Chapter Text
"Put out the light," Obi-Wan whispers, as soon as Anakin creeps into his cell.
Anakin tries not to be hurt that his worry about getting caught precedes his excitement to see him. He silently closes the heavy wooden door and kneels to set the candle on the floor beside Obi-Wan's bed. Just being this close to Obi-Wan's bed, smelling a whiff of his stale sweat on the air--Anakin's sixteen-year-old body reacts accordingly. And God made his body, so it can do no wrong.
He knows Obi-Wan's faith isn't as strong, though. It takes coaxing for him to feel God's love. After years of listening to Obi-Wan's soft, methodical explanations of the intricate path to be close to God, Anakin had finally realized: he knew better. Obi-Wan couldn't sense that which he was so desperate to seek.
So Anakin brought it to him.
"But I want to see you, Brother," Anakin says, a little louder than the whisper he knows Obi-Wan would prefer. He slides his hands up under the rough habit Obi-Wan sleeps in, exposing skin, touching the soft parts of his thighs and the bones of his hips, feeling himself grow harder and harder as he goes. "Please. Let me see God's work.”
He touches carefully, deliberately. He knows God loves him, but he needs Obi-Wan to love him. The man who brought him as a rain-soaked orphan into the abbey. The man who smiled at him like the sun and touched his shoulders in a way that left Anakin aching for more. The man who defended him from the abbot's scrutiny, and who argued with the librarian whenever Anakin disturbed the illuminators with his toy flying machines, and who pressed Anakin's shaking hands into the soil to teach him how to grow greens in the garden. The man who assured him that certainty in the power of prayer would come to him in time, if he only just kept trying and stayed in the Order. The man who sometimes looked at him as if he were Christ himself, God's love made flesh.
"The abbot measures the wax every morning," Obi-Wan hisses--not anything about how it's against their mandate (to which Anakin would argue that prayer, such as this prayer, is amplified by joining another) or sin (to which Anakin would argue that if sin is what keeps one from God, then anything which makes one feel closer to God, such as this, cannot be sin) or any of the usual protests Anakin always patiently, ardently answers while his cock starts to drip in anticipation. Because no matter how long the anticipation lasts, it always pays off.
In fact, he's almost disappointed Obi-Wan's protests are so surmountable this time. Or at least, his cock is disappointed. His heart is swimming in joy at being let in so quickly. He smiles, sitting on the cot and pushing his hands into the graying hair dusting Obi-Wan's stomach. "Let me see them," he pleads, letting himself sound petulant, desperate for Obi-Wan to show him.
Obi-Wan's breath hitches, the smell of his last sharp exhale filling Anakin's lungs and making his blood rush madly. He wants to kiss him, but first—
Obi-Wan moves to get his habit out from under him and pushed up over his head. The soft, padded muscles of his torso shift beneath Anakin's hands. He counts two breaths, stares at the shining head of Obi-Wan's hard cock--he must have been anticipating this visit--and then Obi-Wan lies down again, letting Anakin see.
His nipples, or the purple bite marks all around them--Anakin's not even sure which he more desperately wanted.
His mouth is big enough to fit it all.
Later, when his flesh is pushing like earth into the mouth he watches prayers fall out of like water every morning, he reaches down between his own straddled knees and finds Obi-Wan's hand to bring up into a kiss. His fingers smell like fire, and it's only then that Anakin realizes that Obi-Wan has pinched out the candle. He has Obi-Wan's cock leaking and his mouth wet and open and raw, and still, Obi-Wan had the presence of mind to put out the light.
Which means that he had the presence of mind to put out the light, but he didn't use that presence of mind to bring up sin, or their mandate, or the late hour, or Anakin's youth, or any of it.
In the dark, Anakin grins, victorious, chosen, beloved.
He pulls out of Obi-Wan's mouth and bends down to taste himself on soaking wet exhales. "Pray with me," he pleads, reaching between Obi-Wan's soft, sweaty thighs until they splay, pushing until his fingertips are tucked in holy fire.
Gasping, Obi-Wan scratches at his neck, clutching tight. And the man who once spent weeks training Anakin to remember all the prayers of the liturgy of the hours before he was even a novice, the man whose voice rises beautifully above all others in song every morning, the man who pushed Anakin's hands into the soil to teach him how to grow greens in the garden--this man kisses his lips and whispers, "Show me how."