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~*~
Legacy is what’s left at the bottom of a glass when the last of the stuff worth the pull is gone. There are precious few others throughout the galaxy who understand this.
“I have a room,” Obi-Wan says, already chuckling through the last two syllables. He should be more disappointed in himself. This should be more embarrassing by now.
Jango Fett peels his lips back from his startlingly white teeth. The shimmer-sheen of his drink clings to the scar nicking down to his chin: the sharp recurve bow, twisting, barely clipped with the silver lick of it. “I have a ship,” he says, as though laying down a more handsome ante.
“Is it spacious?”
“Aren’t you the flexible one?”
Obi-Wan’s emptied cup sings against the dented plasteel bartop thick with inscriptions from bored strangers who have done this dance before, and before, and before them. “One would need a pallet worth breaking in,” he says over the music more chest-rattle rhythm than sound, leaning in as though propriety stood still anywhere within reach of this dance they‘ve done in so many similar spaceports.
Close enough to hear the chuckle from beneath his helmet—Obi-Wan clings to a messy screed of aurebesh detailing the debauchery of someone’s mother.
“One would need,” Jango purrs, even and confident and nowhere near the urgency of the dark matter gravity from his hand resting barely against Obi-Wan’s knee, “a body worth breaking.”
~*~
The first time, they had only just beaten the shit out of each other on Kamino.
Obi-Wan’s Mando’a was erringly confident even through the sopping rain and bloodied nose, fluent with its own stumbling, Give me your shower to have, shit-kicker—as Jango pulled him back to his feet, feinting one last jab to the shin-side shaft of Obi-Wan’s boot, he’d laughed at the stilted over-pronunciation yet allowed him lean into pauldron on his bad side.
It can hold two, Jango said, and led them limpingly inside from the ceaseless maelstrom.
If you think about it, he continued later into the sweat-salt viaduct of Obi-Wan’s collarbone, the spoorish threads of their mingling, sluggish blood running pink into the drain as he resumed a much older thread of conversation from before even their brawling, I really did pull off the biggest scheme in the galaxy—an inhale, a tongue, a tighter grip on a shuddering, slippery, pale flank. I fucked the Republic, and it gave me an army of sons.
The retort just behind Obi-Wan’s teeth had been molten, an evisceration, but it was wind; dissolved, gone, scattered to mist in the wet-hot gasp of the next roll through their bodies made one beneath the water, yet with nothing in between by then to keep out the heat.
~*~
This time, it’s familiar—although the ship is new.
Aha. Lifted, rather: the agriguild callsign is still painted on the airlock controls.
“I can’t stay through dark,” Obi-Wan says, turning with the intent to at least pretend he has ground left to hold, but Jango’s right hand is already inside his clothing; spacer subterfuge, still usual with drapery.
“I’d tell you to go if you tried anyways,” Jango says to the knucklebone crux of his neck, mostly open-mouthed and lick-tip tongue out to taste.
“How hospitable.”
“This one has a sonic.”
Obi-Wan struggles to hold in an ungainly snort. “I’m surprised this one has a hull.”
“Careful.”
“Or what? Is it your ego in shambles, or your pursestrings?”
“Shut up.”
He shuts up. He shuts his eyes. He leans back, finally letting Jango take his balance in trust.
“No tricks tonight,” Jango says. His hand smoothes a steady, palm-flat pass along the belt making his waist look so very much Like That. “Let’s keep it simple. Aye?”
Obi-Wan’s mouth drops open to only a dry stammer. He works his tongue and swallows before turning his head to bare the sinuous line taut down to his throat. “Aye,” he breathes, and lets the mortal weight of simple wanting fill him as the Force falls quiet.
~*~
And quiet, and quieter still.
There is only silence like this: invaded, sated, driven to the edge of madness itself in such foolhardy need that there is nothing to know but wanting.
“Tell me who,” Jango growls, his weight and warmth a balm, all of him alive.
Obi-Wan is nothing but this. He tries to recall which way is up. “More,” he pleads with hardly, sweetly enough air.
“Who has you this way?”
“You,” and it’s a lie, but “only you,” Obi-Wan gasps, his fist vised in short, coiled hair, his body a vessel for his own satisfaction instead of the conduit for a power he will never understand as intimately as this; not truly.
They both know it. The insolence is half the fun.
“Again,” Jango all but snarls.
“You.”
“Say it again.”
“Only you—”
“Who has you?”
“You.”
“Stay here, witch. Stay right where you are.”
Maker, would that he could forever. Obi-Wan turns his face into the bolster, flat and faintly antiseptic yet not so white and sterile as the planet where all it does is rain and every face looks so close to perfect but still, something is missing—
“More,” he pleads, for agreeing would be foolish, and it is easier to playact the liar than let true desire take root; so he yelps ragged obedience, arches his back, and lets his body remain.