It starts fairly insidiously, all things considered. Or perhaps it doesn’t. Perhaps Obi-Wan’s old padawan’s mind isn’t as well-known to him as he’d thought.
And, well, that shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does. After finding out about Anakin’s marriage, his murdered mother, his massacre, and not to mention just exactly how close he had come to Falling, it shouldn’t surprise him at all when Anakin surprises him.
But it does.
They’re in his quarters, Ahsoka and Anakin. Obi-Wan is trying to look terribly busy at the stove, though he supposes one can only stir boiling water for so long before it starts looking like an avoidance tactic.
Which, to be fair, it is.
“Aren’t you two about to be late?” Obi-Wan asks pointedly.
Ahsoka scoffs. “It’s very informal, master,” she says, even though she has no obligation to call him Master ever again. “That’s why it would be perfect for you to come as well.”
“I'm quite busy, young one,” he responds, stirring the boiling water around again for good measure. “I—”
“He doesn’t want to come,” Anakin calls from where he’s lounging on the couch, head tipped back over the side like he still lives here and is allowed to sit like that in someone else’s home. “He’s just too polite to say it.”
“I’m quite busy, young ones,” Obi-Wan stresses, turning to glare over his shoulder at Anakin. “I simply do not have the time—as a member of the Jedi High Council—to spend the day at the Senate building. Additionally, I’m sure I won’t find it as full of…attractions…as you two will.”
The truth of the matter is, of course, that he has found it increasingly difficult to even look in the direction of the Senate building since the end of the war and all its unpleasant revelations. Of course, Anakin and the senator had gotten a divorce—a requirement for Anakin to remain in the Order—but surely that didn’t mean they’d stopped seeing each other. Obi-Wan is comfortable enough with himself, his attachments, and the inappropriate and heavy weight of his love for his padawan that he harbors in the depths of his heart to admit that he doesn’t particularly think he can bear to see Anakin and his ex-wife see each other.
“Come on, Snips,” Anakin gets up with a heavy yawn and a back-cracking stretch. “Told you it was a waste of time to try.”
“But Master Obi-Wan, why don’t you like the Senate?” Ahsoka complains, even as she walks to the door and starts putting on her shoes and cloak. “Come on, we’ll even get Dex’s afterwards. I’m only going to be here for a few weeks. Don’t you want to spend as much time with me as possible before I go again? Who knows when I’ll be back? What if something happens?”
“Snips,” Anakin cuts in. His gaze has gone hard. He doesn’t like to be reminded of Ahsoka’s…elusive place in their lives, and he hates the very idea that something could happen to her that he couldn’t protect her from.
Obi-Wan wonders then why he doesn’t seem to understand how Obi-Wan feels about Darth Sidious.
“I’d be terrible company,” Obi-Wan replies. “Absolutely abysmal. And I think we’ve all been through enough. I don’t suffer politicians, you know.”
“He’s just being lazy,” Anakin tells his old apprentice, throwing on his own cloak. He had, of course, not bothered to remove his shoes before coming into Obi-Wan’s quarters. “He says the same thing about idiots, but he suffers me all the time.”
Obi-Wan blinks, taken aback by the matter-of-fact tone of voice. Anakin isn’t one to make a dry joke, leaving most witticisms like that to Obi-Wan. But—he can’t actually, truly, think that?
If he thinks Obi-Wan suffers through his presence—if he thinks Obi-Wan thinks of him as an idiot, then Obi-Wan truly has failed as a master. And a friend.
Anakin and Ahsoka have left by the time Obi-Wan works through all the incongruities of the statement and turned around fully to address them. Obi-Wan is left staring at a closed door with a dripping wet spoon in his hand, eyebrows tightly furrowed.
He flicks the stove off with the Force and a sigh, turning to dump the pot of water into the sink. An off-color joke, he decides. Nothing more.
But then it happens again.
They’re on a mission, low stakes and easy as anything, and it happens again. They’re at a bar, in the back, blending in. For Anakin, blending in apparently means trading his Jedi robes for an equally-dark-in-color sheer shirt that ends an inch below his nipples, leaving every line of his torso revealed. He’s of course paired this with a pair of strategically ripped pants with holes so far up the thigh that it’s obvious he’s chosen to leave his underwear at the Temple, right next to Obi-Wan’s sanity.
Obi-Wan is, of course, on his third drink of the night. He keeps thinking he’ll be able to survive this mission, and then Anakin will shift next to him, run his hands through his hair or swipe at the skin beneath his eyes like he’s afraid the subtle golden eyeliner around them will have smeared, and Obi-Wan will reach for his glass because it’s either that or reach for Anakin.
One is ruinous.
The other is just unprofessional.
“Will you go get me another drink, Master?” Anakin asks. His first cup is finally empty. Obi-Wan’s third is almost there as well.
They’re supposed to be investigating the bartender, is the thing. The Jedi Council has it on good authority that the Rulan serving drinks behind the countertop also once served Sidious.
But it’s the principal of the thing, really, a decade full of fetching things for his padawan or reprimanding him for improper use of the Force. “Get it yourself,” he says. “And perhaps another for your aging master.”
Anakin huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “But it’s the other bartender, the woman right now. She’s been running the floor for the last ten minutes. Master, she might give us free drinks if you order them.”
Obi-Wan blinks and then stares at him. “I’m sorry?”
His old padawan flushes. “Well, I mean. You’re…you can be…very charming, Master. And you look—I mean, you look very nice today. Tonight.”
“Anakin, that bartender is half my age,” Obi-Wan points out. “As nice as I may look, and thank you by the way, the probability of her finding me the more attractive of the two of us is very low.”
Anakin darkens even more. “Some people like older men,” he mutters, hands coming to grip around his cup. “And, I mean, come on. Don’t make me say it.”
Obi-Wan blinks again. Say what? “Say what?”
Anakin stares resolutely into the glass for a second before forcing a shrug and a casual expression onto his face. “I’m, you know. The scars.”
“Yeah,” Anakin shrugs again, seemingly under the impression that he’s looking natural and being completely reasonable. “I mean, the one through my eyebrow.” He gestures to it, as if Obi-Wan doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “It’s, you know. Ugly. Disfiguring.”
“Ugly?” Obi-Wan repeats, abandoning the remains of his drink in order to turn to face Anakin, one of the most attractive people Obi-Wan has ever met in his entire life. "Disfiguring?"
Having all of Obi-Wan’s attention seems to make Anakin come alive, the way it always does. He nods eagerly. Perhaps he’s a lightweight. Obi-Wan doesn’t actually know. “Padmé cried when she saw it,” he confides. “And then she wouldnt look at me for days.”
Obi-Wan thinks that perhaps Anakin’s ex-wife had been emotional over the fact that she was staring at the proof of how close Anakin had come to dying, but even then it’s hard to find sympathy for her.
After all, Obi-Wan had held it together every time Anakin was injured in front of him, right up until the moment he was alone. Didn’t she understand how much Anakin needed—craved—stability? Support? How dare she cry in front of him when it’s so obvious that Anakin needed something else?
“I tried to put concealer over it,” Anakin is saying when Obi-Wan tunes back in. “But the cut is too deep, and it’s just really obvious.”
Obi-Wan hums, still reeling from the fact that Anakin thinks anything about himself is ugly. “I believe women think of scars as attractive, Anakin,” he tells him. “Senators, perhaps, aside.”
Instead of reacting happily to this news, Anakin’s head shoots up to pin him with an intense stare. “Just women?” he asks, sounding much more breathy than he looks.
Obi-Wan tilts his head, confused. “I—no, of course not just women. You—all of you—are very attractive, a near perfect representation of the human specimen, made perfect in fact by your imperfections—” Obi-Wan might, in fact, be drunker than he’d thought, so he breaks off there and swallows slightly. “But the bartender is a woman, and—well your wife is as well, so—”
“We got a divorce, Obi,” Anakin interrupts, still looking at him in that intense fashion of his. “We’re not seeing each other at all anymore.”
“So you’ve said,” Obi-Wan says, trying not to let his skepticism show. “And it’s Obi-Wan, not Obi.”
Anakin grins. He suddenly looks so much younger, like the stress and years at war have just melted off of him. “Whatever you say,” he promises. “Whatever you say.”
If one time is a happenstance and two times is a coincidence, then three times is absolutely a pattern, one Obi-Wan is sober enough to see this time around, even if he’s not quite sure how to handle it.
He’s sitting in his favorite armchair—the one just the slightest more plush than what used to be Qui-Gon’s favorite, though they’d gotten into many arguments about the same thing (but, since Obi-Wan is alive, he does get the last word)—and Anakin is bustling around in the kitchen making dinner. It’s breakfast time, but he’d apparently meant to cook it last night as dinner—Obi-Wan had been out, trying to fuck his inappropriate feelings for his padawan away and had not been able to attend. Anakin in all of his infinite pettiness, is now cooking him bantha steak with Kashyyyk mushrooms in a Corellian rum glaze at half past nine in the morning.
But it’s…it’s nice. To be quiet around the ones he loves, to simply soak up their company and presence without having to perform or even to contribute.
He turns another page in his book and stops to try and decipher Anakin’s mess of handwriting in the margins. For five or so years before the war when Anakin was his padawan, they’d traded books, writing on the pages like it was a conversation of sorts.
After Quinlan Vos had accidentally touched a romance novel a sixteen year old Anakin had chosen that had apparently been dripping with longing and lust, romance as a genre had been banned from the apartment. After the third time Obi-Wan correctly identified the murderer five pages into the novel, mystery novels had also been banned.
This is a historical fiction, not romantic at all, though it appears as though fifteen year old Anakin had been quite keen on the idea of two of the characters—a stablehand and a princess—kissing.
“Fikcaloc, Ani!” Anakin cries from the stove, loud enough that Obi-Wan looks up in curiosity. He’s been trying to learn Huttese, for Anakin, though it’s been hard-going so far. For one, there are no written dictionaries for the language laying around the Temple, so he must rely on Anakin for lessons.
It had been a bit of a struggle to convince his former padawan to teach him anything at all. It had, in fact, been easier to convince Satine to teach him Mando’a than for Anakin to tell him a single verb conjugation in his childhood tongue.
In fact, it had taken a reassurance that Obi-Wan possessed a quite talented tongue for negotiations to turn in his favor at all.
“What does that mean?” he asks with interest, shutting his book to focus on Anakin. He’s found that focusing on Anakin—as hard as he finds it sometimes—is one of the only things that gets him Anakin’s willingness to respond at all.
This time, Anakin doesn’t even look up from the stove. “I forgot the garlic,” he says, stirring the sauce over the flame. “Fuck, it’ll take way too long to chop up now, especially because if I turn the heat off now, this will congeal, and—” Obi-Wan stands. What is a master for, even an old one like him, if he cannot help his padawan when his padawan needs his help?
“Allow me,” he murmurs, stepping around Anakin—perhaps closer than necessary—and locating the bulb of garlic and a large knife.
“But this is for you,” Anakin responds, sounding despondent and somehow already close to tears. “Sit down.”
“No,” Obi-Wan says. He cuts the end of the garlic and sets about peeling it. He hates this sort of task, but it's for Anakin.
He can feel Anakin’s eyes on him for several long seconds before the other man steps up behind him and grabs the knife from him. He has half a mind to tell his padawan that he’ll absolutely retrieve his lightsaber to chop this with, before Anakin nods at the cutting board.
“If you press the flat of the blade against the garlic and crush it a bit, it makes it easier to peel,” he tells him, demonstrating quickly before passing the handle of the knife back to Obi-Wan.
Their fingers brush together, and then for some reason, they linger, touching. They’ve touched hands before. They have. Obi-Wan knows they have. He can’t remember when. He can’t remember a single thing in the galaxy. They’ve touched hands before though. But it’s never felt this….
It’s never felt like this. He isn’t even sure Anakin is breathing. He doesn’t think he himself is.
It’s so devastating that Obi-Wan has to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “You’re not stirring the sauce,” he says, and Anakin jerks back with a curse of the same Huttese word from earlier.
“What does that mean?” Obi-Wan asks, as he sets about chopping up the garlic. He’s only going to do two cloves, no matter what the recipe calls for. Anakin will take it or leave it. Curiously, he presses the knife against the garlic and presses gently and then harder until there’s a cracking sound.
Anakin is right. It’s much easier to peel.
“Hm?” Anakin asks, eyes intent upon the bubbling mixture.
“What you just said. Feek–Fic—”
Anakin flinches. It’s slight. It’s almost unnoticeable. Obi-Wan is an expert in noticing his padawan by now. “It’s nothing,” Anakin says almost distractedly, shooting a glance over at the cutting board. “You are going to cut that smaller, right?”
Obi-Wan hadn’t known garlic could be cut smaller. “Of course,” he says, offended. “But Anakin, how will I ever learn Huttese if half the things you say you refuse to translate?”
Anakin frowns. He’s stopped stirring again, apparently distracted by Obi-Wan trying to cut up the cloves small enough for his padawan’s approval. “Waste of money,” he says with a shrug. “Give me that.”
“Give me the knife, this is painful—”
“You need to stir—”
“I think you should stir actually. I can’t watch you try to cut up garlic anymore, it’s making my soul perish—”
Obi-Wan huffs and relinquishes the knife, allowing Anakin to circle him and only pushing his ass back the slightest bit—just because he’s a weak man, just to test the waters—
Anakin inhales sharply and jumps away. Obi-Wan files that away in his mind, might even decide to do more if not for the ghost of his padawan’s words. “Waste of money? The garlic? I was under the impression it was a vital part of the dish—”
“No,” Anakin says, mincing Obi-Wan’s misshapen cuts of garlic with ease. It’s hardly fair, he thinks sourly. Anakin can just hold the garlic still with his durasteel hand. He’s not worried about losing a few fingers to the knife’s sharp edge. He’s already lost the whole arm. “Fikcaloc. It means waste of money. It’s like a…an expression.”
Obi-Wan furrows his eyebrows. “An expression.”
“Well, sort of,” Anakin says. He moves around Obi-Wan again, adding the garlic to the pot with a swipe of his durasteel finger. “It’s like…if a slave isn’t efficient enough or doesn't bring in enough parts or can’t fix something or burns dinner for the master. A waste of money, a poor investment.”
Suddenly, Obi-Wan isn’t very hungry for food at all, not even dinner at ten in the morning. “And you—sorry, you just, you call yourself that?”
Anakin frowns at the pot, fiddles with the heat setting, and then distractedly frowns at Obi-Wan. “Well, I’m reclaiming it,” he says.
Obi-Wan stares back. He isn’t sure it’s his place to point out that one cannot reclaim a term by using it to devalue themselves in their own voice, but he feels sort of sick at the idea of not saying anything at all. “I don’t even like garlic that much,” he says instead. The words are weak, useless, but Anakin’s eyes widen and jump to the pot, as if he’s thinking about fishing out each sliver of garlic with his fingers.
“Why didn’t you say something?” Anakin cries, raising the spoon to his lips and tasting a dollop, probably checking to see how prominent the garlic flavor is.
“I like you,” Obi-Wan responds like it’s an answer.
Anakin scoffs as if Obi-Wan is joking. It makes Obi-Wan bristle, the casual self-deprecation, the way Anakin just can’t seem to help it.
“I take it back,” he snaps, and Anakin swings his head around to look at him with wide blue eyes, spoon halfway to his mouth. “I love you. I’m in love with you.”
Anakin drops the spoon to the floor with a clatter. Neither of them pick it up.
Not for hours.
But it continues. It continues like Anakin doesn’t even register that he’s doing it, which may be the worst thing for Obi-Wan to swallow now that he’s looking for it. Now that he realizes how often his former padawan—turned new lover (permanent, if he has anything to say about it)—casually puts himself down.
Reminders of the Clone Wars. Training holos of his own near-perfect Djem-so form. The taste of dinner. His near-perfect cock-sucking form. His absolutely incredible ability to hit Obi-Wan’s prostate with every thrust. His apparently equally incredible ability to hit his own prostate on every swivel of his hips when he’s riding him. His taste in holos. His taste in music. Ahsoka’s training. The way he styles his hair. Darth Sidious.
The list goes on and on. Before he’d noticed, Obi-Wan hadn’t thought his former padawan disliked anything about himself at all. Rose-tinted glasses, he supposes, brought on by the fact that Obi-Wan is pretty much in love with every aspect of his apprentice. But now he can’t seem to stop noticing all the ways Anakin Skywalker seems to hate himself.
Which is why he is so very, very reluctant to tell him what he has to tell him.
They’re curled up on Anakin’s couch for a change, and the man is stroking his hand lazily up and down the bumps of his spine. Something mindless is on, some holo show Anakin has always shown a preference for. Usually, he’d say something about its banal plots and twists, but this time he’s put it on himself.
Have his own words impacted Anakin in such a way as to have wormed into his own perception of himself? At what point can Obi-Wan no longer tease his apprentice over his taste in his holo shows because Anakin takes the words to heart?
Perhaps he does now and always has. Obi-Wan still hasn’t actually talked to him about it. It feels so pointless to bring up in all honesty. There is blood on Anakin’s hands. There is mud from the trenches in the lines on his back. Why would they address these off-the-cuff remarks? He has been through worse than what he says about himself. They both know that.
But with his silence, is Obi-Wan reinforcing the very worst of Anakin’s feelings? Shouldn’t he say something?
Why, for the love of the Force, does he have to say this? Say this now?
“The Council,” he says, in the middle of a transition scene between the main character and the love interest, “has decided….”
Anakin’s fingers tense on his spine. Under the watchful eye of the healers and the Council itself, his distrust for their authority has slowly melted away, but some of it is still there. Instinctively.
“Or, put forth the opinion,” he hurries to correct himself, leaning far enough away from Anakin so as to look at his face. He’s already looking at him, even as his hands let him go so damn easily. “That I should….”
Anakin has been doing so well. He’s lighter in the Force than ever. Every other week, he meets up with his old troops for dinner at Dex’s. The weeks in between, he takes his food in the refectory with the rest of the Jedi Knights. He never eats alone, even when he has to seek out company. It’s an impressive and important step. But this—is this too much of an ask?
Obi-Wan closes the distance and places a kiss on the bob of Anakin’s throat, careful not to taste his skin or sweat. They’ve gotten distracted for far less, after all, and this is important.
“Take another padawan,” he admits, nose rubbing against Anakin’s jawline.
Anakin is still.
Obi-Wan pulls back. “There are…many padawans who lost their master during the war,” he starts to explain. “They need teachers to finish their training.”
“And what did you say?” Anakin asks, voice emotionless, as he tilts his head down to look at him. His hand slowly, carefully resumes the petting of his spine.
“That I would need to talk to you first,” he says. He hadn’t framed it exactly like that to the Council, of course—there’s only so far they can look the other way in regards to his relationship with Anakin, after all—but it’s close enough.
Anakin huffs a laugh that doesn’t much sound like a laugh at all. “I think you should, Master,” he replies. “With a few conditions.”
“I would rather you not start fucking another of your padawans,” he says, fingers rubbing the base of his neck. “I think that’d be an awful reputation for you to have. And…I’d want you to keep your quarters. They’re…home to me. I almost asked you to let me take that chair to my new apartments.”
Anakin, who has no taste, had always loved Qui-Gon’s armchair the most. “You can have it,” Obi-Wan says mindlessly. He knows Anakin doesn’t really want it in his quarters, mostly because he used to use it as a reason to come visit Obi-Wan when they were both on-planet after his Knighting. They’re past excuses now, leaving those on the floor with their discarded clothing, but the option—the escape—is still nice to have. “You’re not….bothered?” This is a hesitant question. He’d always thought that Anakin would be terribly petty and upset should he ever get another apprentice.
“Not really,” Anakin says, pressing him against his side with the arm he has wrapped around his shoulders. Both a claim and not. “I mean. You’re the best Jedi Master out there. Everyone would be lucky to have you as their master. And, well. You’ve already taught the worst padawan in the history of the Jedi Order. It’s only up from me, right?
Obi-Wan pulls away completely with a frown so severe that it hurts. “Anakin,” he says, “you were an amazing padawan to teach.”
“Sure, Master,” Anakin agrees with a wry twist of his lips. “You tell yourself that.”
“No,” Obi-Wan says. He has a sinking feeling in his stomach, one that does not go away when he tries to give it to the Force. “Don’t do that. You were.”
“Don’t do what?” Anakin blinks at him as if confused.
Obi-Wan has no other option but to straddle him on the sofa and card his hair back with both hands. “Anakin Skywalker,” he says slowly, heavily, “You were wonderful to teach, and as a Jedi Knight, fully fledged, you have made me unspeakably proud. Perhaps I didn’t know how to teach you when you had just come into my apprenticeship, but I know that I wanted to be the best master for you. Because it’s what you deserved, then and now. It—it pains me to think that you—that you don’t think the same.”
“You are the best master,” Anakin responds, nearly instantly. “Of course I think the same. You’re the best Jedi in the entire Order.”
Obi-Wan can’t stop himself from kissing him, even if he really tried. He does intend to keep it light, a gentle press of lips to show just how much he appreciates Anakin’s faith in him, but before he knows it, he’s hovering over Anakin on the couch, thrusting his tongue into his mouth as his hands scrabble at the hem of his sleep shirt.
“No,” he forces himself to break away, to sit back. “No, Anakin. Anakin. I need you—I need you to know. I love you—”
“I love you too,” Anakin replies, as if those words are just easy to say.
Obi-Wan jerks his head sharply to the left, reaching across the distance between their bodies and placing a finger on his lips. “I love you,” he repeats. “And independently of how ardently I am in love with you, I believe that you are an excellent Jedi.”
Anakin’s cheeks flush automatically at the words of praise. “I’m not,” he denies, plush lips brushing against the pad of his thumb. “I threw Master Windu out the window.”
Carefully, gently, Obi-Wan frames his face with both hands. “You are,” he says slowly, to make sure every word finds its way into his former padawan’s ears. “You are more than your past mistakes.”
Anakin blinks at him once—twice—and then his eyes grow wet, even as he brings his hands up to cover Obi-Wan’s. “I’m not,” he whispers. “I’m—I’m really, I’m really rotten,” he stutters to a halt and then must decide he has nothing to lose because he keeps going. “Rotten. Inside.”
Obi-Wan rubs his thumb over the jut of Anakin’s cheekbone. “You can feel like that,” he responds. “You’re allowed to, of course. But…you’re…you’re my—”
He can’t say it. He doesn’t have the words for everything Anakin is to him.
“Dearheart,” he finally says, tilting Anakin’s face up to force him to look at him. “Perhaps that is how you feel, but I cannot stand to hear you disparage my favorite person in the galaxy in such a way. My old heart can’t bear it.”
Anakin sniffles, and when he presses his head forward, into his hands, Obi-Wan lets go and falls gently forward, turning them over on their sides so his most precious love can bury his face completely into his neck.
“But I’m—I’m so—there’s so—I’m just— I’m bad—” Anakin cries, arms latched tightly around him.
Carefully, slowly, Obi-Wan brings a hand up to stroke through the back of his brunet curls. “I like you every way,” he says, rubbing a singular curl between his thumb and forefinger until it splits into strands. “And you don’t have to be perfect to be loved, Anakin, not by me, not by anyone. I adore you. Even when you’re in the fresher for three hours or when you make me watch those holos you find dreadfully entertaining. It’s you. It’s all you. And…and I know, perhaps better than most, that you don’t choose who you love. But you—you can’t pick and choose the pieces of who you love either. At least for me. It’s always been all or nothing. And I love you. I love all of you. I thought you knew.”
Anakin sucks in sharp breath. It sounds more like a keen. In his arms, he feels like he’s shaking. “You deserve the best,” he mutters. “You deserve the best padawan and partner and everything, and I’m just—I’m so afraid, all the time—you’ll realize it. Ahsoka did. Padmé—well. I left Padmé so I could stay with you, but she would have realized it.”
Obi-Wan blinks into his padawan’s shoulder. Anakin has quite a talent for saying things like they're not brand new bits of information. He swallows. He presses a kiss into the crown of Anakin’s head. He doesn’t know what to do, as much as he does. He knows, at least, what he wants to do. He knows what he—what Anakin needs.
“I believe I will agree to the Council’s request,” he murmurs against Anakin’s skin. “I know what it’s like to lose a Master before one is ready. I know what it’s like to fear for one’s life—for the life of a loved one—during the war. But, Anakin. I….”
Anakin stills in his arms. Obi-Wan wonders how he could have done better for him, if he’s ever done right by Anakin once in his life.
“I’ve already taught the best apprentice,” he finishes anyway. “I already have the best partner. It’s you, Anakin. Anakin. I—”
Anakin cuts him off with something sort of like a sob and something else that’s definitely a kiss, and this time….This time Obi-Wan goes along with it, stroking down Anakin’s face and neck while re-positioning his own head to deepen the angle, to give back exactly what he’s taking.
I love you, he sends across their Force bond, licking dirtily into his mouth. I love you, I love you —
Anakin moans. It’s quite impossible to tell if the sound comes from the bond or if it’s out loud.
Either way, it’s perfect.
Obi-Wan knows that for sure. And, like it’s a mission given to him by the Jedi High Council itself, he knows it’s going to be his life’s greatest work and eventual accomplishment to make Anakin see it the same way.