Archive of Our Own

***

If someone were to ask Obi-Wan Kenobi who he was, he would first say, "Anakin Skywalker's Master." It was not a careless statement like those made to continue a trivial conversation. It wasn't like, "Yes, today is colder than yesterday," or "I feel older every day." Obi-Wan had embraced it with the passion that only a man dedicated to the divine could have. He had taken it in his hands, like the river stone Qui-Gon had given him on his birthday, and assimilated it as an inextricable part of himself. The devotion to the rule of the Jedi, the unshakeable faith in his Master, the certainty that this was his life's calling. And with Anakin, all this was concentrated in a single point and object. In being Master, all his beliefs were distilled, and Anakin, as his Padawan, was the living proof that his life choices had been right. That he had made it right—or that he could make it right. That after losing Qui-Gon, he had a chance to save a life.

That's what he thought. That's what he said. He chewed on this reality with the patience of Master Yoda, who had taught the same lesson to younglings for 800 years. I am Anakin Skywalker's Master, he told himself, I am proud of it. I am a Jedi Master, and I am proud to be one. I am a Master. I am proud.

Obi-Wan listed all the things that made him proud of his apprentice: Anakin was a born pilot, guided by the Force. They had not yet invented a ship that he could not fly. He was a wondrous mechanic, repairing things as quickly as he broke them. He was an accomplished student; despite his obvious disadvantages, he had caught up with his classmates in a short time and even surpassed them in some areas. His favorite subjects were the hard sciences, and mathematical language was like his native tongue. But what he liked most about Anakin was his artistic side, which, when he discovered it, surprised him with its honesty. Anakin drew and always had. "On Tatooine, I sometimes drew on the walls of my room," he told him once when Obi-Wan looked over his shoulder to see what he was doing in such concentration. He was sketching a column in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. "With pieces of charcoal I'd get from Watto's shop or whatever was within reach. My mother used to yell at me for making a mess, but eventually she gave in."

Obi-Wan realized it was necessary for him, just as it was to fly and run after sitting in class all day. It was like something welling up in his chest, and no force in the galaxy could stop it. Anakin would sit cross-legged on the floor and pull out a piece of paper and a graphite pencil, and as if it had always been there, the corner of a temple hallway would appear. It was impressive. Other times, he would draw on his datapad, flowers and animals, and the inside of a droid and send the little sketches to Obi-Wan, who would marvel at the precision of his strokes and how something alive would emerge from a bunch of lines. His style was chaotic, full of angles and scratches, because Anakin refused to erase what he had drawn and instead painted over his mistakes, erasing them, eliminating them, forcing the sketch to become what he wanted it to be. Not that he made many mistakes: Anakin's drawings were almost always perfect, an exact representation of what he saw, the absolute crystallization of his point of view.

Obi-Wan congratulated him proudly. "Well done, Padawan. It's beautiful," and Anakin smiled.

In an ideal world, it would be enough. To wish or say was sometimes the same thing for Obi-Wan, speaking in the hope that it would come true or wishing silently in the hope that someone else would tell it. In an ideal world, Anakin would find satisfaction in what his Master had to give him—a compliment or a piece of advice. But after seven years of wishing, Obi-Wan had learned two lessons: that the apprentice teaches the Master and that Anakin would never be satisfied.

***

They had argued, but that was no surprise to anyone.

Or rather, it shouldn't have surprised him, but he still hadn't gotten over the pang in his stomach when he realized Anakin wasn't talking to him. Completing Romin's mission had involved them in a fight that should never have happened. Obi-Wan did not heed the intuition that told him to be quiet as Anakin paced their shared cabin, complaining about Ferus and Roy Teda and all his enemies and Obi-Wan's refusal to let him participate in a revolution that did not belong to the Jedi.

"What's the point of our existence if we can't do anything?" Anakin yelled at him. His complaints about what it meant to be a Jedi had evolved. It was no longer about the uniform restrictions or the rigidity of meditation; now, it was about their political positioning and what it meant to have power and use it. "Does it not seem absurd to you, Master, to see the injustices of the galaxy and be unable to act?"

"And who are you to decide what justice is, Anakin?" he replied, placing two fingers on the bridge of his nose. During their stay on Romin, they had eaten and drunk to excess, and the incessant hum of the ship had begun to make him dizzy. It didn't help that Anakin's anger hit him in the Force like rough seas on a stormy day. "On Romin, Roy Teda thought he was being fair, and you saw what he caused. Joylin, the revolution's leader, thought he was being fair and had no problem hurting innocent people. What is fairness, Anakin? What is your frame of reference?"

"My frame of reference is that I have been on the other side. My frame of reference is that I know what it's like to want to fight for your freedom, to make real change," the boy shouted, standing before him. He was shaking, and his hands were clenched into fists. Obi-Wan thought it was a disproportionate reaction to what had happened. Roy Teda had been arrested. The people of Romin were discussing a referendum to choose their new government. Mace Windu had congratulated them. What more did he want? What more was needed?

"Calm down, Padawan," he said, knowing it was a mistake. "You're making an unnecessary fuss."

Anakin opened his mouth and closed it. Obi-Wan watched as his Padawan tried to breathe and swallow his rage. The entire room hummed with the energy of his impetus. He has been finding it harder and harder to get to his center lately, and Obi-Wan doesn't know what else he can do to teach him how to control his emotions. Close your eyes, Padawan, and breathe in my rhythm. Think of falling water. Think of the air caressing your hair. Think of me holding your shoulders. They were obsolete techniques that had worked for a ten-year-old boy learning to control himself within the Force but were inadequate for a sixteen-year-old young man who almost surpassed him in size. Child's play.

"You don't understand me," Anakin said, his voice reduced to a rabid whisper. "None of you do." 

"Anakin, please," he begged, grabbing his wrist to ground him. It was him, after all. Maybe not just a teacher, but a lightning rod. That was what he had thought lately: that if he couldn't teach him anything, he might be able to hold him back. But Anakin resisted instruction and restraint. Obi-Wan should be the angry one, even if he couldn't find the anger, and all that tinged him was a dry disappointment, a dull weariness. "Sit here with me. Let's talk. I'm not your enemy. You're fighting against the wind." 

But Anakin let go of his hand with a jerk and turned to walk out of the cabin and into the ship, leaving them both with the searing pain of the misunderstanding. 

When they reached Coruscant, the boy joined him again but silently. He did not look at him or say another word. Not on the way to the council chamber, nor when he asked him if he wanted to get something to eat. Obi-Wan had gotten used to asking him, not because he was hungry, but because it had become a reward and a congratulation after every successful mission. Would you like something to eat? And he and Obi-Wan remembered their recent experiences while Anakin wolfed down muffins and fruit juice. Obi-Wan fed on the calm vision of triumph without consequences. They were alive, and that was it. Above all, they were together. Anakin still considered him the most important person in his life, and Obi-Wan, as if filled with a powerful light, thought the same. In his eternal quest to be the perfect teacher for the Chosen One, he had found that there was no greater sustenance than knowing that there was a sacred correspondence between the two. One taught, and the other always learned in a perfect loop that fed on itself, a perpetual motion machine in which there was no room for doubt.

He gave him some space for the first two days, for this was not the first time it had happened. The impeccable Master-Padawan machinery had suffered for years from mishaps that seemed inevitable. Anakin would disobey him at the first opportunity, and he, unable to control his frustration, would scold him without giving him the right to reply. Then Anakin would come to his room, repentant, sad, and crestfallen, and apologize, and Obi-Wan, who had not yet perfected a defense against his apprentice's glittering eyes, would forgive him, even though he knew this was a pattern that was repeating itself more and more often. 

But on the fourth day, when Anakin still did not speak to him or wait for him to sit down to eat, he decided that someone would have to swallow his pride, and it would have to be him. Another foolish habit, he thought, frustrated with himself, frustrated that he was in such an absurd situation that could have been avoided if Anakin had been a good student and teacher. Fix what you can and let go of what you can't, Qui-Gon had told him once. It would have been after Melida/Daan or in those years when the need built up in his body like a pool of stagnant water. He understood Anakin to a certain extent. He had experienced that feeling he had called "injustice" back then, which he later realized was arrogance. It was what he had tried to tell him on the return ship: that none of them could wield power without becoming corrupted. It was a narrow path the Jedi walked. They were not masters of themselves or their desires: they were avatars of the Force, and the only will was their own.

But who, then, will dispense justice if not us? The voice he heard sounded very much like Anakin's, but Obi-Wan knew it was his own, his voice as a teenager when he had the same doubts.

He had walked down the corridor to the Padawan quarters with his head full of conversation. He had tried to rehearse a possible confrontation with Anakin, with the idea that he would offer him a truce: he would stop sulking, and Obi-Wan would promise him dinner with Dex. He imagined that Anakin would try to rebel against the peace offered by his Master and would surely call him a hypocrite or whatever insult he could think of in the vehemence of his anger, but Obi-Wan was sure that he would accept it in the face of his Master's gentle demonstration. He didn't like it either. To know that the two of them had resorted to manipulation to make the other give in. But he told himself it was no different than Qui-Gon pretending not to know the answer so that Obi-Wan would find it on his own.

Or so he hoped.

He knocked on Anakin's door with his knuckles and waited for the boy to let him in. There was no movement. He knocked twice more, and on the third try, he called his name: "Anakin. It's me. Let me in, please." 

But no one answered. So Obi-Wan expanded his perception inside and realized that he was not inside. For a moment, he thought this was a sign that he should withdraw and try again the next day, but his intuition was overshadowed by the need to see Anakin. He missed him. He missed him all the time. He didn't like being at odds with anyone, at least with his Padawan. It was a tremendous certainty to possess: that there were things he didn't want to experience and that with Anakin, they increased exponentially, as if the boy were a super dense star. So he opened the door and went into his room, telling himself that he would wait for him there and that when Anakin arrived, he would explain that he had done it because he couldn't put off the separation any longer. It was as pathetic as it sounded, but he supposed that things done out of devotion were always like that, pitiful and small, only elevated until someone else thought they were worth looking at.

Anakin's room always surprised him with its striking contrast to its owner. Obi-Wan always expected to find it dirty and untidy, but Anakin maintained a strange order, a hygiene that could only belong to him. Unlike his own room, which was empty of almost everything but the most essential, Anakin's room was full of things: books, droid parts, tools, and an impressive variety of objects he had collected from the temple and his missions. Even on the bed, on top of the light standard bedspread, he had placed the Zeyd blanket that Chancellor Palpatine had given him two years before. Obi-Wan guessed that his room was homely. It reminded him of the interiors of the homes of the people he had known throughout his life: places that insisted on personalization, on belonging. This is Anakin Skywalker's house, said all the things he had collected. Nobody lives here but me.

He thought it was so unlike him, sitting on the edge of his bed. Sometimes, Obi-Wan figured he could serve the Order better if he could shed his clothes, the skin over his bones, and the weight of his marrow, but for Anakin, life was about having hands to grasp. He breathed in the scent of his Padawan that filled the room. Anakin was as big as a supernova, and when he felt brave enough to measure himself, Obi-Wan sometimes felt like a river pebble.

He moved his feet to stand upright and started meditating to free himself from all the white noise, but his foot bumped into something on the floor.

There, on the heel of his boot, was a small black rectangle that he couldn't recognize as anything at first until he picked it up and turned it over. It was a sketchbook. A leather and paper notebook like those still used on distant planets by people who refused to empty their art onto a holographic screen and believed in the solidity of ink on paper. Anakin bought such notebooks in the commercial sector near the temple, with money Obi-Wan pretended not to know the source of it, and as far as he knew, they were filled with his ideas for droid construction and ship repair. 

He opened the sketchbook, and in the first few pages, he found sketches of the labyrinthine interior of a Jedi cruiser's dual drive system, the strict lines of a hyperdrive engine's motivator, the magnetic circuits and conductors of an antimatter generator, the perfectly aligned roots of the paralight system that lived beneath a frigate's command center. All were technical drawings, made almost as a visual guide or reminder for Anakin. Next to several sketches, he found a note in his Padawan's elegant, stylized handwriting: " The 4-axis stabilizer always breaks first, " he had written next to what appeared to be a drawing of a pair of alluvial dampers. " Tell Obi-Wan that Cronau radiation tastes like garlic, " said a note under a drawing of a broken hovercraft cowling. Obi-Wan smiled, amused. He had never told him, but now he knew. Only Anakin would give such an attribution to a ship's radiation leak.

He turned the pages. The drawings of the ships began to turn into anatomical sketches. Obi-Wan had seen him take out his sketchbook a few times when they were on their way to a mission, but he had never asked him what he was doing. He found studies of hands, curves of shoulders, beings sitting at what appeared to be food stalls, profiles of men under dark hoods, and what looked like a group of Jedi sitting, waiting for something. He was surprised: he had never seen Anakin draw living beings before. All this time, he had believed that his only interest lay in scrutinizing his surroundings. Obi-Wan assumed that humans were also part of the landscape. Most impressive to him was, of course, that there was no leap in quality between the bowels of a ship and the line of a nose. Anakin was excellent in every possible area of this art. 

He liked his pencil strokes. They seemed experimental, as if he wanted to get rid of the urge to scratch a piece of white paper, but Obi-Wan realized they were also precise. The chaos of the scribbles turned into a hand, and suddenly, there was a person, as concrete as in real life.

Halfway through the notebook, Obi-Wan opened his mouth in surprise. 

The page had become a mirror, for the person looking back at him was himself. It was a drawing of his face, looking down at the floor, concentrating on something. He tried to imagine when he could have done that, but Obi-Wan had no memory of seeing or feeling Anakin drawing while looking at him, and besides, none of his portraits were dated. What surprised him most was to see himself through his Padawan's eyes. He hadn't stopped to illustrate the details of his tunic, but he had stopped to study how his hair fell on his head. He had drawn his eyebrows, beard, and eyelashes, paying attention to every hair and the moles on his cheeks. Next to his ear, Anakin had simply written: Master.

He found it very strange to see himself. He knew it was him, but at the same time, he had the impression that he was another person, another version of himself, someone who deserved to be portrayed with such fidelity and care. And the strange feeling that filled his chest did not disappear when he discovered himself again on the next page, repeated half a dozen times, but this time in profile, looking up at the sky, with his hand in his beard, as he did when he was thinking hard about something, with a frown on his face, his head tilted as if bored. Had he drawn it during one of those lengthy and tedious meetings in the Senate? Why had he never noticed it?

Page after page, Anakin's notebook became a collection of little moments in Obi-Wan's life. In some places, it was no longer even his face or his standing figure: it was his hands, open, made into fists, around the hilt of Anakin's lightsaber; it was his legs and his boots, bent in a defensive stance, crossed one over the other, running. With a hollow pit in his stomach, Obi-Wan desperately turned the pages, hoping to find something other than himself, divided into parts, studied like an insect under a microscope. But when had Anakin ever left things alone? Since when had his apprentice known restraint?

Suddenly, the studies of his moving body became studies of his naked body. Obi-Wan felt his mouth dry and his heart in his throat. He didn't know what to think or what to do. There he was, lying on some indeterminate surface, the floor, the tatami of the training dojo, his bed, with his hands over his head, exposing his armpits, chest, and stomach. Anakin had drawn all of his body hair, marked his ribs under his chest, and, most impressively, his genitals and legs, slightly spread. That was not something he had drawn just by looking at Obi-Wan. That was entirely his own invention, pulled from his imagination.

He kept seeing himself in positions he knew he had never done in his life, let alone naked. Lying on his side, one buttock open to vulgarly show everything he was hiding. On all fours, offering himself to the artist. Lying on his back, legs bent under him, touching his chest with both hands, his face twisted in a gesture of obscene pleasure. Dressed in lingerie, with the anatomy of a woman.

Obviously, with each drawing, Anakin became more emboldened, and his lines became more erratic and desperate. Suddenly, Obi-Wan was no longer just naked and existing. Now, Obi-Wan was the object of the experiments of someone unseen, someone who was no longer Anakin's hand illustrating but a second ink actor. 

He saw himself on his knees, eyes closed and mouth open, and a third hand holding his face as someone spilled a thick liquid over his nose and lips. Now he saw himself bent in two, legs up to his chest, as someone penetrated him violently, making him scream. Now, someone was holding his hair to expose the lines of his neck, which was full of bites. Someone pinched his nipples, someone put two fingers inside him, someone put his hands, a whole dozen hands, all over his body, like a tentacled monster, wanting to cling to every inch of his skin.

Anakin had scratched over many of these drawings, angry at their existence as if he wanted to eliminate them altogether, but without the commitment to rip out the page and make them disappear altogether. Sometimes, he began to sketch his eyes but left them incomplete, as if he wanted to stop drawing himself and had to force himself to do so. In one corner of the page, he had written his first name, Obi-Wan, and his own last name, Skywalker, but on this occasion, he had crossed out only the Skywalker, leaving his name alone and small. 

The last illustrated pages, however, were very different from the others.

Obi-Wan knew that continuing to look had been a terrible mistake. He should never have invaded the boy's privacy, left him alone, and waited for him to come. But there he was, with the sketchbook in his hands, seeing himself in a way he would never have thought possible. 

Anakin had taken his time to illustrate this piece. He had done it carefully, using two full pages, patiently tracing the learned curves of Obi-Wan's body: his now severed arms above his head, his mutilated legs slightly open, like the first drawing he had done of him naked, but now, instead of a calm, almost flirtatious gesture, Anakin had drawn him with his mouth slightly open, his eyes unfocused, but without missing a mole or a hair on his head. Now, however, instead of showing his chest and stomach, Anakin had sliced him open like a fish fresh from the water.

He had paid close attention to how the skin and muscles of his belly opened outward, how his insides bulged out. He had painted them black and saturated as if they were still full of blood. His entire small intestine hung from his stiff, pale body like a ghastly ribbon. The rest of his organs protruded from inside him, shiny and very round, his stomach, liver, and spleen, the threads of veins and sinews, like precious jewels, as if he were a trunk in which to store things, to deposit desires, waiting for someone to put their hands inside him to snatch the uncut diamonds inside him. The rest of his body was bloody as if the act had been messy, not surgical at all, as if whoever had opened him had done it with his hands, with his teeth.

He had drawn him open, totally exposed, not just sexually, but violently. He had drawn him dead. And next to his desecrated body, he had signed only his name, like an artist proud of his work. Anakin Skywalker. It seemed to Obi-Wan that it was more than a sign of belonging; it was a promise and an intention. He closed the book and dropped it on the floor, just where he had found it.

It was one thing to look at yourself in the mirror and find that the reflection of your face made you uncomfortable, and another to see yourself defiled, shattered, cut into essential pieces: hands, feet, eyes; to see the inside of yourself, an unnatural, perverse vision of your own death, when that was the one thing you never saw. 

Obi-Wan didn't know when he got up or how he got to Anakin's tiny bathroom, but he was puking bile and water into the toilet when he pulled himself together. He hadn't eaten all day, and the disgust had only drained what little he had left inside. He vomited twice more, hurting his throat with the acidity of his reflux, and felt tears in his eyes, but not from feeling, but from the effort it had taken to vomit everything out of him. He groggily walked over to the sink to rinse his mouth with water.

"Master?" he heard a voice behind him, and his whole body seized with dread. He lifted his face, and through the mirror, he saw the dark figure of Anakin looking at him in utter confusion. "Master? What happened? What are you doing here? Are you all right?". 

The boy reached out to grab his elbow, but Obi-Wan recoiled from his fingers in fright. Anakin's face told him that he had hurt him with that action.

"Padawan, I'm so sorry. I... I came looking for you, but I think I got sick from breakfast and, and, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to mess up your bathroom like that," he stammered, unable to think of a more convincing lie. Obi-Wan hadn't been anywhere near the dining room all day.

Anakin shook his head. "It's all right. I just got scared, that's all. Come on," he said with authority that made his whole body clench as if he were waiting for Anakin to strike him.  Let's go to the infirmary." 

"No," he replied too quickly. "No, Anakin. Don't worry. I'm fine. It's just..."

But he didn't know what else to say. He tried to look into his eyes but found his jade gaze as frightening as what he had seen in his sketchbook. Being near him made him feel worse. He wants me dead, he thought, afraid of the boy and himself. Or worse, he wants me to be his.

"Master..."

"I'll look for you tomorrow, okay? I'm obviously not well enough to talk... I'll, I'll go," he stammered, looking down at the floor and heading for the exit. Before the door closed behind him, however, he turned and caught a glimpse of his apprentice: standing in the middle of his cluttered room, brow furrowed, hands clenched into fists. And Obi-Wan fled from that image, fighting the urge to vomit again and asking the Force for strength and oblivion.

***

In the reverie of his dreams, Obi-Wan is not himself but anything that comes from Anakin's hand. 

He feels immaterial, like ink in a glass of water, blurred at its edges, as insignificant as something said in a low voice, a secret. It is malleable and eternal. It is not destroyed but transformed according to the desires of a dozen eager fingers, which turn it into an infinity of possibilities. It is beautiful. Absolute love between creator and creation. Obi-Wan does not need to think of the future or the past, only of this unchanging present, uniform and symmetrical, like a pulse, like the panting of a hungry animal.

What his Padawan invents has no shame of its own, so Obi-Wan doesn't feel it. What he does feel is an overwhelming need for someone to touch him, to run their fingernails over the tender skin of his back and make him shiver. So he arches his back when he feels his creator approaching to press his face to his neck. 

"Master, why don't you ever do what I want?" asks Anakin. Obi-Wan spreads his legs to take him between them and begins to rub against the hardness of his pants. Anakin is a solid shadow, as hot as a sunbeam through a window. Obi-Wan, why won't you let me touch you?"

"Touch me," he replies. "Do whatever you want to me." 

This is the commitment of a drawing: to become what the artist wants it to be. This is what Obi-Wan wants, with a force that steals the air from his chest: to become the man Anakin spends his time portraying.

The boy obeys as never before. He stands up and runs his hands over his body as if Obi-Wan were the canvas and his fingers the brushes. Every touch is electric, leaving a permanent mark on him. He raises his arms above his head and lets Anakin linger on his armpits, on the lines of his ribs, squeezing his nipples hard. When the boy sits down on his legs, Obi-Wan remembers himself as he had seen in the notebook: he spreads his legs as Anakin had drawn them, opens his mouth, and tries to imitate the gesture of agony he had seen. He transforms himself into that man, unafraid of pleasure, and into the obscene fantasy of his Padawan's mind. He is no longer a man but a brushstroke made to provoke pleasure, to be the pleasure, to be the forbidden. He becomes the taboo, the dark and frightening desire of a boy who loves him without the possibility of making it come true.

Anakin licks his navel and slides his hand between his buttocks to gently caress his pucker, making him twitch like a leaf. His apprentice's eyes are black as if that were their actual color. The tip of his Padawan braid tickles his thigh. If this were reality, Obi-Wan would be sickened, but this is a dream, so he allows himself to be moved by the intimate, tiny detail of his braid against his skin. He allows himself to accept what he has known for days: that he wishes Anakin would touch him as he fantasizes, that the illusion would come true, like when the cold winter wind turns to snow and covers the mountain peaks.

"Do it," Obi-Wan says because those are the words Anakin wants to hear. He lifts his legs to his chest and holds them with his hands behind his knees. "Open me. Fill me with your hands."

Anakin begins to insert a finger into him, slowly at first, then carelessly and without patience. Obi-Wan is surprised at how much he feels, even though he is made of ink. It hurts. His skin stretches, the inside of his body expands unwillingly, and Anakin turns one finger into two and those two fingers into his whole hand. He has made a point with his fingertips and has begun to enter his hole, making him scream. The pain is so great that he feels it all the way to his stomach, all the way to his lungs, which are paralyzed with fear. 

"Shh. Master. Obi-Wan. You're taking me so well. Just a little more," says Anakin, who has his head on his stomach. He could hear the sound of his hand tearing at his rectum as if he could find comfort in the desperate movement of his gut, begging him to stop. 

"Anakin," he whimpers. He wants to tell him not to do it, to go away, that it hurts like hell, but those words were not written for him. "Padawan. Touch me more." 

He can't touch him anymore. His hand goes all the way into his body with a wet pop, and the edge of the hole kisses the entire circumference of Anakin's wrist. He jerks his head back, overwhelmed by pleasure so horrible it makes him break into a cold sweat. The boy moans along with him as if the action is enough to stimulate him. They are both so close to the orgasm they so desire. That's what they are: desperate desires and actions that never seem to reach fulfillment.

Then, because that's what Obi-Wan asked him to do because that's what Anakin had configured in his sketches, the boy begins to sink the nails of his free hand into the soft skin of his belly below his navel. His skin opens as if made of dough, without any resistance, and begins to ooze fresh, warm blood as the boy plunges his hand down to where his other hand is.

Obi-Wan can't stop watching. He is shaking and panting like a man about to die, and his eyes are fixed on Padawan's hands. The right one is inside his ass, and the left one is between the muscles of his stomach, between the slippery nature of his intestines. His mouth begins to fill with blood, and he can no longer articulate words because Anakin doesn't need him to speak. He only needs him to feel, see, and be all his. 

"Ah," Anakin cries after a moment, and Obi-Wan is as cold as if he had been dead for hours. "I got you, Master," and he raises both hands, filled with his blood, so deep red it looks black as ink. He holds them together, one with the other, and the image of Anakin's joined fingers looks to him like teeth, like the fangs of a creature that can only feed on his body. 

Obi-Wan lets go as the shock of his climax, or his death, whitens his vision and clears his head of all thoughts of a man. He has never felt anything like this. The orgasm hits his whole body like a wave on the edge of a cliff, like an avalanche of ice; he feels the pleasure licking every inch of his skin, the inside of his mouth, his teeth, his blood system, the back of his eyes, the center of his brain. It's encompassing. "You look so beautiful," Anakin says, and the last thing he sees is Anakin sucking his hands inside his stomach like a kitten eating a beating heart. 

***

He didn't dream much because he didn't like it, and when he was Qui-Gon's Padawan, he trained himself to sleep as little as possible, hoping to become one of those legendary Jedi Masters who neither slept nor ate, who only meditated, who were in such perfect communication with the Force that they needed no sustenance. He had not succeeded. But he always found himself drawn to a cup of tea, a loaf of bread with honey, and the indulgent comfort of sleeping soundly after a bath. If he were a braver Jedi, he would recognize himself as the hedonistic, conformist man he never wanted to be and yet was. He didn't know why he didn't succeed, why he couldn't achieve the severity of his desires, or why he couldn't be as stern or detached as Mace Windu or Yoda.

Now, he could not sleep because every time he closed his eyes, Anakin was with him, and Obi-Wan was not his Master and a Jedi but a man made of lines and curves who had been molded to the dark intentions of a boy more talented than he was. And Obi-Wan could not accept that he would rather stay in his dreams or his own fantasies, which were a continuation of what he had seen in the sketchbook.

Anakin had decided that watching him vomit pathetically in his bathroom was punishment enough, and they had started to talk as if nothing had happened. That felt even worse because Obi-Wan knew neither of them was being honest. Because he knew that Anakin had not learned any lessons and because he had accepted a forgiveness he did not deserve after invading their privacy.  As horrible as those drawings had been, they were his and no one else's.

Obi-Wan should never have known of his existence, but in his desperation to repair their relationship, he had found more than he sought. And though he had tried to remain even-tempered with the boy, Obi-Wan knew that he had withdrawn and was now acting cold and distant. During training and their daily meetings, Obi-Wan kept his words to a minimum and avoided looking into his face too much. Sometimes, he would see the tips of Anakin's index and middle fingers stained with black ink, and he would have to close his eyes and take deep breaths to control his retching. 

Something had happened in his mind when he saw those drawings. It seemed to him that all his life, he had walked in a straight line until that moment when he saw himself broken and his stomach ripped open. Suddenly, the path had twisted at a sharp angle, the road had disappeared, and now he was in an unknown land, among brambles and darkness. How could he guide and teach his Padawan when he was so lost in his own feelings?

Fortunately, they were called to appear before the council. Their next mission would not be as grand as the one to Romin; although they had been congratulated for their courageous actions, they now had to deal with the consequences of the revolution on Romin. The Chief Judge of the Greylands Security Complex in Tentator had summoned them to testify against Roy Teda and his government. It was supposed to be a short trip. Siri and Ferus would be waiting for them as they returned from another mission in Mamendin. 

Obi-Wan agreed, somewhere between relieved and nervous. He hoped a mission would get him out of his own head and into something else, but the thought of being alone with Anakin for a few hours made him uneasy. His Padawan sensed his anxiety as the two of them prepared the ship to leave for Tentator. They had never been so quiet as on this occasion, and Obi-Wan knew that Anakin sensed that it was not his fault this time. 

"Master... are you still sick?" the boy asked, his voice soft, almost apologetic. Obi-Wan made the effort to turn around to look him in the eye. 

"I'm fine, Anakin," he lied. "I'm eager to put all this behind us, aren't you?"

The boy made a gesture of displeasure. "I'm glad to know that the tyrant will get his punishment... I... Obi-Wan, I want to apologize for the other time. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. I know I'm the worst Padawan, but sometimes I can't control myself and..."

"No, Anakin. There is nothing to apologize for," Obi-Wan interrupted, holding up his hands. The boy still had a look of regret on his face. "I'm glad you came to this conclusion on your own. And no, I don't mean what you say about being the worst Padawan. You're not, you," and he swallowed, remembering the drawings, remembering his dreams. "You have the potential to be the best of them all, Anakin." 

His Padawan smiled slightly, not so convinced. " The potential. That means I'm not there yet." 

"No one is, Anakin," and Obi-Wan had the impulse to reach out and pat his knee, but he clenched his hand with the other. "Potential is a seed, Padawan. You must let it blossom." 

"I know. It's just that sometimes it's hard, Master. Sometimes it seems like I'm doing everything wrong, and I can't find a way out," the boy said with a sincerity that overwhelmed him.

Obi-Wan knew better than anyone the consequences of his apprentice's impulsiveness. He had seen it firsthand on missions, in training, and in his secret sketches. It was as if he couldn't stop himself, as if an outside force was compelling him to do these things. It surprised him that he himself was aware of this flaw in his personality. 

"Well, that's why you have me, Anakin," he replied, managing to smile sincerely at him. "I am here to guide you and help you with whatever you need." 

Anakin looked at him intently and nodded once, then began the launch protocols as the tension between them eased. This was one of the things he loved most about being a Master. When he could find the right words to calm and instruct his apprentice. He tried to take this small victory as a good omen for the mission. Besides, Anakin hadn't taken anything from his room except his cloak and lightsaber. He wouldn't have a chance to start drawing, which calmed him down. A little. It bothered him that he couldn't admire this side of Anakin with the innocence he had before, now that he knew the truth.

At Tentator, they met Siri and her apprentice, who explained the legal procedure of the whole situation. Obi-Wan thought the visit would be quick and boring, but things got out of control when a group close to Roy Teda, including his security advisor, escaped from one of the temporary security cells.

It had been a futile escape, as virtually the entire country of Greylands was a prison full of cameras, sensors, and patrolling droids, but Siri pointed out that perhaps they wanted to do as much damage as possible before they were captured. 

"It's like a suicide mission," Ferus sighed, almost saddened by the criminals' fate.

"I hate those bastards. Rich people are always like that. When they fall, they take you between their legs," Anakin said, not caring about his companion's disapproving look. 

They decided to split up: Obi-Wan and Anakin would go to the subway hangar, while Siri and Ferus would follow the prisoners with the rest of the complex's security corps. It was most likely that Teda's allies would look for a ship to escape from there, so Obi-Wan and Anakin would guard the ships to prevent their escape. One of the Greylands security guards escorted them to the top floor of the main complex while he explained the security and containment methods they had in place. 

"No one can escape from here without biometric identification. Besides, there is a kilometer between the surface and the launch pad; every 100 meters up, there is a security checkpoint. I don't know what they're trying to accomplish by taking a ship," the guard said confidently. 

"Blow us to bits," Anakin grumbled, crossing his arms. 

"The men most likely want to harm those they believe have unjustly imprisoned them," Obi-Wan offered. "These are dangerous people, so we must prevent them from getting their hands on anything they can use as a weapon." 

The guard nodded. "Everything down here is automated, no human intervention. I'll show you where the control room is. Sometimes, there are guards, but not always. I know you Jedi will be able to take care of the rest. I always wondered why they didn't send some of you to Greylands."

"We are not prison guards," Anakin growled. Obi-Wan turned to him impatiently. "That is a lowly job for the Order. We are peacekeepers. The Force is not a judge." 

The guard did not seem to take offense. The three of them exited the elevator and headed for the control room. "Mmm. The Force. If that thing would help me with the paperwork, I might believe in that fantasy. Sorry, Master Jedi: to see is to believe. "

"Thanks for everything. We'll take it from here," Obi-Wan stepped forward when he saw Anakin open his mouth to reply. The guard bowed slightly and walked back the way they had come. Obi-Wan turned to Anakin.

"What?" the boy yelled and then dropped into one of the chairs in the control room. Then he sighed and scratched his eyebrow. "Sorry. I'm just hungry. I thought this would go faster, but I didn't eat anything before I came."

"Anakin," he chided him, although he hadn't eaten since the night before. "I always told you to eat before every mission. You could have grabbed one of those ready-to-eat meals from the ship." 

"Well, like I told you, Master, I didn't know it would take us this long chasing scumbags," he crossed his arms. "Shit."

"Anakin. 

"Sorry." 

Obi-Wan watched as Anakin tried to control the anxiety in his body. It was something he had been doing since he was very young. It was as if he was trying to release the pent-up emotions through his fingertips. He shook his hands, opening and closing them into fists, and tried to breathe through his nose, as Obi-Wan had taught him when he was so small that his head barely reached his chest. Breathe. Focus on the sound of the water. Listen to the wind in the treetops. Breathe in the same rhythm as I do. He used to be able to do that, to shake off the anxiety and breathe and come back to himself, but lately, it was harder for him. And before Obi-Wan could offer him relief, advice, the palm of his hand on his shoulder, but lately he also had trouble finding a solution.

So, he decided to become proactive. The problems in their relationship flared up because Obi-Wan decided that he had to let him be and give his Padawan space to think, but that only highlighted their differences. If Anakin had been more like another Padawan, like Ferus or Darra, Soara Antana's apprentice, perhaps that would have been an appropriate course of action, but Anakin was different in every way. He was more intense, more stubborn, and unable to bend to the will of the Force. Anakin would not forget that he was hungry now that he felt it, and all Obi-Wan could do was give him food. 

So he began to search the entire room. He opened the cabinet doors and looked under the control panel. The guard had said there were occasional guards, and he guessed that the poor bastards they sent to the planet's center would have a stash of supplies to tide them over. Anakin just watched him walk around the room without saying anything.

"Ah," he exclaimed triumphantly when he saw a closed bag in a corner of the table. Opening it, he discovered a bottle of Corellian brandy and a box of protein cookies, which he threw at his Padawan's legs. 

The boy took the box and looked at it almost humorously. "How did you know they had food stored here?"

"You're not the only hungry man in the galaxy, no matter how hard you try," he replied, smiling.

Anakin opened the box and took out a cookie, which he stuffed into his mouth. And Obi-Wan was about to tell him to leave one for him, but a strange smell hit his nose before he could speak. At first, he thought it was the smell of the cookie, but then he felt it in his mouth. It was a distinct, strange smell. Almost metallic, almost vegetable. He turned and stared at the door. It smelled like garlic. Tell Obi-Wan that Cronau's radiation tastes like garlic.  

"Anakin," he said to the boy, still chewing a cookie. "You smell that? Garlic. Metallic." 

His Padawan stood up and nodded, suddenly serious. "It's a radiation leak."

"There's someone down here."

The two left the command room, igniting their lightsabers, and headed for the launch pad. But before Obi-Wan could open his mouth to tell them that the smell was getting stronger, they saw two men appear behind a ship and start firing. 

He and Anakin dodged the shots and hid behind one of the complex's security cruisers. The sound of explosions and crashes echoed throughout the hangar, filling the whole place with an impressive noise as if it were a platoon firing rather than a couple of criminals trying to escape. "They're going to blow up one of the ships," Anakin whispered to him. 

"I noticed that, too, Padawan. But you know how to fix it, don't you? You have to stop the leak while I stop it. It may not be an explosion that damages the entire complex, but we certainly won't come out unscathed."

Anakin turned and looked away from where the shots had been fired. "Master. How do you know what a radiation leak smells like?" he asked earnestly. Obi-Wan just looked at him without daring to say anything else. He could have said anything. Well, you're not the only one who knows such things, are you, Padawan? You told me once. I learned it when I was your age; Qui-Gon taught me. But he remained silent, unable to defend himself, acting like a child caught in a misdeed, accepting guilt by default. What could he say? How could he explain it?

A burst of gunfire interrupted them, and he ordered Anakin to run towards the fleeing ship. In a desperate and utterly senseless action, he jumped over the starship protecting them and ran directly towards the source of the fire. He spotted the two men cowering under the belly of one of the attack ships bearing the complex's logo and fending off their shots, getting one to hit one of them directly. 

The other left his companion on the ground and ran to the rear of the platform, emptying his blaster charge into the cruiser's fuel tank in front of him. The ship exploded, but it was so far away that Obi-Wan felt only the heat wave, and before he could tell him to stop, the man turned and emptied the last two shots of his weapon into his stomach.

He heard them before he felt them. 

That was what surprised him. The sound of the laser hitting his belt, his tunic, and his skin. A second later, he felt it. A sharp, searing pain shot through him, shaking his entire body so impressively that all he could do was fall to the ground. He didn't even have time to cover his wound or break his fall. He fell like a log in a forest. Then he heard Anakin's scream.

Between the heat of the explosion and the fog of pain, he didn't know what had happened to the other man or when his Padawan had grabbed him to lift him from the ground. When he looked down at the burning ship, all he saw was the other man on the ground, as if he had always been there, as if he had always been dead, and what he had seen was a ghost, a dead man walking. Anakin shouldered most of his weight and yelled something into his communicator. 

"Yes, he is wounded. Two of Teda's men were in the hangar. We need medical help first. Yes, Ferus, they won't be a problem anymore, but Obi-Wan needs help now. Now !"

Obi-Wan wanted to tell him it was all right, but all that came out of his mouth was a pitiful whimper that only added to his sense of vulnerability. Why had he been so stupid? He should have taken the weapon from the man with the Force, he should have covered himself when he saw the explosion, he should have lied to Anakin, but he did none of that because he was paralyzed with fear and the realization that he was afraid made him feel even worse than the prospect of losing his life to a gunshot. All his life, he had trained to accept death with open arms, with the idea that passing away was only the next step in the perpetual loop of existence through the Force, but fear was the enemy of the Jedi; fear was the path to the Dark Side, fear was worse than death. And Obi-Wan had fallen right into his embrace, which felt like a Padawan dragging his Master away from danger.

"Obi-Wan, lie down. Help is on the way," Anakin whispered, helping him lie down on the control room floor. He was in a cold sweat, and as he sat up on the floor, he inhaled the smell of his own wounded flesh. It was a sharp, metallic smell that made him nauseous. He put his hand over the hole in his tunic and was surprised to see blood oozing out.

"These are not normal blasters. They're cold plasma. They must be what the guards use here. They don't kill, but they hurt enough to incapacitate," Anakin explained bitterly. He was pale and scared but didn't look injured, which relieved Obi-Wan. "I should go get help."

" No, Anakin. No, please. Stay here with me," he cleared his throat and felt his dignity break as his flesh did. He was so afraid of being alone with Anakin, but the prospect of being away from him was worse. "Don't go." 

His Padawan nodded, his jade eyes wide as if in awe of his Master's naked need for him. He knelt beside him and gently held his head so that he lay completely on the floor. "Are you hurt anywhere else, Master?"

Obi-Wan shook his head and closed his eyes. He was trembling and didn't want to open his mouth, knowing the trembling would give him away. His teeth were chattering, and if he had food in his stomach, he would have thrown it back by now, but unlike his Padawan, he accepted hunger almost gladly. He liked to feel empty and light. He wanted to know that this was another thing he could control. But now, even that assurance had faded because he didn't know if the constant pain in his stomach was his fear of Anakin's appetite or his own.

Anakin put his hand over his, which felt cold and limp, unlike the boy's, which was warm and secure. "We need to stop the bleeding while the others arrive," he told him very quietly, and Obi-Wan could hear him struggling to get the words out. "Perhaps, perhaps, I should cover your wound with something. Let go, Master. I'll cut off a piece of my tunic."

He didn't let go, but when he opened his eyes, Anakin cut off the bottom of his tunic. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and the entire cabin vibrated with the same intensity as when they returned from Romin. It was his Padawan's restlessness, the monumental effort he made to control himself. It was a stunning irony: Anakin was doing his best not to spill, and Obi-Wan was spilling all over his fingers. It was as if they were trying to do the exact opposite of what they wanted to do. And maybe they were. Maybe what they had been doing all these years was running on the other side of the current, stubbornly waiting for the tide to turn. 

Obi-Wan dropped his hands and let Anakin put his over his wound. The boy pressed just hard enough to keep the blood from flowing but gently enough not to hurt him anymore. Hands of an artist, Obi-Wan thought. How many times had he wished for this? Who are you talking about, you or Anakin?

"Anakin," he whispered, thinking he should shut up, close his eyes, and pretend to fall asleep while he waited for Siri and the others. But the words wanted to come out like the blood from his injury. "If you take off my tunic, maybe... maybe you can apply more pressure."  

His Padawan turned to look at him with big, bright eyes. The eyes of a child who is told he can go to the candy store and take everything he wants: of disbelief, of unbridled excitement. Anakin let go of him, and before he started to unbuckle his belt, he looked at his red hands. He stood there for a second, admiring the bright color and the thick glow of his Master's blood, and Obi-Wan had the impression that he was fighting the urge to bring it up to his nose.

However, Anakin unbuckled his utility belt with extreme gentleness and opened his obi to the outside. Their robes were a thing of ritual and process that helped the Jedi focus on the present, and at that moment, Obi-Wan could not be in any other state of mind than the mindless present in which Anakin was removing his clothes with hands stained with his own blood.

He unbuttoned his inner tunic and exhaled sharply as he exposed himself completely. "Master," Anakin said and lowered a warm hand to his stomach, palm open over his navel, placing the fingertips on the line of his wound. Obi-Wan had never felt so exposed, so terribly seen. He didn't know if his face showed his desperate craving or if he had to be as explicit as Anakin had been in his drawings. Fuck me. Do whatever you want to me because that's exactly what I want. Touch me everywhere.  

But he must have realized by now that his silence was as loud as a yes. Anakin turned to look at him, and when he said nothing, he began to run his hands over the rest of his body, staining it with his blood as an indelible sign of what was happening between them. 

"You've seen my sketchbook," Anakin said, placing both hands on his ribs, each finger between them. It wasn't a question. Obi-Wan would have had the nerve to get hard if the pain hadn't taken his breath away. But Anakin's voice was enough to make him tremble with anticipation. "What did you think?"

His Padawan's cheeks were flushed, and his lips were wet with saliva. Obi-Wan tried to remember what he had thought while watching them. The shock, the revulsion. How much it had shocked him to see himself used as a sex toy, how real death had felt when he saw himself like that. But he didn't tell Anakin any of this. He didn't tell him that he was afraid, that it was wrong, that he was a lousy Master, and that they should end their relationship as soon as possible before they did more damage.

"I'm so proud of you," Obi-Wan told him because it was true. You're such a talented boy, Anakin, and..."

"And what?" Anakin asked, lowering his hands to the wound again and covering it with an arch of his fingers. 

"And you can do it if you want to," he finished, not knowing exactly what he was agreeing to. "Do it now that you have me." 

The boy exhaled shakily, and without waiting any longer, he lowered his face to kiss him on his stomach, on the side of his wound. It hurt too much—he couldn't pretend it didn't because that was all he felt. A cold, total pain that paralyzed his entire body, but when he saw Anakin, he could focus on something other than the torture of his flesh. He saw himself through the eyes of his apprentice: vulnerable and willing, open to him in every way, only concerned with his pleasure. And in that moment, there was almost an overlap between those two versions of him.

He didn't kiss him directly on the wound, but Anakin smeared his cheek on it, and when he lifted his face, Obi-Wan thought he looked like a wolf cub after sticking his face into the belly of the gazelle he had just hunted. "I'm sorry, Master," he whispered, almost apologetically. "It's just that sometimes you make it so hard for me. I just... I don't know, I want so many things. You're so gorgeous. It drives me crazy." 

He sat down on one of his legs and pulled his cock out of his pants in one quick motion. It was almost unreal that it was happening. Obi-Wan felt like he was above the scene like he was looking at another of the pictures Anakin had drawn of him, which, with each passing second, he became more deformed, disfigured, disgusting, and repulsive, but he desired more and more. With his left hand, Anakin wiped the blood from his wound, and with the other hand, he held his testicles and filled himself. He covered the tip, his length, stroking himself a few times like that, filling the room with the wet sound of his pre-cum and Obi-Wan's blood. "Sometimes I think that's the only way I can touch you, Master. That you'll only let me touch you if I cut you in two and pull you out from the inside and put myself inside.  I feel like sometimes all I want is to bite off a piece of you and have you inside me. It's awful, Obi-Wan. I don't want to think that way, but I can't help it. I look at you, and I think the same thing again and again."

Obi-Wan raised his hand and placed it in front of his cock, wanting to touch him. With a grunt, Anakin grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards him. He sat painfully on his crotch, no longer caring if he was hurting him or not, and closed Obi-Wan's hand around himself to begin fucking the hole that had formed between his fingers. Hands stained with blood, hands trembling with hunger. Anakin's cock felt incredibly solid and real, for he was not made of ink or secrets. In his role as creator, Anakin was as real as a wound made to harm, not kill. 

He crouched down to where he stood, his sweaty, feverish forehead resting on his shoulder as he continued to pump his hands, his own and Obi-Wan's, exhaling, groaning, as if every jagged, unskilled thrust hurt like a stab wound. He imagined Anakin like this in front of the drawings he had made of him. Bent over his desk, masturbating as he imagined himself slicing him open, cutting off his arms, ripping out his insides, licking the blood from his mouth.

He was fucking him, and Obi-Wan felt it so. He felt that with every thrust of Anakin's hips, he was eroding everything virgin and untouched that he possessed. He didn't have to penetrate him to be sure that he had made him his own, but Obi-Wan suspected that Anakin couldn't control himself anymore, and neither could he; he suspected that after he had owned his mind and his hands, the rest of him would follow: his mouth, his ass, his own cock. Everything would pass through his Padawan's ravenous mouth, and he would allow it.

"Master, ah, ah. Master. Can I come on you? Can I come on you?" the boy whimpered, and Obi-Wan shook his head, not because he wanted to say no, but because it seemed to him that Anakin's weight was bursting his skin and something that had never seen the light was about to peek through. 

But Anakin was all over him. He felt him clench his body and how his cock pulsed with each ribbon of semen he spewed between his fingers. He couldn't see them, but he felt them: heavy ribbons of something much thicker than blood, as hot and precious as blood. He felt it stain his fingers and begin to fall, slowly, like tears, to his hips. And for a precious moment, Anakin and he, both at the same time, were motionless, breathless, thoughtless, united in the precious parity of corpses. Death took away all rank, all authority, all terror. It transformed them into mere bodies, subject to the designs of nature.

After a few minutes, Anakin got up. His eyes were full of tears as if he was ashamed of himself, but not enough to wipe his face or apologize for what had happened. Maybe in the future, Obi-Wan could talk to him about this; perhaps he could find a way to turn it into a lesson about the will of the Force, about how the need of the many was above the need of the few, about the danger of attachment. But from the ground, Anakin looked like a satisfied little god. His hair was disheveled, his face stained with his blood as if he had indeed come from inside him, born out of his starvation.

Obi-Wan felt blurred, dizzy, and cold from the wound, from the way his heart kept pumping as if it had been running for parsecs on end. He was the ink on his maker's fingers, and Anakin was ready to turn the page.

"Does it hurt?" the boy asked with absolute devotion, sinking his fingers into his skin, pushing at the hidden flesh underneath as if he wanted to go deeper as if that wasn't enough.

"Just a little," Obi-Wan replied, closing his eyes and mouth to keep from spitting out the bile and darkness inside him.