[ First, there's just silence. White noise. Static. It's been a month and a half, so we'll forgive you, Anakin, if you think it might be a prank call. However, if you stay tuned for all that bzz bzZ Bzz, suddenly his voice comes through. It's a bit slurred (alcohol) and faint (angling, he's figuring it out, forgive a man for not knowing everything), but audible. A couple of seconds into the message, it gains volume, too. He got the comlink at proper level with his face. ]
You'll hear this. What are you thinking, Anakin? Too much wine? Not enough action? Are you seeing action? Enough of it? I don't envy you, war is dirty business. Lonesome, too. No matter how many soldiers you send out onto a field, every man is still in it for himself.
[ A pause, though the comlink is close enough to Sarica's mouth to catch his breathing, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. ]
I'm extremely good at spending time, you must know. I'm good at wasting it, too, but I don't wait well. Too impatient, I'm told. Too greedy. You said there was time. Well, I say time is now.
Supposedly, in three days, I'll know whether I'm right. Be proud of yourself, Anakin, you're making me wait.
[ And more abruptly than it started, the call ends. ]
[ It's been a month and a half plus a couple of extra days and Anakin's mid-siege - again - in the outer rim, trying to stay engaged despite the unavailing nature of it all. They've had intel describing the conditions on the planet below and honestly, waiting around seems ridiculous at this point. They could take the capital in a heartbeat. But alas, here he is. Stuck, in space, and that's when his comlink buzzes in a very particular way, vibrating harshly and repeatedly against his wrist. He excuses himself from the bridge because, well, there's nothing to do - and finds a private corner to play the message.
It takes him a few minutes of blank staring into space before he manages a reply: ]
Excuse me - how drunk were you when you recorded this message? Never mind, don't tell me.
[ A pause. His transmission is mostly devoid of noise or disturbances, apart from the odd sounds courtesy of the ship's mechanics, on constant run in the background. ]
Anyway, glad to hear you've managed to get the comlink working. I hope that one button didn't ruin your day. [ A smirk, clear in his voice: ] Though it doesn't sound like it. Must've been quite some party, Sarica.
[ Another pause. A sigh. ]
I can't believe I'm talking to you. I should be talking to literally anybody else. My men. The Jedi. [ Softer: ] My - well. No, that doesn't matter. But here we are, right, and this message will reach you in another three days so I hope you won't be too drunk to press the button again.
The war keeps dragging on. I think - something is about to change, maybe not tomorrow or even in a month but yeah, it's coming. I have a friend back on Coruscant who never fails to remind me of all the things I can't glimpse beneath the surface, all the little power plays, the games. I'm glad I can't.
You probably could.
[ A long huff of air. Then, the sound of his clothes - leather, armor - creaking as he shrugs. ]
So, here's a message for you. Guess you can't complain about being left to wait any longer, huh? Mr. Talkative.
[ Not three days, but almost a week. The party happens and it's over again in that time. Sarica sobers up. Life goes on, senate meetings, a trip to Mergan on the northern borders, friendlier than Reece, they don't mind lending element-wielders to the purpose, if compensated well enough. He's still in the middle of negotiations when the comlink reminds him of its presence. That he even brought it along might puzzle him a bit, but in that moment, at least, he's glad.
Another couple of hours of waiting while he advises the High Priestess of the North Temple, then he can excuse himself, find an empty room in the huge courthouse complex of the Merganian capital. They're a lawful people, the Merganians, Sarica always liked them better than Reecians, in general.
The fact that he's smiling through the entire message is its own message, isn't it? ]
Parties come and go. Like wars do. Journeys. Everything's temporary, but we've had this discussion. It's not what you believe. Something will come after that which is temporary, something that lasts, yes? Or it will eventually bind together these temporary pieces until they form a whole? I'm educated in law, not philosophy, don't come here with your scorn, Anakin. I'm trying to understand what you see in reality that I don't. The unseen is usually the most valuable of all, secrets, Mysteries, gold inside a mountain.
[ The indistinct noise of people yelling outside, the plaza out front filled with people at this hour. Market day, no slaves, Mergan calls themselves advanced - while selling their children to Efith for a price. Is slavery really a worse misdeed than hypocrisy? He doesn't wonder out loud, of course. His slaves are back to work at the villa in the Capital. Timachus oversees them currently. Bound by nothing, but staying regardless. ]
I'm little to you, in comparison to your friends or the Jedi or whoever they are that you won't tell me about, that's why you reply. Because it's of no consequence. I am the perfect vessel for secrets, I reveal nothing, it's like calling into a void, talking to me, so you do. What consequence does it have? What consequence can it have?
[ Behind him, a door opens and closes. A muffled male voice says, only faintly distinguishable, the High Priestess is ready to continue, Legislator, before getting cut off. Door closing. ]
One thing you should know about me, is that I glimpse only what I want to. I'm not an all-seeing eye, I see what I need to keep the advantage in a situation, the rest I'll stay willfully blind to. Power play is just play. I want to be entertained. The power can go wherever, to whomever wants it, as long as the game continues. I'm an indulger, I drink and whore and feast. Everything I see is to further this aim.
Right now, I see you smirk at me, I see it clearly. I see us in the river, rutting. Think of us like that sometimes. We definitely weren't playing for power, then.
[ For a day that started out so well, Sarica has to say, this has been ridiculously long and ridiculously complicated. Ulos has shoehorned the interests of the taxing guild into the negotiations on Reecian fruit and vegetables, refusing any tax ceiling below 40 percent which would push the prices through the roof for the average consumer. People are so used to their melons and their banana bread at this point that denying them access to that could lead to revolts, at worst. Not to mention, the whole awaiting issue of slave taxing... Ulos has already hinted that the taxers want at least a 5 percent profit from any slave trade or they won't do the work at all.
Sarica's first gut reaction is to tell him that more suitable men exist. Everyone's expendable. Then, he thinks of Anakin and has to decide whether to go ahead with the lie or not.
They're taking a break now. It's late afternoon, Irestes' slave has just been by with a trayful of juice, also Reecian, pomegranate and itan fruit. Someone joked that they ought to pay a gold piece per sip, but no one laughed. From the outside, Irestes' villa looks rather similar to Sarica's, though the windows are smaller and let in less light. The hallways are arranged identically, all the rooms collected in the middle. Sarica has retreated to the study next to the gathering room where they've been doing their ungrateful work. He's alone. Irestes had business next door that he needed to tend to, so the next half hour is reconnaissance, back to the drawing board.
This will last all night, he predicts, leaning against the windowsill, overlooking the gardens. Not as well-kept as Sarica's, evidently. Maybe paying his staff actually helps. He frowns. Slave taxes... ]
[ He's finished what he can on the plumbing pipes for Sarica's villa - he's aiming to get the kitchen first because Juila really shouldn't be breaking her back every day, dragging buckets of water from the well to the house. After that, they'll have to do a system for the rain water, possibly for the bathroom. He's got the blueprints in his mind, all worked out. Compared to a starfighter, it's not exactly a complicated task but it gives him something to do whilst Sarica's out and it's something he doesn't have to question.
That last part is pretty important these days, he finds.
Right now, he's heading through the gardens of Irestes' villa, the outline of the grounds relatively simple to Sarica's, if not quite as well-kept. He makes his way along the walls, sticking to the shadows by habit, aware that he's basically infiltrating the place and that it's possibly pretty weird. Regardless, here he is. He keeps his cloak tight around him to hide the silver pendants resting on his naked chest, right above his heart. So, he didn't feel like wearing too many clothes for this. Shoot him - if you have the aim to do it.
All he can think about is that Sarica needs to see. He's been thinking about it all day - about that. About showing him.
The silver feels extremely expensive in ways not at all related to credits or currency.
Expensive enough, yeah, that Anakin pauses next to the window. A few feet above him, Sarica's leaning against the windowsill, looking out over the gardens and not, as it were, to his right. That's lucky. Smiling, Anakin steels himself, grabs onto the side of the window and lops himself over the edge, landing elegantly next to the other man in a swirl of robes and limbs. ]
[ He's watching one of Irestes' slaves drag water from the well to the stables, at this time of day probably to water off the horses before sundown. Absentmindedly, he wonders why he doesn't miss having them, slaves, why he quite enjoys giving Juila and the rest, maybe minus Toril, because he's obstinate, little raises for a job well done. There's something inexplicably satisfactory about it. Not like giving Anakin the silver jewellery, but not unlike it either.
Huffting out a small breath, he's about to step away from the window when - something comes flying through it, a flourish of brown fabric and limbs and Sarica feels his whole system freeze, thinking things like backstabber, betrayal, attack while quickly scouring the room for weapons to counter with. Before getting that far, however, the swirl goes stationary, Anakin straightening up in front of him, his long, billowing Jedi cloak covering him up from neck to feet, though the neckline seems to show a hint of skin and nothing more.
The jolt to his system becomes something else. Something hotter.
With a sharp raise of one eyebrow, he looks the taller man over, eyes running down his features, the contours of his body, everything he's showing and everything he isn't. He meets his eyes, eyebrow going nowhere. ]
You've come uninvited, Anakin.
[ At the back of his mind, he categorises the various sounds from the hallways, knowing intimately how Irestes' kitchen girl tiptoes and how Ulos has a tendency to show up where he isn't wanted. Anakin, at least, is always wanted, isn't he? Maybe not invited, but wanted nonetheless.
Meanwhile, he leans with his hip against the windowsill again, easing back into this much upended, new normal, cocking his head a little at the other man, amused. His undivided attention is still on that slit of skin down his front. ]
[ It's been two hours and Anakin's managed to get home without incident, though he did nearly trip over a peaduck on the way to the river, dazed from his orgasm still and nowhere near alert enough to pay attention. The cold water helped, of course, as did getting out of his cum-splotched trousers. He's washed his mouth only briefly, though. He doesn't mind the lingering taste, doesn't mind smacking his lips and remembering what he's waiting for.
Whom.
He's wearing his rings on his gloved hand as well as his favourite necklace around his neck, the shortest one, the pendant dangling a few inches above his heart. He likes the weight of it, though he can't quite say why or what makes it different from the other one - as always, whenever he finds a favourite, he fixates quite readily without any in-depth understanding of the whys or hows. All he knows is, it belongs to him and in that way, it feels perfect.
Evading the servants had been a bit of a mess and he's pretty sure he accidentally flashed Juila on his way to Sarica's study, wearing just his towel around his waist and nothing more. He'd left his soiled trousers for washing and the rest of his clothes in his room - and now, here he is, cross-legged and happily bare-assed on Sarica's desk in his study, hands resting on his thighs and eyes closed in a haphazardly form of meditation.
[ The meeting could've dragged on for hours yet, Sarica has sat through the nights before, but not tonight, oh. He has someone waiting for him at home, and after his performance earlier, Sarica would loathe to disappoint him. Anakin deserves better. He deserves dedication. He deserves to be chosen, to be preferred. So, Sarica excuses himself after two hours of getting nowhere, Ulos thus allowed to retreat to the taxing guild and restock on that ammunition against which the Senate has little protection. Irestes and the other senator throw him accusing glares as he leaves, no farewells. Goodnight, my friends, I have more important matters to attend to.
Although he doesn't say the words, they hang in the air behind him, ghost-like.
It takes fifteen minutes to get back to the villa by horse, and Sarica has to shift about a lot because his body still remembers, first, the heights he was taken to earlier and now, the climb to get there again, his cock more than mildly interested in how Anakin will sound when they meet. Reunite. He imagines. The depths of his voice at this point, when his throat has rested, but he'll still sound hoarse for days, at best. Yes, at best.
He's in your study, Sarica, Juila tells him as he passes the kitchen and he nods at her briefly, before hurrying down the hallway, cutting the corner and stopping in the doorway. Certainly, he's in Sarica's study, sitting butt-naked on his desk, cross-legged, everything on display, the jewellery, too. The jewellery, too. His trail of hair points down to an at least semi-interested cock and Sarica takes all that in - in one glance, before his eyes find Anakin's face, all his pretenses. Meditating, sure, in his buttocks, perhaps.
He straightens up, closes the door behind him. His voice trembles a tiny, little bit. He lets it. ]
Smiling faintly to himself, he keeps his eyes closed as the door opens and Sarica's presence fills the room, the way it tends to do. He's a person who claims spaces, Sarica. Empty, populated, large or small. He's claimed many parts of Anakin, too, he's well aware and he'd object to the mere principle if it weren't completely obvious that the man so intent on being claimed, in return. That's the thing, though, with him.
That's the crucial little detail.
At his words, Anakin's smile grows. Without looking up, he spreads his thighs slightly just to give the man a better look and replies: ]
Evening, Sarica.
[ His voice sounds utterly destroyed - deep, rough, hoarse. His throat feels thoroughly used too, and the thought makes him shift, his cock growing harder against his abdomen. Mm. ]
[ The sun is really unforgiving this close to midday. Fortunately, Rex has found a granite bench shaded by one of the small trees in the garden. The tree is brimming with tiny red fruits, small insects buzzing about between the branches. He's got his DC-17s laid out next to him along with his cleaning tools, one of the blasters already partially dissembled. Every move, every single element cleaned and checked for damage or tear, is a habit, long-ingrained.
Next to him, the servant - a girl, Juila - has left him a tall glass of freshly-pressed juice. She'd done so unprompted and with a curious glance at his weapons, though she hadn't lingered to ask about them (she had, however, assured him that she would've gladly joined him on the bench if it weren't for all the chores she'd yet to finish; Rex, on his part, is a little bit relieved for the peace and quiet). He feels pampered and that, in turn, makes him uncomfortable.
So he's yet to touch the drink which is honestly absurd, except this is the General's hide-out, not his, and each moment he spends here is a moment that passes back on Coruscant amongst his brothers, without him.
Not that he'd be any good to them right now, of course.
Mouth twisting a little, he starts putting the blaster back together, double-checking each element as he goes. ]
[ The debates have lasted all night. All night. All night. Time Sarica could have spent sleeping or more importantly, fucking Anakin, and now had to waste on very concerning proposals, the first of their kind popping up in the political arena for decades. Proposals to hand the war effort over to the military entirely, take it out of the Temple's hands and, implied, out of Sarica's, as their adviser. Sarica had demolished them completely, of course (this is not the foundation our nation is built on, do not seek to rip our founding values apart), but he had noticed, hadn't he? How many of those old men, who once frequented his orgies and thus, kept quiet about everything else, too, had raised their hand in approval.
Maybe he'll have to pick up the habit again. In some form or other. Or the tide might turn against him.
However, more than any of this, Sarica concerns his ride back to the villa with an uneasy curiosity about the stranger that has arrived to his home, evidently to see Anakin. He received the news yesterday afternoon, in the middle of the aftershocks of Oran's speech to the gathered senators, and couldn't do much else about it than ask Toril keep an eye on the progression, inform him if they left.
His updates have been arriving in a steady stream all night, like an additional factor he had to keep a grasp of, and from afar.
Now, the villa's coming into view and he makes haste, handing his stallion over to Toril, eyes already scanning the garden and finding - a man, on the taller side, charmed, sitting on the bench beneath the ruby fruit tree and working on things that Efith has never seen before, but which Sarica has a gut feeling could win them wars. Hmm. He's unbathed and his tunic bears the traces of a twelve hour long work day, but this can't wait.
Anakin's friends can't wait. Mustn't.
Sarica walks over slowly, stopping at what might seem a polite distance, but is more cautious than polite. His words are pleasant, almost too much so. He thinks of Anakin who's making his name known at the local market, earning his own pay at this point. ]
[ He could say, certainly, that he hasn't been himself the past week, while Rex has been visiting, Anakin's second in command. He could also argue that nothing else has been itself, the Senate roaring from waves of dissatisfaction with the Temple and the Sacred Council, the fact that it's a run-away fire priest, one of their own, who's making their casualty numbers in Reece rise and rise. Sarica has been doing the work, ground-up. Listening for the same kind of dissatisfaction in the people, but the people are more preoccupied with getting their daily deliveries of bananas and melons than with any concern for what those in power think of the distribution. The balance.
Absent-mindedly, while shrugging out of his tunic and pushing his trousers to the ground, Sarica recalls the symbol on Anakin's jewellery, the symbol he chose for him, because it felt fitting, because there is Sarica and then, there's the world, always slightly out of alignment. But Anakin fixes that, the same way he and Rex have fixed the kitchen up with running water now, so much plumbing running around the house, beautiful copper glinting in the sun. Like treasures amongst the grasses. He folds his clothes away and places them on the chair by the table at the windows, darkened for the night. There's only the light of the oil lamp on what has become his side of the bed, the left, because Anakin prefers the right when he stays the night. Or, however much of it he can take. It varies.
As many things do.
Sarica has never been the jealous type. He has no idea why he would start now, he tells himself, but he looks through lies with great ease, even his own. He would start now, because now is Anakin's time.
And Anakin is currently washing off in the river. He's left his lightsaber on his nightstand, like a promise, the same promise he gave when he left it there, too, to drop off Rex on a nearby planet, space-faring, not the butt-end of the galaxy. I'll come back, it means. As if he knows. Jedi mind tricks? He probably does. Sarica stretches once, languidly, his back to the door. Acutely aware of every movement on the other side. ]
[ He's seen Rex off again, telling him to bring Ahsoka with him next time, knowing full well that he probably won't, that if they see each other again, him and Rex, it'll be somewhere else in the galaxy, under different circumstances. This planet isn't for him, it's too far away from his brothers, from the life he still needs to figure out how to live. It doesn't bother Anakin as much as it might have, years back. The war is over and everybody who used to have a place needs to re-discover it, one day or journey at a time. Who knows, Rex might just circle back to him some day if that's how things evolve. Regardless, they are who they are.
As he walks back to the villa from the river, his hair dripping with water and his skin damp beneath his clothes, he feels honestly, legitimately excited about being alone with Sarica for the first time in several days. The man's been working himself half to death in the Senate - something-something-something-the-war-and-maybe-melons, Anakin can't be certain. He's been keeping himself busy with simpler things.
I think he's a bit uncertain of you said Rex to him last night as they'd slept in the orchard again, just to mark the end of the other man's stay. Uncertain. Anakin can't blame him for that, can he, if he thinks about it properly? Sarica's re-arranged his whole life to make a spot large enough to Anakin to occupy and he understands the fear of loss, the fear of that spot leaving an empty, gaping hole in your heart. It hurts like nothing else in the world.
He steps inside the bedroom, finding the other man naked and mid-stretch, the muscles in his back on full display in the darkness. He stares for a moment, abruptly and intensely hungry. He closes the door behind him and shrugs out of his tunic, brushing past Sarica close enough for their shoulders to touch before dumping it on an empty chair. He turns towards him, gaze running over his naked front, lingering by his cock before heading back up. Eye-contact. ]
So. [ He leans back against the window. A smile. ] Here we are.
[ The horse is sturdy and strong and it carries the both of them easily enough at this pace. They're making their way slowly back to the Capital, Anakin in the front, Sarica right behind him, his arms slung around his middle. If he were to lean back even a little, he'd feel the other man's chest against his shoulders. So far, though, Anakin has kept his back straight and his reins as slack as possible, simply allowing the forest to pass by around them, bit for bit, with as little active participation on his part as possible.
He can feel Sarica's breath against the back of his neck. It makes him think about the other night, about the noises he made. I love you, he said.
He swallows hard, realising that they've been riding along in silence for at least thirty minutes and if nothing else, it's starting to get to him, being alone with his thoughts like this, with his feelings. He can still feel the other man, Timachus, in his mind, all pliant and defenseless and easily robbed. It doesn't bother him, exactly. Not exactly. It's not about Timachus, really.
His voice is too loud when he blurts out, his gaze planted dead-center between the horse's pointy ears: ]
You ever thought about making these things go faster? Because I do. Frequently.
[ The horse snorts. Next to them, Anakin's horse - still tired from earlier - continues on at a comfortable pace and he gives it a petty little tug, just to do something with his hands. ]
[ He doesn't know what happened. What came over him. First, with Timachus and then, with Anakin, like the two people who have left and could, he was determined to push them away. Very rarely doesn't Sarica know these things, very rarely doesn't he use them and exploit them and aim them away. Today has been a rare day. Because he doesn't know what happened, except he does, he got scared and that is the actual rare thing here, isn't it? Sarica who is unintimidatable, who doesn't fear even death. He fears this, loss and more loss and a final loss, some day. Some day it will come and he will rather be dead by then.
All these things he thinks about while they ride, the silence between Anakin and him oppressive and full of unsaids. He focuses on feeling the other man's body, the way he felt his body the night before and actually, thinking about that, the ride back to the Capital is much more uncomfortable than the ride out, because there's no rush to dull the soreness in his arse. Ow. He shifts a bit, feeling his whole front rub over Anakin's whole back and he takes pleasure in that. Comfort. Colour him surprised, but it's not the same thing.
You ever thought about making these things go faster, Anakin asks, still sitting straight up and down, not giving in the slightest and Sarica saw. The expression on his face. Are you angry, it asked. And at the back of his mind, Sarica makes a mental note that if he should ever face the Force from anyone, he would take it from the Jedi Council who has not nurtured this boy and supported him, so that it would be a silly question to think, let alone ask.
His Anakin has done nothing wrong. He only took Sarica by surprise, because Sarica was caught up in what's his own. Anakin truly has no say in that.
[ The peaduck in front of him is spinning slowly above the water, looking vaguely surprised every time it faces the sky.
Anakin's trying to meditate and he'd had his eyes closed two seconds ago - except, then the mental image of Sarica getting repeatedly accosted by his guests who were very clearly trying to get him naked starts playing behind his eyelids and the rage that follows isn't very conductive to his mental state. Or so he's learned, anyway. The peaduck on the opposite side of the pool, partially flayed and thoroughly gutted, would probably agree. It's in the shadows now, blood pooling around it on the tiles.
Taking a deep breath, Anakin forces himself to lower his shoulders. I'm one with the Force and the Force is with me he thinks and promptly feels randomly angry again, a cold rush of emotion seeping through his system. He grits his teeth and rests his hands on his knees, looking up at the stars and trying an old trick he'd taught himself years back, based on Obi-Wan's teachings. The other man had realised Anakin needed something external to guide his focus but hadn't quite landed on the right technique before Anakin himself came up with something that worked at least a third of the time.
He starts connecting the dots on the sky, fast at first, imagining lines of blue striking from dot to dot. Within seconds, in his mind, the sky is a crisscrossing nightmare of chaos. He lets himself feel that, first, lets it resonate within him. Then, he starts reversing the lines, one by one. He forces himself to be slow.
[ Well, this has been a shitty party. By the Mysteries.
At some point, a man gets real tired of trying to slip his hand into Sarica's tunic and getting his wrist crushed, really, so now Ulos has ventured out into the gardens, two cups of wine with him, one in each hand. Someone said they'd seen Sarica's boy retreat out here, so that's where he goes, because if Sarica isn't going to give him a taste, he might just steal a little sip on his own. With the way things are going currently, Sarica's weird descend into madness or whatever it is, apparently that's the only way you get what you want.
Sarica's gone weak, he thinks, following the pathway, lit by torches, to the pool where the boy is indeed sitting, cross-legged, taller than most Efithian men and that's just as Sarica's tastes go, right? First Timachus who was a god and now this, a dish from outer space. The man sure knows how to pick them.
He stops a polite distance away, just as a start. Holds out his left hand with its cup of wine. ]
No one's coming to serve you wine out here, my friend. Unless they're extremely nice.
[ Everyone is coming and going, and most likely not in the way they had expected or preferred. Not in the way they used to. Everyone is curious about Anakin, too, having glimpsed him a few times when he's stopped by - no doubt to check up on Sarica, though, really, in this company it probably ought to be the other way around. A lamb for lions. Except, he reminds himself, as he watched Ulos stagger out into the gardens, fingers flexing into fists at his sides, this is a very battle-ready lamb and some very drunk lions. He has to trust that Anakin can fend for himself, he's had to watch him from afar before. It will be fine, because Anakin will make it so.
He has to believe that, and he has to stay central to this party. Relevant, he has to stay relevant. It's relevance or death, in these parts.
Having walked one more round amongst his guests that rank from slightly tipsy to completely pissed at this point, depending on their tolerance and moderation, Sarica has just halted by the divan next to the table of food, the one with the perfect view of the cleared floors where the Eastern Mountain dancers are performing in intricate patterns and to songs in a foreign tongue. Along the walls, his guests are standing in groups of two's and three's, speaking quietly among themselves. Sarica wonders briefly how many of them are planning his, if nothing else, political demise.
It should bother him more than it does. Then again, Sarica was never in it for the power. Now he just has a hard time recalling what he was in it for.
A frown, he seats himself languidly on the divan, legs folded at the ankles, these sandals still whole and unbroken, no fights yet. No fights yet. ]
[ As he stalks away from the gardens, Anakin follows the tell-tale signature of Sarica's presence blindly, caring little about where he's going. He's swallowed down the entire cup of wine brought by Ulos, trying to erase the taste of the other man's tongue in his mouth but the masking isn't good enough and every time he becomes conscious of it, his anger burns. He keeps thinking about this man in Sarica's vicinity, for years and years and years.
The snake tamer surrounds himself with serpents, sure, and they slither at this feet because he wills them to. Makes himself immune to the poisons they carry, out of habit, out of necessity.
Anakin will kill them if they touch him again.
He stalks into the gallery room and the temperature immediately drops to somewhere below freezing, the guests conversing by the walls shivering and looking around in confusion. Someone mentions a draft. On the floor in front of the table of food, a few of the dancers stumble. Anakin walks right past them, all the way to the divan where Sarica's inclining with his feet up and his gaze dark. Surveying the room, of course, keeping track.
Anakin hates them all.
He steps around the divan, placing his metal hand against the backrest. There, he simply stands, staring out across the floor of people, eyes hard and unyielding. Come closer, it means.
[ His friends leave under much protest, because that's the kind of friends they are. Had he expected anything else, he'd have been expecting wrong. However, eventually everyone has ventured out into the night, taking their horses and their carriages with them, Ulos long since gone from the garden, Sarica sent Toril out to inspect. He comes back with a dead peaduck, more or less exploded and although Sarica doesn't know, he has a good inkling who is to blame. Out the corner of his eye, he watches Anakin remain standing behind the divan, like it's a fortress, a safe space just for him and Sarica gives him that. Anyone forced to endure Ulos' tongue deserves no less.
Juila and Erene care for clearing the table with food, the worst of the trash scattered all over the room, but eventually he dismisses them, tells them to go home, it's been a late day today, they shan't care meeting in at any point before ten in the morning. They thank him, leave, though the door to the gathering room never truly closes. Sarica starts clearing out the last things himself, collecting plates and cups, changing table cloths, throwing all that linen on the floor in a huge pile.
Turning his head, he looks Anakin up and down, the chill he's still giving off. Angry, naturally. Insecure? Jealous? At this point, Sarica is hoping yes. If nothing else, then for his vanity's sake. ]
This party has done nothing but agitate you. [ A hmm, hand wiping down the table he's leaning in over. ] If I throw one in the future, it won't be at home.
[ Anakin stands with his arms crossed, still behind the divan, like it's somehow an insurmountable barrier between him and the rest of the room. He watches as everybody else - Juila and Erene, Sarica - clean up the remains of the party, the gathering room beginning to look more like itself with every stupid food tray or bit of trash that disappears. He should probably actually help out, rather than stand here like he's trying to become one with the decor.
Regardless, he just doesn't. ]
It's not the party.
[ He steps around the divan and comes to a stop in front of instead. Arms crossed, stance rigid, back to the beginning. His next words are sharp, his chin raised. ]
[ Efith is a fairly ordinary planet at first glance with a subtropical climate pattern near its capitol, the forest green and lustrous, the soil varying and multifaceted. He's seen little of the local fauna, yet, though he's heard birdsong in the forest near the mountains where he left his spacecraft before venturing towards the capitol - because this planet, of course, is not space faring at all, nor technologically advanced. As far as worlds go, on the surface at least, this planet is quite, pleasantly uninteresting and it suits his wayward ex-Padawan about as well as Master Yoda's meditation classes.
On the surface, yes.
However, whilst heading through the woods towards the city, Obi-Wan had been struck by the feel of the planet, more so than its physical characteristics. The Force, he thinks, is incredibly strong here - but odd, too, intangible. When he draws upon it, it feels as it always has so it doesn't affect him to any significant degree, whatever the strangeness might be about. But this part, at least, fits Anakin to a 't'. Landing himself on a planet where the Force feels like nothing he's ever heard of.
The drama of it all.
Having asked around in the market mid-town, Obi-Wan's currently taking a break from scouting for information concerning Anakin (because looking him up would, naturally, be ill-advised without any data whatsoever and he can hardly be blamed for the other man's reticence with regards to sharing information about Efith - he couldn't even be bothered to fill out the mission reports from his first visit because of course he couldn't). He's seated by a small table under the cool shadow of the tea vendor's awning, sipping local black tea and watching the mill of people as they bargain for goods.
He's trying not to consider the information he's gathered so far but his brain won't quite let him.
Why in the all the universes would Anakin be here?
Sarica doesn't believe in the blissful passing of time, of course, so he shan't use those words exactly, but it's been calm and undisturbed at the villa, no visitors, no parties, a lot of sex, a few I love you's and the mix has been good enough even for Sarica, one morning, early, before going to work, to venture to the temple as a worshipper rather than as a consultant or negotiator. The fire priest, not Timachus', so ultimately not the right one, had set his prayer aflame and told him the Mysteries would take care of the rest. Sarica had told him, oh, the Mysteries already have. The man had looked slightly uncomfortable.
Sarica feels lighter, it's not a bodily thing, though it's no doubt related to the very physical feeling Anakin gives him, sucking his cock, giving him his own in turn, but the war that rages in Reece bothers him less, even the thought of Timachus still in the wild with his partner in crime, it touches him only insofar that the practical matters which arise from it do. Treaties to sign, information to pass on from his Reecian sources, maps to cross off, again and again. Not there or there or there. None of this really registers. Well, as anything but nuisance.
Happy.
Sarica doesn't use that word either, of course, it's too presumptuous and you risk too much, once it changes as it inevitably will, but he thinks it's something like that. With Anakin. Anakin pleases him to that extent.
So, he goes to work and comes home, to someone, to something. He doesn't mind that they're all pinning this unending war on him, because scapegoats are convenient, or that his influence in the Senate is dwindling slowly away. In a few years he'll be one of the old men who had a name, but no say, that he himself despised when he was younger. He doesn't mind that either.
What he does mind is getting news of a newcomer in the Capital. A newcomer who asks about Anakin, who listens to gossip like it becomes anyone. Something sinks in Sarica's stomach, then. He calls off his upcoming lunch meeting with someone who isn't Ulos and puts on his bright yellow cloak, heading for the market. Bearded man, a bit younger than you, Toril had told him, pretty good-looking, you'll know when you see him.
Sarica knows. When he sees him. His eyes narrow for a brief moment, then he heads over and seats himself at the same small table the man has chosen, straight across from him. In the shade, it's cooler. Maybe even cool enough to accept when the vendor hurriedly comes over and puts a cup of tea in front of him. Legislator, he mutters. As far as Sarica understood, he's been tattling, too.
Looking at the other man in silence for a moment, he raises an eyebrow. You're not from around here, he could start, because his beard tells on him. Efithian men at his age go without. Instead he says: ]
[ The stables are empty, aside from the three horses and a myriad of recently born kittens tumbling around in a pile in the corner. Toril has been sent out on a job, collecting rumours on Ulos who has proven endlessly most uncooperative since the party, so neither the stable boy nor his usual following of neighbourhood girls is anywhere to be found. No great loss there. They're noise-makers, little else.
Sarica has brushed down his horse himself and is now sitting on a stool near one of the windows to catch the late afternoon light falling through it on the saddle that he's currently checking for tears and wear. It's resting over his right thigh, heavy and warm still from his ride. The stitching in the leather near the saddle horn has begun to break apart and he will need someone to see to that. It's his best saddle, it's less expensive having it fixed than having a new one made to his specifications.
Not that money's an issue, but practicality is.
With a deep grunt, he straightens up and swings the saddle over one shoulder, still sitting with his legs wide spread, the stool creaking beneath him. Sarica runs his gaze over the edge of the saddle, like a last check-up, and finds that the stitching there is beginning to show signs of wear, too. Ah, perhaps, at the end of the day, the whole saddle must go after all.
He should buy one fit for Anakin as well, while he's at it. Nothing begs a man stay like a saddle in his name, screaming ride me, ride me, does it? The thought makes him smile slightly as he makes to get up, the extra weight of the saddle making his thigh muscles tense, work, flex. Kenobi, Obi-Wan, has been staying with them since his arrival two days ago and, because he's only 23 and the man is something like a figure, the Mysteries must know what kind, to Anakin, Anakin has refused to have sex with him all this while. Sarica has understood, what little he gets of those kinds of attachments, and lain with his face pressed into the boy's neck, only sheets and thin fabric separating them. It's been acceptable, hair and skin and familiar scents.
Sure, there are needs and needs must, but sometimes what they must is to wait.
Sarica is an impatient man, but he is an incredibly skilled waiter. ]
Anakin is incredibly conscious of that fact, particularly when they go to bed and Sarica's naked against his back and his own cock is rock-hard from want and yet, all he can think is what if my shields don't hold, what if I project my kriffing sex life into my Master's thoughts? Consequently, Anakin has spent the past two days a hundred percent horny and equally denied. Until earlier this afternoon, miraculously, Obi-Wan had decided to go for a walk, even telling Anakin how long he was planning on being gone. He'd been a little non-plussed about that, really, and Obi-Wan, having read his expression as easily as he'd read any book, had patted his shoulder in a weirdly condescending manner and left without further ado.
Three and a half hours, he'd said. Spent your time without me well, Anakin, he'd said.
So random.
Regardless, Anakin took precisely half an hour to realise that he could finally have a wank, at least, seeing as Sarica hadn't yet come home. He'd rubbed out a quick one, just to take the pressure off, then settled in the for something a little grander, thinking about Sarica, his hard body, about sucking marks onto his skin and making him gasp in that particular way of his, the one that makes him seem younger, somehow, and sweeter than he'd probably care to be in any other context.
When Sarica comes home, Anakin's got three fingers knuckle-deep inside himself, everything slick and slippery from oil. He blinks as he realises that the other man's down at the stables, alone, and suddenly his hand around his cock feels a lot less sensitive, a lot less interesting. Oh. Oh, but he could - he could. They should. They have another three hours, at least. Jumping to his feet, he flops into his outer robe, pulls it tight around his waist for some sort of decency (who's going to get offended, the peaducks? they basically have no emotions and even if they do, they most probably aren't aware of them) and runs off. He enters the stables bare-footed, no doubt getting his feet dirty beyond belief but who cares, the rest of him is ready and when he spots Sarica seated by the window, doing maintenance on his favourite saddle, Anakin considerately uses the Force to lift it out of his hands and puts it gently on the floor by his feet before seating himself directly in his lap, one long, naked leg on either side of Sarica's body, his cock hard and slick against them, leaving trails of precum on the other man's clothes.
He curls both arms around his neck, leans in close and says, voice hoarse: ]
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comlink.
You'll hear this. What are you thinking, Anakin? Too much wine? Not enough action? Are you seeing action? Enough of it? I don't envy you, war is dirty business. Lonesome, too. No matter how many soldiers you send out onto a field, every man is still in it for himself.
[ A pause, though the comlink is close enough to Sarica's mouth to catch his breathing, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. ]
I'm extremely good at spending time, you must know. I'm good at wasting it, too, but I don't wait well. Too impatient, I'm told. Too greedy. You said there was time. Well, I say time is now.
Supposedly, in three days, I'll know whether I'm right. Be proud of yourself, Anakin, you're making me wait.
[ And more abruptly than it started, the call ends. ]
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It takes him a few minutes of blank staring into space before he manages a reply: ]
Excuse me - how drunk were you when you recorded this message? Never mind, don't tell me.
[ A pause. His transmission is mostly devoid of noise or disturbances, apart from the odd sounds courtesy of the ship's mechanics, on constant run in the background. ]
Anyway, glad to hear you've managed to get the comlink working. I hope that one button didn't ruin your day. [ A smirk, clear in his voice: ] Though it doesn't sound like it. Must've been quite some party, Sarica.
[ Another pause. A sigh. ]
I can't believe I'm talking to you. I should be talking to literally anybody else. My men. The Jedi. [ Softer: ] My - well. No, that doesn't matter. But here we are, right, and this message will reach you in another three days so I hope you won't be too drunk to press the button again.
The war keeps dragging on. I think - something is about to change, maybe not tomorrow or even in a month but yeah, it's coming. I have a friend back on Coruscant who never fails to remind me of all the things I can't glimpse beneath the surface, all the little power plays, the games. I'm glad I can't.
You probably could.
[ A long huff of air. Then, the sound of his clothes - leather, armor - creaking as he shrugs. ]
So, here's a message for you. Guess you can't complain about being left to wait any longer, huh? Mr. Talkative.
Er... I hope it finds you well. The message.
[ And - off. ]
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Another couple of hours of waiting while he advises the High Priestess of the North Temple, then he can excuse himself, find an empty room in the huge courthouse complex of the Merganian capital. They're a lawful people, the Merganians, Sarica always liked them better than Reecians, in general.
The fact that he's smiling through the entire message is its own message, isn't it? ]
Parties come and go. Like wars do. Journeys. Everything's temporary, but we've had this discussion. It's not what you believe. Something will come after that which is temporary, something that lasts, yes? Or it will eventually bind together these temporary pieces until they form a whole? I'm educated in law, not philosophy, don't come here with your scorn, Anakin. I'm trying to understand what you see in reality that I don't. The unseen is usually the most valuable of all, secrets, Mysteries, gold inside a mountain.
[ The indistinct noise of people yelling outside, the plaza out front filled with people at this hour. Market day, no slaves, Mergan calls themselves advanced - while selling their children to Efith for a price. Is slavery really a worse misdeed than hypocrisy? He doesn't wonder out loud, of course. His slaves are back to work at the villa in the Capital. Timachus oversees them currently. Bound by nothing, but staying regardless. ]
I'm little to you, in comparison to your friends or the Jedi or whoever they are that you won't tell me about, that's why you reply. Because it's of no consequence. I am the perfect vessel for secrets, I reveal nothing, it's like calling into a void, talking to me, so you do. What consequence does it have? What consequence can it have?
[ Behind him, a door opens and closes. A muffled male voice says, only faintly distinguishable, the High Priestess is ready to continue, Legislator, before getting cut off. Door closing. ]
One thing you should know about me, is that I glimpse only what I want to. I'm not an all-seeing eye, I see what I need to keep the advantage in a situation, the rest I'll stay willfully blind to. Power play is just play. I want to be entertained. The power can go wherever, to whomever wants it, as long as the game continues. I'm an indulger, I drink and whore and feast. Everything I see is to further this aim.
Right now, I see you smirk at me, I see it clearly. I see us in the river, rutting. Think of us like that sometimes. We definitely weren't playing for power, then.
[ Off. ]
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action.
Sarica's first gut reaction is to tell him that more suitable men exist. Everyone's expendable. Then, he thinks of Anakin and has to decide whether to go ahead with the lie or not.
They're taking a break now. It's late afternoon, Irestes' slave has just been by with a trayful of juice, also Reecian, pomegranate and itan fruit. Someone joked that they ought to pay a gold piece per sip, but no one laughed. From the outside, Irestes' villa looks rather similar to Sarica's, though the windows are smaller and let in less light. The hallways are arranged identically, all the rooms collected in the middle. Sarica has retreated to the study next to the gathering room where they've been doing their ungrateful work. He's alone. Irestes had business next door that he needed to tend to, so the next half hour is reconnaissance, back to the drawing board.
This will last all night, he predicts, leaning against the windowsill, overlooking the gardens. Not as well-kept as Sarica's, evidently. Maybe paying his staff actually helps. He frowns. Slave taxes... ]
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That last part is pretty important these days, he finds.
Right now, he's heading through the gardens of Irestes' villa, the outline of the grounds relatively simple to Sarica's, if not quite as well-kept. He makes his way along the walls, sticking to the shadows by habit, aware that he's basically infiltrating the place and that it's possibly pretty weird. Regardless, here he is. He keeps his cloak tight around him to hide the silver pendants resting on his naked chest, right above his heart. So, he didn't feel like wearing too many clothes for this. Shoot him - if you have the aim to do it.
All he can think about is that Sarica needs to see. He's been thinking about it all day - about that. About showing him.
The silver feels extremely expensive in ways not at all related to credits or currency.
Expensive enough, yeah, that Anakin pauses next to the window. A few feet above him, Sarica's leaning against the windowsill, looking out over the gardens and not, as it were, to his right. That's lucky. Smiling, Anakin steels himself, grabs onto the side of the window and lops himself over the edge, landing elegantly next to the other man in a swirl of robes and limbs. ]
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Huffting out a small breath, he's about to step away from the window when - something comes flying through it, a flourish of brown fabric and limbs and Sarica feels his whole system freeze, thinking things like backstabber, betrayal, attack while quickly scouring the room for weapons to counter with. Before getting that far, however, the swirl goes stationary, Anakin straightening up in front of him, his long, billowing Jedi cloak covering him up from neck to feet, though the neckline seems to show a hint of skin and nothing more.
The jolt to his system becomes something else. Something hotter.
With a sharp raise of one eyebrow, he looks the taller man over, eyes running down his features, the contours of his body, everything he's showing and everything he isn't. He meets his eyes, eyebrow going nowhere. ]
You've come uninvited, Anakin.
[ At the back of his mind, he categorises the various sounds from the hallways, knowing intimately how Irestes' kitchen girl tiptoes and how Ulos has a tendency to show up where he isn't wanted. Anakin, at least, is always wanted, isn't he? Maybe not invited, but wanted nonetheless.
Meanwhile, he leans with his hip against the windowsill again, easing back into this much upended, new normal, cocking his head a little at the other man, amused. His undivided attention is still on that slit of skin down his front. ]
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Whom.
He's wearing his rings on his gloved hand as well as his favourite necklace around his neck, the shortest one, the pendant dangling a few inches above his heart. He likes the weight of it, though he can't quite say why or what makes it different from the other one - as always, whenever he finds a favourite, he fixates quite readily without any in-depth understanding of the whys or hows. All he knows is, it belongs to him and in that way, it feels perfect.
Evading the servants had been a bit of a mess and he's pretty sure he accidentally flashed Juila on his way to Sarica's study, wearing just his towel around his waist and nothing more. He'd left his soiled trousers for washing and the rest of his clothes in his room - and now, here he is, cross-legged and happily bare-assed on Sarica's desk in his study, hands resting on his thighs and eyes closed in a haphazardly form of meditation.
The kind that sort of happens and then, doesn't.
He's quite adept at those. ]
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Although he doesn't say the words, they hang in the air behind him, ghost-like.
It takes fifteen minutes to get back to the villa by horse, and Sarica has to shift about a lot because his body still remembers, first, the heights he was taken to earlier and now, the climb to get there again, his cock more than mildly interested in how Anakin will sound when they meet. Reunite. He imagines. The depths of his voice at this point, when his throat has rested, but he'll still sound hoarse for days, at best. Yes, at best.
He's in your study, Sarica, Juila tells him as he passes the kitchen and he nods at her briefly, before hurrying down the hallway, cutting the corner and stopping in the doorway. Certainly, he's in Sarica's study, sitting butt-naked on his desk, cross-legged, everything on display, the jewellery, too. The jewellery, too. His trail of hair points down to an at least semi-interested cock and Sarica takes all that in - in one glance, before his eyes find Anakin's face, all his pretenses. Meditating, sure, in his buttocks, perhaps.
He straightens up, closes the door behind him. His voice trembles a tiny, little bit. He lets it. ]
Greet me.
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Ah well. Sarica's got lots of that.
Smiling faintly to himself, he keeps his eyes closed as the door opens and Sarica's presence fills the room, the way it tends to do. He's a person who claims spaces, Sarica. Empty, populated, large or small. He's claimed many parts of Anakin, too, he's well aware and he'd object to the mere principle if it weren't completely obvious that the man so intent on being claimed, in return. That's the thing, though, with him.
That's the crucial little detail.
At his words, Anakin's smile grows. Without looking up, he spreads his thighs slightly just to give the man a better look and replies: ]
Evening, Sarica.
[ His voice sounds utterly destroyed - deep, rough, hoarse. His throat feels thoroughly used too, and the thought makes him shift, his cock growing harder against his abdomen. Mm. ]
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action.
Next to him, the servant - a girl, Juila - has left him a tall glass of freshly-pressed juice. She'd done so unprompted and with a curious glance at his weapons, though she hadn't lingered to ask about them (she had, however, assured him that she would've gladly joined him on the bench if it weren't for all the chores she'd yet to finish; Rex, on his part, is a little bit relieved for the peace and quiet). He feels pampered and that, in turn, makes him uncomfortable.
So he's yet to touch the drink which is honestly absurd, except this is the General's hide-out, not his, and each moment he spends here is a moment that passes back on Coruscant amongst his brothers, without him.
Not that he'd be any good to them right now, of course.
Mouth twisting a little, he starts putting the blaster back together, double-checking each element as he goes. ]
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Maybe he'll have to pick up the habit again. In some form or other. Or the tide might turn against him.
However, more than any of this, Sarica concerns his ride back to the villa with an uneasy curiosity about the stranger that has arrived to his home, evidently to see Anakin. He received the news yesterday afternoon, in the middle of the aftershocks of Oran's speech to the gathered senators, and couldn't do much else about it than ask Toril keep an eye on the progression, inform him if they left.
His updates have been arriving in a steady stream all night, like an additional factor he had to keep a grasp of, and from afar.
Now, the villa's coming into view and he makes haste, handing his stallion over to Toril, eyes already scanning the garden and finding - a man, on the taller side, charmed, sitting on the bench beneath the ruby fruit tree and working on things that Efith has never seen before, but which Sarica has a gut feeling could win them wars. Hmm. He's unbathed and his tunic bears the traces of a twelve hour long work day, but this can't wait.
Anakin's friends can't wait. Mustn't.
Sarica walks over slowly, stopping at what might seem a polite distance, but is more cautious than polite. His words are pleasant, almost too much so. He thinks of Anakin who's making his name known at the local market, earning his own pay at this point. ]
Has my household been kind to you, my friend?
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Absent-mindedly, while shrugging out of his tunic and pushing his trousers to the ground, Sarica recalls the symbol on Anakin's jewellery, the symbol he chose for him, because it felt fitting, because there is Sarica and then, there's the world, always slightly out of alignment. But Anakin fixes that, the same way he and Rex have fixed the kitchen up with running water now, so much plumbing running around the house, beautiful copper glinting in the sun. Like treasures amongst the grasses. He folds his clothes away and places them on the chair by the table at the windows, darkened for the night. There's only the light of the oil lamp on what has become his side of the bed, the left, because Anakin prefers the right when he stays the night. Or, however much of it he can take. It varies.
As many things do.
Sarica has never been the jealous type. He has no idea why he would start now, he tells himself, but he looks through lies with great ease, even his own. He would start now, because now is Anakin's time.
And Anakin is currently washing off in the river. He's left his lightsaber on his nightstand, like a promise, the same promise he gave when he left it there, too, to drop off Rex on a nearby planet, space-faring, not the butt-end of the galaxy. I'll come back, it means. As if he knows. Jedi mind tricks? He probably does. Sarica stretches once, languidly, his back to the door. Acutely aware of every movement on the other side. ]
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As he walks back to the villa from the river, his hair dripping with water and his skin damp beneath his clothes, he feels honestly, legitimately excited about being alone with Sarica for the first time in several days. The man's been working himself half to death in the Senate - something-something-something-the-war-and-maybe-melons, Anakin can't be certain. He's been keeping himself busy with simpler things.
I think he's a bit uncertain of you said Rex to him last night as they'd slept in the orchard again, just to mark the end of the other man's stay. Uncertain. Anakin can't blame him for that, can he, if he thinks about it properly? Sarica's re-arranged his whole life to make a spot large enough to Anakin to occupy and he understands the fear of loss, the fear of that spot leaving an empty, gaping hole in your heart. It hurts like nothing else in the world.
He steps inside the bedroom, finding the other man naked and mid-stretch, the muscles in his back on full display in the darkness. He stares for a moment, abruptly and intensely hungry. He closes the door behind him and shrugs out of his tunic, brushing past Sarica close enough for their shoulders to touch before dumping it on an empty chair. He turns towards him, gaze running over his naked front, lingering by his cock before heading back up. Eye-contact. ]
So. [ He leans back against the window. A smile. ] Here we are.
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action.
He can feel Sarica's breath against the back of his neck. It makes him think about the other night, about the noises he made. I love you, he said.
He swallows hard, realising that they've been riding along in silence for at least thirty minutes and if nothing else, it's starting to get to him, being alone with his thoughts like this, with his feelings. He can still feel the other man, Timachus, in his mind, all pliant and defenseless and easily robbed. It doesn't bother him, exactly. Not exactly. It's not about Timachus, really.
His voice is too loud when he blurts out, his gaze planted dead-center between the horse's pointy ears: ]
You ever thought about making these things go faster? Because I do. Frequently.
[ The horse snorts. Next to them, Anakin's horse - still tired from earlier - continues on at a comfortable pace and he gives it a petty little tug, just to do something with his hands. ]
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All these things he thinks about while they ride, the silence between Anakin and him oppressive and full of unsaids. He focuses on feeling the other man's body, the way he felt his body the night before and actually, thinking about that, the ride back to the Capital is much more uncomfortable than the ride out, because there's no rush to dull the soreness in his arse. Ow. He shifts a bit, feeling his whole front rub over Anakin's whole back and he takes pleasure in that. Comfort. Colour him surprised, but it's not the same thing.
You ever thought about making these things go faster, Anakin asks, still sitting straight up and down, not giving in the slightest and Sarica saw. The expression on his face. Are you angry, it asked. And at the back of his mind, Sarica makes a mental note that if he should ever face the Force from anyone, he would take it from the Jedi Council who has not nurtured this boy and supported him, so that it would be a silly question to think, let alone ask.
His Anakin has done nothing wrong. He only took Sarica by surprise, because Sarica was caught up in what's his own. Anakin truly has no say in that.
So, Sarica replies, slowly, steadily: ]
I'm not angry with you, Anakin.
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Anakin's trying to meditate and he'd had his eyes closed two seconds ago - except, then the mental image of Sarica getting repeatedly accosted by his guests who were very clearly trying to get him naked starts playing behind his eyelids and the rage that follows isn't very conductive to his mental state. Or so he's learned, anyway. The peaduck on the opposite side of the pool, partially flayed and thoroughly gutted, would probably agree. It's in the shadows now, blood pooling around it on the tiles.
Taking a deep breath, Anakin forces himself to lower his shoulders. I'm one with the Force and the Force is with me he thinks and promptly feels randomly angry again, a cold rush of emotion seeping through his system. He grits his teeth and rests his hands on his knees, looking up at the stars and trying an old trick he'd taught himself years back, based on Obi-Wan's teachings. The other man had realised Anakin needed something external to guide his focus but hadn't quite landed on the right technique before Anakin himself came up with something that worked at least a third of the time.
He starts connecting the dots on the sky, fast at first, imagining lines of blue striking from dot to dot. Within seconds, in his mind, the sky is a crisscrossing nightmare of chaos. He lets himself feel that, first, lets it resonate within him. Then, he starts reversing the lines, one by one. He forces himself to be slow.
Slower.
I love you, said Sarica not too many days ago.
He exhales. ]
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At some point, a man gets real tired of trying to slip his hand into Sarica's tunic and getting his wrist crushed, really, so now Ulos has ventured out into the gardens, two cups of wine with him, one in each hand. Someone said they'd seen Sarica's boy retreat out here, so that's where he goes, because if Sarica isn't going to give him a taste, he might just steal a little sip on his own. With the way things are going currently, Sarica's weird descend into madness or whatever it is, apparently that's the only way you get what you want.
Sarica's gone weak, he thinks, following the pathway, lit by torches, to the pool where the boy is indeed sitting, cross-legged, taller than most Efithian men and that's just as Sarica's tastes go, right? First Timachus who was a god and now this, a dish from outer space. The man sure knows how to pick them.
He stops a polite distance away, just as a start. Holds out his left hand with its cup of wine. ]
No one's coming to serve you wine out here, my friend. Unless they're extremely nice.
[ Him, he means him. ]
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action.
He has to believe that, and he has to stay central to this party. Relevant, he has to stay relevant. It's relevance or death, in these parts.
Having walked one more round amongst his guests that rank from slightly tipsy to completely pissed at this point, depending on their tolerance and moderation, Sarica has just halted by the divan next to the table of food, the one with the perfect view of the cleared floors where the Eastern Mountain dancers are performing in intricate patterns and to songs in a foreign tongue. Along the walls, his guests are standing in groups of two's and three's, speaking quietly among themselves. Sarica wonders briefly how many of them are planning his, if nothing else, political demise.
It should bother him more than it does. Then again, Sarica was never in it for the power. Now he just has a hard time recalling what he was in it for.
A frown, he seats himself languidly on the divan, legs folded at the ankles, these sandals still whole and unbroken, no fights yet. No fights yet. ]
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The snake tamer surrounds himself with serpents, sure, and they slither at this feet because he wills them to. Makes himself immune to the poisons they carry, out of habit, out of necessity.
Anakin will kill them if they touch him again.
He stalks into the gallery room and the temperature immediately drops to somewhere below freezing, the guests conversing by the walls shivering and looking around in confusion. Someone mentions a draft. On the floor in front of the table of food, a few of the dancers stumble. Anakin walks right past them, all the way to the divan where Sarica's inclining with his feet up and his gaze dark. Surveying the room, of course, keeping track.
Anakin hates them all.
He steps around the divan, placing his metal hand against the backrest. There, he simply stands, staring out across the floor of people, eyes hard and unyielding. Come closer, it means.
Try. ]
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action.
Juila and Erene care for clearing the table with food, the worst of the trash scattered all over the room, but eventually he dismisses them, tells them to go home, it's been a late day today, they shan't care meeting in at any point before ten in the morning. They thank him, leave, though the door to the gathering room never truly closes. Sarica starts clearing out the last things himself, collecting plates and cups, changing table cloths, throwing all that linen on the floor in a huge pile.
Turning his head, he looks Anakin up and down, the chill he's still giving off. Angry, naturally. Insecure? Jealous? At this point, Sarica is hoping yes. If nothing else, then for his vanity's sake. ]
This party has done nothing but agitate you. [ A hmm, hand wiping down the table he's leaning in over. ] If I throw one in the future, it won't be at home.
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Regardless, he just doesn't. ]
It's not the party.
[ He steps around the divan and comes to a stop in front of instead. Arms crossed, stance rigid, back to the beginning. His next words are sharp, his chin raised. ]
It's the people. [ Harder: ] They take liberties.
[ He didn't hate politicians before, back on Coruscant, but he thinks that's largely due to Palpatine and Padmé, embodying different aspects of the playing field that made all the rest of the individual players seem less redundant somehow. Less useless. He'd thought there was a point to the boundaries that were crossed or the ethics some chose to ignore, something to be gained in the long run that he simply didn't fully comprehend.
Then, Palpatine was a Sith Lord.
Hard to believe in anything he used to stand for, really.
Tonight, all he's seen is selfishness and greed, most of it pointed at Sarica and at him, by proxy. It disgusts him. ]
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action.
On the surface, yes.
However, whilst heading through the woods towards the city, Obi-Wan had been struck by the feel of the planet, more so than its physical characteristics. The Force, he thinks, is incredibly strong here - but odd, too, intangible. When he draws upon it, it feels as it always has so it doesn't affect him to any significant degree, whatever the strangeness might be about. But this part, at least, fits Anakin to a 't'. Landing himself on a planet where the Force feels like nothing he's ever heard of.
The drama of it all.
Having asked around in the market mid-town, Obi-Wan's currently taking a break from scouting for information concerning Anakin (because looking him up would, naturally, be ill-advised without any data whatsoever and he can hardly be blamed for the other man's reticence with regards to sharing information about Efith - he couldn't even be bothered to fill out the mission reports from his first visit because of course he couldn't). He's seated by a small table under the cool shadow of the tea vendor's awning, sipping local black tea and watching the mill of people as they bargain for goods.
He's trying not to consider the information he's gathered so far but his brain won't quite let him.
Why in the all the universes would Anakin be here?
More importantly, what is keeping him? ]
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Sarica doesn't believe in the blissful passing of time, of course, so he shan't use those words exactly, but it's been calm and undisturbed at the villa, no visitors, no parties, a lot of sex, a few I love you's and the mix has been good enough even for Sarica, one morning, early, before going to work, to venture to the temple as a worshipper rather than as a consultant or negotiator. The fire priest, not Timachus', so ultimately not the right one, had set his prayer aflame and told him the Mysteries would take care of the rest. Sarica had told him, oh, the Mysteries already have. The man had looked slightly uncomfortable.
Sarica feels lighter, it's not a bodily thing, though it's no doubt related to the very physical feeling Anakin gives him, sucking his cock, giving him his own in turn, but the war that rages in Reece bothers him less, even the thought of Timachus still in the wild with his partner in crime, it touches him only insofar that the practical matters which arise from it do. Treaties to sign, information to pass on from his Reecian sources, maps to cross off, again and again. Not there or there or there. None of this really registers. Well, as anything but nuisance.
Happy.
Sarica doesn't use that word either, of course, it's too presumptuous and you risk too much, once it changes as it inevitably will, but he thinks it's something like that. With Anakin. Anakin pleases him to that extent.
So, he goes to work and comes home, to someone, to something. He doesn't mind that they're all pinning this unending war on him, because scapegoats are convenient, or that his influence in the Senate is dwindling slowly away. In a few years he'll be one of the old men who had a name, but no say, that he himself despised when he was younger. He doesn't mind that either.
What he does mind is getting news of a newcomer in the Capital. A newcomer who asks about Anakin, who listens to gossip like it becomes anyone. Something sinks in Sarica's stomach, then. He calls off his upcoming lunch meeting with someone who isn't Ulos and puts on his bright yellow cloak, heading for the market. Bearded man, a bit younger than you, Toril had told him, pretty good-looking, you'll know when you see him.
Sarica knows. When he sees him. His eyes narrow for a brief moment, then he heads over and seats himself at the same small table the man has chosen, straight across from him. In the shade, it's cooler. Maybe even cool enough to accept when the vendor hurriedly comes over and puts a cup of tea in front of him. Legislator, he mutters. As far as Sarica understood, he's been tattling, too.
Looking at the other man in silence for a moment, he raises an eyebrow. You're not from around here, he could start, because his beard tells on him. Efithian men at his age go without. Instead he says: ]
Will he be happy to see you, do you think?
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Sarica has brushed down his horse himself and is now sitting on a stool near one of the windows to catch the late afternoon light falling through it on the saddle that he's currently checking for tears and wear. It's resting over his right thigh, heavy and warm still from his ride. The stitching in the leather near the saddle horn has begun to break apart and he will need someone to see to that. It's his best saddle, it's less expensive having it fixed than having a new one made to his specifications.
Not that money's an issue, but practicality is.
With a deep grunt, he straightens up and swings the saddle over one shoulder, still sitting with his legs wide spread, the stool creaking beneath him. Sarica runs his gaze over the edge of the saddle, like a last check-up, and finds that the stitching there is beginning to show signs of wear, too. Ah, perhaps, at the end of the day, the whole saddle must go after all.
He should buy one fit for Anakin as well, while he's at it. Nothing begs a man stay like a saddle in his name, screaming ride me, ride me, does it? The thought makes him smile slightly as he makes to get up, the extra weight of the saddle making his thigh muscles tense, work, flex. Kenobi, Obi-Wan, has been staying with them since his arrival two days ago and, because he's only 23 and the man is something like a figure, the Mysteries must know what kind, to Anakin, Anakin has refused to have sex with him all this while. Sarica has understood, what little he gets of those kinds of attachments, and lain with his face pressed into the boy's neck, only sheets and thin fabric separating them. It's been acceptable, hair and skin and familiar scents.
Sure, there are needs and needs must, but sometimes what they must is to wait.
Sarica is an impatient man, but he is an incredibly skilled waiter. ]
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Anakin is incredibly conscious of that fact, particularly when they go to bed and Sarica's naked against his back and his own cock is rock-hard from want and yet, all he can think is what if my shields don't hold, what if I project my kriffing sex life into my Master's thoughts? Consequently, Anakin has spent the past two days a hundred percent horny and equally denied. Until earlier this afternoon, miraculously, Obi-Wan had decided to go for a walk, even telling Anakin how long he was planning on being gone. He'd been a little non-plussed about that, really, and Obi-Wan, having read his expression as easily as he'd read any book, had patted his shoulder in a weirdly condescending manner and left without further ado.
Three and a half hours, he'd said. Spent your time without me well, Anakin, he'd said.
So random.
Regardless, Anakin took precisely half an hour to realise that he could finally have a wank, at least, seeing as Sarica hadn't yet come home. He'd rubbed out a quick one, just to take the pressure off, then settled in the for something a little grander, thinking about Sarica, his hard body, about sucking marks onto his skin and making him gasp in that particular way of his, the one that makes him seem younger, somehow, and sweeter than he'd probably care to be in any other context.
When Sarica comes home, Anakin's got three fingers knuckle-deep inside himself, everything slick and slippery from oil. He blinks as he realises that the other man's down at the stables, alone, and suddenly his hand around his cock feels a lot less sensitive, a lot less interesting. Oh. Oh, but he could - he could. They should. They have another three hours, at least. Jumping to his feet, he flops into his outer robe, pulls it tight around his waist for some sort of decency (who's going to get offended, the peaducks? they basically have no emotions and even if they do, they most probably aren't aware of them) and runs off. He enters the stables bare-footed, no doubt getting his feet dirty beyond belief but who cares, the rest of him is ready and when he spots Sarica seated by the window, doing maintenance on his favourite saddle, Anakin considerately uses the Force to lift it out of his hands and puts it gently on the floor by his feet before seating himself directly in his lap, one long, naked leg on either side of Sarica's body, his cock hard and slick against them, leaving trails of precum on the other man's clothes.
He curls both arms around his neck, leans in close and says, voice hoarse: ]
Hi there.
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