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Anakin Skywalker stumbles through the empty corridors of the Jedi Temple, his boots echoing off the ancient stone with every weary step. The night's events churn in his head—a discordant symphony of conflicting emotions and Palpatine's unsettling insinuations. His eyelids are heavy, burdened by sleeplessness, and his stomach knots with a gnawing hunger. The weight of exhaustion warps his vision, the ornate symbols on the walls bleeding into each other. He can barely summon the will to lift his feet.
He tries to weave his way back to his quarters. The night wraps around him like a cloak. His mind is a whirlpool of thoughts, each more turbulent than the last, and it's this tempest that blinds him to the figure emerging from the shadows until it's too late. Just as he rounds a corner, his shoulder slams into a solid form. His reflexes, dulled by fatigue, fail to right him, and he lurches forward, the unexpected impact sending Anakin reeling, his balance forfeited to exhaustion and hunger. In this state of near collapse, the last thing he expects is to encounter another soul, especially not at this forsaken hour.
Obi-Wan Kenobi's hands grab hold of Anakin's arms, steadying him with an ease.
"Anakin!" Obi-Wan's voice barely registers before they collide. Anakin blinks hard, trying to focus on his mentor's face.
“Where have you been?”
He feels a surge of irritation at the question, its simplicity scraping against the complexity of everything churning in his head.
"Nowhere," he mumbles, evasive. "Just out."
"Out?" Obi-Wan probes gently, sensing the undercurrents of distress. "You're clearly upset. What happened?”
The words coil tightly in Anakin's throat, and he can't suppress the frustration that surges forth. "Nothing's happened! Why must you always—" He breaks off, biting back the rest of his outburst, the anger leaving him as swiftly as it came.
Obi-Wan watches him with those patient blue eyes, unflustered by the lash-out. When Anakin's shoulders slump, a soft sigh escaping him, Obi-Wan's expression softens further. "I'm sorry," Anakin mutters, his defiance crumbling.
He is trying to make himself small, curling in on his body, lowering his head, looking elsewhere, anywhere but at Obi-Wan lest he find the truth of what he had been discussing with the Chancellor.
But Obi-Wan forces his head upright, taking his chin between his fingers with a patient, loving touch, like when he was small and ashamed because he broke something that he wasn’t supposed to be touching in the first place.
It’s only then Anakin registers Obi-Wan’s fully clothed, lightsaber clipped on his hip, comlink poking out of his pouch. He’s leaving and Anakin is keeping him.
"Apology accepted," Obi-Wan replies, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "But tell me, when was the last time you ate? Or slept, for that matter?"
Anakin shrugs, the gesture speaking volumes of the chaos wracking his soul. Food and sleep seem trivial to him now, almost laughable in their normalcy. But even as he struggles to remember, he knows it's been far too long since he's allowed himself either comfort.
“Weren’t you on your way out?” Anakin asks.
“Yes, looking for you. There were no assignments, no extra duties for you on the docket, I was worried something has happened to you. I could feel you calling for me.”
Surprise flickers across Anakin's features, swiftly chased by a jolt of clarity. Obi-Wan has always been there, a constant presence in his thoughts, even more so during those endless, circular debates with the Chancellor. Anakin's loyalty, torn between two philosophies, two paths, finds some solace. The Force feels like a distant whisper against Anakin’s consciousness, but if there is one thing it remembers, it’s probably Obi-Wan and his lectures, he smiles inwardly. The confusion gives way to clarity.
"Are you hungry?" Obi-Wan questions, appraising him with eyes that miss nothing. "We could get you something to eat."
The thought of food, the clatter of utensils, the murmur of voices—it's all too much for Anakin right now. He shakes his head.
"I don't want to be around people," he manages to say, his voice rough as if he hasn't used it in ages.
Understanding softens Obi-Wan's expression. He steps forward, and his palm comes to rest against Anakin's cheek, warm and grounding.
"We don't have to be," he assures gently, offering not just sustenance, but comfort and a quiet place away from prying eyes and ears—a harbor for Anakin to anchor his tempest-tossed soul, if only for a moment.
***
Obi-Wan and Anakin sit cross-legged on the cool duracrete rooftop of the Jedi Temple, a panorama of Coruscant's twinkling lights sprawling before them. Between them rests a steaming plate of Zeltron zucchini wraps, Anakin's favorite. The savory aroma of perfectly spiced nerf steak folded within thinly sliced vegetables fills the air.
Anakin takes a bite, his eyes closing in appreciation as he savors the flavors Obi-Wan has somehow managed to master.
"This is amazing," he mumbles through a mouthful. "When did you learn to cook like this?"
A smile plays on Obi-Wan's lips, his gaze lingering on the distant horizon where airspeeders flit about like luminescent insects.
"Well, during those rare moments of peace, I've found a certain... educational program."
"Program?" Anakin prompts with a raised brow, reaching for another wrap.
"Madam Paula's Galactic Gourmet," Obi-Wan reveals, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity.
Anakin's reaction is instantaneous; his laugh bursts forth loud enough to startle a flock of roosting shaak-birds into flight from a nearby spire. He leans back precariously, feet swinging over the temple's edge where the city plunges into shadowed depths below.
"I love Madam Paula's show! We could have watched it together, why didn't you invite me?" His chuckles echo across the open space, filled with genuine warmth.
Obi-Wan's laughter joins Anakin's, the sound mingling with the hum of the city. “I … I thought you might find it vapid.”
Anakin reaches for Obi-Wan’s hand with his greasy zucchini fingers and squeezes it like a wayward youngling looking for a warm embrace. “Don’t you know me, Master?”
Obi-Wan carefully wraps thinly sliced vegetables around another piece, his movements deliberate, almost meditative.
He takes a bite, but his usual contentment is absent, replaced by a furrow in his brow. He chews thoughtfully, then pauses, staring again out into the distance where the neon glow meets the dark sky.
"Lately I feel like I don't," he admits, his voice carrying a weight that tugs Anakin down to the same level of melancholy Obi-Wan has been carrying on his shoulders for years.
Anakin feels a rush of indignation, a spark that threatens to ignite his temper. How can Obi-Wan, his mentor, his closest ally, his … everything , suggest such a thing?
The words 'you know me better than anyone' sit on the tip of his tongue, but they dissolve before he can speak them. Instead, he sighs, the frustration dissipating as quickly as it had flared up, leaving only an unexpected weariness.
He looks down at his half-eaten wrap, suddenly aware of the warmth filling his stomach. It's as if the meal has not only quelled his hunger but also softened the edges of his irritation. With a reluctant nod, Anakin concedes to the truth he's been avoiding.
"Yes. I have changed." The words are heavy, laden with a realization he hasn't fully accepted until now. It's a suffocating feeling, this change, like a Nubian python wrapping tighter around him as his lungs give out to his grip.
"And I don't know why," he continues, his gaze drifting away from Obi-Wan to the abyss of the city below. Each word is a confession, a small surrender to the light that wants to break out instead of being squashed down.
He swallows hard, fighting against the bitterness rising in his throat. "I don't want to be this... what I'm changing into," he confesses.
"Because it's ugly and full of hate.” Anakin takes a deep breath but it comes out as a shallow, staticky inhale. “And it hurts.”
Anakin takes a hearty bite, the familiar flavors mingling in his mouth—a small comfort.
"Where does it hurt?" Obi-Wan's voice cuts through the nocturnal ambiance, unexpectedly tender.
Anakin pauses mid-chew, surprise etching his features as he swallows. He wasn't prepared for the question, nor for the concern lacing his master's tone. He places his wrap down and wipes his hands, suddenly conscious of the discomfort that has been gnawing at him—a pain elusive yet insistent.
"Here," he says, touching the area over his liver, the pressure of his fingers not quite pinpointing the ache.
"Take off your tabard and tunic," Obi-Wan instructs after shedding his own cloak with a fluid motion that speaks of years of habit.
Anakin looks at him, the command jarring him. His heart thuds against his chest, and warmth spreads across his skin, his cheeks, and some other place he didn’t expect it to.
"Anakin." There's an edge of insistence in Obi-Wan's voice now, a gentle prod.
But Anakin remains frozen, caught in the crossfire of respect, apprehension, and an awkward vulnerability. It's Obi-Wan who steps forward, his hands deft as they work to unclasp Anakin's tabard. The layers of his apprentice's garb fall away one by one until the cool night air kisses Anakin's bare torso, raising goosebumps on his exposed flesh.
Obi-Wan sits closer, their knees touching. The proximity is both unsettling and grounding for Anakin. With reverence, Obi-Wan calls upon the Force, his hand hovering over Anakin's skin before settling on the spot Anakin indicated. A soft glow emanates from his palm, tendrils of healing energy seeking out the pain hidden within. The flow of traffic continues unabated below them, but for Anakin, the world narrows down to the point of contact where Obi-Wan's warmth seeps into him. He closes his eyes and surrenders completely.
"Here," Anakin murmurs, muscles tensing then yielding under the warmth of Obi-Wan's touch. "It's moving... higher, around my ribs."
Obi-Wan's fingers trace the path of discomfort. "Psoas muscle," he explains softly. "A repository for a Jedi's energy. It can harbor stress if neglected."
Anakin feels a rush of something beyond the physical—an inexplicable yearning that tangles with his pain. This sensation seems foreign yet achingly familiar, woven into the fabric of his bond with Obi-Wan. His eyes flutter open.
He repositions Obi-Wan's hand, guiding it upwards to rest over his heart. The beat beneath is rapid, insistent. "It hurts here too."
In Anakin's chest, the pain—and something far greater—continues to throb insistently.
“Your heartbeat … maybe you should have that checked.”
“No need, I know what will help now,” Leaning forward, Anakin diminishes the space between them, his breath mingling with Obi-Wan's, a mere ghost of contact that sets his nerves alight. His lips hover tantalizingly close to those of his Master, seeking solace, seeking—
But Obi-Wan retreats, an almost imperceptible distance that feels like worlds apart.
"We can't," he says firmly, though his eyes betray the conflict
"Why not?" Anakin's retort is half plea, half defiance, his exhaustion stripping away layers of composure to reveal raw need.
"Because you're exhausted and you don't know what you're doing." Obi-Wan's words carry the weight of the Order, the burden of rules unbroken, even as his own restraint wavers in the force of Anakin's pull.
They're close, so close that the warmth of their breaths mingles in the crisp night air.
"Obi-Wan," Anakin's voice breaks the stillness, "I spoke with Palpatine for hours. About the Jedi, the Council, everything." He turns to face Obi-Wan, his blue eyes searching. "And the more I talk to him, the less I feel like one of us, like a Jedi." His gaze is intense, beseeching.
"If you want me to stay... if you truly want me to remain as I am, then kiss me. Kiss me before the sun rises and we lose it all."
There's no hesitation; it’s as though the plea unlocks something fundamental within Obi-Wan. He leans in, closing the scant distance, and presses a soft kiss to Anakin's lips. It's a gentle claim, a reassurance whispered through touch. As he retreats slightly, his hand finds its way into Anakin's thick hair, a soothing caress threading over every inch.
"Is he trying to take you away from me?"
Anakin looks at him, really looks at him, as if seeing him anew. Just hours ago, Palpatine's words had been seductive whispers, pulling at him with the promise of something he couldn’t even understand.
But as Obi-Wan's concern carves through the fog in his mind, none of that seems to matter anymore. The hunger that gnawed at his insides has abated, quelled by the simple act of connection, by the feeling of being truly seen.
"Obi-Wan," Anakin murmurs, conviction strengthening his voice, "no one can take me away from you unless you send me away."
And he believes it for that short, fleeting moment.
He leans forward, allowing himself to be drawn into Obi-Wan's embrace. It's a surrender of sorts. Obi-Wan shifts, cradling Anakin's head in his lap, draping his cloak over him
In the solace of Obi-Wan's presence, the relentless pace of Anakin's thoughts slows. The Force-fueled adrenaline rush that has kept him going, kept him on edge, finally ebbs away.
Anakin Skywalker finally finds rest.