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There was only one moon on Deralia II. A large opalescent sphere that hung so low in the sky, one had only to reach out and imagine their fingers would kiss the surface. The night cycle was long and the moon never dipped far below the horizon before cresting once more and bathing the sparsely populated world in an eerie white glow.
Tatooine had three moons. The overpowering light from Tatoo I and Tatoo II scorched the very life from the barren dunes in the daytime, but when night fell, the three moons reigned, a pitiful source for guidance even when skies were clear. When sandstorms battered the lands and obscured all sight and sound but the roar of the storm, there might as well have been nothing but a vast inky blackness up above.
Coruscant had four moons, and even in the deepest depths of the Lower Levels, there was never a moment of true darkness. There was always something shining above, and the neon lights of civilization penetrated every corner.
Deralia II had neither storms nor civilization. Only the single ever-present moon kept the shadows at bay. Villages and mining owns lay scattered across the landscape, but with war on their doorstep, the people of Deralia II had chosen darkness over bloodshed. A wise decision. They turned their lights off at dusk, leaving the only artificial light that which the Grand Army of the Republic had brought with them, dimmed to hide their position. Dimmed like the red sun that haunted the sky in the daylight.
In the weeks since their campaign against the Separatists had begun on Deralia II, no storms had gathered to blot out the sun or the moon. Moments of darkness were few and far between, and they brought with them a deathly silence usually found only in deep in the vacuum of space. A silence void of speech, of breath, of life. Only the Force stood bright and unignorable.
But the Force had been elusive since Geonosis. Since Tatooine. Since Anakin had abandoned the only person to ever love him, let her to die alone and afraid. Sometimes it was just there, too much and overwhelming as it flooded his senses. Sometimes it wasn’t, just out of reach no matter how far he stretched.
And now he was stuck on another planet he had never heard of before, caught up in a war he didn’t truly understand, following orders, fighting, winning, killing for peace. He put one foot in front of the other and just kept going, because there was nothing else for it. Just keep going, never stopping to breathe, never stopping to think.
Outside, the troops huddled together in a rare moment of quiet. They ate their cold rations without complaint, rested their weary bodies after long hours covered head-to-toe in plastoid armor, and fell into an easy camaraderie like only brothers could.
But inside the small metal structure barely large enough for two grown men to share, there was only Anakin standing watch over the sleeping form of his former master in the still, quiet night. No battle called, no urgent need drew their attention, and no harm would come. Not in the middle of camp, surrounded by troops and machinery that could spot any approach long before it became a threat.
Yet still Anakin kept watch over Obi-Wan like the moon kept watch over them all. His mother had been taken before dawn, and by moonlight Anakin had found her again. Too late to save her. Too late for anything good. Anakin wouldn’t let the darkness take Obi-Wan from him too. So there he would remain until a new day broke, and to the march of war they returned.
And so it would be, day after day, battle after battle, planet after planet, until the war ended. Or Anakin ended. Or Obi-Wan ended what little connection remained between them. It would happen one day. Anakin knew it would. And not a thousand suns nor a thousand moons could ever shine a light as bright as Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Some wounds even time refused to heal. The charred flesh where his arm used to be was still new enough to ache, but it wasn’t what kept him up at night. The war, the future of the Republic. They didn’t worry at his mind and gnaw at his insides. Either he lived, or he didn’t.
It was the past. Regret, and loneliness. They ate him alive.
His mother was gone—dead at the hands of those who were now nothing more than corpses laying in the sand. Padmé scorned his affection, horrified at what he had become. And Obi-Wan remained as distant as ever, no matter that Anakin had proven himself worthy of being a Jedi knight, had shown how powerful he was. He commanded battles and armies as a general, the best among the Jedi, even better than the masters on the Council, and finally the whole galaxy could see prowess.
He had nothing. He had no one. He was alone. What good was power if he had nothing to show for it? Everyone he loved left him or died. All that remained was the memories of his own deeds, barking at his heels and chasing him from his sleep.
He couldn’t remember the last time he slept. The last time he dreamed.
His time on Naboo was like a dream, soft and wonderful. It lulled him away from the pain, from the nightmares, from reality. Padmé was everything he thought he wanted. His beautiful, passionate angel. But none of it was real. He had to wake up. He loved her, and he thought she loved him too. He was wrong.
No one could ever love a monster like him.
Padmé was right to reject him. His hard edges would only cut her delicate skin if he got too close. Perhaps in another life, a kinder one, they could have been together. But in this life, the only one they had to live, Anakin would fight for the Republic, he would die for the Republic, and he would never know peace, he would never know thanks, and he would never again know love.
He didn’t need love. Love was a weakness, a distraction—one he couldn’t afford if he wanted to win the war and fulfil his destiny. There was no room for love when his days were filled with blasterfire and blood and snoic showers strong enough to peel his skin off just so he could leave the battlefield behind. The pain was a part of him just as much as his heart or his lungs. He wouldn’t fall for the lies of dreams anymore.
Did Obi-Wan dream of the peaceful end Anakin could not? Asleep beneath the sheets, clean without the need to tear his skin apart to wash away the blood, brow smoothed, no sign of nightmares disturbing him. Was he unburdened by doubt, and by memory and thought? That creeping sweeping feeling, digging deep down and dredging up memories that were better left buried. The tightness behind the eyes that grew every day.
Obi-Wan slept like the dead. Anakin couldn’t begrudge him for that. His grievances were many, but at least one of them was able to find a moment’s peace, even if it could only be found in dreams.
In the waking world, there was nothing but the howling of the wind and the light of the moon, the ache of weariness that Anakin had long gone numb to and the promise of another battle waiting just out of sight.
Yet Anakin could not sleep. He wouldn’t. He would sleep when he’s dead. When the weight of his sins dragged him deep below the dirt and buried him so far under that the light of the moon couldn’t reach him anymore.
If he slept, he saw his mother. He heard the cries of the Tusken villagers as he slaughtered them all—men, women, and children alike begging for mercy that he would never grant. But he couldn’t hear her voice anymore. He couldn’t hear her say his name just one last time.
When he died, his mother wouldn’t be there. And he could finally rest.
Until then, he had to keep going. There was no relief in sight from this endless misery, but what else could he do? He wasn’t like Obi-Wan. He couldn’t find comfort in old habits, in clinging to the tenets of a supposedly peaceful religion while they led legions into battle. There was no solace in meditation, the Force had abandoned him.
Anakin was a general first and a Jedi second. So long as the war raged on, peace wasn’t an option.
And what was peace even supposed to be like? Who was it meant to be for? No matter how hard they fought, how many they lost, yet another battle awaited at every turn. The galaxy suffered because the people in charge were too busy with petty arguments about procedures and laws, and they never lost any sleep while they sent soldiers off to die in the name of a Republic that would never bother to learn their names.
The clones would never know peace. The lives of civilians on both sides were forgotten about and destroyed like they meant nothing. They were all casualties in a war they had no hand in starting.
It had to end. The Separatists had to be defeated. The Sith must be destroyed. And Anakin would be the one to make sure of it.
Peace was a promise Anakin could never keep. Peace was for those who could still dream, whose lives weren’t set upon a violent course before they were ever born. Peace was a lie.
Obi-Wan was free to dream of peace; Anakin would stay awake until the end.
His perfect master slept away, and Anakin watched on, looking but never touching. For as easy as he slept, getting him into a bed was a battle in itself. If Obi-Wan had his way, he too would stay up, planning and strategizing until his body gave way and he collapsed mid-sentence.
Sleep wasn’t what Obi-Wan wanted, but it was what he desperately needed. Obi-Wan had no idea what he really needed, but Anakin did. Anakin knew what was best for him, and if it took chaining Obi-Wan to get him some rest, he would gladly make it happen.
But the war. The war took away all their wants and needs. It stripped them to the bone and made mockery of what it meant to be a Jedi.
Obi-Wan didn’t deserve to die on a muddy battlefield in the Outer Rim, too tired to deflect one lone lethal blow, alone and with only his faith to keep him company as his body grew cold and he passed on into the Force. His death would mean nothing, just another name on the list of casualties.
If Anakin won the war, that would never come to pass. He could save so many clones, so many Jedi, so many brothers and sisters and fathers and mothers like he couldn’t save his own.
He couldn’t win anything if he slept. He would stay awake and keep watch while Obi-Wan rested, forever if need be. He would bear the pain and suffering until the bitter end.
But the war had just begun. To last the long days and the longer nights, Anakin needed something else. He needed something more.
He needed something good. He needed some kindness, some light to brighten the path as he waded through the dark. Even if it slipped through his hands in fine grains, at least it would have been real for a moment, real in a way that nothing had felt since the nightmares of his mother began. The world had been one waking nightmare with no end in sight. If he slept, he dreamed. If he dreamed, he died. Maybe he was dead anyway. Pleasure was for the living, and Anakin felt none of it.
Didn’t he deserve to feel alive again?
“Anakin?”
Obi-Wan’s wide eyes reflected pale moonlight right back at Anakin’s soul. He could get lost in that light, if he wasn’t already lost in the dark. His hands, both flesh and metal, twitched to reach out and cup the light, to hold it close, to warm him or snuff it out he wouldn’t know until he tried.
“What are you doing?”
But the light was not his to hold, to touch or bathe in as it bathed Obi-Wan clean of the sins of war.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
Blinking at last, stealing away the light for just a heartbeat and no longer, Obi-Wan sat up on his cot and stroked his hand down his beard. The single sheet and too-thin blanket pooled at his lap, leaving too much bare skin on display with his sleeveless tunic. It was obscene. It was unbecoming of Obi-Wan. Anakin drank in every last drop.
“That will be difficult with you hovering. Lay down. You need to get some rest as well.”
He looked away from Anakin, over at the untouched cot lying an arm’s length away. Anakin knew it was there. He couldn’t have missed it in the too-small space granted to them. But he never once thought of using it. He hardly felt his legs anymore yet still he kept standing. Still he kept watch. Still he remained.
“I can’t sleep while people are dying.”
The softest of sighs, like he didn’t want Anakin to hear. Like he could hide his irritation, his annoyance, his disappointment. “People are always dying. You cannot stop death. And you can’t save anyone if you’re dead on your feet.”
“I’m already dead.”
Obi-Wan had no smart remarks for that. No quippy comeback or sharp dismissal. He just laid there with his sheet draped around him, wide moonlight eyes snapping back to Anakin. Silence. Stillness. No breath. No speech. No life.
“Come here,” Anakin heard, distant as anything was. As far away and close as the moon was, always reaching out but never able to touch. “Why don’t you lay down with me a while? I miss having you close by.”
“Do you?”
If only they were ever close to begin with.
“Always.” Obi-Wan reached out, the tips of his fingers brushing against the back of Anakin’s real hand. Just a glancing touch, enough to be imagined. Enough to be denied. But it was enough. “Lay with me, Anakin.”
How could he remain, when temptation beckoned him closer? He climbed onto the cot, slow enough for Obi-Wan to wrestle his boots onto the floor. He had no more room for doubt, nor more room for hesitation, as he settled down, his head on the pillow. Facing Obi-Wan, whose face lay on the same pillow, staring straight into Anakin’s eyes.
Obi-Wan was so soft. When had he gotten so soft? He was always soft, but he never let Anakin close enough to know. He could only look and imagine but now he could feel. Now he could reach up and feel along the soft bristles of Obi-Wan’s beard, trace the outline of his jaw and cheekbones with his fingers and palm, brush the pad of his thumb against his thin and dry and cracked and somehow still so soft lips.
Obi-Wan was all he had left. Qui-Gon was gone. His mother was gone. Padmé spurned him. No one else could even tolerate him long enough to hate him.
Maybe he could have saved his mother if she hated him. Maybe his love was what killed her. He never loved Qui-Gon, but he could have. Padmé nearly died because he loved her. Anakin’s love was a rotten fruit and Obi-Wan’s saving grace was that he never grew a taste for it.
But would that be enough to keep him safe? Anakin couldn’t be there to protect him on every battlefield and stop every blastershot.
If Obi-Wan hated him, stayed far, far away, he wouldn’t meet a terrible end like Qui-Gon. Like Anakin’s mother.
Obi-Wan was perfect, a perfect man, perfect Jedi. Anakin’s love would only frighten him, anger him. As much as a Jedi could feel either of those things. If he could see into the very depths of Anakin’s soul and see what darkness lurked there, it would shock him to his core. Love, the kind that no Jedi should feel, would sicken him, and make him look upon the man he raised with nothing but distain.
He only had to show him the monster he had become.
Anakin kissed Obi-Wan’s too soft lips, a gentle touch that he hadn’t known since he left his mother behind. Barely there, barely anything at all. But real and electric. Breathtaking. Heart stopping. Life ending. To have another person so close. To have Obi-Wan so close.
One kiss was all it would take for Obi-Wan to hate him. Just one.
One would never be enough. Not for Anakin.
Obi-Wan leaned away, just as Anakin knew he would. He stared back, emotions unreadable as always. But the light the light the light it called. It beckoned. It gleamed. “This is what you need.”
He couldn’t possibly know what Anakin needed. Obi-Wan wasn’t even aware of his own needs. But Anakin knew. He knew that Obi-Wan needed rest, he needed to be safe, he needed to stay far away from Anakin before he was hurt so badly that he could never recover.
And Anakin knew that if Obi-Wan didn’t leave now, he wouldn’t stop until Obi-Wan loved him or hated him. Because what Anakin needed, what Anakin always needed, was someone to reach into his chest, tear his heart from his ribcage, and stop him from every feeling anything again. Someone to guard his heart from the cruelty of the world, or crush it to smithereens. The result would be the same. Anakin would be no more, the monster slayed at last.
Obi-Wan leaned closer, and stole his breath, his heart, his life, but the light was his for Anakin to steal, and his eyes fluttered softly to a close when Anakin kissed him once more. Gone was the light, gone was the distance. Gone was sanity and reality, for nothing could be real while Anakin clung to Obi-Wan’s body without resistance, yet nothing could be more real than the burning brandishing kisses he pressed on Obi-Wan’s soft lips, across his cheekbones and jawline, down his sloping neck and dipped between his collarbones. All across the obscene planes of skin on display for just Anakin to see, just Anakin to touch. To kiss. To run his hands up and down and feel the flesh fit perfectly in his palms.
To hold and squeeze and dig his nails in until the softest sighs of Obi-Wan turn into the sharpest gasps. But never forming words to say stop, to say slow down, to say softer. Obi-Wan was soft, but Anakin was hard, in words in body, in touch. It was who he was, and he could be no one else.
It must hurt, how hard he gripped Obi-Wan’s waist, his chest. Hard enough to bruise his soft skin. Hard enough to leave behind marks to prove it was real. To prove it happened. But Obi-Wan didn’t stop him. Didn’t even open his eyes, even as Anakin’s hands roamed, possessive and claiming and punishing. Punishing him for not pushing him away. Punishing him for not hating him. Punishing him for not loving him the way Anakin needed to be loved.
Flesh and metal push and mold bone and sinew, bending never breaking, always knowing when to stop. Obi-Wan’s pulse thundered under Anakin’s thumb, his palms cradling a weak and vulnerable throat. He could squeeze here too. Push and mold to fit his hands. Choke the life from Obi-Wan so easily. And who would stop him? Obi-Wan? Anakin? Not him not him never him he never knew when to stop.
The breath of life slipped from Obi-Wan’s soft lips.
And Obi-Wan’s hand slipped underneath Anakin’s prosthetic grip, and their fingers laced together so perfectly.
“I’m here,” Obi-Wan rasped, his eyes open, the light shining through, never looking away, never pushing him apart. “You’re alright. We’re safe.”
He only said that because he didn’t know the danger he was in.
Anakin shoved Obi-Wan by the hip onto his back and pulled his leggings down to his knees in one sharp tug, the sound of stitches tearing louder than Obi-Wan’s muted gasp. Obi-Wan’s cock was freed, laying soft against his thigh. Anakin grasped it, warm and solid and real in his palm, pulsing and twitching and hardening under his touch.
He settled up close, plastering himself against Obi-Wan’s side, until no part of them wasn’t touching. There was nothing between them, not anymore. But it wasn’t close enough. It would never be enough.
He sunk his teeth into the exposed, soft flesh of Obi-Wan’s neck, hearing his old master groan in pain even as his cock grew ever harder. There was no coppery tang of blood, no pulse beneath his lips, but the hand gripping his own, flesh encasing metal, real surrounding the unreal, drew him back to reality, if only for a moment.
Another hand danced up his neck, warm and firm in its touch. Obi-Wan’s fingers threaded through his short curls, parting them with ease, gripping and tugging him apart, separating him from Obi-Wan’s neck. The sting at his scalp blurred his vision until Obi-Wan had neither shape nor form beneath him in the pale moonlight. There was only sensation, of Obi-Wan leading him back to his chapped and soft lips, of his body writhing underneath Anakin in pleasure. Of his chest heaving with the very breath Anakin stole from him.
A shadow covered the moon. The world went dark. Anakin couldn’t see Obi-Wan’s face. Could only hear his breath hitch. Could only feel his cock throb beneath his palm, his hips bucking, and the warmth of his release spreading across Anakin’s fingers.
Was any of it real?
Was the squeeze around the sensors in his hand just his imagination?
Was he dreaming or was he dead?
He couldn’t feel his own heart beating in his chest or the blood rushing through his veins.
There was no light. There was nothing. He was alone.
With one last desperate grasp, he reached out in the Force.
And was met with Obi-Wan. All of Obi-Wan. All his soft curves and jagged edges. All his innermost thoughts and deepest secrets. His rabbiting heartrate, his greedy lungs filling with air. The tiredness that reached down into his very soul, the pleasure, so new, so exciting, so wonderful.
The fear. He was so afraid of Anakin, and yet he never wanted to let him out of his sight. He wanted to hold on with all his might, and never let him go.
And if Anakin couldn’t feel himself, couldn’t feel the rest of the world, at least he could feel Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan was real, sweat and blood pumping just beneath his flushed skin, the smell of his seed painting the dark of night.
If Obi-Wan was all that was real, then all that was real was Obi-Wan. There was no Anakin. Anakin was a lie. All there was, all there ever would be, was now.
Anakin who was Obi-Wan and not Anakin collapsed onto the cot and the lull of twin hearts beating in their chest followed into sleep.