Work Text:
A sharp, obnoxious whistle comes from behind him, and Obi-Wan already knows it’s Garen before the other man calls out “Hey! Pretty boy!” This part of the Temple is decently busy and filled with a low hum of constant chatter due to it housing most of the teaching halls not meant for physical learnings. Padawans and younglings mill about in conversation with one another, which makes Garen’s shout only mildly disruptive. Still, Obi-Wan’s face heat and his eyes roll as he stands from the windowsill he’s been perched on, waiting for Anakin to be dismissed from his xenobiology lesson.
When he turns, his friend is only mere steps away. Before Obi-Wan can get a greeting out, Garen says, “Sort of narcissistic that you knew I was talking to you.”
Again, Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. As flatly as he can, he replies, “Pardon me for assuming you weren’t catcalling one of the younglings.”
Garen’s mouth drops open. He closes it. They look at each other for a moment, and then both break out in peels of laughter. It’s really not all that funny, but of all Obi-Wan’s friends, Garen is the one that has the magic ability to make everything ten times more amusing. The very few times Obi-Wan had gotten kicked out of his own classes as a Padawan always were the ones where he was sat next to Garen, and they couldn’t contain their laughter over the stupidest things, just like right now.
Once they taper off, Obi-Wan brushes his hair back into place and asks, “What are you doing on this side of the Temple?”
“I owe Master Ninvor a favor. She’s starting Hawk-Bat Clan on paint today, so I’m going to be her extra pair of eyes and make sure none of them drink it.”
“Or dump it in their hair like Sab did,” Obi-Wan remembers.
They laugh again before Garen looks over Obi-Wan’s shoulder, then back to his face. “Where’s smaller pretty boy?”
Obi-Wan wrinkles his nose. “Don’t objectify him,” he tuts.
“But it’s fine to objectify you?” Garen snorts in return.
“Well,” Obi-Wan says, raising his brows. “Due to smaller pretty boy, I don’t get out much anymore. So, I’ll take it where I can get it.”
The breaking out of yet another peel of laughter is cut short by a nudging at Obi-Wan’s side. “Oh—hello, Padawan.”
Anakin looks up at him, leans closer into his side, then turns to Garen. The movement almost instinctual at this point, Obi-Wan brushes a hand through his soft, short hair, as if he’s trying to smooth down any raised hackles. He senses nothing of the sort, but with Anakin, it’s always best to be safe.
“Hey, kid,” Garen says.
Bowing—which makes Obi-Wan incredibly proud—Anakin replies, “Hello, Master Muln.”
“We’ve got big plans for mid-meal at Dex’s,” Obi-Wan tells his friend.
At that, he does feel a spike of anxiety from Anakin, and Obi-Wan just knows he is fearing that his Master may do something awful like invite Garen along. But, Obi-Wan knows his Padawan, so he does no such thing. Even if Garen’s afternoon wasn’t already booked, he wouldn’t.
Regardless, this small, short encounter with one of his oldest and most beloved friends has left him feeling bright inside, and Obi-Wan is almost melancholy when they part. Only the brush of Anakin’s robes against his own keep the feeling away.
Later, Quinlan seeks him out in his quarters. He’s got three tickets to the Coruscanti Classic in his hand, which Obi-Wan takes and scrutinizes. Anakin’s crazed, joyous, speed-run of an explanation after seeing the tickets himself has at least informed Obi-Wan that it’s an event for swoop-bike racing.
“Where did you get these?” Obi-Wan asks, suspicious.
“Is that important?” Quinlan grins.
“My Padawan isn’t going anywhere unless you tell me.”
“Tell him!” Anakin squeaks in a voice so agonized that Obi-Wan nearly laughs, but that would just be encouraging the dramatics.
“You know the people I work with. They like to showboat.”
“The criminals you work with? As a Shadow?”
Anakin groans.
Quinlan holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Okay, yes,” he says. “But, these bad guys are all locked up now. Thanks to me and my incredible undercover work.”
Sighing, Obi-Wan hands the tickets back to him. “I assume the third is for Aayla?”
“Yep. We’re a package deal,” Quinlan shrugs. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Obi-Wan scoffs, imagining the loud, crowded, foul-smelling atmosphere of a swoop-bike race. He looks at his own package deal and decides he can part with Anakin for a night if it will bring him joy. “Get your boots on, Padawan.”
The whooping yelp of victory Anakin lets out is so pure and happy that Obi-Wan’s chest feels tight from it even after he leaves.
For an hour, Obi-Wan attempts to meditate. Anakin’s distance makes it difficult, especially because he’s not familiar with the location. If something happens, Obi-Wan will be going in blind for him, amongst a crowd of thousands. When he begins considering looking up a map of the arena, he gives up on gaining inner peace and rises to see if he’s got anything to drink in his conservator, though he does make a mental note to bring up his failure the next time he speaks to Master Yoda.
The knock on his door makes Obi-Wan raise a brow. The sight of Garen—with a bottle in hand, as if he’s read Obi-Wan’s mind—makes him suspicious.
“Did Quinlan put you up to this?” He asks. Regardless of suspicion, Obi-Wan is still pouring the fizzbrew into cups for the two of them.
Garen, who has made himself comfortable on Obi-Wan’s singular couch, looks over his shoulder and admits, “More like I put him up to it.”
The first thought, of course, is of Anakin. “Don’t tell me those tickets are of even more dubious origin.”
“No, no,” Garen says, waving a hand in dismissal. “They’re solid. Quinlan just had different ideas of who he’d be taking, probably.”
Obi-Wan walks around the couch and hands the other man his drink, sitting next to him, posture lazier than it would be with other company. “And you convinced him to take my Padawan why, exactly?”
In a ridiculous two gulps, Garen knocks back the whole drink, head tilting to expose the stubble on his neck and the knot of his throat. After setting his cup down, he turns to Obi-Wan and smirks. “Because I’m a good friend,” he says, in a voice that Obi-Wan knows means trouble. And when it comes to Garen, he knows exactly that kind of trouble he’s looking for.
With a sigh, Obi-Wan follows suit and downs his fizzbrew. “Quite a plot you’ve constructed—just to get laid, isn’t it?”
Garen kicks off his boots and then reaches for his belt. “That’s an odd way of saying thank you for coming over to suck my cock, Garen.”
Again, Obi-Wan follows his example, beginning to strip. “Presumptuous.”
“If you’ve got a better idea, be my guest.”
When they’re both naked, Obi-Wan grabs his tan wrist and lays down. Garen is one of those people, just like Anakin, whose tan is eternal, regardless of time spent in the sun, or lack thereof. “Come here.”
Garen clambers on top of him, draping his body over Obi-Wan completely, so they’re in line with each other from head to toe, with adjustments for slightly bent legs and arms. “Shit, Obi-Wan,” he curses when their cocks rub together. In this state, Obi-Wan realizes just how long it’s been since he’s had any attention of sexual nature, and he cannot help himself from bucking his hips up, wrapping his arms around Garen to grab his ass and pull him close. Neither of their cocks are fully hard yet, and Obi-Wan supposes that’s a side effect of not being teenagers fooling around in the Padawan dormitories anymore. It doesn’t exactly bother him; the warmth of Garen’s skin and the drag of their body hair against each other is enough to make his toes curl, and they’ll get there, eventually.
“Talk to me,” Garen speaks hotly into his ear, then ducks down to nose at his shoulder. “C’mon.”
One of the downsides of being a Jedi that gets their rocks off with their childhood friends is the backlog of embarrassing things those friends know about you. When Obi-Wan was younger, he—and everyone he slept with—discovered he had a tendency to run his mouth during sex. Most of the time, he looks back and cannot even comprehend where he comes up with such things. Alcohol worsens this effect, and Obi-Wan turns his head, narrowing his eyes at the empty cups on the table. He’s nowhere near drunk enough for the words to just fall out without thought the way they do when he’s wasted.
Obi-Wan groans, “Garen,” half-exasperated and half-turned on.
“You know you want to,” Garen sing-songs, kissing his neck. He knows Obi-Wan hates that.
Squirming, Obi-Wan slaps his ass. He knows Garen hates that. “I really don’t.”
“Liar.” Sitting up, Garen trails a hand down Obi-Wan’s body, then wraps his hand around his cock. “Look how hard you are.” He tries to sound impish, but Obi-Wan catches the way his eyes linger.
“Don’t get distracted,” he says, flexing his pelvis to make his dick jump in Garen’s hand. Even after rolling his eyes, Garen’s gaze returns to the same spot. Obi-Wan flexes again. “Stroke it.”
Lazily, Garen lets a long line of spit fall from his mouth. Even lazier, he spreads it over Obi-Wan’s cock using both hands, then begins a twisting, slick rhythm.
“Ugh,” Obi-Wan groans, head falling back.
“See? I told you I’m a good friend.”
Obi-Wan smiles softly, tilting his head to look at the other man. “You would be an even better one if you played with my balls,” he says, letting one leg fall off the couch.
Immediately, Garen cups his sac. A shiver wracks Obi-Wan so heavily he curls up with it. Beginning to sweat, he rocks into the grip, moaning softly as his cock is tugged and his balls are rolled in the palm of Garen’s hand.
“They feel full,” Garen notes, more of a genuine observation than dirty talk. “No opportunities to empty the tank by yourself with the kid around?”
Curtly, Obi-Wan shuts that down. “Don’t.”
It speaks to how well Garen really knows him—and, yes, how good of a friend he is—that he does not tease or laugh or push back. He drops it like he never said it in the first place, and swipes a finger over Obi-Wan’s slit, swirling the pre-come around. And perhaps feeling affectionate towards him in response to that makes Obi-Wan somewhat pathetic, but the swell of it comes anyway, and he bats his friend’s hands away in order to coax him back down so they’re laying together again. He licks at the sweat on Garen’s collarbone before taking him by the back of the neck to coo in his ear, “Grind that fucking cock against me, darling.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Garen mumurs, sounding drunk on something other than the fizzbrew. He thrusts against Obi-Wan, keeping his hips shoved down so their cocks drag against each other snugly. “’S’good.”
As his back arches, Obi-Wan murmurs back, “Yes. It’s really good.” His eyes flutter shut as he sinks back into the cushions and lets Garen hump him like a dog; like a teenager fooling around in the Padawan dormitories. It’s somehow frenzied and lazy at the same time. One of his hands strokes over Garen’s hair, combing through the curls. Then, it reaches down and takes him around the waist, firm and tight, so Obi-Wan can flip them over in one swift move.
“Oh,” Garen says dazedly, blinking up at him.
Obi-Wan takes his hand, and guides it around and down his body, until Garen’s knuckles are brushing his ass.
“Oh,” Garen says again, more alert.
“Don’t try to put them inside,” Obi-Wan sighs as Garen’s fingers grip and tight and spread him. “Just touch me.”
Garen does, petting over his hole that hasn’t been touched, let alone fucked, in so, so, so long. He hadn’t realized he missed it do much, but now the sensation of frotting their cocks together becomes secondary to the light, teasing pressure around his rim. It’s not long before Obi-Wan comes after that, sinking his teeth into the other man’s shoulder while he twitches. He comes so much it’s almost concerning, but the concern is lost when Garen’s orgasm follows, and Obi-Wan holds onto him, feeling his body shake.
It’s just like he had said—good. Really good. Obi-Wan needed that.
Still, his mind wanders to the tight feeling in his chest earlier; to Anakin’s joy. Yes, the sex was good. But not as good as that.