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The first sign that the day has begun, in the months since it became their day and not just his, is the absence of warmth beside him. That’s not so unusual; Obi-Wan doesn’t keep office hours and Anakin does, so normally he just goes back to sleep.
But it’s the weekend, so he obligingly gets up and finds Anakin, as he usually does, in the kitchen. A square of early morning sunlight cuts across the yellow linoleum floor, illuminating a pacing Anakin, who is gesticulating with a spatula as he explains something to the toaster.
“—and if you just redistributed the thermal energy more evenly, you wouldn’t have that one spot that always burns the corner. It’s a design flaw, not a feature,” he’s saying, utterly serious. He’s already dressed in a soft grey T-shirt and sweats, his hair a sleep-mussed halo that Obi-Wan has a fierce urge to tidy with his fingers.
“Are you trying to reinvent breakfast?”
Anakin spins around, his face breaking into that crooked, boyish smile that still makes Obi-Wan’s heart perform a complicated little flip. He abandons his lecture to press a quick kiss to Obi-Wan’s mouth. “Just improving it. There’s tea steeped, but I’m busy. With the toaster. And all.”
“The eggs are burning,” Obi-Wan notes dryly, moving past him to the counter. He wraps his hands around the familiar ceramic mug, letting the heat seep into his palms as Anakin hurries to the stove to perform an emergency rescue.
This simple domesticity is a miracle that Obi-Wan still marvels over. It’s not as if things have changed all that much from their normal, if he’s being honest, but they’re so much better than they used to be at the same time. It’s the affection infused in the quiet moments, it’s the way Anakin knows exactly how long to let his tea steep; it’s in the space Obi-Wan automatically leaves on the desk for Anakin’s laptop; it’s in the silent agreement that chat is never allowed to see Anakin’s bare chest again. (That had been an accident, and no matter how many times Obi-Wan scrubs his channel, clips resurface every so often.)
“We should have breakfast on the patio.” Anakin leans his hip against the counter, eggs-rescue successful. “It’s finally stopped raining. We can enjoy our patio chairs of victory.”
“The chairs I won in our very mature, public debate, you mean.”
“You unilaterally decided. It’s different.” Anakin waves the spatula to make his point, his eyes—nearly the same impossible blue as the patio set—bright. “But whatever. I’ll let you have this win.” He reaches out to flick a stray piece of lint off the shoulder of Obi-Wan’s worn bathrobe that might be older than Anakin himself.
The gesture is unconsciously intimate, sweet. Obi-Wan follows Anakin out into the backyard, musing back to the man who’d posted that ad, unaware of how drastically his life would change.
The air outside carries the clean, sharp scent of rain-soaked earth. Anakin claims one of the chairs with a flourish, looking awfully smug for someone who’d supposedly lost the argument. Obi-Wan remembers mornings like this in the past. They hadn’t been… bad. He’d been content. Satisfied with his choices and his current life, appreciating the quiet of it, the independence of it all.
Now he can’t deny that he doesn’t want to return to that. He likes this new quiet, full and settled, anchored by the scrape of Anakin’s fork as he scoops up scrambled eggs into his mouth, eating in his typical haphazard, fast way, like either he expects someone to snatch the food off his plate or is too busy to waste time lingering over eating, even though they have the entire weekend before them.
Obi-Wan nurses his tea and nibbles on the buttered toast—acknowledging that Anakin is right, the burnt spot on the corner is getting worse; it started off as slightly darker than the rest but is approaching a char—which is right when Anakin chooses to break the silence.
“I’ve got a work trip next month,” he says, crumbs around his mouth that he doesn’t notice, throwing back his coffee with as much hastiness as he did the eggs. “So I started looking into booking a hotel and noticed there were lots of events going on that week. So I was thinking…”
So I was thinking trailed off like that can either be something very good or something good but that’s going to cause Obi-Wan a bit of a headache; he can’t be blamed for the instinctive hiking of his eyebrows.
“What if you do go to StreamCon this year?” Anakin finishes, taking a turn right out of left field.
“… What?”
“You said you’ve never gone because you didn’t see a point. I disagree. Plenty of people would want to meet you, if you give them the heads-up.”
“Anakin—”
“They would!” Anakin insists stubbornly. “I mean, I dunno what your subscription numbers were before, but you’re about to hit 500k. Wouldn’t it be cool to do so at StreamCon?”
Obi-Wan sets down his cup. “I’m not… opposed to this, really, but I’m also not… exactly the type of person who attends an event like that.” He tries not to sound too self-deprecating. “I’m a bit outside of the typical age range.”
“Pfft. Do I gotta remind you again how popular the DILF Kenobi tag is?”
The sunshine is to blame for the way his cheeks turn a ruddy red. That’s it. “Why in the world are you still reading the fanfics?” he asks faintly, now going from “trying not to feel like a relic” to “trying not to sound like an old prude.”
“Enrichment,” Anakin replies, utterly without shame, popping the last bite of toast into his mouth.
Obi-Wan isn't sure whether to be horrified or deeply, deeply touched. It's a distressing combination of both.
He doesn’t ask if Anakin is still reading the alpha and omega stuff. That was explained to him once, and he's decided to never poke his nose that deep into Anakin’s online reading habits again.
Even if Anakin had assured him that he didn’t expect anything that required a half-course crash course and a safe word in bed. Obi-Wan just preferrs to imagine his audience as a sea of sexless, genderless, amorphous entities, and not as people far too invested in his fictional proclivities, however biologically farfetched.
Which circles back to Anakin’s idea.
“You don’t have to announce anything. It’s not like anyone is going to be on the lookout for you.”
“Then what’s my motive for going?”
It strikes Obi-Wan a beat too late that this is the first time Anakin has wanted to do something with him, that this would be their first trip together, and maybe he should consider backpedaling, but Anakin’s got an answer already.
“‘Cus maybe you’ll finally update your setup if you talk to other streamers and hear what they’ve got. And also, they’ll be running Drunk DnD tables. You keep complaining that it doesn’t feel the same if everyone isn’t sitting down yelling at each other in one room.”
Obi-Wan can’t deny he’s been browsing a few forums to find out if he should invest in an expensive new camera. Or that he hasn’t complained about DMing online.
He’s being checkmated with his own desires. Anakin likes to build his case with an engineer's precision, leaving no logical path for retreat.
Sometimes it’s endearing. Other times it’s annoying.
"Using my own private musings against me," Obi-Wan finally says, feigning sternness. "A low blow, even for you." The fondness in his voice betrays him completely.
Anakin is unrepentant. “Is that a yes?"
“It’s a maybe."
—
The next time Obi-Wan reflexively navigates to his curated bookmark folder of the five camera models he’s narrowed down his options to, along with the accompanying pro/con debates on Reddit, he feels inexplicably guilty for that maybe.
It’s not as if Anakin pressured him to change his mind and he dug his heels in. Maybe this is Obi-Wan spinning it all into a bigger thing than it actually is. As the kids would say, it wasn’t that deep.
Which, fair, it doesn’t seem that Anakin’s holding a grudge about it. He’s more preoccupied with his latest project and grousing about his bosses. It’s just Obi-Wan, sitting at his desk with his mouse hovering over an acerbic but educational exchange between redditors as to why the latest model out from Elgato isn’t worth the price tag, having a minor crisis.
Why not just say yes? He’s not uninterested in the sort of panels and interviews at StreamCon; he’s tuned into the live feed a few times over the years. Not everyone who attends is a foul-mouthed performance troll pandering to the lowest common denominator—though there’s plenty of that, too.
This is still bothering him after his charity stream. And after he makes chicken and eggplant parmesan lasagna for dinner, which he eats alone after Anakin texts that he’ll be staying late at the office.
【ANAKIN】btw my boss is satan ive sold my soul for a yearly bonus
【ANAKIN】dont worry about dinner i can pick up something on the way
【OBI-WAN】[dinner.jpg attached]
【ANAKIN】oh
【ANAKIN】oh thats just mean 😟
【OBI-WAN】It will reheat perfectly fine. Give me a 15 minute warning when you’re leaving work.
【ANAKIN】y e s s s s s ur so wizard
Obi-Wan has no idea if the younger generation actually says that, or if that’s an Anakinism.
He’s washing the dishes when he meets eyes with his reflection in the kitchen window. And in a pique of self-pity, runs a critical diagnosis of all the ways that he’s grown old. Much more so in the last few years, he feels, as if time has wound up, but before, it didn’t matter to him that the gray was spreading so much, that he was getting lax about letting his beard expand. Noticing a new wrinkle or a liver spot was a point of interest, sometimes a wry realization.
Now he can’t help but compare himself to Anakin, and the contrast between a twenty-five-year-old who goes to the gym twice a week and an early retiree who believes in daily walks is… not a favorable one.
They’re in a safe bubble, the two of them. The three largest points of contact with the outside world are places where they’re already known and mistaken—or believed—for a couple before they crossed that line themselves. When they walk down to the café for a breather, the baristas don’t shoot them odd looks; neither do the clerks at the grocery store.
And the viewers… well, they’re so enthusiastic that Obi-Wan should be glad that Anakin is so chill about the whole “shipping” thing.
He rubs his cheek as if he could wipe away the dark brown liver spot that showed up there this past summer with soap and water the same way he can scrub tomato sauce off the dishes. His hazy reflection looks downright sheepish when that doesn’t work.
“I’m not embarrassed,” he announces to the empty house, deciding he doesn’t like that train of thought much. “Anakin is a grown adult who makes his own choices. He knows exactly what he got into with me.”
Anyone else would have run rather than risk becoming a minor online celebrity to a strange audience; Anakin had instead suggested the Anatokens for the fanservice.
Alright, so he has nothing to be ashamed of. He’s in a perfectly healthy relationship with a younger man that he’s falling for.
And yet, the hesitation lingers, a stubborn knot his logic can’t untie. It’s not about shame, it’s about exposing this simple, tender thing they'd built to the world's loud judgment. What if Anakin changes his mind?
Obi-Wan takes out his annoyance on a resilient fleck of sauce clinging to the pan. Well, what if he does? The world won’t end. Obi-Wan’s survived breakups and remained friendly with his exes. No reason the same can’t be true here, now, with Anakin.
His phone chirping drags Obi-Wan out of his tailspin crash landing. He dunks the pan back into the soapy water and wipes his hand with a towel to open the screen, wondering how long he’s been standing there for his fingers to get so pruney.
【ANAKIN】FREEDOM. cant continue project w/o coworker revisions. heading home now. u want me to pick up anything?
Obi-Wan finds himself smiling, unaware that he’s been frowning this whole time.
【OBI-WAN】Cinnamon rolls for breakfast.
【ANAKIN】cinnamon rolls for after dinner, got it
【ANAKIN】no dont argue with me cinnamon rolls expire after midnight i can buy more tomorrow. hot and rdy when u wake up
Obi-Wan feels his cheeks stretching to accommodate his widening smile.
【OBI-WAN】You’re the expert.
He puts his phone down, turns on the oven to reheat the lasagna, and goes on his computer to purchase StreamCon tickets.
Then he opens up his BlueSky account, which usually only sees update alerts of when he’s about to go live, and types out the following.
Anakin (yes, I know who you’ll show up for) and I will be attending StreamCon on the 17th and 18th. I am not hosting any panels, I’ll be a normal attendee, but I may set up a casual meet and greet outside the con, if there’s interest. Details pending.
— Kenobi
—
In an hour, it becomes his most popular post.
—
ragnalothcat » 👀👀 I can’t go, I’m cat sitting :( :( :( but you brave soldiers will go in my stead, yes?
calculus » I will sell a firstborn for pics. (It won’t be my firstborn but it’ll be SOMEONE’S.)
isthistakenyeshowaboutthis » i…. MIGHT be able to move some stuff around??
northwolvess » please. I am BEGGING. For us on the other side of the world. #webelieve #kenokin
b_cavendish » I still feel we should workshop that name. (Anabi isn’t much better, though.)
usakostar » 🥴😖🌈🎉🎊
—
Obi-Wan intends it to be a romantic surprise, and is in the process of developing a game plan to spring the news when Anakin interrupts his late-night Stardew Valley stream, looking baffled and confused. “We’re going to StreamCon?”
The stream chat instantly changes to a mass group chant of Anakin’s name. Obi-Wan hastily turns off donations—but he’s too late to stop the first one from slipping through.
“User 21artemis donated 7 credits. They say: eyes emoji, mouth emoji, eyes emoji,” the text-to-speech assistant reads off, greatly underplaying the value of the 👁👄👁 staring at him from the screen.
Obi-Wan pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture his audience knows well. The grand plan lasted all of ninety minutes before falling apart, and he deserves that.
He swivels in his chair to face the man in question, who still looks endearingly lost—though he first mutes his microphone and sets up the intermission loop. “That was supposed to be a surprise.”
“Oh, trust me, it’s a surprise.” Anakin’s still-wet hair curls endearingly against his temples. He holds up his phone, the screen glowing with a cascade of notifications. “My phone… it just sort of exploded,” he explains, as if that clarified everything.
And to Obi-Wan, it does. Of course, those that saw the post would have immediately descended, a frantic digital swarm tagging Anakin. So much for a grand romantic gesture. It feels less like a romantic overture now and more like a poorly executed battle plan.
He is too old to be pulling a Leeroy Jenkins.
“Is this an issue or…?”
Anakin shakes his head, the confusion melting away to be replaced by a delight that makes Obi-Wan’s own stomach flutter in response. “An issue? No. It’s great.” He steps closer, a private smile playing on his lips, the kind that never makes it on stream. “Just maybe next time, you could surprise me and then the entire internet.”
“Not the entire internet,” Obi-Wan hedges, expelling a breath, removing his headset so he can stand up and wrap his arms around Anakin, lungs filled with his freshly clean scent of soapy skin and their shampoo. “Just a very localized population with questionable interests.”
“Yeah, uh. Are we—” Anakin pulls back slightly, searching his face. “I don’t mind laying low,” he says carefully, though with a note of reluctance that Obi-Wan would need a concussion to miss.
Obi-Wan’s fingertips dig into the warm muscles at the low of Anakin’s back as he works up the saliva to wet his suddenly dry mouth. “That depends; have you discovered who runs the black book yet?”
“Oh, yeah.” Anakin grins, satisfied. “Ages ago. In fact, I should add a new bet, right? Make it interesting by putting a date stamp on it.”
“Hour stamp,” Obi-Wan suggests. “9 PM on Saturday the 17th.”
“Oh, that’s just mean. You really want the money to upgrade that camera of yours, huh?”
He’s forgotten about all of it until now, actually. But it gives him a convenient excuse, so he’s taking it. What truly matters is the way Anakin lights up with conspiratorial glee; it reframes the whole affair into less of a public ordeal and into a game they’re playing together.
“And then you claim you never cheat,” Anakin says, knocking their foreheads gently together. “You’re a conman.”
“Maybe I’m just picking up bad habits from you.”
Anakin snorts and kisses him briefly, tasting like mint mouthwash. “You realize chat is probably setting fire to your channel right now for leaving them hanging, yeah? Mass hysteria and threats of violence?”
… Obi-Wan startles slightly, alarmed. Oh, his poor mods. He’s going to have to apologize for that.
Actually, he’s going to need to raise their salary to deal with chat after StreamCon. What was the going rate for hazard pay?
Before Anakin can escape, since he doesn’t have to deal with the mess he’s caused, Obi-Wan holds his shoulders. “Are you sure about this? I’m not really that famous, but this is still… a lot.”
Obi-Wan’s parents aren’t alive anymore. Neither is his mentor. Anakin’s already met his friends, he’s part of their weekly DnD sessions, after all. But this is the jump between taking things as they come and turning serious about their relationship; that’s what this represents.
“I think you’re a lot more wigged out by chat than I am,” Anakin observes, and he isn’t wrong. He’s also, maybe, not as concerned about their age gap as Obi-Wan is.
If it’s ever crossed his mind as a problem in the first place.
“I’m totally on board. You can’t get rid of me that easily. I’m just… there is one thing…” Anakin hesitates, and Obi-Wan’s blood freezes.
Then he realizes that Anakin’s not that good an actor; he’s still smiling with his eyes.
“I’ve heard ships that go canon don’t get as much fanfic…”
Obi-Wan counts to five. “I’m going to block AO3 on the Wi-Fi.”
“No, wait, there’s this really good one that’s going to update tonight! Obi-Wan, no!”
(He does end up blocking AO3, but Anakin logs in five minutes later and changes it back.)