We do not usually sit on the balcony as evening paints the skies purple and crimson, like rich wine and blood oozing from an upturned goblet. The last rays of sunlight slant golden from the horizon and kiss the tips of your eyelashes. One of my old sleep tunics is all that you wear; the low neckline reveals skin that is a little too pale, the rolled sleeves, wrists that are a little too thin. No, my Obi-Wan, we do not usually sit thus, the sound of breath and distant windchimes between us, but then, we are usually on Coruscant and you are usually healthy.

The Trinian healers claim that some virus, a lingering disease, one which the people of your home planet never developed immunity to, makes you so ill. I am weary of their encouraging smiles and reassuring explanations, empty gestures and complicated jargon.

A dancing bar of tawny light flickers across our joined hands as you sit with your back supported by my chest, your slim thighs between my legs. If I could weave together Force and Light to create an impenetrable garment, shimmering with love and health, I would keep you warm and well for all the days ahead of you. Then, however, you would not be Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi, padawan learner and bondmate to Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn. And I cannot take away what I love about you.

"Huhhh, uhhHuhheshoo, ehhhushhh!!!" Turning to the side, you sneeze into your shoulder and rub your nose into the sleep tunic. Your eyebrows remain drawn and eyelids closed for a few seconds as you work the tickle out. Before you lift your head, I lean to the side a little and kiss your temple. The tiny sounds of frustration and looks of confusion endear you to me.

The muffled sneeze dispels fancy from my mind and I disengage one of my hands. Tracing a gentle path from your cheekbone to your chin I whisper in your ear. I long to hear your voice again, even made hoarse with illness. Do you recall how you would whine and moan as a boy when you caught cold? Then you would get upset when I called you cranky, although one sneeze or cough would melt my heart and I would coddle you until you whined about that. What I would not give to hear you complain about how stuffed up your nose is now.

"Bless you," I murmur as you rest your head against my cheek, "How do you feel, my love?"

"Hot, sick, tired. I'm just tired, Qui-Gon." Exhausted, even after hours of restless slumber, you speak slowly and thickly.

When you kiss the palm of my hand with warm lips and turn your eyes to me, I nearly choke. Even when glazed with fatigue, medication and fever, your eyes amaze me. I yearn to tell you how the gray blue depths remind me of the cool light of pre-dawn, right before the sun rises. The dim twinkling of the fading stars and the pale moon are visible in the warm glint of your eyes. The hope of light and life in the chilly blue clarity resides. Instead, I hug you a little more and say, "Rest then, Aretos."

You yawn and nod your head, but sleep will evade you. A Force push did not help earlier, for an hour or so later, the congestion in your head or chest troubled your breathing. Coughing, you stumbled out here and relaxed in my arms until all was calm and now we watch the dripping sky together. You drink the remainder of my muja fruit juice. I have given up on begging you to eat; you obediently swallow all the medicines, cups of tea and juice and nutrient drinks I hand to you. Food, however, you have no appetite for. Why waste my breath? I would rather tell you of my days as a padawan and see you smile. I smile, too.

I remember the first time I held you after loving you. I knew then that wherever you were, either in my arms, or - gods forbid - in the arms of the Force, I would always carry your heart inside my heart.

A small noise, a cross between a whimper and a groan, sighs from your throat and your breath catches. My love, you pull away and struggle to sit up as the sneezes come upon you. I unthread the handkerchief from your fingers and loosely hold it with one hand before your nose and mouth. My other hand still rests atop yours and I can feel the muscles in your belly clench the tiniest bit while the tickling sensation hovers at the tip of your nose.

"Ehh, huhEsshoo! Ahhishoo! heh, ehh, hahhah, UhhEshoo! HuhhUmpshoo!" I can feel the force of your sneezes against my hand and I clamp the handkerchief tighter, I just want to be strong for you, in the smallest way if I must.

"Ehhishhh! AahhItshooo, tisshhahh! Heehtishho, Eiishooo! Ahh, ahtisshoo!"

Your sneezes are numerous and desperate sounding. The illness makes your nose overly sensitive and even when you are not sneezing, I can tell the tickles bother you. Your body shudders against mine and I just want to hold you, pull you hard and close to me and babble words of comfort. I want to tell you that it will be all right, that your case of the sneezes does not bother me at all, and that I love to take care of you as much as I despise seeing you suffer. Yet, I do not know how to voice these sentiments; too many words, but not enough of the right words would spill from my lips. So, I take care of your sniffles and then nuzzle the back of your neck, kissing the clean, soft auburn hair and pale skin. Afraid I shall sound foolish if I speak too much, I simply say, "Bless you, Obi-Wan. Come, love, I want to hold you."

Still recovering from the sniffles, you turn to me, eyes glassy and nose pink. Easing against me, you bring my arms around your body and reply, "Thank you, oh, Qui-Gon, I love you so much."

Gods, Aretos, why need I worry? Your words say all the words for the both of us.

finis