Obi-wan has seen so much of Anakin.
A myriad of worn expressions. The different twists and turns of his face. The numerous falls of his hair against his neck. The unique ways distinct fabrics hug his skin. All of them joining to make so many combinations of faces and attires and lengths of hair.
And all of them, every single one of the different versions of Anakinâs appearance, bring the same warmth to his body, the same swell at his chest. Every single one of them is dear to his heart.
But in the midst of all these Anakins, which he categorizes into their unique iterationsâ
There's a freshly washed, soothed Anakin, robes crisp and hair windswept. And a bored, lounging Anakin, brown locks framing his puffed cheeks and laying against the neck of his bare tunic. And a frustrated, sleep-abandoned Anakin, huffy and cocooned by the soft drape of his cloak, the lines of his brows deeper and the well below his eyes darker. And a mournful, needy Anakin, the jut of his bottom lip, the rosiness in his cheeks, the crystal shine of his ever-wet eyes, robes tousled and slumping over his shouldersâ
(And. And. And.)
In midst of these, there's a very specific Anakin that Obi-wan loves. That has made home in a very special corner of his already Anakin-infested heart.
And it's not a rare Anakin by any means. Still, he considers it a privilege to behold him all the same.
Itâs an Anakin he finds in the battlefield, in the temple training grounds, standing tall and bright, the remnants of a fight still sparking the air around his body.
During particularly scorching days when they stroll through the streets of Coruscant, an iced treat in Anakinâs hand, the daysâ fatigue slowing his steps (though not his radiance).
During Anakinâs obsession-driven tinkering sessions, when he forgets about the existence of bodily needs, or the fact he has skin, grease streaked across his jaw, wet streams running down his temple and the dips of his back.
And Anakin is from a desert planet.
Unlike Obi-wan, he doesn't mind a little sweat, the restricting cling of his clothes and the suffocating weigh of the heat over his body. Where Obi-wan would change into a fresh pair of robes, Anakin walks like it were a second skin to him. Familiar and comfortable.
And it's that Anakin.
Sweat-soaked and wet. Lips slick and bitten. Tired elation as he manages to fix a particularly gnarly bit of whatever mechanical contraption heâs working on at the time.
Sticky and content. Beads of sweat running down his cheeks, hollowed out as he sucks on his lolly, takes a hand to run through his damp hair and smile slow and messy at Obi-wan, a joke lifting the edges of his mouth.
Battle-weary and shining with tiredness. Huffing breaths as he comes down from the battle high, cheeks red and body vibrating with heat as it gushes sweat to cool itself and dampen the fabric of his robes, has them lay heavy against his skin.
His hair is slick and plastered to his forehead, gone from his characteristic voluminous soft waves to thin twirls that frame his face with little curling tendrils against his cheeks.
And he glows.
(Probably because of the wet sheen across his skin, his mind reasons, but he glows nonetheless.)
His skin shines with a sort of electric vigor, even through the layer of exhaustion, his entire being glittering under the warm light. Utter radianceâsomehow even his Force presence more sun-soaked.
And the sight of him is delightful.
It has Obi-wan's heart swell. His body tingle. His eyes delight, and his throat give a thick bob.
Itâsâprobably what heâd look like lain down under Obi-wan.
Sweaty and huffy and sticky and wet and filthy.
And as his eyes lay upon him, Obi-wan is helpless to do anything but ache. Itch with blazing want. Wish to run his tongue along his jaw and across his belly. Kiss the lines of his infuriating, pink, wet, lips.
He must taste of salt and tiredness. (And a bitter tinge of grease at the edges.)
