Among the many rooms and gardens that housed retired and disabled Jedi, lived a clan of tookas. They could get in and out of many rooms; they often snuck past the less observant members of the community so they could sleep in the warm, Jedi-occupied beds. They thus often got themselves locked in, and yowled to be let out. One of them had been doing her level best to raise her three kits in Master Simet Silvanus' living room, despite his gentle attempts at removing her. She always seemed to get back in, kits in tow.
This becomes relevant shortly.
Si was dreaming. He had once been quite practiced in the art of lucid dreaming, and retained some vestiges of the practice. He also guessed he was dreaming because Bes had just asked him to dance, quite an impossible state of affairs for multiple reasons.
They were at some kind of high class gathering, part art show, part ball, part saber technique workshop, if the sparring knights on the dance floor were an indication. There were ducklings following people around, and part of the challenge was that you couldn't step on any ducklings or Yoda would yell at you from his perch on a light fixture.
Ah, dream logic.
Dream logic also thought that Bes would be gazing adoringly up at him, wearing that nice coat he'd tried on, with an expression that was definitely not platonic. He raked his eyes up and down Si's body in a very suggestive way and said, "I know you can still dance. You don't need hands to dance."
"I still have hands, they just shake," Si insisted, but Bes was adjusting his clothes the way the tailor at the shop had, murmuring appreciatively, apparently liking what he saw, and Si’s chest felt tight and hot and strange at the attention.
It's a dream, Si thought. Bes wouldn't really want to touch him so brazenly. But if it was a dream … well, he could do whatever he wanted, right? It wasn't like he could make an ass out of himself and suffer any repercussions, such as alienating a friend or looking a fool. So he smiled down at Bes and said, "I'd love to dance."
The song (and thus the dance) kept changing, but Si knew what he was doing, ha, he could keep up with whatever they threw at him. He led Bes through several dance changes, and Bes laughed with delight. Oh, that was a sweet sound. The real Bes, of course, couldn't dance unless Si picked him up bodily and carried him; his prosthetic legs just didn't give him that kind of dexterity of movement. He could no more dance than Si could paint. But that didn't matter here.
Finally the music changed to something completely unfamiliar, with some kind of yowling melody, and they exited the dance floor. "I don't know what that last music was," he said, as he drew Bes back into some kind of alcove … balcony … tiny room … closet … thing. The dream was indistinct, and Si didn't bother to concentrate on the details well enough to make them materialize. Out-of-the-way, suggestion-of-privacy, still-kind-of-in-public, got it.
Bes pressed close to him, looking at him with warmth and expectation. Si could feel his hands sliding around his waist. He felt a momentary pang of guilt - what would Bes think, if he knew Si was having this dream? Having these thoughts? At his age! Wasn't he a little old for fantasizing about his friends?
Nonsense, Si thought, it's my kriffing dream. People have dreams about things they can't do in real life all the time. So what if it had never occurred to him to want this in real life? So what if he would never in a million years act on it? His dream. His reality. He leaned down and kissed Bes, soft and chaste, but Bes hooked his arms around him and surged up to kiss him, deep and thorough and eager. Kriff yes, Si thought as Bes pushed him against the wall. He wasn't too old for pleasure, for shared affection, for snogging the hell out of his friend in a fantasy. There was a firm pressure against his chest, then Bes was moving to his neck, his ear.
And it … kind of hurt. Si tried to get him to stop, but he wouldn't, and the dream shifted, and went incoherent, disintegrating into randomly firing neurons. Si woke up, groggily dragging himself up out of sleep. The weird pain on his ear didn't stop. He swatted at it with his hand, and yelped when he felt fur.
"Son of a -" Si said, and pulled a tooka kit off his earlobe, where it had been trying to nurse. The mother tooka was curled up on his chest, and her other two kits were running around the room, making a bit of a racket. Ah, that explained the yowling music. He kicked off his blankets and got out of bed, dumping the tookas on the floor.
"You can't stay in here!" he said, shooing them out the door. "I need to sleep. There are common areas! Gardens! Go give people hickeys there! For Force's sake …" The mother tooka strolled off down the hallway, tail held high, dignity intact.
Si flopped back into his bed and stared at the ceiling. His ear throbbed. He'd had a dream about Bes. Huh. A good dream. His heart ached a little; how long had it been, since he'd taken a new lover to bed? Ten years? Twenty? He covered his face with his arms; he didn't want to think about it. It was ridiculous, thinking anyone might find him attractive at his decrepit age, much less someone who was sophisticated and kind and sharp-witted and looked really good in a fancy coat, and thirty years his junior (though it hardly mattered, once both of them truly qualified as "old".)
At least he could still get it up? Si growled at himself and rolled over. Erections were hardly helpful at the moment, even as his own was blessedly giving up any hope of attention. "No," he growled at his cock, "I'm not helping you. As odd as it is to dream about Bes, I'm sure as hell not jerking off with shaky hands to him." He would have told it to go kriff itself, but that was exactly what he was denying it, really.
He huffed and glared at the wall. Surely things would look more sensible in the morning.