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Anakin can hardly feel the sharp edges of the chair beneath him, his anguish and rage drowning out his senses as he waits for Obi-wan to return to their quarters.
Nothing has changed, of course. Anakin hadn’t had the heart to move his stained and loved mug, his inherited and half-dead plants, his discarded robes, and treasured books, rare and precious, much like their owner. He felt a pang of solidarity for them: he, too, was one of Obi-wan’s forgotten things, abandoned in death.
When Obi-wan opens that door, it’ll be like he never left.
Except that’s not quite true: how can Anakin even begin to explain what havoc Obi-wan’s wreaked on his heart?
The kitchen is sterile, devoid of Anakin’s habitual mess, and poorly lit. He doesn’t want to face Obi-wan in the light; he’d rather be able to hide his grief in the shoulder of his dear friend, the shadow, who has seen so many of Anakin’s hot, quivering tears. Only the emergency lights that backlight the sink have been left on, solely because Anakin can’t turn them off without tripping the alarms. The place glows a bleak, navy blue, like the rain that falls from a weeping sky.
Their door creeps open, hesitant. The face that follows is so familiar Anakin can’t help the minuscule gasp that rips out of his throat.
“Anakin?” Obi-wan asks, genuinely surprised. Guilt laces through every feature, tugging on upturned eyebrows, pleading eyes, and pressed lips, pulling his entire body taunt.
“What, did you think I’d be asleep?” Anakin scoffs, malevolent.
Obi-wan doesn’t respond, but the downturn of his mouth tells him the truth: he did think Anakin would be sleeping.
“How could you do that to me?” Anakin whispers, each word violent, a dagger that Anakin wants to tear into Obi-wan with. He’s holding onto his rage like it’s the only thing keeping him together, and in a way, it is. If he lets go, all the grief and yearning will come pouring through and empty him out completely.
Obi-wan closes the door and treads lightly over to Anakin, pulling out a chair and taking a nervous seat next to him, knees close enough to touch. His face is cast in shades of blue from the emergency lights, full of sorrow.
“It was wrong of me. Please forgive me.”
Anakin takes in his apology, but there’s so much anger left, a sickness he needs to spew before he can heal.
“Obi-wan, I”—he whimpers, emotion clogging his throat—“I held your dead body. I grieved for you. I watched them bury you.” His nose stings with unshed tears, vision going blurry. “And for what? So you could...could use me in some plan? I mean, how did you think I would feel? Huh?”
Obi-wan looks anywhere but his face, studying the fine grain of their standard issue tabletop.
Anakin has been sitting still up until this point, hands in his lap, but now he turns to Obi-wan, shifting in his seat so that their knees are interlaced. He leans into the man’s space, and with each inch closer, the sharp tendrils of fury melt into the all-encompassing ache of heartbreak and suffering. Of longing. Of regret. Of a keen and simple yearning for more.
Or, blending them all together, the messy and complicated condition of unrequited love.
He’s waited too long to tell Obi-wan, and has learned the hard way that the regret of unspoken feelings is a ravenous beast, waiting to devour the hopeless.
“And I never got to tell you that I loved you.” He corrects himself: “That I love you.” With shaking hands, he ghosts his palms over Obi-wan’s cheeks, cupping his face. “Do you know how much that haunted me?”
Obi-wan’s eyes are blown wide, and he’s holding perfectly still, his lips parted in disbelief. When he doesn’t respond, Anakin takes the opportunity to skim his fingers over Obi-wan’s forehead, into his hairline, over the curves of his ears, into the soft skin of his lips. He runs his palms down Obi-wan’s shoulders, his athletic and sturdy arms, and into the calloused skin of his hands, where he holds tight. Obi-wan’s fingers fold around his: their lifeline.
“I can’t believe you’re alive.” He says to Obi-wan’s hands, to himself.
He hears Obi-wan swallow and breathe in through his nose.
“I thought you wouldn’t…” Obi-wan trails off, his voice tight with emotion. “I thought you didn’t…”
“What? Care?” Anakin looks up at Obi-wan with leaking eyes. “Are you kidding me?”
Obi-wan feebly shakes his head, and breathes out his response. “Notice.”
Anakin just stares at him, looking from one eye to the other as Obi-wan formulates the rest of his thought. The cool air swims like a pool of blue between them, the somber lighting paling Obi-wan’s skin out.
“I didn’t think you’d notice I was gone.”
The entirety of Anakin’s face crumbles at the thought. But before he can answer, Obi-wan continues:
“I didn’t think I was important to you anymore. You’re not my padawan—you don’t need an old man like me anymore.” His voice cracks, and for the first time since Anakin was a child, he sees water pool in the corners of Obi-wan’s eyes, glistening, staining the murky whites a painful red. A droplet escapes onto his lower lashes, and traces over the curve of his cheek.
Anakin is heartbroken, indignant, and devastated all at once. He abandons his chair in favor of straddling Obi-wan’s thighs, bringing his hands up to Obi-wan’s face again. With trembling lips and tears, he peppers soft kisses to the lines of Obi-wan’s features: the salty, tear-stained crinkle of his eyes, the worried creases in his forehead, the edges of his wobbling lips.
“Of course I need you,” he keens. “I’ve always needed you.” He rests his forehead against Obi-wan’s, closing his eyes. “I’ll need you as long as I live.”
Obi-wan takes a few breaths, his exhales hot on Anakin’s lips. “Oh,” he says, softly.
Anakin closes the distance and kisses him deeply, the feeling of Obi-wan’s pliant lips a salve to Anakin’s hurts. It’s barely a start to what Anakin wants to do with him, but he pulls back and instead gathers Obi-wan up in his arms, cradling the back of his head in one hand, shuffling his hips forwards so that he’s completely enveloping Obi-wan’s torso in his own. They melt together, Obi-wan threading his arms around Anakin’s waist and squishing his face into the hard space of Anakin’s shoulder.
“I love you, Obi-wan. Never do that to me again.” He mumbles into Obi-wan’s hair, feeling like he might crack under the weight of his own heart, his own love. It’s so much, and he’s had to carry it alone for so long.
“I love you too, dear one. And I’m so sorry.” Obi-wan confesses.
And in each other’s arms, Anakin sees the path forward; he’s been lost in the desert, stumbling around for a future, ready to hit the hard sand and crumble to dust, but now he sees Obi-wan on the horizon, and he’s running, slipping, bounding towards the man as if he held life in his hands. The terrain might be rocky, forsaken, depleted, but together, they’ll make it out okay.
Because Obi-wan is still alive, folded neatly into Anakin’s arms, resting against and inside of his beating heart, forever, where he’s always belonged and always will remain.