Braid | Obikin

5.

We eat our breakfast in silence.
From time to time, Obi-Wan peeps at me from over his holopad. He played it cool, but it's clear he's troubled. I managed to make him worry once more.

I cringe so hard I can barely look at him.
Why the hell did I say that?
My stupid Jedi ass can't even tell fondness from love.
We are warned against attachments all the time but are never taught how they look like, nor how to handle them once they're formed.
Luckily, this means my Master is just as clueless as any other Jedi and has likely no idea what I was actually talking about.

I raise my eyes from my mug in time to catch his intent on me.
After some pondering, he reaches out over the table to pinch the tip of my braid between two fingers.
I'm so karked up this makes my heart pound faster.

"The Master is to be blamed for the Padawan's shortcomings," Obi-Wan recites. "... On your knees, please. It will take a minute."

He turns his chair around and gives me one of his persuasive glances; all I can do is comply. Awkwardly, I crouch between his knees and hold a hand out to save my beads as they're are taken off, the way I've done thousands of times.

Obi-Wan undoes my braid with sure movements and divides the hair again into three thin strands. "Much more to plait, twice the beads, and I have to reach up instead of down. Must've been a long time."

"I seem to remember you decreed years ago I was old enough to do it myself..."

"I confirm it. I just had to take care of this one last time."

The light tugs behind my ear say he's already tightly braiding back.
I close my eyes to relish his body warmth as I'm nested between his legs, his fingertips brushing my nape, his eyes fixed on me.

"You'll have other Padawan to spoil," I almost moan. "P-plenty of braids."

"Well, I'm saying goodbye to yours, this morning, not to have regrets when its time comes... You know what they say, that Jedi are not made when their braids are cut, but when they cut their apprentices'."

Obi-Wan picks the beads from my open palm and fixes them back in place: yellow, and blue, and red, and blue again, in neat order from the oldest to the newest. He uses the last one to secure his work and closely evaluates it.
I hold my breath, savouring the final moments of his caring touch and undivided attention.

"Who did cut yours, in the end?" I blab to gain a minute.

"I did it myself, to Master Yoda's disappointment. I had planned to leave it on Qui-Gon's pyre. That night, though, that seemed a little... over-dramatic. It must still be in my room, at the bottom of some chest."

My throat clenches.
Behind my shut eyelids, I see my Master as a boy, firelight flickering on his face. He turns to me and promises I'll be a Jedi. Under his robe, now I know, he's clenching his freshly severed braid.
Then, I picture him getting back to these same quarters with an annoying child in place of his Master, slamming the thing into a drawer not to have to see it again.

Obi-Wan dismisses the matter with a casual gesture and an overt mocking tone. "I have a feeling that your tidy, precious braid will have a different fate, though; is it going to be gifted to your cru- I beg your pardon: 'loved one?'"

I let out a sound that wants to resemble a laugh. "Oh, Master... I can't believe you actually fell for that! You were right all along, I was just being a tease."

Obi-Wan doesn't comment and tightens my short ponytail by pulling it firmly. Then, before getting up, he gives my spiky hair a quick ruffle that leaves me gasping.
He never touches me without a practical reason, be it healing, braiding, of training. I'm about to beg him to do it again.

Finally, he shows me his condescending smirk. "We've all been there, Padawan, and survived to tell about it. It's like the flu; you have to let it run its course. Admission is an excellent start."

"Are you suggesting I... act on my feelings?"

"The course I'm referring to is internal, young one. Blowing on a flame bigger than a candle's will only make it brighter. Watch it burn, instead, like a controlled fire. It will naturally go out if you don't stoke it."

With this piece of Jedi wisdom, he leaves me.
I stay there on the rug, dreamily coiling my braid around a finger, drunk on the utter closeness we shared over the last hours.

I've been 'watching it burn' for weeks, and it didn't get any better.
Actually, I'm every day more famished; no matter how long one waits, hunger doesn't 'naturally go out.' One has to feed.
As I get ready for the day, I find myself considering how a single bite might be enough to cure me. A taste of his lips and I'm free. He would concede it to me if he only knew what I'm enduring.

Although, Obi-Wan talked like he had firsthand knowledge of the facts. All morning, I imagine him head over heels for some girl, patiently waiting for it to pass. The picture I get is both fascinating and disturbing; it shows he can actually give out what I'm desperately craving, only not to me.

These fantasies severely impair my morning training; a slender Gungan Padawan gets the best of me without even trying.

"Not your day, kid," Quinlan Vos remarks as I come out of the arena.

Despite how much I hate being called that, I respectfully bow my head and say I'm glad to see him well.
He certainly knows all there is to know about my Master's past, and the intriguing nature of the subject might make him talkative.

"My Ataru is not good as it used to be... I was wondering if maybe you could-"

"Ask that your Master," Vos cuts me off. "Maybe you can fool him, but I know all too well Skywalker's trademark is bragging, not self-belittling... What do you want, Padawan?"

"The war has made you cynic, Master Vos; I could definitely use a sparring session, and you know Obi-Wan has a... conflicted relationship with Ataru. Without considering, he's not himself, lately."

Vos picks up his ears - no doubts troubled friends are his weak point.
I keep laying out my bait, describing my symptoms in place of my Master's; agitated, absent-minded, dreamy, melancholic, moody.
Vos gravely hums with each one until he curses out loud and exclaims I'm so karking right.

"... am I?" I stutter.

"The di'kut has them all, and I didn't connect the dots until now. Force curse me if I allow this to end the way it did last time." He glowers at me, apparently bothered by my very existence. "Kriff, I'm not sharing this with his Padawan. Forget about it, Skywalker. I'm gonna take care of everything. Only... try to give him a break, okay?"

"Excuse me... a break from what, exactly?"

"Pretty sure you have an idea already." Vos gazes behind my shoulders, pretending not to notice my pique. "Just be a good boy, cut that damn braid, and let him alone."

Without another word, he turns around and leaves, apparently taken by a sudden urge to fix a certain question.
I frown, not entirely sure of what happened.

"So, kid," calls out the Gungan that beat me before. "Care for a rematch?"

Stupid move. Vos' allusions turned my earlier languor in a resentful energy, and I kick his ass almost effortlessly.
Honestly, some people should just learn when to shut up.

Kriff. Padme's speech.
I grab a viewer from the hands of a Padawan that's waiting for a sparring partner, ignore his protests, and turn it on just in time for the juicy part.
She's finished explaining why the war won't be a lighting one, despite what its advocates want us to believe, and is addressing the dire social and economic consequences on the extended period. The downward spiral of catastrophes she foretells makes her audience buzz uneasily.
I sigh in relief; a successful speech means she won't be too mad at me when I meet her later.