#lostinsnow

So no, Anakin’s never gotten the chance to learn directly from Obi-Wan. Which makes him the odd one out, considering how friendly and patient Obi-Wan is with the other padawans. Even the initiates advanced enough to be trusted with weapon-work get more warmth from him than Anakin ever has.

Everyone gushes about what a good teacher he is, how lucky they’d be to get chosen as his padawan—and Anakin grits his teeth, hard enough that his jaw aches, because if he listens too long, he'll pick a fight he can’t afford to finish.

Not if he wants clearance to leave the Temple. To escape.

Because stars, does he need to get off Coruscant. The pressure of billions is a battering ram against the walls of his mind. Only in space can he breathe.

“Keep your eyes on me,” Obi-Wan says to the Twi’lek girl on the mats in the training salle. Her knuckles are bone-pale where she grips the practice saber. It’s just carved wood with no kyber, so no humming energy blade, but the wood is Force-compatible, and it stings if it lands a good hit.

Obi-Wan continues. “Ease your grip, Vei. You’ll wear yourself out too fast that way.”

Anakin stands a few feet away, repeating the same set of katas for the ninth time. He’d technically only been assigned five repetitions by Windu as punishment for falling asleep during class, but he’s not about to waste this. No, Obi-Wan won’t teach him. But he can watch. Learn.

And Obi-Wan knows he's there. For all that he's guiding Vei with his usual calm, there's a tension coiled in the line of his shoulders, in the deliberate roll of his neck, studiously not acknowledging the boy who shares his lineage.

Jerk, Anakin thinks. But he understands. Qui-Gon is always standing between them like a ghost, even though the man is alive and well, and Obi-Wan could go see him at any time, air out his grievances, yell at the old man, fight him, if he wanted to. 

But Obi-Wan won’t. He holds himself to higher standards than that.

Idiot joins jerk. 

“I’m trying,” Vei says, whines, backing away. She’s awful at combat, hates the violence. Everyone knows that she’ll never make it as a knight. She’ll be happier in the Archives, maybe with the AgriCorps. But for now, she’s a padawan, and the expectations are what they are.

Unexpectedly, her attention lands on Anakin. And her strained expression brightens. “If you show him first, I can see how he does it!”

Anakin almost drops his lightsaber. His real, fully-functioning, ready-to-burn-a-hole-in-the-floor lightsaber—only his reflexes kicking in saves the floor.

“What?” he blurts, dumbly. “No, no, I already know Ataru—” His tongue feels thick, clumsy. His grip’s gone too tight now, fingers aching around the hilt. “He doesn’t have anything to teach me.”

“... I wouldn’t go that far, Anakin,” Obi-Wan corrects mildly, though he should be agreeing. What the sithhells is he doing? “Come here.”

That’s a knight asking him to do something. His master’s former student. Anakin glances at the exit, hackles raised like a hissing tooka, lips peeled back slightly from his teeth in a grimace. Gossip is the last thing he wants to deal with right now. Qui-Gon promised to take him on the next Outer Rim mission if he behaved, will it still count as ‘behaving’ if he tells Obi-Wan to kriff off?

Probably not.

When he stomps over to the mats. Obi-Wan lets those slightly arched eyebrows do all the talking.

“Well then,” Obi-Wan says, and for a moment, falters. As if he’s realized what he’s just pushed them into doing. That he’ll have to touch Anakin, correct his form, guide him and teach him.

Good, Anakin thinks viciously. They're close enough now that he catches a whiff of Obi-Wan's alpha scent, though it's been neutralized into a generic muskiness by his scent-blockers. He can suffer, too.