It came as no surprise that talking about it hadn't helped, Anakin thought, glaring at the fire in an attempt not to glare at Obi-Wan. Even so, Anakin's eyes flickered often to the sleeping Jedi Master, his fingers twitching against the dark material of his trousers.
He wasn't sure exactly what it was that got to him the most: Obi-Wan being unwilling to condemn the Council beyond some vague pronouncement that "mistakes were made"; his insistence that he had complete faith in Anakin, when past actions made it abundantly clear that he didn't; or the knowledge that Obi-Wan had every reason not to trust him, because Anakin had failed him so many times already. Perhaps it was the lingering pit in his stomach whenever he thought of Ahsoka being gone, or the twinge of fear whenever he thought of her out there in the galaxy, all alone and not fully trained, without him there to protect her.
Perhaps it was the fact that he was so angry with her for leaving, and that he wanted to track her down and yell at her until he was hoarse. Or that he wanted even more to hug her tight, beg her to come back with him, and tell her all the things he'd not been able to when he was still her master: that he loved her, and that she was family, and that he would do anything to protect her. But he couldn't, because of the damn war. And, shamefully, because he was afraid that she would say no again. Afraid that she would confirm his worst suspicions, telling him that he was the reason she'd left. Because he'd been such a terrible Master – a failure as a Jedi.
He was afraid that she would tell him that the Council's faithless political posturing had merely provided her with an excuse.
Or perhaps it was the fact that he longed for Padme, who was so very far away, and Obi-Wan, who would never let Anakin touch him beyond the odd pat on the shoulder. Or if he was injured and needed assistance. But even knowing that, Anakin wanted so very badly to go over to his sleeping master and kiss him awake, losing himself in touch and taste and sensation until he could think of nothing else.
His fingers twitched again as a restless heat spread throughout his body, and he decided that enough was enough.
He drew his mental shields up tightly, slipping onto his side and loosening the front of his trousers. He didn't want his master to feel even a hint of what he was about to do through their bond; the last thing he needed was the older man being pissy because Anakin had made him feel emotions that were too intense. Or had, heaven forbid, turned him on. Walking for hours on end through repetitive scenery was unpleasant enough without Obi-Wan being in a bad mood, wanting desperately to kiss the man's delicately frowning mouth and show him just how much Anakin could make him feel if he was really trying.
Once he was certain that his thoughts were confined entirely to the sanctum of his own mind, Anakin began to stroke himself, thinking longingly of moving in Padme's warmth while she made all her delicious sounds of pleasure. He thought too of how it would feel to have Obi-Wan in his mouth while he did it, as both of them came apart under his attentions. Without his conscious consent, the fantasy changed: him, crawling over to Obi-Wan and laying down behind him, cupping him through his pants and rubbing him to hardness. The older man would stir awake when Anakin would press hot kisses on his neck, sliding his flesh hand under the waistband of Obi-Wan's trousers to feel him properly. And he wouldn't resist or tell Anakin to stop. He would move with Anakin's hand, pressing back against Anakin with every cant of his hips. Making small, gasping noises because he wouldn't quite be able to keep himself silent.
Anakin already knew how good his master smelled, and he imagined burying his nose in the junction where his neck met his shoulder, kissing his way up the sensitive skin until he reached Obi-Wan's ear, and whispering, Does it feel good, my master? Do you want me?
And Obi-Wan would tell him to stop asking stupid questions, because of course he did.
Even in the fantasy, Anakin couldn't quite bring himself to believe that Obi-Wan would admit out loud to loving him.
The fantasy shifted again, and now he imagined grass tickling his naked back as Obi-Wan filled him, claimed him, slow and deliberate – savoring every thrust. In the real world, he used to Force to try and simulate it. And while it felt good – enough that he had to bite his lower lip to keep from crying out – it made him long even more for the real thing. For Obi-Wan's warmth, deep inside, his pleasure permeating the Force, his mouth and hands branding Anakin as surely as their bond did.
But it was all he could get for now, and it would have to be enough to take the edge off. His breath became loud and harsh as he spilled over his flesh hand, the pleasure of it intense but oddly empty. At that moment, he would've liked nothing more than to have Padme pulsing around him, or Obi-Wan coming inside him, and to feel like everything keeping them apart had been torn down – even if it was only for a few scant seconds.
Trembling slightly in the aftermath, he wiped his soiled hand on the grass a good distance away and pulled out a sanitation pad to clean off what remained. He then tucked himself away, feeling very tired all of a sudden. Tired of Ahsoka being gone, and tired of missing her and Padme; tired of having Obi-Wan so near, but feeling like there was an insurmountable gulf of distance between them. He was tired of being a failure – as a Jedi, as a Master, as a husband. He was tired of feeling angry all the time.
And so he didn't fight it when his eyes began to close. Maybe Obi-Wan had been right, and he needed some rest.
Perhaps things would stop being so relentlessly terrible when he awoke.