Chapter Text
At three years old, Obi-Wan Kenobi was taken into the The Jedi Order.
In a blink, gone was the potential of a simple future on Stewjon, replaced with the unending uphill climb of a Jedi existence. He remembered very little of his life before he stepped into the Temple, only the faintest recollections of rolling green hills and the smell of someone's floral perfume. Rarely had he considered how things could have gone differently. When he had, it was always with the utmost confidence that whatever had awaited him there would not have suited him. There was no use in thinking otherwise.
He spent his entire childhood dedicated to the singular goal of becoming a knight, following every rule, completing every requested task. He was not a natural by any means. He was forever getting by on grit and pure effort rather than talent, always battling his own distraction. Still, there was no metric he did not exceed with sheer determination. Overlooked by masters time and again, he did not stop until he was chosen. It was this intensity alone that had Qui-Gon bypass him the first time, something he had not told him until he was much older. By then, he was mature enough to understand that one could in fact have too much to prove.
For the next thirteen years, he served as an exceptionally dedicated padawan. He grew used to trailing behind one of the most unpredictable and yet most honorable men that the Order had to offer. When it came to risk, Qui-Gon’s calculus never seemed to account for Obi-Wan’s youth or his inexperience. His master didn’t deem a thing beyond Obi-Wan’s capacity to endure and, in all that time, he never once left his apprentice behind. He would quicker tend to his wounds than deny him an opportunity to learn. There was a lot of tending, but Obi-Wan didn’t regret a single scar.
They did not always agree. In fact, Obi-Wan often found himself deep in debate with his master on long jaunts through hyperspace. Their opposition even began to bleed dangerously into moments when tensions were high and stakes higher. Obi-Wan was conciliatory by nature, diplomatic, but it all seemed to fail him in that arena, especially as he grew older and more confident. It drove a wedge between them at times but something always seemed to force them back together before it was too late. And Obi-Wan remained safe in the sure knowledge that when he reached for him, Qui-Gon would never fail to reach back. Their relationship was not without its challenges, but it was deep, hard-earned, secure.
Days became weeks and weeks became years. Missions ran together, moments blurring into a life, as the time ticked away both insufferably slowly and unfathomably quickly. Qui-Gon's hair streaked with gray. Obi-Wan slowly closed their height difference and teased him that it wouldn't be long before he managed it. He never would. At barely twenty-five, with skills made more for blocking blaster bolts than swordplay, he looked evil itself in the face and cut it in half. Mere moments after, he held the only man who had ever truly believed in him in his arms and watched the light leave his eyes forever. He let him go into the Cosmic Force with a solemn vow that would change everything.
It didn't matter that Obi-Wan hadn't been ready to let him go, of course. The Jedi way would have none of that. A little over a week later, he became a knight and someone’s master in a single breath. Despite Qui-Gon's prior insistence that he was ready, he never took his Trials. Apparently, eradicating a massive threat to the balance was considered enough; who would have thought?
Unorthodox as every bit of his transition was, The Council allowed it. Yoda had appraised him critically as he made his way out of the chamber, as if wondering whether he really had any idea what he was getting himself into, but said nothing. The Force then handed him a foolishly brave little boy with striking blue eyes and Qui-Gon’s uncanny tendency to find trouble wherever it may lurk. And now, somehow, he had to move both of them forward.
But first, he needed to cut his hair.
He stood in front of the fresher mirror in the apartment he supposed was now his for the first time since leaving for Naboo, tears streaming down his face. The weight of grief was heavy, that of responsibility even heavier. The last two weeks had been a blur of travel and ceremonies and trying to develop some kind of relationship with Anakin. He just needed some time, a few days at least, to find some equilibrium.
Instead, The Council had sent him home with the details of his first assignment: the two of them were to report to Alderaan in the morning. It was a simple mission, a completely unnecessary security detail for Bail Organa during a routine diplomatic session. It was clearly meant to be a gentle nudge into their new roles. Only days before, he would have thought something so easy to be a punishment. But nothing felt easy when he couldn’t breathe.
Obi-Wan turned his head at an awkward angle and raised the scissors. This wasn't how the ritual was meant to be done but no one had offered him an alternative. Unable to see properly, he pinched the braid and pulled it taut, positioning the scissors flush with his scalp. He hesitated, hands trembling.
'You were supposed to be here, Master. You were supposed to do this for me, with me.'
Forcing down a bitter sense of loss, he cut the braid off in one swift motion. He followed its path in his reflection as it slipped down his shoulder and landed unceremoniously on the floor. He then touched at the vacant patch behind his ear, feeling distinctly off-balance. This was meant to be a massive accomplishment, a personal victory. Instead, he just felt empty.
He made a few halfhearted attempts to even his hair before he surrendered. It would grow back. And if it didn't, what did it matter? He had so much more to worry about. He set the scissors down, catching another glimpse of the braid puddled on the tile. He stooped to pick it up and carefully unraveled the red and yellow ties from it, recalling the tenderness with which they had been added in the first place. He rolled them between his anxious fingers absentmindedly and tried to draw some strength from all that his master had given him.
'What now? What was the final lesson? What am I supposed to do?'
He crumpled over the sink. What had he been thinking? Why had he promised that he would take on the boy? He couldn’t possibly be what Anakin needed. He wasn’t even sure if he could be what he needed right now. He couldn’t do this. He couldn't do this.
“Master?” Anakin’s voice was small, tentative, just outside the fresher door. It snapped Obi-Wan out of his thoughts, reminding him that he had no time for self-doubt. He frantically turned on the tap and splashed his cheeks, scrubbing with his hands. When he looked back at himself, he could almost pass for having simply vigorously washed his face.
“Yes, Anakin?” Obi-Wan fished the mess of hair and fabric out of the sink and deposited it in the waste bin. A pang of regret hit him and, on second thought, he quickly reclaimed the damp ties. He studied them for a moment and hastily knotted them around his wrist. He'd decide what to do with them later.
He took one last glance in the mirror and squared his shoulders. He then cleared his throat, hoping he would prove convincing enough, and pressed the button to open the door. There stood the boy whose future was now in his rather incapable hands, smiling up at him.
“You cut your hair,” Anakin observed as he sought out his master's hand. Obi-Wan tucked the makeshift bracelet up into the sleeve of his tunic, hiding it, before allowing him to latch onto his fingers. The boy squeezed a little too tightly and tugged insistently on his arm.
“I did. Are you taking me somewhere?”
“I made tea,” he announced.
“What?” Obi-Wan blinked several times, confused. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting but that was certainly not it. “Oh. That’s nice.” He allowed himself to be lead into the kitchen, where a single cup of dark tea was waiting on the counter top. Qui-Gon’s teapot rested beside it, droplets of condensation dribbling down the sides as if it too had been crying. “Just the one?” Obi-Wan raised a perplexed eyebrow at his padawan. “Were you planning on sharing with me? Or were you just wanting to show off your impeccable tea preparation skills?”
“Oh no, it’s not for me. I made it for you.” Anakin picked it up and presented it to him carefully with both hands, trying hard to refrain from sloshing any over the edges. Obi-Wan took it, watched the tiny lavender flowers drifting about. He instinctively breathed deeply of the calming steam rising from its surface.
“You did? Thank you.” Obi-Wan sipped from it cautiously only to find it shockingly pleasant. He wondered what other things Anakin might know how to do. All that they had explored so far was his fascination with every button and gizmo in the apartment. Obi-Wan had pleaded with him not to take anything apart and very much hoped his agreement had been genuine. “It's perfect, Anakin,” he praised, forcing a smile for him. “But may I ask why?”
“My mother always says that tea makes broken hearts better.”
Obi-Wan stilled mid-sip. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” Anakin looked up at him, shrugging a shoulder. “I don’t know much about broken hearts. Mom says they’re what happens when you love someone very much, but you can’t see or touch them anymore. She says that they cause you to cry and make your chest hurt, and that they can take a really long time to heal. Sometimes they never do.”
“That’s...quite astute. Your mother is a very wise woman.”
“Master Qui-Gon isn’t here,” Anakin continued, his tone softer, sad, respectful. “We can’t see him or touch him anymore. And Master’s heart is broken.” Obi-Wan’s breath hitched painfully at that. He had thought he was hiding well, attempting to process all that had happened when Anakin was out of sight. And yet, he still knew.
'Is this some of what you sensed in him, Master? You thought the galaxy needed him, but...did you know about this part? Did you think that maybe I needed him too?'
“So is it true,” Anakin asked, practically vibrating with curious energy. “Does it work? Is it better?” Obi-Wan’s heart hammered in his ears as he set the cup down shakily on the counter top. He knelt and, not trusting himself to look at him, pulled Anakin tightly to his chest. “Master?”
Obi-Wan knew the role of the Jedi master, knew that it was his job to guide Anakin to knighthood as he had been guided. He was meant to repeat lessons with infinite patience, to pick him up when he fell, to be his ultimate safe place until the day he was to set him free. It was up to him to pass on the cumulative knowledge of all the masters in his lineage, to teach Anakin everything he needed to know.
And yet, in that moment, he couldn’t help feeling that Anakin might have an awful lot to teach him in return.
“Yes, Anakin. It’s better,” Obi-Wan managed, but he did not let him go. Anakin’s chin found his shoulder and, though he didn't return the embrace, he did settle comfortably into it. They remained there in content silence, their breathing and heartbeats falling into sync, as something wonderful and warm hovered between them. It felt like home. It felt like hope.
Hours later, Obi-Wan lay awake, staring up at the ceiling. Anakin, unsettled by yet another change in environment, had asked that he stay and Obi-Wan had made a show of conceding. In reality, it was a gracious acceptance. Anakin's offer saved him having to sleep in Qui-Gon's room, in his bed, something he felt entirely unready for. The single bed he'd had for years was cramped, leaving them pressed together, but Obi-Wan welcomed the familiar space and Anakin's presence.
He had to sleep. He closed his eyes, focusing on the pattern of his padawan's even breathing, and tried to calm his mind. “I am one with the Force and the Force is with me,” he murmured under his breath. “I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.” He repeated the mantra at least a dozen times before he felt himself begin to slip.
The vision was sudden and unexpected, a flood of color and light. He saw Qui-Gon sitting seiza at the low table in the corner of the living room, a cup of jasmine tea before him. His eyes were shut and his hands rested in his lap, a tranquil smile on his face, as the sun cascaded down on him from the picture window. The teapot Anakin had used that evening sat warm and steaming, its delicate floral pattern seeming to almost glow in the sunlight. He took a deep, long breath that Obi-Wan couldn’t help but to mimic, as he had done so many times in the past.
'My boy,' His master's voice echoed inside his head, though his lips did not move. 'My dear boy. I know how you hurt. But you must let go, Obi-Wan. You must move forward. You must let go.'
They exhaled in time and the miserable tightness in Obi-Wan's chest released him. The ties were warm on his wrist. He felt nothing but peace.
When Obi-Wan opened his eyes again, daybreak was filtering in through the curtains. The room was quiet save for the sound of traffic flying past the window. Anakin was curled tightly against his side, drooling on his tunic. He sighed and carded his fingers affectionately through the boy's hair, willing himself to start the day. The heaviness in his chest had returned, though it felt different now. The grief was muted, replaced with the sense that there was something he must do.
'You must move forward. You must let go.'
With sudden, striking clarity, Obi-Wan removed the yellow tie from his wrist. He reached out and gently gathered a chunk of Anakin's hair, just behind his right ear. Anakin stirred at the touch, whining sleepily. “Master? Is it morning? What are you doing?”
“Shh, something very important. Can you be still for me?” Anakin complied, shutting his eyes again trustingly. Obi-Wan readjusted the short strands between his fingers and gingerly braided them the best he could, affixing the tie at the end. Anakin raised his hand to feel at the spot, realization dawning on him. He beamed brilliantly and Obi-Wan smiled back at him.
It felt like home. It felt like hope. And, for the first time, Obi-Wan thought he might be able to do this after all.