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Somehow, Obi-Wan wakes more tired than before. He shouldn’t be surprised at that, he thinks disjointedly, and after a moment he finds that he isn’t; it’s just a faraway observation, the kind that’s more akin to habit than it is to anything else.
It’s been some weeks since sleep brought anything resembling true rest. The poison wears away at him even then, chips away at the make of his bones and his muscles and his blood. That last is easily the worst. It leaves the Force clouded in his veins, like smoke against the sun, a haze so thick and sluggish he can barely feel the blaze of Anakin’s presence even when he’s just in the next room over.
Palpatine’s final gift, Obi-Wan thinks, and manages to catch the thought on the very edge of despair—a poison layered into the Force over a stretch of years, made stronger with every word passed between them, triggered all at once when Anakin and Mace brought the Sith Lord down.
It is a trade Obi-Wan would gladly have offered, his own body and blood for the end of the Clone Wars. The only thing that truly gives him pause is—
“Tell them to move faster. You—no, you think I don’t know that? They’re running out of time. Tell them—”
Anakin’s voice rises from the living area of their quarters—sharp, tight, angry. It fades back to a faint rumble, like thunder on the horizon as he brings it under control again, and Obi-Wan can’t quite make out the voice that sounds in response. One of the Council, he presumes, or one of the Temple healers. They’d allowed Anakin to bring him back to the familiarity of their quarters, after those first few days, but they checked in frequently while they continued to pursue a cure.
Painfully, scorchingly swallows around the dryness of his throat. It makes his jaw ache, as if he’s feverish, and takes entirely more effort than he’d like. He swallows again, tells himself it’s easier, this time, and braces himself.
It’s the work of a long minute to sit, to swing—drag—his legs over the edge until his feet can rest on the floor. The sheets cling a bit, sticky with sweat, the covers just this side of too heavy as he lurches them away, and it’s just his imagination that even the weave of his light tunic and trousers feels like too much, like the weight of exhaustion on his limbs.
His knees tremble a little with the fatigue of it as he stands. More than a little, if he’s entirely honest. He—
He aches. There’s no other real way to put it.
He grits his teeth, ignores the fire of it, and moves.
By the time he’s made it to the door and willed himself through, Anakin is turning to him, his comlink hastily tucked away. There’s strain about his eyes, about his lips, about the reckless set of his curls, combed through one too many times with his fingers.
Then there’s a shuttering, an attempt at smoothness on his face, and that’s so much worse.
Anakin doesn’t give him time to dwell on it. He crosses the room in a few brisk strides, one hand sliding in around Obi-Wan’s back and the other coming up to tangle in his hair.
It’s not quite enough to stop the trembling, the feel of Anakin all around him, but it’s close.
“They’re going to try something new,” Anakin says after a moment, his voice rough where it’s buried against Obi-Wan’s temple. “Since whatever they’re doing now obviously isn’t working.” Obi-Wan can hear the bitter frustration in his voice. He can feel it, too, a little—can feel the furious beat of Anakin’s heart against his own chest, can feel the grim depths of his resentment in the Force.
It’s a little easier to sense him, this close, with almost nothing between them.
“They’re doing what they can,” Obi-Wan says, though the simple words feel a thin bastion against it all. He manages to lift one hand, to curl fingers around Anakin’s bicep, to squeeze in a semblance of normalcy.
“I know, Master.” Anakin’s voice is tense, and Obi-Wan can only hope that he does.
“It’s not their fault,” he presses. It’s not your fault, he wants to add, because he’s wondered, sometimes, over the blur of the past days—wondered if Anakin finds that it is, if he blames himself as much as Palpatine for the fall that brought this about.
The thought always feels like ice, crawling across the surface of his chest, burrowing its fingers in a fist about his heart.
There’s a hesitation, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s because Anakin’s lips are pressed tight against his temple, preventing speech, or—
“I know, Obi-Wan.” The words are rigid against Obi-Wan’s hair, against his skin.
They’re as tight as his grip, as tight as the press of mouth.
Anakin exhales, warm and slow, but his grip doesn’t loosen. “You should be resting. Let’s go back to bed.”
“I’ve just left it,” Obi-Wan points out, aiming for lightness, for anything that will pierce the tension in Anakin’s voice. He doesn’t say that there’s no use to it, that the press of Anakin’s body against his, the unyielding circle of that arm about his back, is the closest he’s come to rest in days.
“The couch, then,” Anakin says firmly. “Let me help you.”
Obi-Wan takes a deep breath, as deep as he can. Considers his shaking knees, locked in place. Hopes that Anakin won’t notice the trembling of fingers against his arm.
A foolish hope, he knows.
“In a moment,” he says, because even the thought of loosening his knees enough to be lifted sends a curl of nauseous exertion through his gut.
He just needs a moment.
“Don’t worry,” Anakin promises fiercely, his hold tightening a little more, because of course he sees right to the heart of it. “I won’t let you go.”