It was nearly a year after Malachor—a rotten time, a lonely time, full of self-inflicted guilt and resentment and remorse on both their accounts—before the wound finally began to heal and Ezra at last returned to him one night, his familiar footsteps tapping quietly on the deck outside Kanan’s room; then the knock, the soft request for entry, and the even softer request for companionship.
Kanan’s heart throbbed with all of the love he felt for his Padawan, and he pulled aside his blanket, rewarded a moment later when Ezra’s warm body stretched out beside his own, a little broader and heavier than he remembered, and, as their hands began to explore one another, much more muscular. But all awe and reverence for Ezra’s beautiful maturation was eclipsed the moment their lips met and they shared their first kiss after so much time apart.
“It’s so soft,” Ezra said, and Kanan could hear the muted delight in his tone as he stroked the long, full beard that had taken the place of his trimmed goatee. “I really like it.”
Smiling, Kanan kissed the knuckles that passed by his lips before they were replaced by the mouth, the tongue, of the boy—now the man—that he loved.
Chapter Endnotes: Why, yes, I am listening to Guns N' Roses Don't Cry (and so should you).