Chapter Text
The Force is nebulous. There are those who consider it deified, there are those who understand it simply is . There are those who try to do everything to dissect it, and those who deny its existence.
And so the Force is many things.
To Obi-Wan Kenobi the Force is the only constant he has left.
Though he has gone to great lengths to make himself very small inside of it. The Force always calls, no matter how much he ignores it, cuts himself away from it, shoves pieces of himself into little boxes that gather dust and rot in the back of his mind. Nothing works permanently. It always calls him back.
The curse of being a Jedi, a member of a now dead Order..
All he has is tan and grey. Colors that bleed together into an endless desolate landscape. The distant sight of a small child that looks terribly like someone he once knew and a crippling loneliness that he thinks some day will kill him.
A younger him would have thought that impossible, from his earliest memory he was surrounded by others. First by other children, excited and eager to prove themselves to Masters far larger than themselves. Then by the Service Corps, then his own Master, and then ... and then Anakin.
He doubts Anakin knew the part he had to play in Obi-Wan's sanity. How much calm he brought him. How for the first time Obi-Wan felt truly wanted, picked first in a crowd when he never had been before. He failed to tell Anakin that, he should have. There is so much that was left unsaid.
And on nights like this when the sky is dark, the air cold, and the shadows long Obi-Wan wishes he reached out more. He wishes lots of things on nights like this.
With a sigh, he sinks his weary bones down onto the dusty rock face and looks up at the stars. The same stars as Darth Vader, the same stars as his children, the same stars that have always been there. The same stars Anakin looked up to as a small child before the world failed him.
He wishes more than anything for a chance to go back and do it all again. To tell Anakin that he would never abandon him, to be open and honest. To not hold so tightly to the Code when it mattered so little in the end. Had it mattered at all?
Perhaps he would even say that creeping secret that lives in his chest with the death of hope.
"You could." A voice says softly, and how familiar it is, how tragic. And how lowly he has come to hallucinating ghosts, because she could be nothing else. Obi-Wan does not look at her, he keeps his eyes on the stars, the stars which are real and steady.
The stars blur, hazy little points in the distance as tears come. "Leave me in peace -- please ."
"Obi." She murmurs and he hates the way she says it. So gentle, so kind. And wasn't it her kindness he loved the most once? "I come with a solution."
He turns his face away, toward the dirt smeared remnants of trousers in need of repair. It seems pointless to repair them in the wake of his own pointlessness. "There are no solutions. We are gone. We are all dead."
"I am dead." Satine's voice is matter-of-fact. The same tone she used when trying to convince crowds of stubborn Mandalorians peace was the solution to everything. "You are still alive."
He misses her -- everything about her. The way she wanted to take the world by storm. Her pacifism. That endless, endless hope. He too had once believed wholly in peace. She was so determined she would shake the stars, just to end up on the receiving end of his mistakes.
But not his last victim, far from the last.
Finally, he looks at her, and she is right there, not the bluish tone his Master had been when he'd learned about what the Force could allow. Not a mirage, she looks sturdy, consistent.
Obi-Wan reaches for her but his fingers slide through. He rips his hand back with a strangled cry and holds it to his chest though it has not been harmed, it did not even hurt. It is grief that harms his hand, and a loneliness that spans so wide it has already swallowed him whole. How much more? By the stars, how much more must he weather?
Anger rushes through him. He instinctively thrusts it into the Force away from himself. Never touch it, never hold it. Anger has destroyed so much of him, of his love, of his family. It eats and eats. But the unfairness of all of this can bring nothing but resentment and agony to him. "What do you want from me?"
A burst of wind sticks dust to his damp cheeks. He can't stand this planet, this cave, this existence. He stands, if only to give his body something to do, to put his energy into a motion instead of back into himself. He slides into a stance he knows well, ignoring her again, this phantom of many that may yet haunt him.
There will no doubt be more if his mind is beginning to crack. Soon Padme will come to ask about her son. He will descend into a slow and consuming madness.
This is the beginning of the end or something else equally poetic. Once upon a time, he used to be a poet, but no more. Words are like knives in his throat where they used to be honey. He only slides into a new pose and searches for an untouchable balance. He will not find equilibrium hiding from the Force as he is, but he goes through the motions anyway.
"You are ignoring me," Satine says lightly, but there's little true bite in it. There never was with her, she liked him too much -- loved him . She had loved him, and he had loved her. Now they are ghosts.
He can still see her out of the corner of his eye, the way she leans back on her hands, the swish of light hair. Beautiful but uncaring about the dirt and dust, she had always been like that; regal and yet with calloused hands.
He moves to a new pose, lifting his arms above his head, he feels the stretch of muscles he's stopped using. He never trains enough these days, instead sitting listlessly. It aches, but that is his life now. A burn in the back of his throat that never goes away, panic that takes his hunger. Out of desperation, he slips into a new form. His left arm begins to shake.
"That's alright." She huffs out this little sound that might be a laugh, an almost laugh. Her most genuine kind. He misses her. "You are still listening, I can tell because your nose is scrunching up right now as I'm talking."
Satine, stubborn woman that she is, steps into his view and raises an eyebrow in challenge forcing him to keep his gaze or turn away. He quickly shifts poses again and puts his back to her.
He needs to cling to his sanity for Luke's sake. He is the boy's first line of defense.
"Obi-Wan the balance is broken."
That catches his attention, Satine should not know how the Force feels wrong. Clever as she once was she was never Force sensitive. It is proof she is some figment of his mind. Though she is far from incorrect, the scale is not even. He feels the ichor black of the dark side whenever he dares to touch the Force, feels its influence and the way it is corrupting things it should never have been able to touch.
"I know." He changes poses again, he should be holding them longer. Obi-Wan is doing it wrong.
"I am giving you the opportunity to fix it."
The pose falters and though he does not dare to do something so foolish as hope, he looks at her again. She's changed, her blue dress, the one she died in is white now. There is something off about her features, something that doesn't entirely match.
Something other.
Carefully he reaches into the Force around them, feeling for danger, and finds only the steadfast presence of certainty. Of peace. It is the purest it has felt since the Order fell.
Without realizing it the tightness in his body loosens, his heartbeat calms, things even into a slow calm. He has missed the Force's soothing energy, the touch of life, of circles and consistency. Of what will be will be. This is no ghost. He does not know what speaks to him, nothing human, something more. He knows in an innate way fighting will be pointless.
He's given up on all the fighting anyway.
His hands curl behind him, the pose of a half-forgotten negotiator. If there is a silver of truth in this he owes it to everyone to listen.
Satine's voice drifts off into something more monotone, "The balance is shifted, if kept this way, if uncorrected ... it must be corrected. We believe you can even the scales."
Obi-Wan swallows, the weight of that sentence sinking down on him like a cloak of stone. Of course, it falls to him. It always has. "What must I do?"
"You must be a man of more than half-truths and hyperbole." It declares, as if it is not being cryptic. And then it smiles like her, that little half smile she always hid behind a hand.
Satine had said that about him once, hadn't she? He'd almost forgotten.
"Tell me what I must do implicitly." He tries again, needs more than a riddle. He is sick of half-spoken prophecies.
"You must tell Anakin Skywalker all your truths." Satine steps closer, and she's taller than she was a moment ago. At least a foot taller than him and growing still. "Every truth."
Confess his love.
He stopped lying to himself that day on Mustafar. Obi-Wan accepted both that he had failed Anakin and loved him with equal grief. But he had never said, never so much as given that feeling inside of him description until he collapsed under their weight.
It had been there all along, of course, the longing, the attraction. There had been days when he would watch Anakin train and be unable to tear his eyes away, when nothing could calm him but the presence of the one he called brother.
A trifle word for a different, more impossible truth.
"I tried to speak with him." He had, Obi-Wan had given everything left in him, reaching out to Darth Vader. "He would not hear me."
I am not your failure, Obi-Wan. You didn't kill Anakin Skywalker, I did.
He had returned to Tatooine a shell of a man. He had barely returned as himself at all.
"You tried to speak to Darth Vader, not Anakin Skywalker." She replies. "You must speak to the man, not the Sith."
The tears rush up again, because Anakin no longer exists. He is gone, just like Obi-Wan is gone. They are parted, separate, ruined. " I can't. "
Obi-Wan would give all of himself to reach him, to tell him whatever right words would bring him home. He would do anything, but there is nothing left to do. Anakin is gone. They are all gone.
"You can, if you choose to accept it." Satine states and holds out a glimmering hand. She is even taller now, at least three feet over his head, long and thin, limbs gangly, "But we will not help if you do not vow to tell him all your truths. Do not tarry, do not delay. Find him and fix the balance."
The hand remains fixed between them; it is beginning to glow. He looks into the creature's eyes, and Satine's form solidifies again. It goes back to looking identical to her, shorter than him, soft and approachable. She lifts a playful eyebrow as if goading him to agree in that way of hers. There's something so comforting in her hand reaching out, beckoning for him.
He knows what her palms feel like, at least he thinks he can remember. She would want him to do this, to correct what is broken, but also save himself.
Obi-Wan has learned in the silence of Tatooine that he will only suffer if he remains here. And if he misses Satine it is nothing to how much he misses Anakin.
"Alright," He breathes, he dares for a flicker of a moment to be a Jedi again and have hope.
There is no contemplation; there is only duty.
The moment he takes her hand, they vanish into light.
✧ ◯ ✧
It's the scent that gets him first, Obi-Wan knows exactly where he is before his eyes open. He stands there, breathing in the scent of it, letting himself picture this place as he remembers. A sight he always enjoyed, found himself seeking out when stressed or overwhelmed by the war. A massive room, fountain after fountain, all different types and structures. The salt in the air, the low metallic scent of Coruscant that pervades every space through the open windows and doorways.
When he opens his eyes the fountains are just like he remembers, perhaps even grander. But he doesn't care about the water features so much as the people he sees. Jedi relaxing in their favorite spots, younglings running around laughing, people he recognizes.
Home -- he is home .
Obi-Wan could break down right there. He could fall to the smooth polished grey tiles and sob like a child, but he made a promise and he cannot be delayed.
If timing is crucial he will not fail by hesitating. He pivots and sets for the exit, his feet know where to go, muscle memory kicking in. Somewhere past the exit he starts running.
A hallway after that he realizes he's in his robes, a quick touch to his face shows he's shaved the way he preferred to be. His body feels lighter, different than it had, but adrenaline could well be the changing factor. People move out of his way, some give him looks, but no one stops him. They have no reason to; he is one of them.
Obi-Wan has no idea what year it is, how old they are. None of it matters. All that matters is that little part of his mind that knows Anakin is close, can feel his energy even from a different area of the temple.
He hits the dorms, feet thudding against the blue rug. Desperation like he's not known since the clones turned on them fuels each step. Obi-Wan half slides around a corner down the correct hallway almost ramming into a corps member who barely dodges out of the way. He does not spare an apology, he must not stop.
He could have found Anakin's rooms with his eyes closed. So many times had he stopped in front of that door considering going in, speaking with him, reaching out. And all those foolish times he walked away, believing in a Code that would destroy them.
Obi-Wan will not make such a mistake again. He has learned his lessons, he has grown wiser. He presses the code he still knows, even after all this time, and the door opens.
Anakin is bent over his workstation, fiddling with something. He turns when the door opens, seeking out whoever has abruptly entered. Scar over his eye, black glove on his hand. This is the Clone Wars.
It seems no matter what he does Obi-Wan cannot escape war.
The door closes automatically like Anakin programmed it to as Obi-Wan rounds the bed. He reaches out and grabs him, yanking him forward. He wraps his arms around him in a hug, his whole body breaking into a low tremble as he fists the back of Anakin's shirt.
Anakin is stripped of his robes for the time being, only in a thin undershirt. The way he always tended to prefer when working with his hands. The fabric is rough against his fingers as Obi-Wan clings so tightly to it that it may rip.
There's a moment's pause, a breath of surprise before the hug is returned. Anakin's ungloved hand comes to the back of his neck, the other to his shoulders. He is being held, it has been so long since he was held. Anakin's grip is tight, sturdy. He had forgotten that when Anakin touches he holds.
Anakin's thumb traces along the edge of Obi-Wan's hairline and though he shouldn't he buries his face into Anakin's shoulder. Hiding from the rest of the world, belonging only in this moment to the person he is so desperate to see again.
Anakin's metal hand twitches along his shoulder, voice by Obi-Wan’s ear as he leans closer. They have never hugged like this before, "Is it the war?"
The war affected them both differently. Where Obi-Wan crumpled under the weight of battle, of becoming a general instead of a peacekeeper, Anakin rose to the occasion. The constant death weighed on them both, but the concept of war buried Obi-Wan.
It is an obvious question, one that makes sense given the information Anakin has. He needs to move away, he cannot stay like this forever. Obi-Wan cannot just force himself upon Anakin and expect comfort for something he knows nothing of. First, he pulls his head back, adjusting again to the light of the room. He traces Anakin's features, the vibrant blue of his eyes, the shape of his top lip, the slope of his nose, the crease of his scar. All so familiar and yet foreign to him now.
Anakin looks back in confusion. He wonders if it is only that confusion that allows him to hold Obi-Wan like this. He is not so foolish as to not realize it is an intimate pose. Obi-Wan’s barely shorter height leans into it, and yet even though he should, he cannot bring himself to pull away.
And to his credit, Anakin does not attempt to leave either. His hands adjust, one now to the small of his back and the other to an arm. A strand of brown hair curls over his forehead. He is the most beautiful thing Obi-Wan has ever seen.
Obi-Wan continues to grip the back of his shirt, holding him in place. He needs to move away. He doesn't. Every truth, it had demanded. Every truth.
He thought perhaps he had forgotten Anakin's face, the way it shapes and groves and creates. He had not. It had lingered inside of him where all precious things go, hidden but never forgotten. He still knows him, still knows the feel of him and the concern blooming there as he keeps eye contact.
"You're worrying me." Anakin whispers, and there is true care there. Honest care. Obi-Wan's eyes flood with tears at the presentation of it.
All truths. All truths. The tears spill over. "I have failed you."
He has said it so many times now, to so many versions of themselves and yet it remains as true as ever. It will always be true.
Anakin's grip notably tightens, he tries for a half-comforting smile that falls flat at the truth he doesn't want to accept. This is true. "Why would you say that?"
Obi-Wan has never been so aware of the chasm between them while standing so close. He can feel when Anakin breathes and yet he feels miles away. The Force sings around them with half-spoken thoughts and feelings. He has not allowed himself to reconnect with it fully, he cannot. He must stay hidden.
"Because I have," He doesn't know why he needs to convince the other man of this fact, except that he must. "I am a fool." He chokes on the spit in his mouth, he cannot breathe through his nose, "I have always been a fool and I have failed you."
Anakin's fingers comb into his hair and it is a gesture that has never been done before, "I don't understand." Obi-Wan watches him swallow, sees the bob of his throat as he finds the words he wants to say, "I've never seen you like this."
And that is the crux of it all, isn't it? That Anakin sees him emotional and he is met with uncertainty and confusion. Anakin who feels everything the way a star exudes heat -- never by half, always more, always bigger.
Obi-Wan stares up at him, and he feels abruptly too old and too young. Words fail him.
Every truth.
"Anakin." He says his name like a whisper to the stars. It is as gentle as it has ever been and so full of underlining meaning Anakin's eyes go wide.
Obi-Wan kisses him. It is wrong not to speak first, to tell him what has changed and who he has become. But he cannot think of how to lay out what he truly needs to say in a way that will make proper sense. And so his mouth presses to Anakin's and one of his hands rips the back of his too thin shirt and Obi-Wan is falling.
Anakin pulls him closer and the choice hangs there, for a blip of a moment, and then Anakin is kissing him back. This desperate, messy sort of kiss that makes Ob-Wan flush with heat. His lips part and he tastes the caf on his tongue. Obi-Wan groans this low needy noise full of all of his penury.
They kiss until he forgets where he is and all there is is Anakin. All there has ever been is Anakin, and he should have known that long ago.
When he breaks away his tears have become sticky trails on his cheeks. He is a mess in so many ways and Anakin too is flushed, cheeks red and he swears it is hope that greets him.
"I am not the Jedi you think I am." Obi-Wan whispers, so close still Anakin's breath cools his wet face. "I do not believe in the Code. I have questioned it all my life. I have almost left the Order on three separate occasions. I am angry, I am afraid, and by all of me, Anakin Skywalker, I am in love with you ."
The planet stills to a stop and all that remains is the gap of time it takes Anakin to process that statement.
And then they are kissing again.
Anakin's hands are on his face, and his back is hitting the bed he had forgotten was there. The weight of Anakin is both familiar and entirely new. He has carried him before on his back, dragging him to safety, but he has never felt the weight of him between his thighs, chest to chest as he is consumed.
Obi-Wan gives himself over to the sensation, hands on Anakin's chest, easing him closer. For his second kiss he feels he is doing well enough. At least if the little whimper Anakin lets out is an inclinator. It certainly strokes his ego. Another not very Jedi trait to add to the list of many.
Anakin breaks away and his lips find Obi-Wan's neck, butterfly light. "I can feel you." He murmurs into the skin there, "There's so much pain. Why is there so much pain?"
It is your pain, Obi-Wan thinks. It is all for you.
Mustafar flashes in front of him, the fire licking up his back. The way Anakin had screamed. He pushes it away before it drags him down and instead presses his fingers into the back of Anakin's hair. It is a loop he has practice running from.
When Obi-Wan does not outright say what is wrong Anakin only curls closer and kisses his neck again, "Tell me how to make it go away."
So Obi-Wan says the one thing he always wanted, always needed but never could. "Choose me."
He has never made such a request to anyone, never so much as considered it was a possibility. But that thought has always been there inside him, that desire. To be chosen -- not at random. He does not want an errant choice, a finger picking into a crowd. He does not want Qui-Gon's unfeeling randomization. He wants to be known and seen and loved all the same.
Anakin's lips trail across his salt run cheeks to kiss him. It's softer this time, less intense. It is gentle. It makes him want to cry again.
Together they pull away to look at one another and then Anakin smiles. It is a bright boyish smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "I never thought ... " He trails off taking a different direction, "I feel the same. I should have said that already. I should have made that clear. Padme was a lie. A tale so you wouldn't think ... " Again words seem to falter, "I love you too."
And isn't that being chosen?
Obi-Wan smiles back and it may be the first real smile, true smile, he's had since the day he lost him. Then there is more kissing, more rolling hips, and the start of something they do not know how to start or finish. For now, nothing comes of it but bruised lips and soft sighs. They cling together for what feels like an age. Light falls across the city, no one comes for them.
They end up lying the correct way down Anakin's bed, Obi-Wan's face pressing into his collar. He keeps looking up to make sure nothing has changed, no sign of yellowed eyes, or a curl of disdain. It is still Anakin.
That is another truth that will need to be shared, but not today. Tomorrow or the day after perhaps. He is so tired. So much caution, always fitful sleep, and that aching loneliness. The bed is soft around him compared to the stone he has become accustomed to. His eyes grow heavy.
"Run away with me." He whispers and it is no joke, there is nothing teasing about it. He cannot fall if he is not here.
Anakin stills beneath him, "Leave the Order?"
"Yes." Obi-Wan looks out the window, watching the passing of distant ships and the shining stars.
Anakin speaks, his chest rumbling with the words, but Obi-Wan is already asleep.