In Form Only

In this day and age, I wonder what 'love' really means.

He runs his hand up my back, my cloak, just soft, but I know what he wants, and more so, what he feels. I can't help but smile, and turn to claim his lips, just gently, firmer when his hand clutches at my shoulder. I know what he wants of me, and, since I love him, I'm prepared to provide it for him, as much as it hurts. His mouth is soft but demanding, his beard soft against my face, and I kiss the way he wants, firm, soft, like I know just what I want and this is it, this is the be all and end all of the world. And to me, with him, this is.

I can't say I think I deserve more, I'm pretending just as much as he is.

His fingers knead my shoulder, revelling in how far up they have to reach, and his other hand strokes the side of my face, his fingers almost catching on my beard and moustache, caressing. This was strange at first, but I understand. I kiss his cheek, his neck, and notice his eyes are closed. I'm not suprised. He ignores that the callouses on my fingers are from a pen and not from a weapon, because the touch is as firm and as steady as he wants, my hands are almost as large. While he's not looking, I glance around, trying to remember if I'd locked the door to my study, realizing that I had.

It wouldn't due for either one of us to get caught, not in our positions.

His lips seek out mine again, urgent, his hands reaching up to undo my cloak, my official garments. He's familliar with them and can remove them by feel, disregarding the shape that they take. He's always happier to find me already undressed, so he doesn't have to bother. I kiss him deeply, commanding, almost my natural manner, and my hand tangles in his hair. For me, it would be a waste to forget for a second what man this is that I'm holding, but he's been through more than I have. He has me naked before I've started on his robe, unbuckling and removing more slowly, wanting to make this last a little longer.

I love my time with him, but I'm sure he could be doing this with anyone.

His mouth is always to my skin, my neck, my chest, and I know if either of us said a word, it would be over. He seeks out body hair, wherever it is, not that mine is terribly glorious, but I know he loves it. I pull him up once I have his clothing off, onto my desk, and take more control, holding his wrists to the edge next to his hips, and keep him down with my mouth on his chest, pressing down as I explore. He tries to keep his breathing quiet, and the restraint is gorgeous, the most beautiful thing in our rather routine lovemaking.

I can tell he's somewhere else entirley, his mind is occupied with someone else.

He makes a token struggle for his hands, but keeps them there when I move mine away to lubricate him, and myself, mechanical. I'm almost afraid to deviate too far from how its been set out, I can't tell if I'm running through a fantasy or recreating an actual event, and I'll never ask, but I press into him, lean down to kiss his neck and shoulders and I know the focus on the precision, the detail takes its toll in my enjoyment. I'm so worried about how much he is focused on that other vision, I can't enjoy him for myself.

Not that he's mine to enjoy, anyway, jealousy is not my right.

When his breathing starts to get even louder, and his body tenses up, I stroke him. This isn't lovemaking, its more like servicing a machine. If I didn't love this, I would not put myself through this torture, I would not get myself so close to him only for him to be so far away. I bite softly, gently, at his neck, another thing I've found he likes, and force myself to enjoy this, just enough that I can come. The bite helps him along, and he spills into my hand shortly before I come into him.

He still refuses to open his eyes, because he doesn't want to see what he would see.

I nuzzle his shoulder, just gentle, and then pull back, returning all of my clothing to my body, and then I leave the room to lean on the balcony where we started, where we'd been talking at one point. Qui-Gon Jinn had been a great man, and I had great respect for him before everything I thought about him was jealousy. As I am an adulteror now, this is my punishment. Doomed to love a man who loves only a corpse.

He seems to be satisfied with this pretense, as satisfied as he can get, really.

I listen as he dresses himself and leaves. I'll never confess this to my wife, she'd never understand it. I'm not even sure I understand why I do this with him. If he once professed his love for me, it would all be over, it would be my undoing to him. But why I allow him to use me as a stand-in for his former Master, I don't know. I feel dirty, but I can't help but wonder, am I aiding in his meditation? If he can find peace of mind...

maybe there are things more important than 'love', anyway.