[ Anakin has never been the type to sleep in. Before he became a Jedi, obviously he'd risen with his mother at the dawn of the workday and then, later, he'd been plagued by nightmares too regularly to establish a solid sleeping pattern. Ironically, perhaps, he sleeps better when he's in a warzone than anywhere else. It's probably something about habituation or whatever fancy word Obi-Wan would pull out of his ridiculous vocabulary and Anakin is sure it's all very wise but to him, there are facts, first of all: if he can't sleep, he gets up and if he gets up, he might as well keep himself busy.
Today is no exception, even if he woke up warm and heavy from a whole night's worth of incredible sex. He can still feel that tell-tale laziness of it, of multiple orgasms and the foreign sensation of being sated - though his mind can't abide by it, his body would honestly like to just sleep forever. Wrapped up around Claude, if at all possible·
As it is, he's been to the market, using what little credits he managed to win on yesterday's racing. He's scrounged up a handful of traditional Tatooine ingredients because he's felt like it, because he can. He hasn't, for... a long time. Long. Back in Claude's kitchen, with Claude still asleep in the bedroom down the hall, he's laid them all out on the cutting board. Fresh herbs. A neutral oil, rich in texture, some whole-grain flour that's a case of close enough, if not quite right. And of course, dried Zbi. He makes breakfast with the dim morning light streaming in through the kitchen windows, catching in the sleek table top and re-bounding against his mechno-hand while he works. He prepares a simple plate of flatbread, a mix of oil and ground-up honey-flowers for dipping and bowls of porridge, sprinkled with sugar and small bits of sweetened desert plums. Lastly, he fixes up two mugs of steaming Zbi, a milky beverage full of spices, warm and a little sharp around the edges, a little harder to swallow than you might expect.
With that, he makes his way to the bedroom, balancing everything on the tray with an ease that feels very situational, like his hands couldn't shake even if he wanted them to. It does, very briefly, cross his mind that Claude might not like the food at all - it is, after all, something very different from what he's probably used to. But then, perhaps he won't mind.
[ He wakes up alone. There's a brief, chilling moment where he just feels the emptiness of the bed (because they moved from the sofa in the living room to the bedroom throughout the night, probably between their fourth and fifth time doing it), then the faint noises of someone moving around in the kitchen register with him and Claude blinks himself to some level of consciousness, staring up at the ceiling, bathed in the early morning night in thin stripes where the curtains allow it in.
Up here, you almost can't hear the beating heart of Coruscant. Which fits with the scents starting to waft in from the kitchen soon enough, because that's not the smell of Coruscanti cuisine. Not the smell of anything he's ever really encountered before and Claude knows the galaxy is vast, he's met people from across it, in his position as Prince of Paris.
Yet, this is new. This is new, all of it. The scents, the feelings. The overwhelming relief at not having been abandoned in the early morning hours.
Once he hears the clinking of cutlery and cups, metal tray, steps against the floors, he pushes the duvet down around his waist and sits up, hair a mess around his head, his vision blurry. Anakin, moving from the doorway to the bed, is back in the clothes he arrived in and Claude honestly feels a little bereft, he remembers his chest, he remembers his thighs, the flat expanses of stomach. Lower. Yeah, he remembers that, too. Running a hand through his hair, messing it up even further, it dawns on him - along with the morning light - that Anakin has made him food.
Something tightens in his chest. ]
You felt like cooking me breakfast? [ Reaching out and patting the mattress next to him, the cooling spot that Anakin must have left earlier, while he was still snoozing, he follows him with his eyes. ] It smells delicious. Where did you get all this?
[ It's deliberate, the way he doesn't say, where is it from or where did you learn about it? He's giving Anakin a way out, if he doesn't want to talk about it yet, he can just say the market. Everything's from the market, in the end.
[ Claude sits up in bed, sporting the most adorable case of bedhead that Anakin has ever seen. He looks a little sleepy still and Anakin can feel the soft warmth of his skin just by looking at him. He gives the other man a small smile and puts the tray down in Claude's lap carefully before divesting himself of his crappy shirt and trousers. Without a change of clothes, he's been forced to get back in his racing get-up and he's more than happy to be rid of it again, now that he's out of the kitchen. ]
The market, a few streets away.
[ He hears Claude's unspoken question, of course, but it takes him a few seconds to gather himself enough to actually answer it properly. Naked once more (and showered, as it were, meaning the contrasts allow him to smell the remnants of their night together very clearly on Claude's skin, on the sheets and oh, he likes that), he slips into bed next to Claude and pulls the tray a little to the side, enough for it to rest between them, balanced on their thighs.
He picks up his own mug. Looks into the brown, almost reddish swirl of liquid inside and swallows. ]
There's a vendor, there, who sometimes happens to pick up Outer Rim goods. He bargains them off at a low price, obviously, because... well. [ A shrug. ] Fancy stuff for fancy people, I guess. But they were cheap so I'm not complaining.
[ He sips his Zbi. It stings a little on his tongue. ]
I'm from Tatooine, you see, and these are all pretty regular breakfast items there.
[ There you have it. As the words leave Anakin's mouth, Tatooine, Outer Rim, another whole reality, there, Claude just listens quietly and looks the tray over that has been placed in the middle between them, like something they are holding together and share. He shifts a little to counteract the weight of it, pulling his legs up beneath him and crossing them carefully, not to upset the arrangement of foods. His hands move over the display on the tray for a second, trying to decide on what to do first, get first, taste first. This is Anakin giving him something of himself, you got to digest it at the right time, in the right order. With the right amount of gratitude, right? Looking up at the other man through his bangs, Claude finally decides to do as the native, taking the cup with a hot liquid that doesn't smell like tea and looks lighter than Caf, though not necessarily any less strong. He sniffs it with a focused frown, taking in the spicy scent of it. It tickles his nose, but is also warm and -- yeah, strong. Invigorating.
He holds the cup for a moment, just feeling the heat of it between this fingers. ]
It's got a zing to it, huh? [ A sip. It's a whole new world smacking him in the face, tastes red and sandy and sunny, but not sunny like his own home planet, sunny like kriffing star systems. His eyes widen slightly while he lets the impressions hit, pass, another sip, slightly bigger. ] Tastes strong, but strong isn't even the word. We don't have anything that generates that kind of bodily excitement on Paris. More like Caf.
[ A pause, the cup weighing in the silence, present and round. Claude looks at Anakin for a long moment, licking his lips - tasting like a different kind of life on the tip of his tongue, before saying gently: ]
[ The Zbi settles on his tongue, warm and sharp, clearing away the lump in his throat as he swallows. It's not because Claude's asking - after all, he's been asked before by many people. Rather, it's the way he asks, as if he already knows that he's asking something that he isn't entitled to, that he can't claim and shouldn't claim because he wasn't there, because he doesn't know. In the Temple, the Initiates had few such restrictions when he first arrived and Obi-Wan has never encouraged talk of his old life. It's either-or. Black or white. But right now, with the weight of the tray in his lap and Claude's gentle question hanging between them with no weight at all, it feels like sunlight at the best time of the day, right before dusk when the biting cold of the desert hasn't yet settled.
He shifts a little closer, enough for their shoulders to press together. The sensation of physical proximity makes his breathing slower, muscles in his back losing some of their otherwise constant tension. ]
It's Zbi.
[ He speaks the word as he would any Huttesee word, except with a slight twinge, something that makes it a little bit lighter somehow. ]
We used to have it on good days, my mother and I.
[ He realises distantly that this is the first time since - since her death, that he's talked about his mother without choking on any syllable in the word. He glances sideways at Claude, at his strong profile, symmetrical features, large, beautiful eyes. He'd go to lengths for this man, he thinks. The thought makes his chest feel oddly tight. ]
I noticed your food is blander on Paris. In my experience, the Core's terribly afraid of spices.
[ A hum, a half-laugh almost, and Claude returns the slight pressure of Anakin's shoulder against his own, the warmth of his naked skin, every point they touch, making him feel comfortably at ease. Most people don't make him feel that way. He isn't as such of a nervous disposition, but some anxieties are deep-rooted. Come from within.
Exhaling long and slow, he takes another zip of the -- Zbi, won't try to pronounce it, he's just gonna butcher it, the lightness that Anakin says it with. ]
We're afraid of a lot of things here, including spices. I think the lack of spices is probably symptomatic for the rest, actually.
[ How people here are content with their own, not reaching out past the comfortable security of their own lives, their own ways, living standards. People not caring about others, aside from what's right before their eyes, is the greatest problem the galaxy is facing, he'd say. But he isn't saying it now, it'll have to wait till he gets in the Senate, eventually.
Shifting his cup to his other hand, he frees his left arm and slips it around Anakin's shoulders, gently pulling him in against his side, just for the added proximity. Their height difference should probably be awkward, but Claude likes having Anakin's shoulder in perfect height with his chin. Won't take advantage of it now, but it's nice to know. It's there.
He's there. A small smile. ]
Are you gonna tell me what I'll be putting in my mouth next?
[ He frowns, lips hovering over the edge of his mug briefly before he puts it down, considering Claude's words. Symptomatic for the rest, he says - yeah, that tracks with what Anakin knows about people in general, how they'll close their own spaces around themselves and the few people they trust, leaving everything else a safe distance away, where nothing will compromise your reaction time. He knows. For a second, he doesn't reply, a cold feeling settling in his body. He's had few, true friends since he left Tatooine.
These days, even fewer.
Claude reaches up and slips his arm around his shoulder, pulling him in and Anakin sinks against his side gratefully, the increased proximity - the warmth of him, the steadiness - melting the ice in his chest. He sits there, drawing breath for a moment in silence, Claude's question - sweet, a little suggestive - making his cheeks heat up just a fraction. They've had sex all night but Anakin doubts he'll ever be even remotely unaffected by the notion of it. It's not like the battle field where your body and your mind hardens over time, enough that it's barely even exciting anymore - space battles, ground assaults, yadda yadda. It's good to know that this tendency hasn't spread to other aspects of his life.
He gives Claude a small smile in return, running his metal fingers across the other man's lips lightly before he points to the different items on the tray: ]
Personally, I always start with the bread. Goes in the oil, like this.
[ He picks up one of the small, round flatbreads and dips it in the oil and honey flowers. It glistens a faint gold as he holds it up between them, close enough for Claude to take a bite with ease. ]
[ It's not that Claude's unaccustomed to different kinds of cuisines, foods, goods, he's travelled with his parents, before. He's travelled by himself, after. He's educated in galactic history and political affairs, he knows how vast a space he's surrounded by and how many different people, species, beings that exist out there. But as he sits there, watching Anakin grow a little flustered before he touches his metal fingers to Claude's lips in a way that makes him want to lick them - both of them, really - he also realizes that the history he's been taught and the parts of the galaxy he's seen are... restricted. To certain perimeters, certain regions, certain worlds and world views. His knowledge of the known universe is holed and faulty. He's never been to Tatooine. Before this moment, he didn't care about the spices they know and love there.
Swallowing hard, he lets his eyes follow the soft motion of Anakin picking up one of the flatbreads and dipping it in the oil with... more spices Claude doesn't know. Things he needs to learn. Things he needs to care about.
So, as Anakin offers him the bread, obviously for him to take a bite, Claude grabs his wrist and leans in, holding on just a little bit tightly, until they're closer than close together. He takes a bite off the bread, some oil getting on his chin which he reluctantly releases Anakin's wrist to wipe off with his thumb. Which he proceeds to suck clean. Loudly.
It's intense, tastes soft but also wild, the texture of the bread delicious, best he's had in quite a while. Anakin made this for him. From the world he comes from. There was no Tatooine history on Claude's curriculum at any point throughout his academic education.
Meaning Anakin is teaching him. Something about that thought, and he knows exactly what, refusing to let it enter into this moment, excites him more than anything. ]
It's good. [ Another suck of his thumb, seeing as the oil is both sticky and sweet. ] Wanna share the rest with me?
[ Indicating the bread, he holds out his hand, a soft gesture without demands. You lead, I follow, it means. ]
[ Claude lets him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him as close as they can be without Anakin's hand actively smashing him on the nose. Anakin watches as he bites the bread, chews, his lips and a small part of his chin glistening from oil until he wipes it off with his thumb. The sound of him, sucking his finger clean as well as the glorious visual of it goes directly to Anakin's cock and he shifts beneath the sheets, limbs buzzing pleasantly. ]
When you eat it like that? Definitely.
[ Smile wider now, he waggles his eyebrows and picks a piece for himself, dipping it in generous amounts of oil and taking a bite, managing not to get the oil everywhere mostly by habit. Waste not, he's been taught, and apparently, around Claude, his early teachings feel incredibly present, like they're somehow... pushing back into the foreground of his awareness from where they've lied buried for years. He's trying not to linger at any of it - there is darkness there, too, impossible darkness and he can't think about it, he can't ever acknowledge what it might mean - but the small sparks of familiarity warm him anyway.
Around Claude, it seems like everything is warm but nothing is scorching. ]
The porridge isn't spicy, though, if you need a neutral to balance things out.
[ He grabs one of the two, small bowls and dips his bread in it, leaving traces behind of oil and honey. The plums are usually quite bitter, though the way they've been sweetened and dried makes them seem almost citrusy. ]
[ Noticing the shuffle Anakin does in response makes him smile slightly amused, that moment of sharing heat and want and both of them feeling the bodily reality of that at the same time resonating with him throughout. He shifts on his bum himself, once, his cock feeling interested but not quite as interested as Claude is in the porridge, now that Anakin mentions it. Moving enough to reach down and stroke his hand over the outline of Anakin's thigh beneath the sheets, feeling the heavy muscle of it as he does so and feeling, especially, the way his own skin prickles in the wake, Claude proceeds to pick up the bowl, sniffing it like he'd done the Zbi, the smell more neutral, fresher. He takes a bread and mirrors Anakin carefully, first oil, then porridge, watching the beautiful shine of oil on the surface of the thicker soup-like texture. It reminds him of other things and like that, as he bites into it, getting another kind of flavour entirely from the porridge, he's back to bodily realities and his cock a bit more interested now. A bit more insistent. He shifts on his ass again, twice. ]
It's a little sweet, but not too much. Still fresh. [ It's a soft comment. He likes it, he likes everything Anakin is giving him, and a part of him is trying to figure out how to really convey that. How to show him exactly how much he appreciates this glimpse, that he should keep opening up, keep giving them to him. Lay them on him, right, weigh him down.
The mental image that follows that thought makes his cock harden a bit more. I want him again, Claude thinks to himself, eating a few other scoops of porridge before putting his bowl down, the flatbread almost gone, the oil sticking to his fingers in places. He sucks them off, one after the other, thumb last.
We used to have it on good days, Anakin had said. His mother and him. Claude knows the significance of mothers. He knows very well. Leaning in so their shoulders brush again, or rather upper arm and shoulder because the Jedi is tall, Claude rests his hands in his own lap.
Doesn't force the moment forward. ] Thanks for this, Anakin.
[ His skin tingles in the wake of Claude's fingers, even with the unwelcome layer of the sheet between them and Anakin shifts again, increasingly restless, like he's growing gradually too big for his skin. They eat, the room around them quiet save for the sounds of Coruscant's traffic gaining traction around them. Thanks said Claude, like Anakin's giving him something important or rare and he is, there's nothing cheap or easy about anything related to his previous life. By Jedi principles, he thinks, he shouldn't be going backwards at all; it's obviously no problem to remember, to reminisce, if that's all you're doing but Anakin's feeling the pain of it, too, the loss and that, they'd say, is attachment. For people who've grown up without any life experience beyond the Temple, they sure do have a lot of opinions on those who do.
But Claude is thankful, regardless.
Anakin drinks the last of his Zbi and puts it on the bedside table. He looks at Claude, watches him eat, his own appetite slipping into the background, giving way to the heat gathering in his belly. His cock is more than half-hard beneath the sheets. He thinks about touch, most of all, it's not really about getting anywhere; he just wants. He feels Claude inside himself in a way that's distinctively new and precious and a part of him is drowning worse than ever now, gasping for it, for the kind of air that you can't breathe but have to share. ]
You know.
[ His voice sounds a little hoarse. He licks his lips and leans in closer, enough for the tip of his nose to brush Claude's cheek, the sweet smell of honey and bread mixed with the spices of the Zbi mixing with the other man's scent. It's definitely Anakin's new, favourite smell. ]
[ Anakin puts away his cup with Zbi, the bedside table looking suddenly in use and not empty, although it's in the side of the bed that Claude usually leaves untouched. There's a kind of familiar feeling of togetherness in that. In inviting Anakin in, allowing him close, allowing him to fill out that relentless void that Claude has just accepted, at some point. He knows when. He knows why.
Feeling the other man draw closer, close enough that there's the pressure of Anakin's nose against his cheek, like he's sniffing him the same way Claude has done Anakin's food, Claude feels his heart speed up, his pulse definitely going, blood to all the right places, as his cock hardens to the point of discomfort. Claude doesn't shift, though, he remains seated, feels the presence of him, the hoarse quality of his voice making his skin tingle.
When you're done, he says, we could...
Claude smiles, turning his head to the side a little until his lips are brushing over the corner of Anakin's mouth, there's the faint taste of that spicy tea, there. Honey-like sweetness, tinge of oil. His words sound slightly breathless when he speaks: ]
I'm done.
[ And carefully he reaches up with both hands, slipping all ten fingers into Anakin's hair that isn't half as messy as his own by some kind of magic, Jedi magic, probably, and tilts the other man's face to the side just slightly before kissing him, pressing his lips to his mouth, parting his own and opening up to him.
All the while, he's conscious of the tray between them, taking care not to knock it over and waste a single of Anakin's efforts. For some reason, that feels like the most important thing now. More important than anything that came before. ]
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no subject
Today is no exception, even if he woke up warm and heavy from a whole night's worth of incredible sex. He can still feel that tell-tale laziness of it, of multiple orgasms and the foreign sensation of being sated - though his mind can't abide by it, his body would honestly like to just sleep forever. Wrapped up around Claude, if at all possible·
As it is, he's been to the market, using what little credits he managed to win on yesterday's racing. He's scrounged up a handful of traditional Tatooine ingredients because he's felt like it, because he can. He hasn't, for... a long time. Long. Back in Claude's kitchen, with Claude still asleep in the bedroom down the hall, he's laid them all out on the cutting board. Fresh herbs. A neutral oil, rich in texture, some whole-grain flour that's a case of close enough, if not quite right. And of course, dried Zbi. He makes breakfast with the dim morning light streaming in through the kitchen windows, catching in the sleek table top and re-bounding against his mechno-hand while he works. He prepares a simple plate of flatbread, a mix of oil and ground-up honey-flowers for dipping and bowls of porridge, sprinkled with sugar and small bits of sweetened desert plums. Lastly, he fixes up two mugs of steaming Zbi, a milky beverage full of spices, warm and a little sharp around the edges, a little harder to swallow than you might expect.
With that, he makes his way to the bedroom, balancing everything on the tray with an ease that feels very situational, like his hands couldn't shake even if he wanted them to. It does, very briefly, cross his mind that Claude might not like the food at all - it is, after all, something very different from what he's probably used to. But then, perhaps he won't mind.
Perhaps he truly won't mind after all. ]
no subject
Up here, you almost can't hear the beating heart of Coruscant. Which fits with the scents starting to waft in from the kitchen soon enough, because that's not the smell of Coruscanti cuisine. Not the smell of anything he's ever really encountered before and Claude knows the galaxy is vast, he's met people from across it, in his position as Prince of Paris.
Yet, this is new. This is new, all of it. The scents, the feelings. The overwhelming relief at not having been abandoned in the early morning hours.
Once he hears the clinking of cutlery and cups, metal tray, steps against the floors, he pushes the duvet down around his waist and sits up, hair a mess around his head, his vision blurry. Anakin, moving from the doorway to the bed, is back in the clothes he arrived in and Claude honestly feels a little bereft, he remembers his chest, he remembers his thighs, the flat expanses of stomach. Lower. Yeah, he remembers that, too. Running a hand through his hair, messing it up even further, it dawns on him - along with the morning light - that Anakin has made him food.
Something tightens in his chest. ]
You felt like cooking me breakfast? [ Reaching out and patting the mattress next to him, the cooling spot that Anakin must have left earlier, while he was still snoozing, he follows him with his eyes. ] It smells delicious. Where did you get all this?
[ It's deliberate, the way he doesn't say, where is it from or where did you learn about it? He's giving Anakin a way out, if he doesn't want to talk about it yet, he can just say the market. Everything's from the market, in the end.
Sometimes people, too. Claude swallows hard. ]
no subject
The market, a few streets away.
[ He hears Claude's unspoken question, of course, but it takes him a few seconds to gather himself enough to actually answer it properly. Naked once more (and showered, as it were, meaning the contrasts allow him to smell the remnants of their night together very clearly on Claude's skin, on the sheets and oh, he likes that), he slips into bed next to Claude and pulls the tray a little to the side, enough for it to rest between them, balanced on their thighs.
He picks up his own mug. Looks into the brown, almost reddish swirl of liquid inside and swallows. ]
There's a vendor, there, who sometimes happens to pick up Outer Rim goods. He bargains them off at a low price, obviously, because... well. [ A shrug. ] Fancy stuff for fancy people, I guess. But they were cheap so I'm not complaining.
[ He sips his Zbi. It stings a little on his tongue. ]
I'm from Tatooine, you see, and these are all pretty regular breakfast items there.
no subject
He holds the cup for a moment, just feeling the heat of it between this fingers. ]
It's got a zing to it, huh? [ A sip. It's a whole new world smacking him in the face, tastes red and sandy and sunny, but not sunny like his own home planet, sunny like kriffing star systems. His eyes widen slightly while he lets the impressions hit, pass, another sip, slightly bigger. ] Tastes strong, but strong isn't even the word. We don't have anything that generates that kind of bodily excitement on Paris. More like Caf.
[ A pause, the cup weighing in the silence, present and round. Claude looks at Anakin for a long moment, licking his lips - tasting like a different kind of life on the tip of his tongue, before saying gently: ]
I like it. Has it got a name?
no subject
He shifts a little closer, enough for their shoulders to press together. The sensation of physical proximity makes his breathing slower, muscles in his back losing some of their otherwise constant tension. ]
It's Zbi.
[ He speaks the word as he would any Huttesee word, except with a slight twinge, something that makes it a little bit lighter somehow. ]
We used to have it on good days, my mother and I.
[ He realises distantly that this is the first time since - since her death, that he's talked about his mother without choking on any syllable in the word. He glances sideways at Claude, at his strong profile, symmetrical features, large, beautiful eyes. He'd go to lengths for this man, he thinks. The thought makes his chest feel oddly tight. ]
I noticed your food is blander on Paris. In my experience, the Core's terribly afraid of spices.
no subject
Exhaling long and slow, he takes another zip of the -- Zbi, won't try to pronounce it, he's just gonna butcher it, the lightness that Anakin says it with. ]
We're afraid of a lot of things here, including spices. I think the lack of spices is probably symptomatic for the rest, actually.
[ How people here are content with their own, not reaching out past the comfortable security of their own lives, their own ways, living standards. People not caring about others, aside from what's right before their eyes, is the greatest problem the galaxy is facing, he'd say. But he isn't saying it now, it'll have to wait till he gets in the Senate, eventually.
Shifting his cup to his other hand, he frees his left arm and slips it around Anakin's shoulders, gently pulling him in against his side, just for the added proximity. Their height difference should probably be awkward, but Claude likes having Anakin's shoulder in perfect height with his chin. Won't take advantage of it now, but it's nice to know. It's there.
He's there. A small smile. ]
Are you gonna tell me what I'll be putting in my mouth next?
no subject
These days, even fewer.
Claude reaches up and slips his arm around his shoulder, pulling him in and Anakin sinks against his side gratefully, the increased proximity - the warmth of him, the steadiness - melting the ice in his chest. He sits there, drawing breath for a moment in silence, Claude's question - sweet, a little suggestive - making his cheeks heat up just a fraction. They've had sex all night but Anakin doubts he'll ever be even remotely unaffected by the notion of it. It's not like the battle field where your body and your mind hardens over time, enough that it's barely even exciting anymore - space battles, ground assaults, yadda yadda. It's good to know that this tendency hasn't spread to other aspects of his life.
He gives Claude a small smile in return, running his metal fingers across the other man's lips lightly before he points to the different items on the tray: ]
Personally, I always start with the bread. Goes in the oil, like this.
[ He picks up one of the small, round flatbreads and dips it in the oil and honey flowers. It glistens a faint gold as he holds it up between them, close enough for Claude to take a bite with ease. ]
Try.
no subject
Swallowing hard, he lets his eyes follow the soft motion of Anakin picking up one of the flatbreads and dipping it in the oil with... more spices Claude doesn't know. Things he needs to learn. Things he needs to care about.
So, as Anakin offers him the bread, obviously for him to take a bite, Claude grabs his wrist and leans in, holding on just a little bit tightly, until they're closer than close together. He takes a bite off the bread, some oil getting on his chin which he reluctantly releases Anakin's wrist to wipe off with his thumb. Which he proceeds to suck clean. Loudly.
It's intense, tastes soft but also wild, the texture of the bread delicious, best he's had in quite a while. Anakin made this for him. From the world he comes from. There was no Tatooine history on Claude's curriculum at any point throughout his academic education.
Meaning Anakin is teaching him. Something about that thought, and he knows exactly what, refusing to let it enter into this moment, excites him more than anything. ]
It's good. [ Another suck of his thumb, seeing as the oil is both sticky and sweet. ] Wanna share the rest with me?
[ Indicating the bread, he holds out his hand, a soft gesture without demands. You lead, I follow, it means. ]
no subject
When you eat it like that? Definitely.
[ Smile wider now, he waggles his eyebrows and picks a piece for himself, dipping it in generous amounts of oil and taking a bite, managing not to get the oil everywhere mostly by habit. Waste not, he's been taught, and apparently, around Claude, his early teachings feel incredibly present, like they're somehow... pushing back into the foreground of his awareness from where they've lied buried for years. He's trying not to linger at any of it - there is darkness there, too, impossible darkness and he can't think about it, he can't ever acknowledge what it might mean - but the small sparks of familiarity warm him anyway.
Around Claude, it seems like everything is warm but nothing is scorching. ]
The porridge isn't spicy, though, if you need a neutral to balance things out.
[ He grabs one of the two, small bowls and dips his bread in it, leaving traces behind of oil and honey. The plums are usually quite bitter, though the way they've been sweetened and dried makes them seem almost citrusy. ]
no subject
It's a little sweet, but not too much. Still fresh. [ It's a soft comment. He likes it, he likes everything Anakin is giving him, and a part of him is trying to figure out how to really convey that. How to show him exactly how much he appreciates this glimpse, that he should keep opening up, keep giving them to him. Lay them on him, right, weigh him down.
The mental image that follows that thought makes his cock harden a bit more. I want him again, Claude thinks to himself, eating a few other scoops of porridge before putting his bowl down, the flatbread almost gone, the oil sticking to his fingers in places. He sucks them off, one after the other, thumb last.
We used to have it on good days, Anakin had said. His mother and him. Claude knows the significance of mothers. He knows very well. Leaning in so their shoulders brush again, or rather upper arm and shoulder because the Jedi is tall, Claude rests his hands in his own lap.
Doesn't force the moment forward. ] Thanks for this, Anakin.
no subject
But Claude is thankful, regardless.
Anakin drinks the last of his Zbi and puts it on the bedside table. He looks at Claude, watches him eat, his own appetite slipping into the background, giving way to the heat gathering in his belly. His cock is more than half-hard beneath the sheets. He thinks about touch, most of all, it's not really about getting anywhere; he just wants. He feels Claude inside himself in a way that's distinctively new and precious and a part of him is drowning worse than ever now, gasping for it, for the kind of air that you can't breathe but have to share. ]
You know.
[ His voice sounds a little hoarse. He licks his lips and leans in closer, enough for the tip of his nose to brush Claude's cheek, the sweet smell of honey and bread mixed with the spices of the Zbi mixing with the other man's scent. It's definitely Anakin's new, favourite smell. ]
When you're done, we could go another round.
no subject
Feeling the other man draw closer, close enough that there's the pressure of Anakin's nose against his cheek, like he's sniffing him the same way Claude has done Anakin's food, Claude feels his heart speed up, his pulse definitely going, blood to all the right places, as his cock hardens to the point of discomfort. Claude doesn't shift, though, he remains seated, feels the presence of him, the hoarse quality of his voice making his skin tingle.
When you're done, he says, we could...
Claude smiles, turning his head to the side a little until his lips are brushing over the corner of Anakin's mouth, there's the faint taste of that spicy tea, there. Honey-like sweetness, tinge of oil. His words sound slightly breathless when he speaks: ]
I'm done.
[ And carefully he reaches up with both hands, slipping all ten fingers into Anakin's hair that isn't half as messy as his own by some kind of magic, Jedi magic, probably, and tilts the other man's face to the side just slightly before kissing him, pressing his lips to his mouth, parting his own and opening up to him.
All the while, he's conscious of the tray between them, taking care not to knock it over and waste a single of Anakin's efforts. For some reason, that feels like the most important thing now. More important than anything that came before. ]