A Wanderer between the Realms @piecesofeden11 - Tumblr Blog

A prompt you say? How about "a drunken kiss neither can stop thinking about" for obikin 🙏

Thank you for the prompt! 💕 I had fun with this one 😂

From this prompt list

Obi-Wan wakes up the next morning feeling hollowed out, empty.

Although, that’s not entirely true, is it? He isn’t empty, just filled to the brim with all of the wrong stuff. The blinding pain of a headache searing behind his eyes. A thick, gummy residue on his tongue even though Obi-Wan could swear he remembered to brush his teeth last night. Though admittedly, as he realizes from a bit of shuffling around that makes his stomach lurch, and oh yeah—his guts might be filled with an absolutely vile concoction that will meet his bedroom carpet if he doesn’t make it to the fresher sometime soon—but his feeble attempts to roll over allow him to realize that he never actually managed to take off his robes last night before falling face first into bed and staying there.

Last night was a happy occasion, perhaps the happiest and most impossible occasion Obi-Wan could imagine for the longest time: the end of the Clone Wars. It isn’t right that all of that happiness—the atmosphere of sheer joy and elation, a resounding feeling of freedom and justice throughout the galaxy—should leave him feeling this terrible come morning.

Obi-Wan supposes that bringing balance to the Force isn’t necessarily enough to change the immutable laws of chemistry and physics but it feels like it should allow for at least a little grace the morning after.

Carefully, he pries himself up from the bed with one arm, slowly convincing his other limbs to join in on the attempt to sit up. He left the blinds open on the windows last night and a gleaming ray of sunlight reflected off of a skyscraper blocks away threatens to strike him dead. With an effort that feels no less heroic than the events that led to the celebration last night, Obi-Wan sits up in bed. He has to swallow down a belch that attempts to escape him for his trouble.

Now upright and slowly adjusting to the myriad sensory inputs related to sight, Obi-Wan spies his boots tossed to one side of the room—he managed to take those off before collapsing into bed, how thoughtful of him. He rubs ruefully at the belt he forgot to do away with, all of those lovely pockets and cylinders perhaps permanently impressed on his midsection.

He needs to take a few fortifying breaths before he is prepared to brave standing. In his right mind, a Jedi master does not have to suffer the gauntlet of indignities posed by a hangover. A careful understanding of the Force and the way it flows through a body allows a well-trained Force-sensitive to rid their body of such toxins. But Obi-Wan is very much not in his right mind at the moment. He’ll need to use the fresher and courageously contemplate his conservator to determine whether or not he is prepared for solid foods or perhaps a cup of caf before he'll be able to meditate with any real success.

Stars, what possessed him last night?

It was truly a celebration like no other, certainly none that Obi-Wan has ever seen in his lifetime. The entire planet of Coruscant seemed alight with music and fireworks, the joy of billions palpable in the Force. That alone was a dizzying thing to experience.

But then came the return of all the far-flung Jedi across the galaxy back to the Temple. The very stones of the Temple’s walls and foundations seemed to sing with joy and light with all of its children back under one roof.

The night began out in the city. After the brief formal celebrations—an official confirmation that Palpatine was well and truly dead to set the record straight with regards to his evil—the revelry spilled out into the streets. They passed through the assembled crowds, through blocks filled with people stories deep into the fathomless layers of the city.

There were people celebrating everywhere, many didn’t even seem to know what for. Palpatine’s machinations were largely secret, hidden from everyone’s view until it was almost too late. Ranking members of the Delegation of 2000, stepped up to tackle the Holonews, spinning the story into something palatable. Obi-Wan thanked the Force he played no part in that.

The rest of the night starts to go hazy from there. When Obi-Wan thinks back, he can recall flashes of memory like still images that begin to elide into one another more as the night goes on, the connective tissue of how he got from one place to the next remains a stubborn gap in places. He remembers drinking with a few dozen members of the 212th and the 501st in a bar a few blocks from the Senate. Then Anakin said that Ahsoka and a few of her friends had commandeered a club a few levels down and the party seemed to follow them there. Quinlan found them a few hours later and renewed their flagging energy.

The celebrations went on and on, drinking and dancing, talking and laughing. It almost makes Obi-Wan nauseous all over again to remember how dizzyingly happy he and everyone else around him had been. The one bright spot that keeps him grounded in all of this reminiscing is Anakin.

Luminous is the only word to describe him, though Obi-Wan has a couple hundred others to add on as well. Bright, shining, golden, he truly looked the part of the poster boy everyone would declare him to be over the next few days. A hero, a Jedi, a beautiful young man. Free at last from the dark shadow of the villain who spent so much of Anakin's life trying to carve him into a weapon. In the midst of everything else, all of the scenes of joy and festivity, Obi-Wan couldn’t take his eyes off of him. His beautiful boy.

Which is why the next flash of memory from last night churns his gut so awfully, Obi-Wan stumbles to the fresher and braces himself against the sink. Nothing comes up, thank the Force, but the cold shock of emotion too tangled up to name still roils in the pit of his stomach.

Outside one of those bars—Obi-Wan can’t precisely remember which at this point—he and Anakin stepped outside for some air. They were both well and truly trashed that late in the night, though Coruscant’s ever present light pollution and the alcohol made it difficult to tell exactly how late. Obi-Wan leaned back against the wall and lifted his head up to look at the ships passing overhead, trying to make out the larger cruisers in orbit above, and to center himself. He hardly noticed Anakin at all until their shoulders brushed, their usual Force-assisted balance and grace deserting them as the night wore on.

Obi-Wan can’t even be certain that they said anything to each other—he would like to think he would remember it if they had. Anakin had just smiled at him, something in his eyes looking impossibly young while at the same time, appearing older, more settled and mature than Obi-Wan had ever hoped Anakin might achieve.

It was all too easy to turn to him and kiss him. The desire took form in his limbs the very same instant that it took shape in his mind. His hand found Anakin’s face and steadied him there while the rest of his body pressed him to the wall, caging him in, claiming him, consequences be damned.

And now here Obi-Wan stands, chest heaving, hands clenched against the edge of the sink, damned.

How is he supposed to face Anakin after betraying his friendship like that? Forcing himself on him when he was vulnerable and unsuspecting. How is he supposed to look his former padawan in the eye after acting on the desire Obi-Wan has spent years trying to desperately give to the Force?

Because that is Obi-Wan’s true crime. One kiss could be shrugged off, getting caught up in the heat of the moment, a result of their deep and undeniable connection to one another. But no, Obi-Wan has wanted this for some time now. In ways he has struggled to come to terms with, avoided thinking about at all costs for the sake of the relationship he already has with Anakin, the friendship he holds most dear to his heart.

Obi-Wan has to apologize. That’s the only thing for it. He needs to face Anakin and tell him that what happened last night doesn’t change anything between them—or else, that it doesn’t have to change anything between them. Obi-Wan can’t deny the simple fact that this one small and simple mistake threatens to change everything and likely already has. He knows the feeling of Anakin’s lips against his, soft and perfectly formed, the taste of sweat and alcohol and the scent of him. He knows what Anakin’s heart feels like rabbiting in his chest when pressed up against his own. The feeling of those lovely curls between his fingers. How right it felt just to hold him.

Perhaps the stars will shine on Obi-Wan and Anakin won’t remember a thing from last night. It took some effort for Obi-Wan to recall what he did, the fulfillment of years’ long yearning. Perhaps he will wake up with a hangover to rival the one he had at sixteen after attending a party with the other senior padawans. Anakin spent the night on the floor of the fresher and woke up shivering the next day, hardly able to stomach salted crackers and broth for lunch. Perhaps Obi-Wan will get lucky.

Obi-Wan is almost never lucky.

He resolves himself to facing whatever the day has in store for him. He can’t hide away in his bedroom for the rest of the day or for the rest of eternity, much though he would like to at the moment. Perhaps after getting some food in his stomach, all of this will look so much simpler than his hungover mind is currently able to process.

It doesn’t seem likely but the fact remains that Obi-Wan has to try.

As soon as he opens the door from his bedroom into the living area of his quarters, Obi-Wan nearly trips over something left on the floor outside his room. No—not something, someone. They’re a little hard to make out at first, bundled up in what Obi-Wan thinks might be a spare cloak he left on the arm of the couch and curled in on themselves, hiding their face from the bright sunlight. But it could only be Anakin, lying on the floor of the quarters they used to share years ago. Obi-Wan would know him anywhere.

Anakin starts abruptly after having been unceremoniously kicked in the rear. He knocks over a mostly empty bottle that Obi-Wan vaguely recognizes as the Chandrilan brandy he kept in a cupboard over the sink saved for a special occasion that never really came to pass. The remainder seeps into the carpet of the living area, the sharp smell of alcohol turning Obi-Wan’s stomach for the umpteenth time on this terrible, terrible day.

Blinking up at him with bleary eyes, Anakin says, “Obi-Wan?” as though he might have expected someone else to come out of Obi-Wan’s quarters after apparently, guarding the entrance all night.

“Good morning, Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs. His voice sounds to his own ears like it has been stomped on by an AT-TE walker and dragged across a battlefield. “Rough night?”

A jaw-cracking awn splits Anakin’s face and he makes no move to cover it. “No,” he says, his voice low and rasping with sleep. “It was a good night. I think.”

Well, that speaks well to convenient amnesia but Obi-Wan isn’t about to get his hopes up.

“Feel brave enough to stomach some breakfast?” Obi-Wan reaches out a hand to help Anakin up off of the ground but he ignores it in favor of working out a kink in his neck and spending some more quality time with the floor.

Anakin nods. “I’m starving.”

Obi-Wan takes that a sign that most things, if not everything, are right with the galaxy this morning. He steps into the kitchen and stares into his conservator for a few moments. Then he opens a few cupboards, looks back at the conservator, and stalls out, trying to make sense of the paltry foodstuffs he has in his kitchen. He supposes the last few days have been so hectic, what with ending a war, revealing and defeating a Sith lord and saving the galaxy, he might have been too busy to buy groceries.

A pair of arms slip around his waist and a familiar head settles on his shoulder. The presence is enough to break through the fog Obi-Wan has been fighting with all morning, making him stand up straight and still as though he might startle Anakin with a sudden movement.

“Want to go to Dex’s? I would kill for one of his egg sandwiches.” Anakin says, the vibration of his words rumbling through both of their chests.

He stays there, wrapped around Obi-Wan like the tentacles of an ungulith, while Obi-Wan tries to form an answer. He rests some of his weight on Obi-Wan like he can’t bring himself to carry all of it alone just yet. It’s far more physical affection than Obi-Wan has known from Anakin since he was only tall enough to reach his waist; his hugs at that age were clinging and ferocious, like he was afraid Obi-Wan might disappear.

“Alright then, dear one,” Obi-Wan says, wincing internally as the endearment escapes him. “Get your shoes and we’ll go.”

Anakin nuzzles his face into Obi-Wan’s neck and from this vantage point, Obi-Wan can’t tell but he thinks Anakin presses a kiss to the bare skin there, his lips warm and a little wet, the gesture soft and sleepy. “I might need your help to find them.”

Obi-Wan huffs a laugh and decides he might be strong enough to face this brave new world after all.

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