#a s

It took years for the young Jedi to adapt to the lack of heat. Obi-Wan passed countless hours with his Padawan tucked to his side, using his weighted robes as makeshift blankets. When Anakin felt he was getting too old to be cuddled up to his Master, he began to brave the cold alone. It didn’t go unnoticed, the way he attempted to manipulate the Force to hide chattering teeth, shaky fingers, goosebumps on stiff limbs. Obi-Wan could sense these things, but always found it easier to wordlessly extend a warm beverage or exercise his expertise in Tapas on his apprentice rather than getting him to admit to weakness. Having lived many of his young years as a slave, weakness was not shown readily by Anakin Skywalker. This was not a boundary that Obi-Wan felt comfortable pushing until Anakin was much older; until he had been able to confront his past. Even then, it was not often a point of discussion worth the fight it would inevitably provoke. 

The older Anakin became, the more ridiculous Obi-Wan found it. A mission on Orto Plutonia that chilled Anakin to his core resulted in an explosive argument between the pair after his desperation for warmth left him overheating near the point of unconsciousness. After his failure to appear at a council meeting, Obi-Wan searched high and low just to find Anakin in a state of delirium in the Temple’s swimming pool. The Jedi thought it would be a good idea to use the Force to raise the temperature of the water closer to its boiling point than he would’ve cared to admit. Obi-Wan disagreed. Having arrived just in time to prevent Anakin from losing consciousness and submerging himself in the water completely, Obi-Wan dragged his large body out of the pool and down to the medical bay. It took too many staggerings steps and stumbles over Anakin’s waterlogged clothing for them to arrive at the entrance. Once the droids took over, Obi-Wan noticed how patches of his own skin were red and irritated from his contact with the hot water. Fear had taken over his senses upon finding his former apprentice, and Obi-Wan thanked the Force that he couldn’t recall the details of his ghastly appearance before hauling him out of the water. 

Anakin craved warmth like no other being Obi-Wan had ever known, though he accepted it with great difficulty when offered, and would never ask for it no matter how much he needed it. 

This time around, he’d been sent from planet to planet back to back for weeks on end. Missions were failing, his men were dying, and Anakin spent every waking moment either strategizing ways to keep them alive, or plaguing himself with guilt over the ones he’d lost. Battles won mattered not; the losses were all that counted. What good was a moment of celebration when his men were to be put at risk again the very next day? He was haunting himself. Already preciously scarce sleep grew ever more rare. Nightmares of losing his mother grew to include nightmares of losing Padmé, losing his men, being sent back to Tatooine to resume his life as a slave, traumatic battle situations from which he had barely escaped, and more. Anakin began to believe that people must have been lying when they spoke of sleep as being relaxing, a respite from the scenes of war around them. He much preferred to busy himself with heroic deeds rather than remain paralyzed while endless horrors played on loop in front of him. 

Each occasion that Obi-Wan crept up to discover his former Padawan crammed in a nook entirely too compact for his lanky body, scribbling furiously and reviewing failed battle plans while the rest of his men snored and drooled, his heart cracked just a hair further. Day by day, Anakin was looking worse for wear. His mahogany hair had grown out well past his earlobes, and Obi-Wan couldn’t tell if he refused to get it cut because he genuinely liked it, or if he believed that sitting in a chair for the few minutes it would take to trim it would be time wasted. Either way, it tangled easily and became stringy when soaked with sweat–which Anakin often was, whether it be from the exhaustion of battle or the pools of perspiration he’d wake in each time he finally managed to sleep. Once or twice, Obi-Wan hypothesized that the often unkempt, shaggy hair was an easy way to cover the deep purple bags underneath Anakin’s eyes if he bowed his head enough. He was known to go to great lengths to keep the poor condition of his health a secret whenever it started declining. Sometimes Obi-Wan had no idea how Anakin continued to put one foot in front of the other, let alone dominate in battles the way he’d done each and every time. The only thing that gave his former master a bit of solace was that, boy, could Anakin eat. The amount of energy he expended on a daily basis combined with the fact that he was a male in his early twenties, he could, and quite often did, eat about as much as a Wookie.

Unfortunately for Anakin, that meant that whenever his appetite was even slightly off, Obi-Wan was on his case in an instant. He had gotten better at leaving Anakin to his own devices now that he was technically no longer his master, but it did not prevent him from voicing his concern entirely. Most of the time, small–and potentially defensible as innocuous to the untrained ear–comments were made. Any accusation was always thoroughly denied and offense was always taken. Though Anakin was well aware that was never Obi-Wan’s intent—to make him feel weak or appear so in front of his men—his hard instincts often elicited a poor response. 

As such was the case this morning when Anakin couldn’t bring himself to finish his breakfast. Obi-Wan noticed that hefty forkfuls of Meteor Egg were not being shoveled into Anakin’s mouth as they usually were. Pathetic bites, if you could call them that, were taken between varied intervals of lazily pushing the rest of the meal around his tray. As much as Obi-Wan wanted to focus on this fact, part of him found himself scanning Anakin’s features. He looked so grown up now. Of course, he’d thought that when Anakin turned ten, then again at fifteen, and then twenty. Now, at twenty-two, he is truly coming into himself, filling out his body. His nose, which once upon a time seemed too big for his small face, now balanced perfectly between his robin’s egg eyes. It wasn’t only his features themselves that made Anakin look older, but how he wore them. His eyebrows were often scrunched together as he scanned his surroundings, suspicious of anything that moved just a little too much. He sported an almost constant scowl, save for the occasional smile after a well-placed joke or a sincere comment from his former master, or the beaming, giddy look on his face that stuck around the entirety of every interaction with his favorite senator. Tiny cuts often littered his face, proof of the risks he’d taken in battle. The scar bisecting his right eye had taken a lot of getting used to. Obi-Wan fussed over him endlessly the first few days after, convinced he’d get an infection and go blind if he didn’t clean and dress the wound properly. Padmé had nearly had a heart attack the first time she saw it. She explored the rest of his face with delicate fingers to make sure no damage was done elsewhere—then the rest of his body for other reasons. Anakin wasn’t too concerned with his appearance, but he did hate the ugly thing. Sometimes he could convince himself that it only hardened his exterior, made him look as ferocious as he truly was in battle. Others, he avoided every mirror he passed by.

A brief glance at the chronometer just above Anakin’s scarred face told Obi-Wan that there wasn’t much longer until the allotted meal time was over. An odd silence surrounded the pair. Obi-Wan never noticed how habituated he was to the sound of Anakin scarfing down whatever was in front of him and mashing it sloppily, mouth half open, until the time came when such noises were absent. His tongue danced behind closed teeth, tracing the pearly whites as he debated saying something. Was he in the mood to be lashed out at? Would it be worth it? Obi-Wan finally decided that his feelings didn’t matter in comparison to Anakin’s wellbeing; a conclusion he often reached. The only issue now was how to approach it delicately. 

He tapped his fingers against the underside of the table thrice in a row before speaking up. “Not up to your standards this morning, is it?”

Anakin’s movements stalled the moment the words filled the air, fork stirring the contents of his tray now frozen in place. “What?” 

“You don’t seem to be enjoying your breakfast much today,” Obi-Wan announced casually, as if he’d just now taken notice.

Having not been prepared for this verbal assault so early in the morning—it really didn’t matter the time, he had been up for hours anyway—Anakin did not have an answer at the ready. He glanced down at the eggs, up at Obi-Wan, and back down at his plate. 

“I—it’s…it’s gone cold, is all.” It was a poor excuse and both men knew it. 

Obi-Wan forced a chuckle, but each word grew ever more accusatory. “That’s never stopped you before, has it?” 

Frustrated with the insistence and now more-than-gentle prodding, Anakin felt his tone sharpen. “Too many mornings of the same slop, I suppose. Is it impossible for one to grow tired of a meal they’ve eaten nearly every morning in recent memory?”

Though that was a fair point, Obi-Wan knew it didn’t stand. Not with Anakin. He’d observed him for years now and knew his habits better than his Padawan did. However, the waters were growing rougher, and Obi-Wan did not feel the need to rock the boat just yet. Unhappily, he capitulated and finished his breakfast in silence, not saying a word even when the younger man abandoned the remnants of his breakfast completely.

Only later on did Anakin hesitantly reveal he’d been having even more trouble sleeping lately than usual, though this was nothing his partner was not already aware of. It was a half-hearted admission submitted as a careless thought, but Obi-Wan knew it carried a greater weight. This was more than just a few nights of tossing and turning. Anakin always had difficulty sleeping, but in recent years, it came more infrequently and stuck around even less. Obi-Wan knew about the nightmares, about the insomnia. He knew that Anakin avoided going to sleep at night and he knew why. 

Obi-Wan had been watching Anakin carefully since their brief yet tense exchange earlier in the morning. There was no hint he’d had any less than a full eight hours of rest, let alone the sleepless night he’d had. To no surprise, he performed as well as he always did. Obi-Wan found himself admiring his former apprentice and the progress he continued to make, as he often would nowadays. Anakin was a warrior far beyond the meaning of the word. Obi-Wan wished Qui-Gon could have witnessed every battle Anakin had ever fought in. Proud wouldn’t even begin to describe the way he was sure his Master would have felt. It saddened him, thinking of all the support Anakin could have had. Obi-Wan knew the Council was often hard on him. Despite the trust he himself placed in the young Jedi, the Council members had difficulty allowing that of their own. The lack of confidence from the Council pushed Anakin to blood, sweat, tears, and likely other bodily fluids, attempting to prove his worth. Every battle was fought arduously not only against the enemy, but also himself. Obi-Wan worried it would be the death of him one day. He knew that from a young age, Anakin strived to help people, to do the right thing, the good thing, but his need for validation and approval could not easily be cleansed from his mind, even with countless lessons on the Jedi Code. The constant feeling of disappointment when met with yet more rejection from the Council was not easy to grapple with. There grew an internalized obligation to outperform himself in every situation, which did not come without consequences. 

Unsure of how to respond, Obi-Wan nodded. He took a moment to pull his thoughts together. “You might find that a concoction from the Healers could help with-”

“I don’t need to see the Healers.”

And there it went; any chance Obi-Wan had at getting Anakin to open up any further had now been demolished at the mention of him seeking help elsewhere. It was a foolish mistake and Obi-Wan knew it. 

A sigh of resignation told Anakin he was being too harsh. He did his best to ease his comportment and his tone. “They need not be bothered by a Jedi with a bit of restlessness; we are better than that. There are many patients with much more urgent ailments that require their attention.”

There was no point in arguing. 

The ship was on its way back to Coruscant that night and Anakin could not have slept even if he had wanted to. Padmé was to arrive on the planet for an important vote in the Galactic Senate and Anakin was, as usual, assigned as her security detail. There was a sort of unspoken agreement that he be the one to protect her on each occasion her presence was required for her senatorial duties. The Jedi were unaware of the marital union between the two, but their appreciation for her trust in him provided them an excuse to be close to one another as frequently as possible. 

Anakin paced the ship, often checking the status of their arrival. He was certain that the pilots did not appreciate him peering over their shoulders every so often, but at the same time, he found himself not caring. The rhythmic pat pat pat of his leather boots against the gridded floor would be enough to lull anyone else to sleep. Instead, the repetitive sound acted as a catalyst, a steady guide for the anxieties rebounding off the walls of his skull. Running on not nearly as much nourishment as usual, his brain was operating on a great deal less energy, though it manifested as disinhibition of his spiraling thoughts rather than quieting them.

He had made sure to dine separately from Obi-Wan that evening, much preferring the relative solitude of a secluded corner of the cafeteria over any further commentary pertaining to his diminished appetite. He did not feel hungry. He felt sore, which was not unusual after battle, but this soreness was more persistent than normal and now accompanied by a headache he could not as easily ignore. As time passed, he found fatigue beginning to cling to his already aching bones, contributing additional weight he hadn’t expected to carry. It did not matter. He could rest once he was with Padmé, once he was sure she was safe.

The rest of the journey seemed to last both thirty minutes and a hundred hours at the same time. He’d spent what felt like an eternity pacing the corridors of the ship, doing everything he could to prevent his eyelids from slipping closed for more than a second. But when he looked back on it, he was convinced it couldn’t have been more than two hours ago that he was mercilessly slashing droids in half. The concept of time tended to lose meaning after spending so much of it on endless planets with different suns and moons. Every so often Anakin wondered if the number they celebrated for him each year was truly an accurate representation of his age. Sometimes he swore he was a million years older. 

His body certainly felt that way as the ship made a rockier descent than usual, leaving Anakin scrambling for a makeshift handle the first place he could find one. He didn’t normally take issue with difficult landings. As a skilled pilot himself, he had been in many a situation in which the chances of a safe landing were not high. With what felt like fluid in his ears, today was a bit different. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice. Anakin straightened himself up and went on his way. 

As was the case with most missions, the immediate debrief with the Jedi Council had slipped Anakin’s mind in favor of his wife. A firm hand clapped on his shoulder and steered him in the opposite direction from where he was headed, ignorant of the quiet hiss that slipped through his teeth as a result of the unexpected contact.

“Trying to skip out on the fun, are we?” Obi-Wan jested as he guided Anakin down the hall. He had an inkling as to where the younger Jedi was headed off to, an inkling he dared not share with anyone, even Anakin. 

“Right. Debrief.” A slight sniffle—not entirely out of the ordinary for him.

Still, Obi-Wan tightened his grip on Anakin’s arm as he nodded. “You get to brag about all of the droids you destroyed. What else could you possibly wish to do with your time?”

Despite his sour mood, Anakin could not help but crack a smile. 

“Even Master Windu can’t deny that a victory would’ve been impossible without me,” he bragged. It was interesting to Obi-Wan—no matter how much approval Anakin sought from others, he did not seem to be lacking in the arrogance department. 

A mild sound of agreement escaped Obi-Wan’s lips as the two continued their path to the Jedi Temple. Despite the temperate weather on Coruscant, Obi-Wan noticed a ghost of a shiver coming from his former apprentice. For a moment he wondered if he imagined it, but the gentle shake of Anakin’s head—as if he could jerk the cold out of his body—told him his mind wasn’t deceiving him. Even further, Anakin’s hands disappeared into his sleeves and wrapped his dark robes snugly around his torso. He had to be fitted for a new set every few months now, as he was growing broader and filling out quicker than the tailors could keep up with him. They disapproved of the utter lack of warmth and light in his wardrobe but dared not disobey his requests.

“Cold?”

Anakin’s head shot up, his long locks taking a moment to settle into place. “What? I—no. It’s just—I mean, it’s a little…maybe.” 

The confession was laced with a hint of shame and lacking its usual defensiveness. Sometimes Anakin admitted to his difficulties with cold weather, and others he insisted he could withstand any temperature without issue. Today he seemed to understand that the chill seeping into his bones was one he just couldn’t hide. In order to keep any tension from rising, Obi-Wan simply nodded. He was going to approach this more carefully than he had yesterday; no mention of any Healers or medics, that was for sure. 

He waited until another shiver came along, full-bodied this time. Anakin didn’t stop in his place; not even a single step faltered. If there was one thing that boy had, it was determination. “I think we both deserve a hot shower upon returning to our quarters,” Obi-Wan said lightly. 

“I have to go, snf, and commence my assignment to guard Senator Amidala. It is my understanding that she also recently arrived on Coruscant.” Anakin reached up, grinding at his nose with his metal fingers, the harsh material scraping at his nostrils and offering more promising relief, but quickly gifting a reddish hue to the sensitive appendage. With his gaze directed straight ahead, he was not witness to the furrowing of Obi-Wan’s eyebrows. 

A few steps more. 

“You certainly have enough time to warm yourself up and take a moment to breathe.”

Anakin shook his head. Obi-Wan never understood, did he? All his former master seemed to do was nitpick at him and find miniscule errors to harp on in everything he did; especially those in which he took great pride. On the occasion that Obi-Wan did admit Anakin was doing a fine job, he found some reason to contradict him anyway. This was his assignment, goddamnit–albeit a more personally important one than usual. If Obi-Wan had something to say about it he could take it up with the council. Anakin’s tone grew heavier, more insistent, “I must report to her right away. She is not to be left without protection for even a second!”

“Someone must be surveilling her surroundings now, surely they can stand to do so for a half hour longer,” Obi-Wan matched Anakin’s intensity.

“I will not shirk my responsibilities onto another simply because you are convinced that I need a bit of respite!”

Raising his voice at the tail end of his sentence did not do Anakin any favors. He threw his body halfway around so as not to unleash his coughs onto Obi-Wan, but didn’t care to hurry and cover them. A few slipped out untamed and unprotected before he made any semblance of an effort to contain them. A burning silence followed, Anakin’s shame just as hot. Neither cared to speak, as neither cared to argue. Both could sense that a war of words would erupt if the other were to utter a sound. The rest of the walk to the council meeting was silent.

As was Anakin throughout the majority of the meeting itself. It struck a few council members as being quite odd, as Anakin had been working himself into the ground now more than ever to gain the respect and trust of the Council. He had a deep and evident craving for the title of Master, yet his dejection and poor posture as he slouched against his seat, staring at the floor, was rather uncharacteristic of one. Obi-Wan’s concern was increasing exponentially, but that was something he didn’t feel the need to share with the council. They were hard enough on Anakin as it was, he certainly didn’t need to provide cause for more criticism. He was answering questions when asked and provided sufficient detail to satisfy the council–but not by much. The proud smile he’d sported earlier upon his and Obi-Wan’s recollection of the same event was not reproduced in its repeat explanation. Obi-Wan, watching the younger man like a hawk, was sure he didn’t have the energy for it anymore. 

Fortunately for Anakin, he was able to keep his occasional sniffling quiet enough that it didn’t get picked up by Obi-Wan’s radar. It was coming more frequently now, and breathing through his nose was proving to be a more trying task as the seconds ticked by. If he didn’t get out soon, his chances of skating by without Obi-Wan noticing the heaviness of his voice or the roundness of his consonants were sure to be catastrophically low. All he wanted in the entire galaxy was one of Padmé’s colorfully embroidered yet thankfully forgiving handkerchiefs that retained just a touch of her ambrosial perfume. Anakin never minded when that extra scent pushed his sensitive nose over the edge; he often used it to his advantage when a pesky sneeze–or five–wouldn’t come to fruition. While on the mission, it was like no one had even heard of a handkerchief except for Obi-Wan, and Anakin would rather face ten thousand droidekas without a lightsaber than ask to borrow one from him. It wouldn’t be long until he was reunited with Padmé, holding her tightly in his arms, feeling her smooth skin against his as she melted into his embrace, pressing his face to her neck while he pleaded for a handkerchief, and maybe also a kiss if she had one to spare. He could practically see her soft almond eyes, irises the same hue as the wortwood trees native to Tatooine, beaming up at him, her starry gaze filled with nothing but deep-seated affection as she–

“General Skywalker!” 

“Yes?!” The borderline irritated response slipped out automatically before Anakin had the chance to turn his head and figure out who had addressed him in the first place. All eyes fell on him, none particularly amused, and he felt his cheeks turning pink as he scanned the room. His eyes landed on the Jedi Master looking at him the most expectantly, and his already drained spirit took yet another beating. Anakin did his best to clear the thin layer of gunk beginning to line his throat. “My apologies. Yes, Master Windu?” 

The room looked unimpressed. Obi-Wan nearly clapped his calloused palms to his face and screamed into them. 

Master Windu let a beat pass for Anakin to bask in his embarrassment before proceeding. He was half-listening to the older Jedi this time too, and provided yet another lackluster response. In his opinion, there wasn’t much to talk about. Overall, the mission had been successful and he had already spent several hours studying which aspects hadn’t been.

After it became quite clear to the council that they weren’t going to get much more out of the General, the meeting was adjourned and another scheduled for the following afternoon. Obi-Wan forced Anakin to repeat the time back to him twice on their way out to verify that he’d actually paid attention to and retained the information. As the words were about to escape Obi-Wan’s lips a third time, he froze in place just after his former padawan had done the same. He didn’t need to ask Anakin what was wrong at this point–he knew him too well. The slight shake of his head, the hesitation of his flesh hand wavering just above his collarbone, the crinkling of his prominent brows, and finally, the short but desperate gasp that led to…

“AhhHhgGk’tSCH’uh! ngG’kTSCh-ehksCHEW!” He could feel Obi-Wan’s eyes boring into his skull like lasers. The first three scraped his throat as they tumbled out one over the other, half-stifled into his already otherwise dirtied robes, but Anakin could not keep it up for long. “Not a krihh’IDSCHH’uh! HiehhEHGSsch’iuh! Snf, not a kriffing w-word–hiH’AHHGSCHH’ieh!”

“That was quite a show.” 

The hard glare Anakin shot at the older Jedi was rendered ineffective by his efforts to prevent his nose from dripping anywhere other than his sleeves. “I said, not a w-”

“I heard you.”

“Well, snrf-snf, I don’t want to hear anything from you.”

His entire demeanor was so juvenile that Obi-Wan nearly folded in half, cackling in the boy’s face, though he was sure that wouldn’t have gone over well. Anakin’s face was already flushed with a combination of self-consciousness, frustration, and…fever? Obi-Wan had little time to consider it before Anakin stalked off, grumbling to himself, heavy sniffles still loud enough to be heard between his long strides down the hall.