yourself. Take a few moments for reflection, please. You may discuss it aloud, if you feel that will help.”
Obi-Wan hesitated. What behavior was Qui-Gon referring to, exactly? His sparring? His sullen attitude? His aversion to his master’s touch?
“I have been unhappy lately…” Obi-Wan began tentatively, feeling out his master’s intentions.
“Elaborate. Describe your emotions.”
“Frustration, mostly. Anxiety,” Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “Anger… fear.”
“To whom or what are these feelings directed?”
“To myself, for my performance in class. And my attitude.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper, shame coloring his face. “And towards you, although I’m unsure why.”
Qui-Gon’s face remained impassive. “Think, Padawan. You know the answer.”
Obi-Wan took a deep breath as he pondered his feelings. “I feel… resentment towards you, and yearning, as though you’ve taken something from me, and I want it back. But that isn’t true; you’ve never taken anything from me, Master. You’ve only ever given of yourself, anything I needed, anything I asked for.”
“Is there something you want that you haven’t asked for?”
“No!” Obi-Wan exclaimed quickly. Too quickly. He felt a sharp pinch in his chest. As always, Qui-Gon had ascertained the source of his problems before he had himself. His master merely looked at him, radiating patience. Obi-Wan sighed. “Yes. But I feel too selfish to ask.”
“What is it?”
Obi-Wan looked down and put his head in his hands. He could feel his face heating in embarrassment. Why was this so difficult?
“Obi-Wan, there is no cause for you to feel ashamed. Tell me. It is as important for you to speak this aloud as it is for me to hear it.”
“I… miss when we used to be affectionate with one another. For some reason, I feel as though we have grown distant, to the point that you hardly seem like my master any more. But that doesn’t make sense. You wouldn’t push me away like that. At least I hope not.” He felt a dull ache of sadness from his master. “It must be something I’ve done, then. It’s just that, whenever I touch you, it feels different than it used to when I was younger. It feels… wrong. And the thought that keeps coming unbidden to my mind is that loving you is wrong somehow, and I…” Obi-Wan swallowed roughly past the lump in his throat. He pulled his fingers through his hair, tugging sharply at the short strands to distract him from the prickle of tears in his eyes. “I fear that I can’t bear it.”
“Oh, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon sighed, his voice taut with emotion. Obi-Wan felt his master’s long fingers clasp gently around his wrist, pulling his hand from his face and his body to rest against the broad, familiar chest. He curled against the other man, grasping at the front of his tunics and feeling impossibly small. Qui-Gon’s voice, when he spoke, resonated deep in Obi-Wan’s head. “I did not foresee my comments about your affectionate behavior taking root in you so deeply and causing you such pain, and for that I apologize. Sometimes your progress and maturity blind me into thinking you can handle more than you should. You have such an old soul, my padawan, that I am prone to forgetting the young body in which it resides.”
Obi-Wan closed his eyes and drew a shaky breath, trying desperately to hold back the sob that threatened to escape his lips. Qui-Gon’s hand began rubbing soothing circles in his bare back as he continued speaking.
“This intense desire you feel for physical contact, particularly from those whom you love and respect, is your body’s natural way of preparing you for its entrance into sexual maturity.” Obi-Wan opened his mouth to disagree--this had nothing whatsoever to do with sex; he didn’t find his master erotic in any stretch of the imagination--but Qui-Gon silenced him with a gentle finger to his bottom lip. “I know your feelings are not currently of a sexual nature, but they soon will be, and in this is where your conflict lies. You know that you desire physical contact with me, but you also know the taboo of sexual contact between master and padawan, and your confusion on the topic has caused you to refrain from expressions of affection all together. What you need to learn, my dear Padawan, is that your body’s need for touch is just as serious as its need for food or water. Yes, you can ignore these needs, or meditate in the Force to quell their intensity, but eventually you must succumb, or face severe consequences. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said, rising from the warmth of his mentor’s chest to look him in the eyes. He really did understand what Qui-Gon was saying. It explained a lot, actually--namely the tension he had been carrying in his body for weeks now. But, there was something else... “What I don’t understand is with whom I’m meant to satisfy such needs if contact with you is forbidden.”
“First of all, contact between a master and padawan is not forbidden. No, not even sexual contact. During our conversation several cycles ago I merely meant to impress upon you the awareness of how some cultures might view our relationship. It was not intended to be an embargo on all physicality. Secondly, most padawans seek to satisfy their needs with their peers. Did you not fill such needs without second thought when you were younglings in the creche?” Obi-Wan nodded. “Examine your current relationships and meditate on ways to expand them physically. I suspect you will find that your friends will welcome the affection. However, there are three things to keep in mind as you enter this new stage of your life. One, physical relationships are first and foremost consensual; do not express yourself physically to someone who does not share your affection. Two, platonic relations can be just as satisfying to your needs as sexual relations. Do not place such importance on sex that you forget to cultivate platonic physical relationships all together. And three, no matter what your age or maturity, I will always be available to you to fulfill your need for contact. I am an old man, Padawan, and have all but forgotten the acute need for physical touch that accompanies youth, and for that I apologize. As your master it is my duty to provide for all of your needs, mind, body, and spirit. In my ignorance of your youth I have failed you, and for that I hope you can forgive me.”
Obi-Wan practically lunged forward to wrap his arms tightly around his master’s neck. He sighed, breathing in the clean, earthy scent of Qui-Gon’s long hair, practically alight with relief and joy. “Of course I forgive you, Master.”
He felt more than heard Qui-Gon’s deep chuckle.
“For that, and for everything else about you, I am grateful,” Qui-Gon said, bringing his hand up to stroke gently at Obi-Wan’s hair. “Your spirit is a precious thing to behold, dear one, and I find that I have missed its light these past few weeks. To be your teacher is a great honor, and I have no doubt that someday you will be a greater Jedi than I could ever hope to become.”
Obi-Wan pulled back sharply to look into his master’s eyes. With his arms still draped around Qui-Gon’s neck, their faces were mere inches apart. He searched the serious grey-blue eyes before him and found only affection.
“Don’t say that, Master. You are the greatest Jedi I have yet to meet. Wiser than Master Yoda, stronger than Master Windu, with an unrivaled connection to the Living Force… I could never surpass you, not in a thousand lifetimes.”
Qui-Gon’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he fought back a smile. “It seems to me that you have been stricken with a common case of hero-worship. Now, off to the fresher with you. You need a shower before supper, and if I recall correctly, you have yet to finish that essay on the history of the seven katas that is due tomorrow. Also, don’t let Master Windu hear that speech of yours. I would never live it down.”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan replied, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss on his master’s cheek before disentangling himself and retreating to follow orders. He paused at the door of the fresher, taking a moment to observe Qui-Gon’s serene figure, still seated facing away from him. “Master?”
“Padawan?” Qui-Gon mimicked, mirth inherent in his tone.
“You love me, don’t you?”
Qui-Gon turned to look at his padawan, his face a sudden mask of solemnity that gave Obi-Wan goosebumps.
“More than you can yet comprehend."
Obi-Wan nodded resolutely, satisfied with the answer, and set about his tasks for the evening, nurturing a blossom of warmth in his belly that didn’t relent for several days thereafter.