Mortals flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don't last; and stars and galaxies are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and vanish into cold and dust. But I can pretend...

Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 7

Title: And Against a Cardboard Kingdom, a Hurricane

Series: Star Wars Saga – Clone Wars Era

Characters/Relationships: Anakin Skywalker/Obi-Wan Kenobi

Rating: T

Warning: Slash, Language, Saaaap

A/N: It's been a good seven years since I actively participated in the Star Wars fandom, which is far too long. So yes, I'm just getting my feet wet with writing again. It's been a great pleasure re-visiting both my own and official canon, and I'm endlessly thankful to Karen Miller for writing some absolutely wonderful books that sketch the boys out so completely and carefully, and effectively roping me back in. As this work is unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own. Please enjoy!

And it is here at the endpoint of the Rishi Maze where our heroes take shelter, a brief and inevitably dissatisfying rest with the remaining troopers following an enormously long haul in the cold and vast reaches of space. The muggy, tropical rainy season, though not an ideal welcome back to the familiarity of terrestrial life, contrasts well enough with the unfeeling intergalactic vacuum of war that the fat, unyielding drops of rain blanket the weary Army of the Republic in a warm, sleepy embrace. Even Padawan Tano with her boundless energy has fallen into a deep, easy and well-deserved sleep on the ship, belly full of some spicy takeaway that Rex brought back to the mess.

Safe haven has become a hot commodity for the defenders of the Republic. The count of worlds in the galaxy has grown hesitant to offer their hospitality to the Republic now that trouble seems to follow them wherever they go. The war has split the galaxy into not only Republic and Separatist-friendly land and space. Governments that formerly aligned themselves with the strength of the Republic slowly fall into passionate neutrality as politicians become pawns and crooks, and even the Jedi seem more warriors than keepers of the peace these days.

The rareness of this occasion does not escape General Skywalker of the 501st. Ever a man well-versed in taking pleasure where he can, he attempts to make the easy suggestion of a drink at the local pub to High General Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi during the perfectly sensible and convenient moment when he's attempting to slough away the layer of grime, oil, and blood (he's not sure whose) that coats his skin in the fresher.

"Master, I -"

Kenobi has given up on suggesting his former Padawan no longer refer to him as 'Master'.

"Anakin, surely you can wait until I'm finished. Go busy yourself, just another five minutes. I'm enjoying this far too much to entertain you."

Skywalker grins, training his eyes on the steady rivulets of steaming water clinging to Kenobi's auburn lashes to keep them from drifting, before he closes the door. There has become little in the way of privacy between the two men, but not even the acknowledgement of this phenomenon prevents awkward moments from arising from time to time.

Skywalker pulls a close fitting black thermal undershirt over his frame, neglecting his tunics and leathers and vowing to spend some time cleaning them before they depart again. He wanders out of the washroom to the small, sterile common room, wishing he could sleep like the rest of his crew. Thankfully, it's no time at all before Kenobi emerges, toweling his hair (uselessly, Skywalker thinks as he remembers the pre-landing atmospheric reports) and searching for a medikit to re-dress the wound he's sustained from the flying shrapnel discharged during the particularly rocky descent. Skywalker stands with no hesitation and takes the medikit from inside the storage bench, pulling out some flexigauze and bacta spray.

"Sit, I'll dress it," he mumbles. Kenobi does as he's told, collapsing heavily on the hard bench and peeling his own dark brown undershirt up to his ribs and wincing when the bacta touches his freckled skin. The pain is fleeting, the cool spray numbing his flesh like mint leaves. Skywalker is surprisingly gentle, putting to practice the same precision he uses when tending to a well-loved machine, a starfighter that's seen better days.

"You know, if you'd just wear your safety restraint, we wouldn't be doing this," Skywalker chastises. "This may hurt a bit." The younger Jedi stops cleaning an angry, reddened area, and resolves to use his unique gift of Force healing to identify the underlying cause, finding a slice of debris lodged in a shallow cut.

With fingers outstretched, as if he could reach under Kenobi's skin, he coaxes the miniscule piece of transparisteel from Kenobi's side, technical finesse allowing him to manipulate the material around blood vessels and arteries. Kenobi's breath can't help but hitch when he feels it exit his body, Skywalker taking hold of it, nonplussed by the blood on his fingers, and tosses it in the bin. Effortless.

Something may have very well knocked him on the head during descent, but Kenobi can't help but smile in wonder. This war has been so dangerous, on so many platforms. He has written his life off to serve the Republic, the Order, and yet he finds himself more often than not deliriously, passionately defending this horrifying emotional precipice he's found himself perched upon, the monster in his pulse justifying the tremble when Skywalker flashes that devil-may-care grin at him, how he feels drunk on casual touches and how his fall, his addiction feels a lot like love.

Skywalker stands and discards the waste from the supplies, tossing both his and his former Master's soiled tunics and trousers in the laundry.

"We should be refueled and set for takeoff first thing in the morning," Skywalker says casually. Kenobi makes a soft noise of acknowledgment and reaches to deposit a data pad into its charging bay, idly tidying the shared space.

"Let's plan to depart early in the evening tomorrow. I think the troops could use a short furlough. It may raise morale. We're several days steeped in battle, and not quite out of the woods clear yet. If Grievous's technologies keeps advancing one step ahead of us at every turn, I'm not sure how we'll ever win this war."

"Wars aren't won with technology, Master. You know better than that," Skywalker notes, analyzing the weariness in his former Master's voice. Kenobi runs a hand through his newly clean hair and over his face, his blue-green eyes bright. "At any rate, I can get on board with that. I say we head into town and have a drink while we can."

Kenobi looks skeptical. Skywalker rolls his eyes.

"Oh, so you had ione/i bad drink experience in the Outer Rim, and you think every yocola is bad news."

"Anakin, there was sentient dirt in that wine."

"Local special, I'm sure. Maybe they have pudding!"

Kenobi feels his stomach gurgle at the thought, and looks around for his boots. "As long as it isn't still living, anything would be an improvement over those dehydrated biscuits your friend the Chancellor gives us. There are more of those awful biscuits than blasters on this confounded ship."

The pub is warm and dry, full and buzzing with a muted symphony of voices and activity. All of the tables occupied, Kenobi and Skywalker find a suitable spot at the bar. The silver protocol droid bartender waddles to attend them with cool politeness. Kenobi requests Whyren's reserve sour, and Skywalker orders a vodka tonic on the rocks. Their drinks are delivered quickly and efficiently, and Kenobi inserts his credit chip into the droid's hand kiosk. Skywalker swirls the ice around for a moment and knocks the drink back. Kenobi only stares, before turning to the droid.

"We might as well have another."

"Yes sir, right away," the droid says politely as Kenobi takes a speculative sip of his whiskey sour, never taking his eyes off Skywalker, who is smacking his lips in anticipation of another drink.

"Never said I'd be a cheap date, Master." To Kenobi, that statement is somewhat profound. Training The Chosen One certainly has come with a high price tag, but he's been worth the splurge.

"Do be careful, you don't want to be nursing a hangover in the morning. You desperately need a good night's sleep. We all do."

"That sounds exactly like what I imagine Qui-Gon would say right now, you know." Skywalker smiles wistfully and takes this drink a bit slower. Kenobi's ego is sufficiently stroked, whether his apprentice knows it or not, and speaks around his glass to mask his pride.

"I ask for his wisdom through the Force each day. I hope that someday I can be as great a Jedi as he once was. He gave me my first alcoholic drink, when I was a few years younger than you are now. I spit it out and felt nauseous for hours. I couldn't imagine how he could just knock that vile concoction back like it was water."

Skywalker laughs a bit and leans back on his stool, falling into the pleasant warmth of conversation.

"You're every bit as great as he is, Master. Wise, strong, and such a sophisticated connoisseur of beverages and backhanded compliments. How could any Jedi possibly compete?"

"Oh ho, and I've apparently done a more than successful job at passing that particular skill onto you as well," Kenobi quips. "And if you're referring to that comment that you, my dear former-apprentice passed along about Master Windu's overly-waxed head, I'll remind you that I said that to you in confidence."

"It was particularly hard to be be discreet pumped full of pain medicine, Master. 'All of this inability to discern the presence of the Dark Side Yoda's been feeling could be easily remedied by gazing into the back of Master Windu's head! He's one more polish away from showing us the full clarity of the future back there!'' Skywalker dramatizes in his most aggravated and proper tone. Kenobi groans and rubs his beard, but can't help a small chuckle.

The rain on the tin roof has become louder, and through the skylight windows, the sky has darkened, and not even the raindrops are visible in all of the blackness. Most of the eyes at the bar are turned towards the two screens mounted on the wall displaying the delay of the Holonet, but Kenobi and Skywalker's eyes are instead focused on the heat of battle in a game of chess.

Kenobi's brows are angled down in frustration as he searches for a move that won't spell the end for him with no help from Skywalker, whose stupid, gloating face is very nearly distracting him to hell and back. Skywalker ialways/i reveals a weakness in chess, because he favors his strongest pieces, especially his Queen and his Knights, but always underestimates the usefulness of his Castles and Bishops. Surely he's left something open for Kenobi to jump on?

It's then that he notices that somewhere along the way, he neglected to recognize his lone Pawn nestled on the black square at the farthest reach of its enemy's territory. And it is directly diagonal to Skywalker's extremely vulnerable King. The corners of his eyes wrinkle, and he reaches for the piece.

"I promote this Pawn to Queen. Check and mate."

Victory chuckle, second glass drained in celebration. Skywalker sips his own, a sour look on his face as he analyzes the board for any hints of foul play. He surely thought his Master hadn't noticed that rogue Pawn, what with how his Knight had been pillaging the contents of his party. It's with a barely contained edge of childish petulance that Skywalker closes the board and looks pointedly from Kenobi to his empty glass.

"Oh, I wasn't aware that iwinners bought the drinks. Surely you've something to trade, Anakin," Kenobi smirks, before ordering Skywalker a house ale regardless.

"Fine. I'll finish tuning up that new fighter for you."

"You were already going to do that. I won't be misled."

"A back rub, then."

Kenobi feels his ears and neck warm, but Skywalker just smirks (victory at making his former Master uncomfortable beats a chess win any day) and turns to check in with Rex via comlink. A local, humanoid male swings around on his stool, chubby finger pointing at the screen above, where Grievous is being announced at large yet again, after the Republic failed to engage him personally. His face and clothes hint at a life of toil, his skin pallid blue and dimpled, the bit of color in his cheeks revealing his blood alcohol content level, which is impressive.

"Can you believe this farce?! What in the nine hells is this Republic fightin' for anyway? Them damn Jedi've done let that bastard run loose again! 'fore ya know it, they're gonna bring this mess out here, just to keep Cor'scant safe. We don't matter, I tell ya we don't! They take our raw materials, bring this damn war out here and leave us for dead. If I didn't come from such a traditional family and the Seps offered us better wages, you bet yer ass I'd join 'em."

Kenobi exhales slowly. It's ignorance at best, but it always bothers him to hear it directly from a fool's mouth for they always speak louder than the rest. They don't know. They don't see what we've lost. This galaxy is perforated with makeshift graves holding Clones and Jedi, the population of the galaxy equates economics with freedom, and I just know we'll pay for this somehow yet. He tamps those feelings down again, and only sips his drink, grateful he and Skywalker haven't been too soon revealed to be Jedi. He knows this man isn't in the mood for rationalizing, but he can't help but defend his home, his way of life.

"Perhaps it's that Grievous wants this battle fought here, where he can gain supporters. It seems the farther the planet is from the Core, the easier it is to lure from democracy. I applaud your people for staying faithful to the Republic, for these are truly unsure, difficult times."

The man looks thrown by Kenobi's gentile accent and well-spoken negotiation, eyes narrowing.

"You ain't from around here, eh? Guess I shoulda known, we get all kinds out here, being the end of the road and all. Man, we got a Twi'ilek in here about a month ago, first 'un I've seen since I was a tot. Prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on, she was.

"What's yer handle again?"

"Oh, it's Ben," Kenobi says, bowing his head, the irony not lost on him that his face has just flashed across the news, and he remains undiscovered. The other man reaches out to shake the Jedi's hand vigorously.

"Name's Palis. You better get to yer lodgins, man. This rain's gonna get worse before it gets better, and they shut this joint down if it starts comin' up the floor. I'm gonna get home to my old lady myself. This is baby makin' rain, ya know," Palis winks, hauling himself unsteadily up from his stool and making his way through the man-made path to the exit. Kenobi just sighs, and turns back to Skywalker, who is struggling not to lose it over his ale, his shoulders shaking.

"Just the kind of back-asswards bumpkin you want to see reproducing, I say," Skywalker finally laughs in a breath. Kenobi can't help but shake his head in wonder.

"Force forgive me as the whiskey has liberated my tongue, but at times, knowing I have to sacrifice my life every day to protect that kind of man's right to breed an army of cro-magnons really is an iron test of willpower."

Skywalker, surprised, roars loudly enough that half of the bar turns to see where the sound has come from. The younger Jedi stares them all back to their drinks, sobering. He hums and swirls the ice around in his glass.

"We deserve much more than we're given, though."

"We're Jedi. Nothing is deserved, but peace which comes hard-earned."

"No. We deserve all that we're denied. Love, compassion, Force, we deserve our own families even like Master Mundi, and don't harp on me about him being an exception. If there are no exceptions, there are no exceptions!"

"The Jedi are a family, Anakin, but a family without attachment. We've discussed this more times than I can recall."

"And you're still wrong. The Jedi aren't my family!"

Kenobi stills and evens his gaze, his mood cooling a touch.

"Then who is? Who do you fight for if not the Republic? Padmé?"

Skywalker balks and matches the coolness of Kenobi's glare. There it is again, he thinks. The mere mention of her makes his emotions do backflips through the Force.

"You know what you mean to me," Skywalker says, voice low and intense.

"This isn't about me, Anakin. This is – "

"When it's my time, when the time comes," and there is the roguish smirk, "in a majestic blaze of kriffing glory, I want to be able to say I was loved. That I had that. Will you be able to admit the same?"

Kenobi isn't sure where to start with all of this information (of course he wants to die with as much pageantry, pomp and circumstance as possible, he thinks with a mental eye-roll), but purses his lips and puts his hand on Skywalker's in what's meant to be a comforting gesture, damning himself.

"Oh, Anakin. You will. You will be able to say that."

Anakin smiles then, the stormy charge in his eyes fading and giving way to clear skies again. His thumb flexes up to rub the heel of Kenobi's hand, and his voice is soft again when he speaks.

"You didn't answer the question, Obi-Wan."

Kenobi sighs, but it ends on a tremble when that thumb sneaks around to curl around the base of his own thumb, stroking firmly to the knuckle. He realizes that the strong castle he's built around his emotions, the one he's constructed since his youth of stone and tar is, in truth, fabricated from flimsy cardboard, and the elemental force that is Anakin isn't as simple as a drizzle. He's a hurricane.

He can feel his weary foundation disintegrating with each punishing wave, but it doesn't feel like the end. It feels like what it is – becoming part of something bigger. Bigger than the Jedi and the Sith and it shows him what the Force really is. The Force doesn't have much to do with absolute Lightness or Darkness. It is depth, not contrast that creates peace, and he's been in the shallows since he doesn't know when. The realization shakes him, and frightens him, and he dismisses it as the musings of a man emotionally aged beyond his mere thirty-five years.

"Of course."

"Good. Because there will never be anyone else like us. That's why they talk about us. On the news, you know? In the Temple? We're going to change everything."

Kenobi considers for a moment pulling his hand free. He usually gets himself out of these unique situations with Skywalker before he's in too deep, but Skywalker's words are an ember under his skin. Kenobi isn't sure where to put the intensity of it all, and just squeezes Skywalker's fingers and smiles before letting go, lids heavy over over-bright eyes.

"Or maybe they talk about us because they're shocked we're not dead by now. In a, what did you call it? 'Spectacular blaze'?"

"'Majestic blaze of kriffing glory' was the exact sentiment, but that's the gist of it, yes."

"The only glory I plan on experiencing within the next twenty-four hours is a glorious sleep, Anakin."

Skywalker orders another round of something strong and sweet for them both, and raises his glass to Kenobi's in a toast.

"Then here's to you dreaming a little bigger."

It's an hour thirty to dawn when the two men make it to their quarters, sopping wet and loosened by good company and good drink, and Kenobi doesn't say anything when Skywalker slips into his room after he codes in.

"Are you pleased with yourself? You've blasted my twelve hours of sleep to hell," Kenobi grumps, though his heart isn't really in it. He peels his shirt off, which the rain has made into a second skin. Skywalker snorts and does the same, pilfering one of Kenobi's dry standard issue undershirts from the drawer.

"Bitch all you want, I did you more good than you know getting you off of this starship for a few hours. And what is this?" Skywalker says as he raises his arms and the shirt pulls halfway up his abdomen and taut against his biceps. "I should have worn this to the bar." Skywalker sticks his lips out and shimmies his hips, and all Kenobi can do is huff, hyperaware of his small stature. If he straightens his posture a little walking across the room, Skywalker doesn't say anything.

"We can't all be giants, Anakin. They fit me fine."

"Of course. After all, you're so very dainty and tiny."

"Tch," Kenobi gripes as he gets his pants off as well, tugging on a light pair of night pants and a shirt. When he turns, he can't help but laugh aloud at the way the shirt and pants are comically short at the wrists, ankles and hem. To his credit, Skywalker rolls with it and has a seat on the opposite bunk from Kenobi's. Kenobi hands him a cold glass of water, and he thanks him, putting it on the nightstand. Kenobi raises his hand and dims the lights to seven percent intensity and crawls onto his own bunk, just a foot away from Skywalker's. He's so used to sleeping near his former Padawan that it feels right for him to be close once more.

Skywalker slides under the rough blankets and turns on his side to look at Kenobi who has settled in and is idly rubbing his beard, his eyes closed. He snakes his arm out of the blankets and reaches for Kenobi (always reaching, always wanting more), falling short. When Kenobi notices, but doesn't close the gap, Skywalker whines dramatically and flaps his hand back and forth.

"What?" Kenobi says.

"Give me your hand."

Fondly, Kenobi laughs, but makes no move.

"Oh, come on! I'm wearing this tiny shirt, it's the least you can do to ease my suffering."

Kenobi finally stirs then, making much of indulging Skywalker (as he always does, always will do), and reaching over to take Skywalker's hand over the gap between the bunks. Skywalker turns to lie on his belly, his eyes never leaving the shine of Kenobi's in the low light. Skywalker's smile smooshes into the pillow, insolent and childlike, but chilling in the way it seems to cut to his core.

"See, this is okay. The planet didn't open up and swallow us. Yoda didn't beam down from the heavens in a righteous flash to strike us down in an act of divine punishment. It's okay to let go, to let this happen."

Kenobi wonders how much Skywalker's feeling his liquor, surprised but not by this offer. He is surprised by how resolutely he doesn't let go of his damn hand. In fact, he finds himself squeezing harder. He feels as unsure as a teenager again. He thinks long and hard before he speaks, voice soft, as if dampened by the darkness of the room.

"As much as I like this, attachment isn't the answer, Anakin. It isn't. This war leaves no room for it, this way of life."

"No, it isn't. But... there really is no answer, is there? I mean, it's war. But maybe attachment is a tool. A way to fight it."

"It's a hindrance. It keeps you from seeing the bigger picture. Surely you can see that, Anakin."

"No... not when all I see is you, anyway."

Kenobi feels his breath leave in a trembling rush, his heart pounding in his chest at this thing Skywalk- no, Anakin is foolishly offering. His vibrant, young, spectacular, apocalyptic, brash Anakin, a man who is growing every day under his protective gaze. He has devoted his life to teaching and nurturing the Chosen One, and while this is a side effect he never considered, laid bare before him and under the clarity that only an abundance of adrenaline and a lack of sleep can provide, it seems right as rain. This is his brother in arms, his best and closest friend and confidant, and the only one who can devastate him with a smile, temper his inner storm (and often become its catalyst) and fiercely ensure his safety.

Anakin takes advantage of Ken-Obi-Wan's reverie, long fingers brushing up and down his own, a kiss of callused fingers, a chaste gesture that feels too hot, too intimate to be delivered by the same hands that end lives.

"Force help me, Anakin, but I'm wretched and lost," Obi-Wan says, voice rough. He fears what tomorrow (today?) brings, how he'll cope with this rawness, this newness, this thing he's presently allowing to take shape, that he's afraid to give name to. He worries that he can't handle the burden of it on his shoulders. But Anakin only holds his hand tighter and yawns.

"Eh, I don't admit this often so enjoy it, but you're doing better than me, Obi-Wan. I mean, look at you. At least your shirt fits."

Obi-Wan shakes his head, his crow's feet crinkling as his eyes smile. He yawns in response, listening to the dull sounds of the ship's goings on and when Anakin's hand slackens in sleep, he doesn't let go.