Chapter Text
The world Obi-Wan wakes up to is dark, and not only because of a lack of light — the ambience of the Force is dark. The shroud that has grown to obscure it since the start of the war feels doubled, impenetrable. The only things that come through produce a chill in his bones.
The hum of hyperspace travel resonates abnormally loud through the ship. He places his hands over his ears to keep it out until he wakes more, and it settles into the background. Still his heartbeat pounds nauseatingly in his head. He tries to sit. Trying being the operative part. He exercises great effort to little effect. His blood rushes away from his head, and his muscles shake, forcing him back into a prone position. Admitting defeat, he turns to putting together how he ended up like this, but remembering what happened is likewise more difficult than he would like. Separatist-paid bounty hunters, maybe. Bounty hunters, definitely. Ones who had decided on carbonite freezing to keep him subdued. He’d heard them argue that it was the only sure way to transport a Jedi. From experience he knows, it isn’t the only sure way, but Obi-Wan has to agree that it has been devastatingly effective. It still is. He’s as useless as a newborn tooka. He smiles wryly to himself, concluding why he can’t see and feels like the day after a friend’s Knighting Ceremony — carbonite sickness.
Fumbling, he sinks further into the Force, which doesn’t initially yield more information than his eyes had. The darkness is overwhelmingly vast, and though he pushes through with stubborn determination it takes time to get anywhere. He wants to know if Dooku is aboard this ship — he is the most likely person to desire his capture, after all. If he has been captured by their worst enemy, he wants to steel himself for whatever comes next.
Thankfully, it’s not Dooku he finds.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan whispers, muscles going lax with relief. He sinks into the bunk. Anakin means he’s safe, among friends, saved. The bond that connects them flares to life — a light in the dark — and he feels the Anakin sense him. An maelstrom of emotions floods him. It’s a lot. Too much. He welcomes it because it’s Anakin, and thus it’s a sweet excess.
A door slides open with a pneumatic hiss, bringing with it cold air, the smell of oil, and Anakin.
“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says, voice shaking from too many emotions to name — Obi-Wan feels every one.
“Hello there,” he manages to say before Anakin states the obvious.
“You’re awake.”
“So it seems,” he agrees.
“How do you feel?”
Obi-Wan strains to see Anakin. As expected, he sees nothing no matter how wide he makes his eyes. Anakin’s voice sounds near, though. Obi-Wan senses him by his side, and when he reaches, Anakin cradles his hand in his — the metal one is gloved, the other burning hot against Obi-Wan’s skin. Or maybe Obi-Wan’s simply very cold himself. It seems he’s not quite well.
“I’ve been better,” he says. “Was I in carbonite for long?”
In response, Anakin is silent which is never a good sign. When he wishes to hide things, they tend to be troublesome ones. Things he, for good reason, thinks will earn censure.
A conclusion is easy to draw. Resignation settles over Obi-Wan like a wet blanket. “For a long time then,” he says.
Anakin’s fingers stroke the back of his hand in small, gentle motions. “You won’t believe it.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Anakin hesitates, and his bitten-back words sit like a lump in Obi-Wan’s own throat. Obi-Wan swallows several times in an effort to make sure his voice will be clear. “Please.”
The quiet grows denser. Then like a thunderclap, Anakin says, “It’s been seven and a half years.”
Obi-Wan is stunned into dumbfounded denial. Seven years. That’s too long. That can’t possibly be right. Anakin can’t be nearly thirty years old. Cody can’t be old enough to have a head of grey hair — if he’s alive. Too much must have happened. The possibilities are endless and equally as daunting.
“Master, are you… how do you…” Anakin exhales loudly. It’s a shaky thing followed by inhales that each try to be the start of sentences but trickle into silence.
Obi-Wan gives his hand a light squeeze. He can’t take Anakin’s distress on top of his own.
Anakin rallies. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t find you sooner.”
Obi-Wan squeezes his hand again, accepting the apology for what it is, not a claim of true responsibility, just regret at perceived failings. “How did this happen?” he asks.
“Not sure. Best I can tell, the bounty hunter who got you had some bounties on his own head. He got caught while holding you captive. The bounty hunter who brought him in left you and the ship to drift. It took me ages to find out who’d captured you, and then who captured him and where.” A small unhappy chuckle vibrates through Anakin, more felt through their connected hands than heard. “There were so many other things I had to do too. Duties I couldn’t walk away from. But there wasn’t a moment I didn't think of you. I never gave up. I swear, I did everything I could.”
“I know you did. Of course, you did. You probably did more than you should have if I know you at all, so I don’t blame you that it took time. I’m grateful you succeeded.”
Comforting Anakin is second nature and happens without conscious effort. Helping him and soothing his worries have been a part of Obi-Wan’s life for so long that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop. That doesn’t mean he can’t be wry as well.
“Eventually,” he tags on, smirking faintly.
“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says, endearingly plaintive. Maybe this isn’t the time for teasing then.
“It’s true. I mean it,” Obi-Wan hurries to reassure. He’s grateful, truly. He can mean it and be unhappy about his situation at the same time. He grieves the years lost, but the blame for not seeing the attack coming rests on his own shoulders, not Anakin’s.
Anakin takes a firmer grip on his hand. Obi-Wan’s hand has warmed by now — a good sign surely. The firmness calms something prickly inside him. The comfort of the small gesture gives him the courage to ask his next question.
“Is the war over?”
“Yes,” Anakin says curtly. He doesn’t say it with relief or even bitterness. There’s only flat unhappiness.
“What happened?”
“We lost.”
“No.” Obi-Wan doesn’t know how to handle another revelation of this magnitude. Denial is the only rational thing, the only available recourse.
“I’m sorry.”
Too late, he says: “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault personally.”
“If I’d…” Anakin bends over their connected hands, his hair tickling Obi-Wan’s wrist.
“If you’d what?” Obi-Wan snaps, the dread twisting his voice to sound angry.
“If I hadn’t disobeyed orders to search for you, I might have been able to make a difference.”
Obi-Wan wishes he were surprised. Sentiment winning over duty, that’s Anakin. As the benefitting party, his feelings on the matter are complicated. All he can say is, “Anakin,” letting the name carry his admonishment, his exasperation, and his love.
“I couldn’t abandon you!” Anakin says. “I couldn’t. I had a lead. The best one in over a year, and while I was away, the Republic fell.” Anakin pauses, hands shaking. “The Jedi with it.”
Gut-punching disappointment in Anakin for his selfishness blends with devastation and gratefulness and acute relief. The Force confirms it. The Jedi are gone. The Republic too. It explains the darkness. The Sith triumphed. It’s so much, too much, and he can’t bring himself to think about it too deeply when he’s already hurting. He can’t think about it, but he can comfort Anakin and take comfort in the fact that they’re alive and together against the odds.
“If you’d been there, you might have died with them,” Obi-Wan voices his fear, turning it into an excuse Anakin can use.
“Maybe. Or maybe I could have stopped it. You see… I mean… I would have been in a unique position to…” Anakin’s rambling trails off again. Obi-Wan’s breath stutters as he takes in Anakin’s distress and tries to prepare himself for the next blow. He can’t imagine how this can get worse, but he can sense it coming.
And it does.
“The Sith Master is Palpatine,” Anakin says. “He declared himself Emperor and transformed the Republic into the First Galactic Empire.”
If Obi-Wan wasn’t already laying down, he would have collapsed. Palpatine. The things the Jedi Order have sacrificed for that man are numerous. Damning. The access he’s had to Anakin over the years, too — the implications turns Obi-Wan’s nausea violent. He gags, swallowing back bile.
“Obi-Wan?”
Obi-Wan doesn’t answer. If he does, he might break something within himself. A hatred he has never known burns his insides. Not even Maul had awakened the pitch-black pit he carries within himself. No, that was reserved for the Sith Master.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Master. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’ve tried to be better, do better. You must believe me.”
As Anakin rambles on in a panicked way, Obi-Wan automatically rallies to meet his needs. Years of self-discipline and reflection grant him clarity and the ability to let the hate go.
“Shhh. Shhh, Anakin. I’m not angry at you,” Obi-Wan says, cutting him off. “I don’t blame you for any of it.”
He can’t possibly be angry at Anakin when relief fills the space left behind by the hatred. Anakin had been searching for him, away from Coruscant, away from Palpatine and is thus not fallen. He’s still himself, still rooted in the light side. Still as light as the war has allowed any of them to remain. Obi-Wan clings to the notion as tightly as he clings to Anakin’s hand.
Anakin clings to him too. “I’m glad you’re here, Master,” he says with a tightness in his nose and a raspiness in his throat. On the verge of tears. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’m glad I’m here too. We’ll find a way to make things better.”
“I hope so. I know so. With you back…”
“Yes.”
There will be time to plan a freedom fight. Time to worry about the past. Just not now. For one moment, he’ll bask in the fact that he and Anakin are together. He still has his dearest friend. Can hear him, feel him, but…
“I wish I could see you.”
“You’ll get your sight back in a day or two.”
“That’s not certain. Not if I was frozen for years. Hibernation sickness is nothing to take lightly.” His thoughts go to Master Tahl, one of Qui-Gon’s closest friends in the order. A horrific injury had damaged her eyes, yet she had been as formidable after being blinded as she ever was before. He tells himself he’ll be fine too. He must be. He’ll adapt.
“You will see again. I promise,” Anakin says. ”The med droid’s been injecting you with Andris. You remember how we packed it for the infiltration of the Citadel, right? In case any of us got carbonite sickness? Well, you’re pumped full of it, and it’s helped. Emdee thinks you’ll make a complete recovery. You’ve already exceeded expectations. It didn’t think you’d wake up for another ten hours.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Sure is.” There’s a smile in Anakin’s voice.
“Since I can't see, would you mind if I…?” Obi-Wan reaches out his free hand in the direction he thinks Anakin’s head is.
“What? Oh! Sure. Go ahead.” Anakin helps guide Obi-Wan’s hand to his face. The desire to touch is irrational. Blind people don’t go around asking to touch people’s faces. But Obi-Wan isn’t blind. And it’s Anakin.
Obi-Wan twitches, almost drawing back at the texture he meets. Prickly hair.
“You grew a beard?”
“Yeah. Helps with being a known rebel. They have my picture from before, but so far no one’s caught any good images with my new look. Also… It made me feel closer to you. I copied your style.” Obi-Wan can physically feel the heat spreading through Anakin’s cheeks at this admission.
“Oh.”
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“No.” Obi-Wan’s voice breaks, and he turns it into a weak cough that fools no one. “Not at all.”
His face warms too — he feels somewhere between flattered and off-balance. He traces the edge of Anakin’s beard along his cheek to distract himself, sensing the transition between smooth skin, barely-there-stubble, and the actual beard. Anakin’s keeping the edge clean. That takes some maintenance. Obi-Wan desperately wants to know what it looks like, wants to see if there are new scars, if Anakin’s begun to develop permanent wrinkles, if the years have changed the light in his eyes. He searches with his fingers, but they are a poor substitute for his eyes.
“Sorry,” he mumbles when he catches the corner of Anakin’s mouth. He quickly pulls his hand back, fingers tingling.
Breathy and quiet, Anakin answers, “No harm done. You don’t have to stop.”
Though permission has been granted, Obi-Wan withdraws. It’s too much. Too strange.
“Tell me more of what’s happened,” he requests instead. Duty has ever been easier than feelings for him and a seven-year-long freeze has not changed this facet of who he is.
Two days later, Obi-Wan’s sight begins to return. When he wakes things are fuzzy. A few blinks later, things begin to gain focus. He stays still to give his eyes more time. Across the small sleeping quarters, Anakin’s asleep in another bunk. Once Obi-Wan can see almost as well as he should, with only some stubborn blurriness lingering at the periphery, he takes the chance to look to his satisfaction.
The image he’s conjured up to understand what an older Anakin would look like pales compared to reality. He’d not been able to picture how a beard would outline the edges of his face, adding sharpness to his jaw and hiding his cleft chin. His beard is ever so slightly darker than his hair, which is longer than Obi-Wan’s ever seen it. While there are signs of new wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead, Anakin’s face is slack with sleep. It allows Obi-Wan to pretend that only months have gone by and that Anakin is the same young man as he was when they were last together.
Obi-Wan knows better, though. Long conversations with Anakin over the past few days have made the passage of time undeniable. Maturity doesn’t come overnight — and Anakin’s gained it. Obi-Wan had long despaired that it would never occur and had then been sure it would come given time. He was right. Although it hadn’t happened how he imagined it. The loss of first the Republic and the Jedi. Then becoming a father only to grow apart from Padmé. It was all a much steeper price than he would have wished for his former apprentice. In Anakin’s own words, it forced him to reevaluate what it means to take responsibility and to fight for more than himself.
Obi-Wan’s is proud. He grieves. He’s full of what-ifs. He wants his old friend back, and he wants to know every facet of this new Anakin and hold onto them tight. He likes this mature Anakin more than he could ever have dreamt and feels it makes him act a fool.
His conduct ought to be unflattering — he certainly feels it must be — but Anakin’s constant projection of happiness says otherwise. It’s dizzying to be so overtly wanted. He thinks the younger Anakin had liked his company well enough though he’d seldom said it out loud, and his smiles had grown rarer by the end, unable to break through the steadily growing tragedy of the war. Feeling Anakin happy and knowing his presence is the cause is more than dizzying — it’s intoxicating. Intermittently he walks around with the same high. It’s a state of disconnect from the physical, from his body and gravity both. It’s a state where it feels as if nothing can go wrong. It reminds him of the few times he’s been doused with — or willingly used — spice.
His mouth quirks up as Anakin wakes, sees him looking and smiles. He’s beautiful. His sleepy, instinctive smile only makes that even more apparent. They look into each other’s eyes.
“You can see,” Anakin says.
“I can.”
“Do you like what you see?”
“What?”
Did Anakin hear his thoughts about finding him beautiful? Is Anakin flirting with him? Surely not.
“I mean how do you think I pull off your look? The beard? Is it okay or is it weird? I can shave if it’s weird.” Anakin strokes his beard, not seeming to notice that he’s doing it. “I know you said you didn’t mind, but you’re allowed to think it’s weird now that you see it. I can think of another way to not be recognised. I could wear a mask or—”
“Anakin, stop. It’s fine.”
“You sure?”
“Perfectly sure.” It’s fine because it serves a legitimate purpose, and if Obi-Wan likes it more than he should, then he’ll find a way to deal with it. The same way he’s dealing with all the other changes.
And of course, Anakin didn’t mean anything by what he said, why would he? Just acting like he had when he was a youngling — always looking for approval from his master.
“Okay then.” Anakin pulls off his covers to get up, and Obi-Wan gets a face full of his chest, nipples standing out against the rest of the skin like targets, impossible to ignore. Anakin had gone to sleep without a shirt. Obi-Wan has to look away in order to not make things weird.
He fears it may be too late. He wants to look back, and only a small part of him wants to do it to search for signs of injuries. A larger part of him wants to check if there are patches of hair on Anakin’s chest or if he only saw shadows, and it would like to check if there’s a trail on his lower stomach that could serve as a guide further down. That same part wants to peruse the shape of Anakin’s pectorals and abdominals and catalogue the exact shade that separates his nipples from the rest of his skin. Fantasies of what exactly he’d like to do to those nipples intrude, the continued view not being necessary to keep the train of thought barreling along.
Obi-Wan rolls over to face the wall and covers his eyes with his arm, letting out a muffled groan as his shifting stimulates his cock.
He’s not allowed to lust after Anakin. He is not. Not his old Padawan. But old is such a keyword in that sentence. He’s grown. Become an equal. Matured. Grown more handsome, too. For a Jedi.
“Are you okay?” More caring as well. Hopefully, he’s not grown more observant too. Obi-Wan will not survive the embarrassment if he has and draws the right conclusion about the source of Obi-Wan’s predicament.
He exhales hastily, letting go of as many of his emotions as he can. He need only accept that they happened, that he doesn’t want them and move on. “I’m fine,” he says, thinking himself half-successful in keeping his newly acquired affliction hidden.
“Do your eyes hurt?”
“They’re fine.”
“You should let Emdee examine you anyway. You’ll let it, right?”
“Alright, Anakin.”
“Can you look at me?”
Obi-Wan can’t say no, though it would certainly be safer to refuse. He twists his neck and inches his arm away. Anakin’s closer than he expected, peering down with a guileless expression. He’s still shirtless. Temptation incarnate.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” There’s a small wrinkle between his brows as he concentrates, and he almost goes cross-eyed from staring at Obi-Wan from so close. It makes a smile tug at Obi-Wan’s mouth. Anakin can be endearingly fixated.
“All five.”
“And now?”
“Two. My eyes are fine, Anakin. And you know I don’t need to see to answer how many fingers you’re holding up. I’d be just as capable of telling you if you held your hand behind your back.”
“Right. I forgot.”
“You forgot? Anakin, are you okay?” Obi-Wan studies him. They both know very well that it’s a test any youngling could perform, and they’d established in the past few days that there’s nothing wrong with Obi-Wan’s connection to the Force. Something is going on with Anakin.
“Yeah, I’m good.” Anakin backs up and grabs a shirt, the muscles of his back moving enticingly as he pulls it on. He turns around, pulling his hair out from under the collar. There’s so much of it, messy curls cascading down his shoulders. “You know, you picked a good day to begin seeing again. We’ll land today. You’ll get to see Luke and Leia.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Great! I’ll go check that everything’s ready for landing. You get ready to talk to the med droid.”
“Sure.” Obi-Wan keeps his response short, wanting the conversation to end.
Anakin doesn’t seem to notice, mind already engaged with the flight controls. He waves over his shoulder. “See you in a bit.”
“See you.”
The moment Anakin’s out the door, Obi-Wan’s out of his bunk and rushing into the fresher. He gets the door closed and the sonic going to drown out any sounds. He centre’s himself in the Force to keep his feelings private. Only then does he push his hand down into his pants to grip himself. He’ll take what he needs and be done with it. He can’t let it mean anything. It doesn’t. He’s attracted to Anakin. That’s all there is to it. He’ll rub one out, and then he’ll control himself and be the Jedi Master the galaxy needs him to be. It means that this one time he needs to indulge properly and get it all out of his system. He won’t be doing it again.
He leans his back against the wall and pushes his pants all the way down, kicking them off. He takes his cock in his hand and imagines. A jumble of fantasies switches to the rhythm of his strokes. Anakin splayed on his back, twisting his own nipples. Obi-Wan on his knees, Anakin thrusting into his mouth. Anakin's broad back beneath him as Obi-Wan fingers him open. Anakin returning the favour, his mechanical fingers vibrating against Obi-Wan’s prostate. Languid kisses. A litany of Obi-Wan’s name said in Anakin’s breathless voice. Anakin’s eyes turned black with desire. The feeling of Anakin’s full ass in his hands.
Obi-Wan speeds up the strokes, precum not quite enough to let it glide easily, but he imagines being slicked up with lube and spit and cum from a long session of sex and that works nearly as well. The fantasy picks up the pace toward release. Flashing images go on. Anakin’s stroking himself. Anakin’s white smile bright against his new beard. His teeth nibbling at Obi-Wan’s earlobe. Obi-Wan raking his fingers through Anakin’s hair. Lifting up his thigh. Thrusting inside. Anakin clenching hot and tight, letting out a moaned, “Master.”
Obi-Wan spills into this hand, a breathless groan stuttering its way out of his mouth. With the tension released, embarrassment and self-recrimination hit.
He shouldn’t have done it. He’ll never do it again. He’ll control himself. Like he always has.
Obi-Wan curses himself for being a liar and a fool on top of that. He had not gotten it out of his system. One smile from Anakin after Obi-Wan reported that Emdee had declared him well on his way to recovery was all it took to send new pangs of arousal through him. He desperately wants to act on it. Sitting next to Anakin in the copilot’s chair, it’s all he can do not to look obsessively, to not reach out and touch, to not let his new feelings spill out and spoil everything between them. It’s highly inappropriate. It’s well on its way to overthrowing his will. He’s not known a desire so intense in years and years. If ever.
He clings to sanity with white-knuckled hands, waiting for the moment when there’ll be other people around for him to shift his focus to because as long as it’s only him and Anakin, he’ll be lost. If he can only survive the next moment, he’ll find a way to return his view of Anakin to normal.
“Are you okay?” Anakin asks mid-preparation to enter the planet’s atmosphere, and if Obi-Wan looks poorly enough to draw his attention away from piloting, he must be looking very poorly indeed.
“Never better.” He shoots off a derring-do smirk and pours more nonchalance into it to keep it from turning soft and tender in gratitude over the concern.
“You’re rather closed off.”
“Everything’s overwhelming.” True. “But I’m coping.” Not true, but Obi-Wan’s willing it to be.
“Right. Well if you want to talk, I’m right here.”
“You would listen to me complain?”
“I’d listen to you doing just about anything. I’ve missed you.”
Obi-Wan grips the armrests hard so he won’t reach out. He loves Anakin so much it hurts, his chest clenching and heating with it. “I’m here,” he says, wishing he was there , on Anakin’s lap, with his friend's head between his hands, their gazes locked, the new slant to his feelings reciprocated.
“Yeah. I know. Maybe soon I’ll believe you won’t disappear.”
“I won’t. I promise. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” There isn’t. Even should he embarrass himself and all his desires spill out, that won’t change. He can only hope Anakin would forgive him and allow him to stay. Meeting Anakin’s clear gaze for another few precious seconds, he dares to think it may be true. It would be awkward. Things would be stilted between them. But ultimately, their friendship would survive. Then Anakin has to concentrate on flying, and bereft of the connection, Obi-Wan doubts. For both their sakes, Anakin must never know.