[Rimbaud: "First Delerium - The Infernal Bridegroom", from "A Season In Hell"]
From the garden you smell fresh...
But from the training hall you smell best...
Over these many years, my young Padawan, your body has assaulted mine deliciously. I find it difficult to comprehend how you can be so unaware of it, but every time I feel myself succumbing to your unconscious beauty, the vision of your wide, clear eyes looking openly into mine snaps me back into wretched clarity and I wonder if you are really as innocent to my emotions as you make out.
We trained until late into the night, forsaking evening meal for the unspoken and unacknowledged need to expend nervous energy. I knew that you were perfectly aware of my edginess, that it had unsettled you also. You reached out across our bond, but I could not share with you what I was feeling at that moment. All I sensed was a deep mental sigh before you withdrew, raising your lightsabre for another bout, your body twisting and merging with mine, as we delighted in the grace and controlled power that our training demands of us.
The hall was empty by the time we were done, both drenched in sweat, both exhausted, both deciding at the same time that enough was enough. A weary grin lit your face and I smiled in return. You looked like an oveheated spineback: your hair sticking up in all directions, your cheeks flushed, your skin gleaming and your eyes glowing that unfathomable colour that I could never pin down to either blue, green or grey.
You crossed the floor to where I stood, hooking my lightsabre back onto my belt. I felt your palm clamp down onto my shoulder as you moved closer to laugh softly up at me.
"Not bad for an old man," you smiled, teasing me gently.
I replied with an avuncular clip around your ear, which you avoided easily, ducking and coming back up to face me.
"You missed," you whispered, standing on tiptoe so that your nose was level with mine and planting a swift kiss on my lips. I shivered as you drew away from me; the heated scent of you lingering in the air around me.
"So," you mused, fetching both our cloaks. "Dare I ask what brought this on, Master?"
"You may not," I replied, quite unable to admit my emotions, even to my beloved Padawan as he settled my cloak over my shoulders and we walked from the hall.
How could I tell you that I loved you so much I feared losing you; feared what it would do to me? How could I tell you that beyond the training bond we had I could sense the faint stirrings of a bond much deeper, much greater, much more capabable of causing irreparable damage if one of us were to die. I had tried to ignore it, but its calls grew louder every day. I had tried to tell myself that I could cope with losing you; indeed, I knew I could cope, albeit with a shattered heart. But I knew, also, from the way your eyes shone when they looked at me, that you would be utterly destroyed should I be torn from you by death.
And this, more than anything, made me close my emotions down, shuttering the deepest recesses of my mind from you. I knew you were hurt by it, but you would be hurt far more by the truth that you were so unaware of as you smiled up at me outside the door to our rooms.
I sank onto the couch, watching through narrowed eyes as you folded gracefully before me, kneeling in that endearing, childish, feet-tucked-in way of yours. You leaned forward, your fingers picking at the buckles of my boots, undoing them one by one, sometimes brushing my knee through the fabric of my leggings. I stifled a moan, not wanting to distract you from your task as each buckle fell to your nimble, elegant fingers.
Your palm cupped my left heel firmly, your other hand closed around my toes and you gently eased the boot from my foot, setting it down beside you. The same tender care was afforded to my other foot, and you placed the boots at the side of the couch; next to each other, in perfect symmetry.
Your cool fingers once more cradled my left foot, stroking the skin softly, caressing the arch, smoothing down over the toes. Maddeningly ticklish, yes, but utterly delightful.
"Your feet ache, Master?" you asked as I flinched minutely at gentle pressure upon a tender spot. Without waiting for my reply, you unfurled yourself, telling me, "wait one moment," and vanishing into the bathroom. I glanced around the room, helplessly casting for an excuse to delay what I had sensed you were about to do. You had done it many times before, taking your interpretation of your duties as my Padawan to newer, more erotic heights, and yet always with that same innocence of intention. The very first time you had washed my feet had been a blessed relief, for I had been footsore and weary, but over the years it had become much more than that, until the point it had now reached: an almost unbearably sensual act.
You emerged from the bathroom bearing a shallow bowl and a pitcher full of steaming hot water. Setting the bowl down at my feet, you placed the pitcher beside it and once more took my left foot in your hand, gently encouraging it into the bowl. You raised the pitcher, tilting it, still cradling my heel in your palm as the hot water cascaded down.
A delicious scent rose in the air, and I recognised it immediately as the perfumed oil with which you anointed your own sweet skin before we made love. It was an aroma that I had come to adore, even though it masked the true scent of you, which I treasured far more.
Tender hands caressed my foot, splashing the hot, scented water over it, massaging aching instep and arch, fingertips tickling between my toes even as I squirmed and you laughed softly. My tensions and worries were all dissipating rapidly as you covered your lap with a soft, white towel and lifted my foot onto it, drying me thoroughly before treating my other foot to the same attentions. By the time both feet were washed and dry I was pleasantly languid enough not to realise why you were bending your graceful neck, until your lips touched the tops of my feet with gentle kisses.
"Obi-Wan__" I started to protest, but you raised your head and those eyes of yours looked right into me. Oceanic in their depth, they searched my very soul.
"There is no need for you to__" I tried again.
You silenced me by reaching up and placing a soft finger across my lips. "I want to," you whispered.
I subsided, quivering, as the scent of the oil touched my senses once more, mixed with everything of you, threatening to set me afire with need. Your heat reached out to me through the thick garments we both wore and the hard-earned sweat of effort on your skin taunted me. I could barely shield my desire to touch you, to taste you, but hide it I had to. However, I couldn't bear to have you so close... so raw... so hot...
You resolved my dilemma almost as if you had read my tightly-shuttered mind, rising slowly and taking the bowl and pitcher back into the bathroom. I could hear you switching the shower over from sonic to water, and I groaned softly as I glanced at the still-open door.
I swear, by Force, that you were trying to tempt me. Never before had you left the bathroom door open; always preferring to shower in quiet privacy, treating it almost as a meditation, some kind of deep cleansing ritual for both body and mind.
The rhythm of pouring water was broken into irregular splatters as you obviously stepped beneath the spray. I closed my mind to the images that presented themselves to it, but my body cried out to witness them. My eyes needed to see you and I could no more stop my feet from taking me to the open bathroom door than I could halt a herd of panicked, charging banthas.
Already, I regretted buying you the gift. Now that it was in my possession, practically burning a hole in the pouch that hung at my belt, I would have to present it to you, to acknowledge my reason for buying it: a reason that would surely have you gifting me in return with one of your beautiful, wide, delighted smiles before you sank into my arms and tormented me with your lips until I caved in and gave you a more physical reward. You would ease my aching feet and heart and I would once more lose myself in the bliss that is my beautiful young Padawan, only to wake in the morning in your arms, cursing myself for taking advantage of your open and trusting nature.
Don't get me wrong, love: you are so good for me. You can quiet my anxious thoughts, energise this tired old body and brighten my life more than the suns. When I take you into my arms and bury myself deep into you, nothing feels more right, more perfect, but always afterwards this fledgling bond seems to have grown a little more, strengthened its hold a little tighter. I begin to wonder if what we do is wise. Should I distance myself from you? Could I even bear to do it?
I peeked through the gap in the door, my mouth suddenly becoming drier than the sands of Tattooine. I had my answer: No, I could not bear it. You, with your sweet, impulsive nature, would - if you knew of its existence - simply smile, hug me and suggest that we both embrace it.
Maybe it was time I took a few steps back from myself and embraced you a little more. Maybe, just maybe it was time to stop lecturing you to live in the moment, and live in it a little bit myself.
Hmf... time to give in, I suppose...