Notes: Yup, that's right. I *officially* see the world through slash-coloured glasses. The movie hasn't even come *out* yet, and I'm slashing it. I finally realized why I was having such a hard time with my tan-line story: it's because I was trying to throw in an Obi-Wan parallel story that I hadn't set up for. So this is the set up.
I *love* Ewan McGregor. He totally inspired this piece, because he has absolutely the best sound bites out there. One was: "There was a lot of just standing right behind Liam [Neeson] like this," he says, remaining still for a beat. "You'll see - I am very often just behind one of his shoulders, standing on a box." <- That helped in the sex scene, immeasurably. ;)
And, since I don't know whether this series is going to work or not, considering I am *inventing* 'canon' and characterizations for my own purposes and know very little of what is *actually* in the Prequel, I'm leaving this author's note with the following quote, courtesy of, you guessed it: Ewan [talking about attempting AG's phrasing]:
"I still don't know if it is going to work, or if I'll just look like an arsehole."
Ewan, I know exactly how you feel. :)
Pairing: Q/O
Posted: April 17, 1999
Rating: R. Sex and stuff.
Series: Second story in the "Twin Destinies" series (title tentative); se(pre)quel to "Careful"
Summary: A Jedi lesson, from the point of view of the apprentice.
Warnings: I don't use betas. :( Any mistakes are solely my fault and the fault of my *#^&@ spellcheck.

From a distance, and at first glance, they appeared to be evenly matched. It was only after a moment that their differences could be easily discerned: for one, the taller man was obviously older than his opponent, and he fought with patience and discipline, whereas the sandy-haired youth attacked with a brashness and almost cheeky self-possession. The older man appeared to concentrate more deeply, to think carefully about the moves of his glowing saber as he thrust forward, first deflecting the attack and then putting the youth on the defensive, pushing him back, back, and finally tumbling him easily to the floor, stopping short of actually inflicting a fatal punishment with the glowing blade.

The younger man lay there for a moment - his saber having disarmed itself when it hit the floor - resting back on his elbows, a frown marring his handsome face. He accepted the hand that was offered to him, and asked, as he was pulled up to his feet again, "So, when I learn the final lesson, I will beat you?"

His teacher smiled at him - more with his eyes than his mouth. "When you've learned the final lesson, you'll understand that winning and losing are relative terms."

"That's easy for you to say," the young man grumbled, good-naturedly. "You always win."

Deep, rich laughter echoed through the practice-chamber, and the young man had to laugh, as well. It wasn't often that he cut his master - with saber or tongue - to the point that he was afforded the obvious result of such a hit. He felt ridiculously pleased to have earned such a laugh, and the training match he had just lost was almost forgotten.

Almost. "I still don't know what I'm doing wrong," he said, giving an experimental thrust with his weapon's handle, imagining where the blade would be if it were activated.

"That's obvious." Cruel words, but not said unkindly, just with frank honesty. "You seek to disarm rather than disable. You need to win, rather than trying to have me lose."

"And there's a difference?"

The older man shook his head, smiling slightly. "That, my boy, is the first lesson. When you learn that, then you will be ready to move on to the last."

"And when I learn the last?" The youth looked at his master. "What happens then?"

"You know what happens: you will no longer be my apprentice, I will no longer be your master." The older man smiled. "You will be a Jedi Knight, and you will fulfill your destiny."

"I didn't think you believed in that."

"In destiny?" The master shook his head. "There is no way to escape from one's destiny. There is only a choice of path to reach it." A slight frown crossed his face, and the youth once again inwardly cursed himself for questioning his master to the point that he lost his earlier jubilance. "You either walk towards it or you are pushed. Either way, it is yours."

He knew he was treading dangerous ground, but he couldn't stop himself. "And were you pushed towards yours, master, or did you walk towards it?"

The older man looked at him, seemed on the verge of speaking, but stopped himself. "We need to clean up," he said, finally. "Come."

He stripped and left his loose clothing in a heap on the floor, stepping directly into the shower and turning up the water as hot and as hard as he could stand it. He stood under the warming shower spray, hands resting against the smooth tile, face tilted upwards, enjoying the feeling of water hitting him, pounding down on his skin. It was so much better than the artificial refresher systems on board most of the ships they'd been travelling on, for the past year. Nothing compared to the actual feeling of clean that soap and hot water gave.

He closed his eyes, waiting. His master took longer, folding each layer of his clothing with care, stripping slowly, but it didn't take too long before strong arms came around his back, and he felt a forehead resting against his hair, lips caressing him. This was the best time, when they were alone, not running, when a thousand worlds weren't against them, when there weren't favours to grant and when the paths of two destinies could be forgotten - at least for a while.

The hands that rested against his stomach stayed, and he had to reach with his own to push them down, where he needed them, and then brace once again against the wall. His cock had come to life at the first touch of his master's sure hands against his bare skin; it grew and filled to almost painful dimension as it was stroked and handled with the same care that his master did everything.

He turned, suddenly, wanting a kiss. His eyes were still closed and the water still rushed over them, tiny rivers of water sliding over his skin and disappearing down the drain in the floor. It was scandalously, deliciously decadent to stay and make love in the shower, and he wanted it, this once.

His master seemed to realize that, and was inclined towards indulgence - this once. His mouth was captured and his cock abandoned as his master once again pressed their bodies together, pushing him flat against the wall and lifting him, slightly. He climbed his master's body with the ease that came from practice; wrapping one leg around the waist and the other around the thigh, he pushed against the wall to help support himself as his master's blunt fingers found his ass, opening and spreading him, readying him for a larger invasion.

He didn't open his eyes until the second kiss ended, knowing what was expected of him - some permission had to be given, each time, it couldn't just be taken for granted. That was a lesson in itself that he had learned early in this parallel relationship that they had. Master and apprentice, both in life and in love.

He stared into his master's - his lover's - eyes, watching as the colour shifted incrementally, changing to reflect the deepening of their lust. When he wanted them to, those eyes showed everything that he was and everything that he felt; when he didn't, they were unreadable. Now, at this moment, they were beautiful.

He moved his head forward, seeking another kiss, but was eluded, a smile pricking his elder's face. He gasped as he felt it, a single, square-tipped finger sliding into him, eased by the water and by his own want, and he bit at his lower lip. He wanted to move, to encourage what was happening to him, but there was no way that he could do anything without tumbling them both off-balance. It was a precarious position, they'd learned - one which required precision and patience. Even in love, a lesson was learned; a Jedi learned everywhere, from everything, in every situation. The Force was all around them.

It was exquisite, this tension, this tease; somehow, his master knew just exactly how long he could prolong it, how long before he was forced - by the needs of his lust or that of his lover/apprentice, or of his body, or of their bodies - to complete it. To make them one.

The exchange of cock for fingers was swift, sure; his hands came up from his master's shoulders to grip against the slippery wall, seeking purchase. His body had to move, it had to; he had to do something, anything, to prolong his pleasure and, by doing so, bring it ever-closer to completion.

He was behind the water-spray, leaning against the wall with most of his weight; the water was now hitting his master almost full in the face but his elder paid it no mind. His head was thrown back and his eyes had closed, as he concentrated on giving pleasure with the same intensity that he concentrated on the fight. He watched, wanting to touch, wanting to reach out but his fingers were embedded into the wall and he was being moved, so slowly, so minutely, a flex of muscle inside him and a throbbing the only evidence of his possession. It was good, this lesson; so good. He didn't want it to end. He didn't want to learn the final lesson, ever, if it meant that this one was learned, as well - learned and put away, until the time came for him to teach it anew.

He could feel himself tense, and knew that he was close. It was always he who ended it; he wondered, if he achieved the self-control of his master, whether it would go on forever, and never end. This was not the time that he would learn. He took one last look at his master, feeling him inside and seeing the wet-sleek face, the long hair slick down his back and over his shoulders, and managed to release one spasming hand from the wall to touch, knowing at the last possible moment that he was real.

He came, the water carrying away all evidence from between their bodies, and he felt, inside, his master still and come as well. It struck him, suddenly, as it always did, how tired he was - exhausted from the day's lessons, spent from their lovemaking. He allowed himself to collapse, and they fell, together, heavily, ungracefully to the wet floor. His master, beside him, shook his head and said something about a lesson in balance, but said it fondly, and with a long-cherished smile.

They lay there, washed clean by the water, until it was uncomfortable, then stood and turned off the shower and dried, and re-dressed and walked to their chambers to sleep. The palace was quiet, ghostly, everyone else long asleep. He paused at his doors and drew his master inside, wanting to sleep and wanting to be together. He was not refused that night.

He waited until they were naked again and lying on clean sheets, limbs twined together, before asking, "And who was your master?"

He'd asked before, over and over, wanting something to compare this to, wanting to know if these lessons were the same ones that his master had been taught. Wanting to know who and what and where and when and why.

His master gave the same answer that he always did. "When you learn the final lesson, you won't have to ask. You'll know."

So, he'd pieced together, over the time that they'd been together, that the final lesson had to do with the fight, and with love, and with jealousy, and was about acceptance, and, most of all, about himself. And the Force - the Force held it all together, and made it clear. When it was clear, then he would know. He would understand the Force and be of it, and be attuned to it and to all of the others who understood it as well.

He would know that for sure, for another night, and he would look at his master, long after the man had fallen asleep, deep and dreamless, and see the silver in his now-dry hair and in his beard, and feel the warmth of his skin and his breath, and he would tell himself what he said every night before he went to sleep.

"May I never learn the final lesson."

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