Archive of Our Own

Obi-Wan has been Qui-Gon’s Padawan for a year when their ship breaks down in the Outer Rim Territories. It’s a beat-up piece of junk that saw its heyday sometime around the the High Republic, but seeing as their actual, proper ship was blasted to shrapnel by the consigliere of the crime family they just exposed, well—

It’s not the worst thing that happens to him that week. They perform an emergency landing on a planet so miserably hot and bereft of civilization that Obi-Wan is sweating through his robes before ten minutes have passed, and his lungs are scorched from breathing the desert air.

“Now what do we do?” he snipes at Qui-Gon. They’re at a junction where the relief of not being exiled to the AgriCorps has dried up, replaced by healthy skepticism. Master Jinn might be a legend in the Temple for his adventures, but living those adventures is exhausting. 

At this rate, Obi-Wan will greet his first gray hair before his sixteenth nameday. 

His Master climbs a dune and stands there, gazing at what could generously be called a city. He doesn’t answer for a long moment, listening to something that Obi-Wan can’t hear.

That’s another thing that rankles. Obi-Wan isn’t the best at communing with the living Force; he doesn’t even fully understand why Qui-Gon holds such reverence for it.

In the silence that follows, the wind brings no relief, whipping up stinging waves of sand. Obi-Wan rubs his arms as if chilled. A strange sensation creeps into the pit of his stomach, unease braided with excitement. Is that the Force warning him? Is it the adrenaline wearing off? Or is he having a heatstroke?

That has to be it. Heatstroke.  

Obi-Wan glances back at the ship. Maybe he should lay down.

“You’d cook before long,” Qui-Gon dismisses, catching his thoughts. “Power failure means no life-sustaining support; returning to the ship would be seeking shelter in a pot over a fire. No, I’m afraid, my very young Padawan learner, that we’ll have to see what the locals have to offer.”

“What if the issue is a simple fix?” Obi-Wan argues, digging his heels in. His eyes flick to the grimy city in the distance. It’s a sprawling heap of dull, compactly-built structures, reminding him of a ghetto. “I should check again.” Anything to avoid going there.

Qui-Gon’s answering look is one of pity, bracketed with that severity that never makes it into the stories the initiates tell about him. “Don’t be foolish. I’m not leaving you out here to die. Let’s go.”

And what can he say to that? 

—

Anakin Skywalker is small for a thirteen-year-old. Painfully so. The top of his head comes up to Obi-Wan’s shoulder, and his bones show through his skin like the framework of a fragile bird. He’s lean and scrappy, fair-haired and sun-baked.

And glows horrifyingly bright in the Force. How can any single person shine like that? How do they not burn up? 

He’s a former slave, Anakin informs them, carefree, ignoring Obi-Wan’s flinch.

He’s an orphan, he adds later, after he’s brought them into his blessedly cool home.

(There is no accompanying smile to that.)

“Do you know what we are?” Qui-Gon asks Anakin, accepting a bowl of bone broth that the boy ladles out for them, generously sharing food as if he has any to spare.

Anakin shrugs. “You’re Jedi. I used to hear stories about you all.” Nostalgia, scrapped to the pith by world-weariness, almost sounds like an accusation. “Not so much lately.”

He claims he can help them repair the ship. That he has contacts. How does a child have contacts?  Obi-Wan wonders uncharitably—wants to sharpen that question into a spear and aim it. 

There’s no chance to let it fly true. Qui-Gon bids him to go to sleep in the bundle of rags that passes as a bed in the hut while they go outside, without him.

It niggles. Obi-Wan can't help but feel that the delays they suffered, the diplomatic difficulties, the changing of ships, all has been a ploy leading them to this exact location, at this precise time.

Through closed eyes, cheek pressed against threadbare cotton that smells faintly of spices, Obi-Wan hears the intonations Qui-Gon uses when he’s persuading someone, the warning of a distant storm.

Discomfited, Obi-Wan curls up. Unknown possibilities press down on him until his ribs ache.

—

Two weeks later, they leave Tatooine. Anakin is with them.

Obi-Wan had reasoned, protested, shouted, to no avail. Now his face is frozen in a rictus of disapproval; he can no more pretend to be alright with this than he can pluck out a star streaking past the viewport while Anakin won't shut up about how wizard traveling through space is.

It’s not as if that resentment lacks fertile soil to grow in. But Qui-Gon had been unmoved. He’d judged that they could not leave someone like Anakin to wander through the Outer Territories without any understanding of how to control his power, and that was that.

Whether Obi-Wan agreed or not.

And it’s not like Qui-Gon is wrong. No Jedi would ignore a discovery like Anakin. Either lured by curiosity or concern, they’d be quick to report their findings to the Council. Once their paths crossed, that consequence was unavoidable.

That’s not what twists Obi-Wan into knots. It’s the other thing. The other point of contention that has cemented Qui-Gon’s reputation as a maverick in the Order—his belief in a prophecy that no one else takes seriously.

Qui-Gon alone keeps the prophecy alive in current times. It's no longer part of their curriculum, found instead in obscure courses in Jedi history and philosophy that few senior Padawans bother with.

From Obi-Wan’s perspective, it's sheer nonsense. The Sith are extinct. Logically speaking, isn’t it implicit that if there was ever a chosen one, they’re long gone? They’re not a boy in the cockpit poking at the controls despite Qui-Gon’s soft rebukes. 

—

Qui-Gon disappears into the bowels of the Jedi Temple, leaving Obi-Wan in charge of Anakin.

They look at each other skeptically.

“You don’t like me much,” Anakin observes. 

Obi-Wan deflects. “It doesn’t matter whether I do or don’t.” You’re not going to be around for long, anyway. “I am a Jedi. I do not let emotions get the better of me.”

“You’re not a Jedi. You’re a nyee like me.” Anakin folds his arms. 

Oh, that is slander Obi-Wan will not tolerate. “I’m fourteen!” he retorts, satisfied that he can look down his nose at Anakin. He has the metaphorical high ground, and he’s not going to give it up. “I’m a Padawan. You’re just a—”

Anakin stiffens. “A what? What am I?”

Obi-Wan falters. His attention inevitably drops to the circular scar on Anakin’s neck. A barbaric practice, implanting slaves with chips to control them with the threat of an ugly, brutal death if they rebel. 

“I wasn’t going to say slave,” Obi-Wan mutters, ashamed. He wasn’t. But calling Anakin a nobody wouldn’t have been any kinder. 

Anakin's response is curt. “Good. ‘Cuz if you had, I would have punched your konchoo face in.” 

That’s a completely ridiculous claim. Obi-Wan towers over the scrawny boy; he’s trained to defend himself, with and without a lightsaber. Yet, there's a feral intensity in Anakin's stance, a coiled tension that makes Obi-Wan hesitate. Yes, he’d win, but the victory wouldn't be clean.

He blurts out the next part, the words fitting awkwardly in his mouth. “A-are you h-hungry?”

Clumsy as that peace offering is, Anakin doesn’t seem to want to drag this out. That cold evaporates, and now Anakin is beaming like Obi-Wan hung the stars in the sky. “Always!” 

In hindsight, maybe his rudeness has been unwarranted.

Introducing Anakin to the wonders of the refractory, assuring him that, yes, he can eat as much as he wants, distracts Obi-Wan from the doubtless somber conversations happening elsewhere. It’s entertaining to push Anakin to try new foods. He’s not particularly fond of the blander offerings, but devours everything sweet Obi-Wan puts on his plate.

By the time the evening bell chimes, Anakin’s energy has run out. Yawns stretch his face, eyelids drooping. Obi-Wan escorts him out of the refractory before the dinner crowd arrives, taking him back to the apartment he shares with Qui-Gon.

Where he runs into a snag. Putting Anakin on the couch for the night feels inappropriate. But it’s not as if they have a guest bedroom. And he’s not putting Anakin in Master Jinn’s room. 

With a sigh, Obi-Wan guides Anakin to the smaller bedroom. The sheets are clean, courtesy of the housekeeping droids, and when Anakin puts a knee on the mattress, he startles and turns a shocked gaze on Obi-Wan. “It’s so soft!”

What? Hardly. It’s the standard-issue mattress, which is—

Obi-Wan’s fingers curl tighter around Anakin’s bicep. Anakin’s never slept on a bed before.

He’s going to be sick. 

“It is,” he agrees, tucking his horror away. “Shoes off.” 

Anakin promptly sits and kicks off his shoes. They’re the same muddy-brown as the rest of his clothing, yellowed with age. Obi-Wan nudges them to face right side up. Now that Anakin is in the Temple, far removed from Tatooine, and Qui-Gon isn’t there, Obi-Wan is grasping how uncharitably petty his behavior has been. What has he really to lose here? What has he gained by reacting like a house tooka spooked by a new kitten, hissing and spitting? 

“Pretty,” Anakin mumbles sleepily, apropos of nothing, and Obi-Wan feels a tug. 

He freezes. Then swallows a laugh. “Thank you? But that’s attached to me, you see…”

Anakin tugs at his braid again. Obi-Wan measures the length every month that passes, impatient for it to stop bobbing at the periphery of his sight, or falling forward into his face when he’s training. 

“Anakin?” 

“Sorry.” Anakin’s hand drops.

Obi-Wan, for some reason, is flustered. He studies Anakin’s honey-blond hair, spread in a halo on his pillow. It lacks any defined shape, messy, like no one's cut it in a long time. If his mom's dead, how has he survived on his own?

The Force hums, announcing its presence. It flows through the room, stealing Obi-Wan’s breath. It presses all around, pulsing like a beating heart, closer than he's ever felt before.

Anakin makes an indistinct noise Obi-Wan can only describe as a greeting. Then he wiggles to the far edge of the bed, beside the wall. This, Obi-Wan doesn’t notice, caught up in the awe as he is.

Right up until Anakin goes, “Well?” and pats the large swath of empty bed by tossing an arm back.

“Oh, no.” Obi-Wan straightens. His fingers tremble. “I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

“Sounds stupid. Bed’s big enough for four. Get in.”

It’s not that big, is on the tip of Obi-Wan’s tongue, but then remembers who he’s talking to. Remembers the rag bedding, and how they’d shared. 

There’s no way that he can sleep with the Force vibrating the air around them, Obi-Wan tells himself. He’ll indulge Anakin, wait until he’s asleep, and then slip out. 

He climbs in after hitting up the fresher and removing his shoes. They both fit with room to spare. 

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan murmurs, testing. 

There’s no reply. But he could be pretending. Or he’s not yet fully asleep. So Obi-Wan, despite this being the most wonderfully terrifying experience of his life, feeling like all the midi-chlorians in his blood are singing along with the Force, lays flat on his back and closes his eyes. 

One kata. Two kata. Three kata. Four kata. When he reaches one hundred and fifty, he’ll go. 

He makes it to thirty-three. 

—

The smell of lavender peppercorn tea, strong and tart, jolts him awake.

Disoriented, Obi-Wan takes in the room. It's his ceiling, his bedroom, but he hasn't slept there in weeks. Part of him struggles to reconcile it with the steel of the starship, with the reddish-brown curved walls of Anakin's hut.

Anakin. The boy is still curled up against the wall. He’s using his own arm as a pillow, the other tucked against his chest, along with his bony knees. Every few seconds, a violent shiver shakes through him. He’d fallen asleep too quickly to go under the sheets.

The Force has dissipated, though not entirely. It’s not the same low background hum that comes from thousands of Force-sensitives all living in close proximity; it’s sharper, potent. Adoring. 

Obi-Wan can’t deal with this so early in the morning. With all the implications that carries, how this is radically altering his own perspective on what the Force is capable of. He slides off the bed, a bit wobbly, and then, with a pricked conscience, folds his side of the sheets back, cocooning Anakin in them.

A cup of lavender peppercorn tea awaits him in the kitchen. Qui-Gon gestures for him to take it. Judging by his master's unchanged clothes, Obi-Wan doubts Qui-Gon has slept.

"So," he begins hesitantly, "what happens to him now?"

Qui-Gon sips his tea. “I am going to train him.” 

Obi-Wan’s fingers tighten around the mug/

And all of the fear that has waited, biding its time, rushes forward to drag him under. The worst is that this is a confirmation, an outcome, that he’s been dreading from the start. All this time, Qui-Gon hasn’t wanted him. He wasn’t Qui-Gon’s choice, just his burden.

Now Qui-Gon has found the perfect Padawan. Of course he wants to train Anakin himself, even though Anakin is too old, even though he already has Obi-Wan.

Images flash through his mind: endless rows of growing crops, the resigned faces of those who were sent to the AgriCorps. He isn’t good enough. Never had been. He's trained relentlessly, pushed himself to exhaustion, but all his efforts fell short. 

Obi-Wan swallows, the lump in his throat acrid. "But… what about me?"

Qui-Gon opens his mouth but doesn’t get to say anything before Anakin stomps out into the living area and shouts him down. “Hagwa! Jedai hagwa bolla cheeska, Jedai chess ko—”

It’s impossible for Obi-Wan’s reeling brain to process the flurry of Huttese, though he thinks Anakin calls Qui-Gon two-faced. His outburst is as violent as the sandstorms they saw on Tatooine. Items begin levitating in a distinctly threatening manner.

Including Qui-Gon’s many prized plants. 

Clearly, Anakin overheard and is fiercely defending him. Which is not what Obi-Wan expected, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. 

He’s feeling too many things. 

“Anakin,” creaks out of his mouth. “Anakin, hey, breathe,” he urges, not sure if Anakin has taken a single breath. 

“Yes,” Qui-Gon cuts in, eyebrows raised high enough to meet his hairline. He’s staring at his plants with mild concern. “Remember what we discussed, Anakin. The Force is all too willing to do what you want. That can be dangerous. That’s why you need to be trained.”

“But it doesn’t have to be you!” Anakin sputters. “Let someone else…” He trails off, the anger replaced by a plea. Even Obi-Wan can figure out that Anakin doesn't really prefer a stranger as his teacher.

“It does have to be me,” Qui-Gon says.

Obi-Wan's stomach drops. That rings true—an ultimatum from the Council. They’re willing to dissolve the apprenticeship.

He stares down at the cooling tea, a lifeline in his trembling hands. Was this it, then? His fate sealed?

“This theatricality is unbecoming.” Qui-Gon sits back. “I will be teaching both of you.”

Anakin, oblivious to the sheer absurdity of that statement, bursts out, “Why didn't you start with that? Gods, you gave me a heart attack!”

There's a myriad of thumps as the floating items drop, reclaimed by gravity. 

Then he turns and grins at Obi-Wan, though there's a shadow of hesitance behind it. Vulnerability. 

Obi-Wan isn't proud of how he walks back into his room and closes the door. 

“Anakin and I will be traveling to Ilum,” Qui-Gon mentions over dinner. “I've arranged for you to train under Master Tholme in the meanwhile. “

Obi-Wan chokes down a mouthful of heavily spiced bantha stew. The heat stings and sticks to his throat. “I see,” he says, feigning indifference. Pretending not to be stung that Anakin is already getting a lightsaber, barely six months after arriving at the Temple.

From across the table, he feels Anakin staring. Those dark blue eyes, which can change from joyful to angry to tearful in a snap, drag across his composed expression. They are complete opposites and get along about as well as lightning and stone.

Later that night, Anakin packs in sullen silence. He had attempted to ask Obi-Wan about supplies for Ilum, but Obi-Wan's curt response about the cold weather offered little guidance.

Obi-Wan sprawls on his bed, buried in a tablet. He pretends to prep for a test he's already memorized. It beats dwelling on the flare of guilt whenever Anakin reaches out and Obi-Wan pulls back. It’s bait, and he's determined not to fall under the spell Anakin has woven over other people.

Not that he believes Anakin is intentionally manipulative, but his brilliance makes Obi-Wan feel like a half-germinated seed withering away under the shadow it casts. Nothing he does is good enough anymore.

Even areas where Anakin doesn't naturally excel don't balance anything out. Not when the Masters bend over backward to accommodate him. Can't meditate the traditional way? Then he’s permitted to moving meditation instead. Doesn’t care about the Padawan braid? Then he doesn’t need to wear one.

Technically, no rules are broken. Every Padawan is unique and their needs should be met. But Obi-Wan takes offense at every perceived injustice, every blatant display of favoritism. It’s not healthy, it’s not right, and it makes him feel even more unworthy. 

“What if I don’t find a good crystal?” Anakin asks quietly. They’ve already turned the lights off and drawn the privacy curtain that divides the room. 

Obi-Wan bites back a mean comment. “There’s no such a thing as a bad crystal. Go to sleep.” 

“I bet there is,” Anakin mumbles, resigned to being the one to find it. 

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. He draws the covers higher over his shoulders, not deigning that worth replying to. He’s not there to make Anakin feel better.

I’m not, he repeats internally. 

Two minutes later he says, “You’re not going to make the wrong choice, Anakin.” 

The tension in the room dissipates. “Yeah,” Anakin whispers. “You’re right.”

When Anakin turns seventeen, Obi-Wan returns to the apartment with a knickknack picked up in a bazaar on the lower levels: a toy starship that can be rebuilt in different formations. It’s nothing big, and Anakin had given him a nice vibroblade for his nameday—

And discovers that Anakin isn’t there. 

“I’ve sent him to train with Master Dooku,” Qui-Gon explains, pruning his hanging plants. “My master is a far better swordsman than I could ever hope to be, and has other strengths that I lack.”

Obi-Wan touches the toy in his pocket. It’s such a silly thing. Cheap. “When will he be back?”

At that, Qui-Gon chuckles. “Not too long. I expect they’ll rather get on each other’s nerves. Which will be good for both of them.”

Obi-Wan places the toy ship on the nightstand by Anakin’s bed. This should feed into that jealousy that he can’t stamp out, but instead, he’s left rather cold by the emptiness that has already swept through the room. 

Four months later, Anakin returns. His features are sharper, and he no longer has to look up at Obi-Wan.

He still smiles gleefully when he finds that toy ship, and tweaks Obi-Wan’s braid.

—

Two weeks after that, Anakin is gone again, this time to train in Vaapad under Master Windu off-planet.

Obi-Wan goes down to the salles and breaks three training sabers.

Quinlan hip-checks him, a cackle erupting from his throat like a loth-hyaena's screech. Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, playfully shoving him back.

“So what about it, heartbreaker?” Quinlan teases, referencing the senior Padawan who'd slipped Obi-Wan her comlink number. "Another one for the books? You better be keeping track, or you'll forget her name and take a thrashing for it, let me tell you. A deserved one.”

"Only you've ever pulled that stunt. Don't lump me in with you."

“I’m the voice of experience! Listen to your elders.”

“Bantha drek. Piss off.”

"Disrespectful!"

Their bickering reaches a fever pitch, drowning out the prickling sensation at the back of Obi-Wan's neck. They're smack dab in the middle of the Temple, the safest place in the galaxy. There's no reason to be on guard.

“You want to eat at De—”

Quinlan whistles, interrupting him. His eyes narrow, predatory, all too familiar to Obi-Wan.

“Oh for Stars’ sake.” Who was it this time? The buff Temple Guard? That visiting AgriCorps scientist? Obi-Wan doesn’t have time for this. He’s starving and Qui-Gon’s on a secret mission, he’s not going to be eating another frozen meal alone. “I’ll see you at Dex’s when you strike out.” 

"Wait. Obi-Wan, wait." Quinlan's expression shifts like quicksilver. "Oh, kriff. Obi-Wan, I didn't know."

"What are you babbling about?" Obi-Wan follows Quinlan's furtive glance. Around the corner, a tall man converses with someone out of view. Broad shoulders strain against a tight-fitting top, a far cry from the standard Jedi robes. The garment accentuates a lean waist—Obi-Wan can appreciate Quinlan's taste in this instance. His gaze travels down the line of the man's trousers, thankfully looser than the outrageous top. Quinlan probably would've tackled him first and asked questions later if they were as tight.

"Seriously, I—" Obi-Wan starts, then his gaze sweeps back up. Tousled curls, a shade of golden-brown that could be described a dozen ways, and then his breath catches. The man tilts his head, exposing the side of his neck.

“Anakin?”

It can’t be, but the man glances over his shoulder. Then his mouth pulls at the corners. 

“Obi-Wan!” He takes a step in his direction.

Obi-Wan takes a step back. Flight is the dominant instinct, the urge to turn and disappear before whatever this is can unravel him. 

The unseen companion speaks to Anakin, distracting him. Then Anakin is gone. 

"Holy kriff. That… uh… that was little Ani, right?" Quinlan whistles. 

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says. “Yes, I think it was.”

With a sympathetic hiss, Quinlan slaps him on the shoulder. “Yeah, let’s get you to Dex’s. You could use a drink or four. Stars, so could I.” 

—

One drink. That's the limit Obi-Wan sets for himself. He pushes away the half-empty glass of Pink Nebula, pays his tab with a nod at a sympathetic Quinlan, and hails a speeder back to the Temple. The unlock code fails him twice; frustration builds with each wrong input. Finally, he slams his palm against the reader in resignation.

The door opens. 

What hits him is warmth. Warmth and blooming spices, stewed meat and tubers. The aroma freshly baked bread. Of the Force itself twining through the air, tiny sparkles that disappear if he focuses on them. 

"Obi-Wan?" Anakin's head pops out of the kitchen. “Shoot, didn’t think you’d be back so early. Welcome home.” 

"Shouldn't that go the other way around?" The door slides shut behind him with a hiss. Obi-Wan rubs his mouth. "I mean, you were gone for a while."

Anakin groans. "Right? If Qui-Gon sends me off to train with one more Master who'd rather chew gravel than smile, I swear I'm quitting."

That's another oddity. Anakin rarely refers to Qui-Gon as "Master." It's a detail Obi-Wan forgot in the seven months since they last saw each other. Surely Dooku and Mace hadn’t tolerated that same casual disrespect. Anakin is still alive, after all, with all limbs intact.

Obi-Wan won’t admit to missing Anakin’s meals. There’s a lot to be said for not eating food so pungent and rich that his taste buds tingle for hours every day. This, naturally, does not stop him from piling his plate with fresh flatbread to dip into the curried stew, popping it into his mouth with unbecoming eagerness. 

It's easier, safer to focus on the food than to obsess over how Anakin could have transformed so drastically in a single year.

A year. Obi-Wan yanks his wayward thoughts back into focus. Anakin's nameday looms in a matter of days. He’ll turn eighteen, the standard milestone of adulthood for humans. For his eighteenth nameday, Obi-Wan took a week off—at Qui-Gon’s insistence—and went on a bender in Zeltros which he still can’t entirely recall, but suspects he might never be able to look at himself in the mirror again if he ever does.

And if Qui-Gon allowed Obi-Wan that, he’ll probably insist Anakin take a whole month.

Ah, jealousy. It seems it hadn't truly abandoned him.

A pea bounces off his cheek. Obi-Wan jolts, finding Anakin poised to flick yet another pea at him. 

“Stop that,” he says automatically. “You’re not a child anymore.”

“Uh-huh.” The pea launches. Obi-Wan dodges—but not quick enough to avoid the followup. 

“Anakin, I’m not starting a food fight with you!”

“Booooooo. Get over yourself.” Another crunchy, fried pea bounces off his jaw. “I leave for a bit and I return to find you all sour and grumpy.”

“And you think war crimes are the solution?” Obi-Wan argues, but underneath the table his pointer finger surreptitiously moves in a circle, gathering the peas that have already been flung at him. Fair is fair, and he might not have started this, but he can end it. 

Anakin loads up another pea on his fork. “Absolutely. On guard.” 

Obi-Wan keeps pretending to be annoyed, all the while stockpiling his ammunition. When he sees the perfect opportunity—largely that Anakin’s run out and is eyeing the flatbread in some sort of warfare upgrade—he sends the entire clump of peas airborne.

“Whoa!” Anakin yelps and brings his hands up to protect his face as a dozen peas pummel him from all angles. “Hey! I didn’t use the Force!” 

“What a pity,” Obi-Way tuts. “For you.” And aims his final pea-bullet straight at the center of Anakin’s forehead. He finds himself smiling. “Now are we done? Satisfied?” 

Anakin blinks warily at him, and then his lips twitch. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re done now,” he says, strangely happy even while brushing crushed peas out of his hair. 

—

“You up for—”

“Sorry, practicing katas with Anakin.”

“Again?”

Obi-Wan pauses. “Yes?” he says, suspicious. “What’s wrong with that?” 

“Nothing is wrong with it.” Quinlan shoves his hands into his sleeves. He’s got that chewing-on-a-thought furrow that augurs poorly for Obi-Wan’s peace of mind. 

“Out with it,” Obi-Wan says sharply. Secrets are wearisome. They fester and this one is starting to reek. It’s not the first sly comment Quinlan has made lately.

Quinlan rocks back on his heels with a quick shake of his head. “Nah. Nah, forget about it. You go enjoy your… katas with Anakin.” 

"Are you implying we'll be doing something else?" Obi-Wan can't help but prod.

An exasperated smile crosses Quinlan’s face. “No. Definitely not. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you were.”

With that cryptic remark hanging in the air, Quinlan disappears down the hall. Obi-Wan is left with a choice: fume at his retreating back and chase after him, or get to the training salles on time to meet Anakin.

Dismissing the conversation out of hand, Obi-Wan sets off with renewed purpose. He's got a new move he's been perfecting, a technique he's eager to test. Anakin's lightsaber skills are undeniably superior—the year spent honing his skills under Dooku and Windu has paid off in spades. But there are two areas where Anakin remains woefully lacking: fighting dirty and good old-fashioned brawling. 

Areas where Obi-Wan excels.

He arrives at the training salles and strips down to his undertunic. Rolling up his sleeves, he stretches, the long braid whipping against his back as he works his shoulders loose. He'll secure it before they start—too many Padawan braids have been preemptively cut by a lightsaber swipe.

Before long, Anakin steps into the salle, accompanied by his latest project—a mouse droid he’s updated and overclocked far past any necessity the droid would ever need. It can zoom down hallways as fast as a bike, which tickles Anakin to no end, despite the two days he’d been sent down to the refractory to wash dishes by hand for that stunt.

Now it tours the salle, beeping as it goes. Obi-Wan isn’t bad with technology himself, so Anakin’s desire to tinker isn’t inexplicable; it’s a valuable skill, and he’s good at it. In some ways, he’s even better at that than his Padawan studies. 

What Obi-Wan is baffled by is how attached Anakin gets to his projects, how he allows them to malfunction, insisting that they have personalities and souls and that “fixing” them really means killing them. Obi-Wan pointed out once that the Living Force doesn’t run through any droid, no matter how advanced, and Anakin had stopped talking to him for two weeks. 

So he keeps those thoughts to himself these days. 

“You ready?” Anakin tosses his bag onto the floor. Ever since he came back from studying with Windu, he’s abandoned the robes, favoring tight-fitting clothing that drives Obi-Wan up the wall. He wouldn’t wear that to even go clubbing. It’s… it’s inappropriate, how many peeks he gets of Anakin’s flat stomach.

“I’m ready, you’re not. Warm up.” Obi-Wan averts his gaze. He twists his braid up and pins it behind his ear while Anakin, grumbling, drops into a lunge, stretching his thighs. With his mixture of Djem So and Vaapad, he uses his legs just as much as he uses his arms to fight.

Obi-Wan thinks he’s just a showoff. 

After they’re both warmed up they take their places, training lightsabers in hand set to low power. The weapons hum, crackling the air as Obi-Wan twirls his saber, testing to make certain the weight is correct. 

Anakin does the same, switching from hand to hand. He’s at least cut his hair lately, almost down to the traditional buzzcut that Obi-Wan has let grow out slightly. Most people who see them outside of the Temple mistakenly believe they’re brothers, and while that's not wrong—they’re lineage-brothers—they’re both quick to correct the assumption. 

“Starting,” Obi-Wan calls out. He raises his weapon. 

Anakin smoothly shifts into the opening of Djem So. 

In the next breath, their lightsabers clash, sending sparks flying. The Force thrills around them, and Obi-Wan had been so unprepared for the Force itself watch their sparring matches the first time that he’d let Anakin whack him in the face. Anakin had been mortified and then apoplectic, shouting at Obi-Wan that he should have blocked that.  

Now it’s only a part of their dance. It won’t affect the outcome of the duel; it’s only there to spectate, cheering both on equally. In this, the Force doesn’t play favorites.

Anakin strikes low. He’s less flashy these days, more brutal; Obi-Wan has no idea if that ruthlessness came from Windu or Dooku. Either way, it’s such an obviously choreographed move that Obi-Wan parries it blindly, searching for the real attack. It comes when Anakin twists his wrist and uses leverage and momentum to his advantage. Pain shoots up Obi-Wan’s arm and then abruptly stops, becoming a numbness that makes it easy for his grip to falter.

His lightsaber spins away. Not the intended outcome, but a workable one. He has a plan.

Anakin's face creases in confusion. He senses Obi-Wan's lack of frustration at being disarmed so quickly. Clever boy, but not clever enough to retreat. 

They're chest-to-chest. With a swift movement, Obi-Wan braces his forearm against Anakin's abdomen while his other—still tingling from the nerve disruption—snatches the back of his neck. Physics and a well-placed application of strength do the rest. 

Obi-Wan flips Anakin over and slams him into the cushioned floor, careful not to actually injure him. In a real fight, a knee to the sternum would have snapped ribs, possibly even led to instant death if the ribs punctured the wrong organ. So he settles for pinning Anakin's head to the mat with the webbed crook of his thumb and index finger, effectively cutting off his air supply.

He’s straddling Anakin’s hips, half of his weight balanced on his other hand, which luckily snagged Anakin’s wrist without much trouble. That’s the risky element in the maneuver—he would have lost if he couldn’t neutralize Anakin’s ability to strike at him. 

“Match to me?” Obi-Wan wets his lips, staring down at Anakin’s startled expression. His thumbs run over the violent beat of Anakin’s heart at his wrist, at his throat. 

Anakin’s lips part on a shaky exhale. He doesn’t say anything. Just meets Obi-Wan’s eyes, a wealth of secrets hiding behind every blink. The chosen one, the prodigy, moody and sullen and almost flagrantly dismissive of Jedi customs—Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’ll ever understand Anakin. 

Obi-Wan lowers his head until their foreheads meet. “Yield?” he suggests. 

For a long moment, he thinks Anakin will say yes, if only to break the spell that’s fallen over them. 

He’s wrong. Anakin instead tips his chin upwards, that fraction of an inch that he can afford, and brushes their mouths together. 

Obi-Wan's breath hitches. He feels Anakin's heart speed up, tastes the sweetness of milky caf on his mouth. They’re not kissing so much as exchanging each other’s air, shivering against one another.

With a groan that escapes him before he can stop it, Obi-Wan tears himself away. He scrambles to his feet, graceless. "That's enough for today."

“I—” Anakin starts to say, urgently.

“Enough.” The word cuts through the room. Even the Force is silent. 

Anakin remains on the floor, his chest heaving and eyes locked on Obi-Wan's face. The constant challenge Obi-Wan knows so well is replaced by a raw vulnerability that makes him want to break something.

Obi-Wan can’t bear to look at him any longer. He snatches up his robe and tries to retreat from the training room, the consequence of their mistake threatening to crush him—only to trip over the mouse droid.

He swears it giggles before he hits the ground. 

—

They don’t talk about it. Obi-Wan doesn’t allow them to talk about it. They’re senior Padawans. In a few years, they’ll undertake their trials. Attachment will serve no good to either of them. He insists this for so long that he almost doesn’t notice when Anakin stops trying. 

When the Supreme Chancellor requests that the Order send a knight in secret to resolve the Trade Federation blockade of Naboo, Anakin is twenty-four, and Obi-Wan is twenty-five. Qui-Gon takes both of them along to deal with it. None of them considers it to be a difficult mission. Unpleasant, assuredly—greediness often made monsters out of people—but Qui-Gon isn’t shy about sharing his opinion that the Federation is ruled by cowards, and that the so-called negotiations will be brief. Simple.

Qui-Gon is wrong.

—

By coincidence, they’re forced to go to Tatooine. Anakin grimaces as Captain Panaka and RIC Olie lay out the facts. The hyperdrive is leaking, and Tatooine is the nearest planet not under Federation control. 

That’s because it’s ruled by the Hutts, and Anakin’s mood noticeably worsens as they discuss options—or lack thereof—but in the end, he doesn’t disagree with the assessment. 

—

Obi-Wan isn’t jealous of Queen Amidala’s pretty little handmaiden. She’s a child, for Stars’ sake. So what if she smiles at Anakin, and he smiles back at her? She’s fourteen. Far too young. 

—

When the Sith attacks them, Qui-Gon seems almost pleased. Obi-Wan glances at Anakin, who only stares out the viewport, frowning. 

It seems the Sith aren’t extinct, after all.

—

“Senator Palpatine is a Sith,” Anakin says immediately to both Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon after they land the Nabooian ship at the Senate landing platform and pull away from the welcoming party.

Shocked, Obi-Wan watches Anakin, concern furrowing his brow. The accusation is a serious one, and unlike Anakin's usual pronouncements, this one is delivered with chilling certainty.

Yet Qui-Gon, for once, doesn’t accept Anakin’s word on such matters as law. He presses him. "Are you absolutely certain, Anakin? Could the Senator be under the influence of a Sith, perhaps carrying a Sith holocron?"

"He's a Sith," Anakin repeats flatly. "If I swung for his head now, he'd cut a bloody swathe through this platform before escaping."

No matter how often they—and later, the High Council—bombard him with questions, Anakin remains unshakeable in his quiet, unsettling conviction.

“Enter my mind,” Anakin says to Mace, his one-time master. “You won’t like it, but you’ll see.”

Mace studies him. Then he takes Anakin—Obi-Wan doesn’t like it—to another room.

When Mace emerges, Anakin is conspicuously absent. The stoic Master's face is etched with worry, a gray cast to his skin. “I think the young Padawan Kenobi should leave now.”

Obi-Wan bows and exits in a hurry.

He finds Anakin in their room, sitting hunched over with his head buried between his hands, deaf to Obi-Wan’s use of his name. Whatever he saw in Palpatine—it left some profound mark on him, a scar as severe as the one on his neck. 

Obi-Wan weighs his approach. He’s not Qui-Gon, with his boundless faith and unconventional methods. He can’t simply nudge Anakin towards meditation and expect him to emerge serene. So, he imagines what Anakin would do if their roles were reversed. 

Since he lacks any peas, he sinks to his knees on the floor and covers Anakin’s hands with his own. Anakin, despite his growth spurt and deadliness, has long-fingered, slim hands. Obi-Wan’s hands, in contrast, are the hands of a brawler. The knuckles are thick and have split over the years, but it’s all the comfort Obi-Wan has to offer up; a physical anchor for Anakin to seize. 

Eventually, an eternity stretching between seconds, Anakin’s fingers twitch. His head slowly emerges from the clutch of his hands, blearily blinking

And Obi-Wan realizes he’s made a mistake. Their faces are too close. They’re touching.  

“Don’t worry,” Anakin mutters, hollow like a path carved through a mountain, echoing with bitterness. “I won’t kiss you again.” 

Disappointment settles in Obi-Wan's gut, an ache tightening with every sludgy, painful heartbeat. Shame follows close behind, a hot flush creeping up his neck. How selfish can he be? Wanting at the same time as he rejects? 

“I’ll leave you to rest.” Obi-Wan leaves their room with as much dignity as he can muster—though he first checks that there are no mouse droids underfoot.

—

Accusing a Senator of being a Sith is no easy task. In the eyes of the Republic, being a Sith isn’t illegal, and the Order has no actual crimes to base a case on. They can only withhold judgment and wait to see what machinations have been set into motion.

Meanwhile, Qui-Gon bids Obi-Wan and Anakin to focus on rescuing Naboo, to keep the real Queen safe.

Obi-Wan reminds himself that Padmé is too young and that nothing will come of it.

—

Qui-Gon dies, and the only person who understands that Obi-Wan autopilots through all the celebrations and the news that the knighting ceremony will be held soon, is Anakin. Obi-Wan puts on a good show, somberly composed, as if he’s not bleeding on the inside.

Anakin stands by his side like a shadow, speaking very little, gaze distant. He grieves, but it’s the kind of grief that Obi-Wan can’t permit himself to succumb to. For him, it’ll be a pit of despair from which there’s no escape. 

At least they’ll be knights together now. They’ve both proven themselves capable. Anakin has done more to help the galaxy by identifying Palpatine as the viper in their midst than all of them combined, but the man will make a grab for power again eventually.

They’ll be ready for him.

Still, the night before the knighting ceremony, Obi-Wan doesn’t have it in him to deny himself—to deny them— when Anakin pushes him down onto the bed. They’re still sharing a room, it’s only been days since Qui-Gon died, they’ve been busy— but it’s Obi-Wan who runs greedy hands down Anakin’s sides, staring up at Anakin with open need and hunger. They deserve this. They can have this. 

It’s Obi-Wan who kisses Anakin first, no finesse or patience, just want. He licks into Anakin’s mouth even as his hands tug and pull, not caring if clothing tears, until there’s skin for him to map with callused fingertips. 

What they do that night doesn’t fit into any easily defined category other than they finally fit their jagged edges together.

“I want to give you something.”

Obi-Wan smiles. It’s a tinge melancholic, but genuine. “What?” he runs a hand down Anakin’s sweat-tacky flank. “You haven’t given me enough?” 

“Well, now I don’t want to give it to you anymore.” Anakin reaches for his discarded clothing. What he pulls out is not at all familiar to Obi-Wan, who accepts the small piece with curiosity. 

“I carved it out of a japor snippet.” Anakin lays back down. The bed that was once wide enough for the two of them is now a tight fit, their legs tangling together. “Years ago. When I was still a slave.” 

So he’s kept it hidden for over a decade? Obi-Wan’s fingers curl over the japor. “You don’t talk much about that,” he ventures, leaving the door open for Anakin to walk through if he wants to.

“Not worth talking about. Except for my mom. She was amazing.” Anakin turns his head, nuzzling Obi-Wan’s shoulder. They seem unable to stop touching one another. “I meant to give it to her, but her chip went off.” 

Obi-Wan’s heart stutters, icy cold. “I—fuck.”

“You want to know the worst thing? It was a malfunction. The Toydarian who owned us felt so bad that he set me free after that. My mom paid for my freedom with her life.” Anakin looks at him. “Do you think I should feel guilty for that?”

“No! Stars, kark, no!”  

“Good,” Anakin says. “Then you shouldn’t feel guilty for Qui-Gon dying.” 

That punctures the horrible knot that’s been in Obi-Wan’s chest for days now. All of the darkness he’s bottled up spills free, remorse and fury and helplessness. Everyone’s fêting him as a hero, when all he did was fail when it counted the most.

He nearly gave in to the dark.

He’s not sure he didn’t.

Tears prick his eyes. Obi-Wan pulls Anakin closer. He’s the only thing that makes sense to Obi-Wan right now, a fixed point in a wildly spinning universe. How they’ll navigate this attachment, this love, between them, is a problem for their future selves to handle. Obi-Wan isn’t capable of more than burying his face into those honey-brown curls and falling apart. 

—

The next morning, they dress in their best clothing. Anakin tugs at Obi-Wan’s braid one, twining it around his fingers and pressing it against his mouth. Obi-Wan swallows hard and kisses him again before they part ways. The final meditation session with a Master before knighthood is a formality; by nightfall, they’ll both be Jedi Knights.

Obi-Wan slips the japor snippet into his pocket, worrying it with his thumb. Something is niggling at him. The Force is as restless as he is, unmoored, as if they’re both already missing Anakin terribly. Now that the dam has broken, Obi-Wan wants nothing more than to trap Anakin in bed and have one of Anakin’s endless droid projects bring them food.

Ki-Adi-Mundi is chosen to substitute Qui-Gon as the Master overseeing his meditation session. An odd choice, perhaps, as Obi-Wan doesn’t recall the two ever getting along, but he offers no protest. Instead, he sits and meditates, feeling lighter in heart after expelling some of the poison that had been weighing him down.

Not that it’s all gone. He might never be freed from these emotions, but the key is to not grant them the opportunity to fester. 

The Force coils around him, singing its own mournful song. Obi-Wan restrains himself from reaching out to Anakin; he’s not that besotted. 

When they’re done, he’s strangely fatigued. And if he’s like this, how must Anakin be feeling? 

He’s ushered into the Council room for the knighting ceremony where they’ll cut his braid. Until then, he hadn’t considered what he’d do with it, but what better way to show gratitude for the japor snippet than to gift it to Anakin?

Reinvigorated by his plan, Obi-Wan bows to the Masters and then scans the room. Of course he won’t do it in view of the Council, they’ll misconstrue—or understand too much—the gesture. But he wants to catch Anakin’s eye. 

Except Anakin isn’t there. And they’ve shut the doors, as if they don’t expect anyone else to arrive. Windu steps forward and starts reciting from memory the words that Obi-Wan has been waiting all his life to hear.

Obi-Wan interrupts. “Where’s Anakin?” 

The stillness that descends over the room frightens him. Have they decided not to knight him? Did they change their minds? 

Yoda’s ears droop. “Master Jinn, explain not, he did?” 

“Explain?” Obi-Wan looks from one Council member to the next. Some appear puzzled—the younger ones, those who haven’t held seats on the High Council for long.

Windu drops into his chair like the weight of the world has fallen on his shoulders. “We shall not speak ill of the dead,” he decrees, and Obi-Wan reminds himself—this is the Council. He can’t rage at them.

“Please,” he says stiffly. “What did Qui-Gon not tell me?”

Windu’s sympathetic look does nothing to quell the fear growing fangs and claws in his chest. “Our agreement with Master Jinn was that Anakin required training, but would not be a good fit as a Jedi. There was too much darkness in him already, too much desire for attachments. Our terms were clear; once you became a Knight, Master Jinn and Anakin would depart from the Order.”

“Left already, Skywalker has,” Yoda adds. 

He knew, Obi-Wan realizes in a dizzying rush. Anakin always knew.

Last night hadn’t been a beginning; it’d been a goodbye.

The beast in his chest is his heart, howling, clawing at him to stop standing there, the stupidest man in Coruscant, slack-jawed and blindsided. Except—the clues have been there all along. Obi-Wan was just too jealous to see them.

Qui-Gon is dead.

Anakin has left. 

A lifetime of service to the Order stretches out in front of him on a golden ribbon. A life  richly rewarded in good deeds, in research, in companionship with like-minded colleagues. A life he might even be content with when the time comes for him to rejoin the Force.

Obi-Wan exhales, and with it, lets go of his dreams. “Where did he go?” Anakin can’t have gone far. It’s only been a few hours. He’ll search to the end of the galaxy if he has to, but the Council owes him this. Owes him an answer.

In the end, it’s Yaddle who shows him where to find Anakin. He’s bought a ticket for a one-way trip to Kuat. With no judgment, she touches his hand. “May the Force be with you, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan bows to her, then performs a hastier bow to the rest of the Council. It’s not his place—nor does he have the time—to question their decision, their motives. Qui-Gon’s motives.

He already knows why Anakin told him about his mother, but not about this. He was the one to draw the line in the sand, who said nothing to Anakin last night or this morning of the future, assuming that they had time, that they were on the same page, when in actuality, Anakin had been closing the book. 

Help me, Obi-Wan pleads to the Force. It immediately replies by unrolling a new ribbon.

At the end, Obi-Wan knows he’ll find Anakin.