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To Obi-Wan’s surprise, it is hard to get Anakin to eat much.
Anakin is hardly ever listless or idle. He is always moving, always busy. He runs instead of walks, gently bounces in place when he thinks Obi-Wan isn’t looking. Even on the bad days when he barely talks and when Obi-Wan mostly leaves him alone, as he has learned to do, he fidgets with his machinery for hours, standing at his workbench and never sitting, standing on one foot and then the other, sometimes pacing back and forth as he admires his work.
He must be hungry.
Obi-Wan takes Anakin down to the refectory twice a day and watches him pass by the trays of raw and cooked vegetables and fruits, animal and vegetable proteins, most of the cooked grains and bread. Though he tries to persuade the boy to try a variety, Anakin always picks the same thing - a pale, pasty grain mush that is called by different names on different worlds. At the Temple they just call it porridge, and it’s used as a base and topped with other foods, usually meat or seeds or vegetables. But Anakin eats it plain and usually doesn’t eat even half of it, stirring his spoon around in his bowl as he waits for Obi-Wan to finish.
“I can’t get him to eat,” he confesses to Vokara Che, who has insisted that Obi-Wan come to the Halls of Healing to meet with her (without Anakin). Anakin is underweight, and the healers are concerned. He should have gained weight by now, but instead he has lost a little since arriving at the Temple. Underneath Obi-Wan’s long-built up layers of Jedi calm, a persistent worry needles him. His own stomach has begun to hurt, but he does not tell Vokara Che this. He can care for himself.
The healer sighs and hands him some supplements and tells him to be patient. The boy is wracked still with nerves and grief. Perhaps he's so used to a meager diet, he can't even yet comprehend the notion of having enough. But things will even out in time, find their balance. This is the way of things. She is right, Obi-Wan knows.
“Why don’t you take him out of the Temple?” Vokara Che asks as he turns to leave. “A change of scenery might help.”
Obi-Wan nods, doesn’t mention that he’s tried. He’s taken Anakin to Dexter’s already once or twice, but the boy had been too distracted there to eat much by Dexter’s droid and Dexter’s customers and especially by Dexter himself. Obi-Wan can’t exactly blame him, supposes he himself never actually went to Dexter’s for the food.
It is strange to think so much about someone’s being fed. But since becoming Anakin’s master he has had to think about a lot of new things. Obi-Wan has never been one to think much about food at all, would let himself get ravenous yet detach himself from his hunger, preoccupied with other things, until he couldn’t stand it anymore.
There is one place, though, that he stumbled upon by accident years ago when on an errand for his master. A shabby, unassuming noodle stand in a grey, sleepy quarter of Coruscant, not far from the Temple. He’d been drawn to the sharp, sweet scent of it and had hurried through the rain to sit at the counter, in a way he had never hurried for food before. Since that night he’d never contemplated going back. Now he can’t think of anywhere else.
Tonight when they reach the spot the scent hits him immediately, telling him they’ve come to the right place. He wonders if Anakin notices it. The boy is looking around at the people walking by, then up at Obi-Wan, quizzical.
“We came out here for dinner?”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan says. “Why not?”
“I thought we were going to Dexter’s.”
“You barely touched your food last time we went to Dexter’s,” Obi-Wan said. “I’d like you to actually eat something tonight.”
“Are we not going to go to Dexter’s anymore?” Anakin asks sadly. “I promise I’ll eat.”
“Of course we’ll go back to Dexter’s,” Obi-Wan says, annoyed. “I brought you here because I thought you might actually like it. I’m trying to help you.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Anakin looks down and hot shame pierces briefly through Obi-Wan’s chest. He breathes it away. Patience.
“Here we are,” he says more cheerfully, and they seat themselves at two stools at the counter, side by side. Anakin swings his legs and begins asking questions. Where are they, and what kind of food is this, and where does it come from. Obi-Wan lets him work out most of the questions on his own, which is what Anakin likes doing best, he’s come to realize. Ordering is easy, because there is no menu and the stand only serves one thing.
The food comes quickly, steaming before them in clean white bowls, and Obi-Wan studies Anakin’s reaction to it. The boy frowns, takes his fork and pokes into the bowl, more like a scientist examining a new lifeform than a hungry child about to eat.
“I don’t know if I like this,” he says.
Obi-Wan has prepared himself for the worst. He always does. He ignores his Padawan’s comment and concentrates on his own food. At least he has the supplements, so Anakin won’t waste away.
Anakin doesn’t put his fork down, and Obi-Wan can feel the boy’s eyes on him, watching him. This is nothing new; Obi-Wan often feels Anakin’s gaze, more penetrative and searching than any Temple youngling’s. After a moment, the boy digs into his bowl and takes a tentative bite, and then another.
Good, thinks Obi-Wan, but he doesn’t say it. If he speaks, he fears he might break the spell, destroy whatever magic is compelling Anakin’s sudden interest in food. He does not even look over at Anakin until his own bowl is nearly empty, and when he does he is shocked to see that his Padawan has eaten everything.
“That was good, Master,” Anakin tells him earnestly.
Obi-Wan gives him an approving nod and they head back toward the Temple. It’s getting late.
Half the night passes before Obi-Wan awakens with a start, and knows he is not alone in his darkened room. There’s a whimpering sound coming from the floor, and when he waves his hand to turn on his lamp he sees Anakin, wrapped in blankets beside his bed, awake and shuddering a little.
“Anakin? Are you ill?”
Why didn’t you wake me, he thinks, but such questions are pointless.
Anakin sits up, his face pained. “My stomach hurts.”
Obi-Wan throws his own blankets back and puts his feet on the floor. “Like you’re going to throw up?”
Anakin shakes his head. “No, it just hurts.”
“Hold on.” Obi-Wan gets up to fetch his medkit. In it there is a powder he mixes with water from the ‘fresher. Then he hands the cup to his apprentice, who eyes it with suspicion.
“It doesn’t taste like anything,” Obi-Wan assures him. He feels tired. “It’ll make you feel better.”
Obediently, Anakin drinks.
Obi-Wan should have seen this coming, really. All Anakin has been eating for six weeks is that dining hall paste, surely the noodles were too rich, and he’d eaten all of it. Obi-Wan only hopes this incident won’t put him off his food even more.
“It still hurts,” Anakin says as Obi-Wan takes the empty cup from him.
“It takes a few moments. Come, get off the floor.” Obi-Wan gestures toward his bed. “Lay down.”
Anakin’s eyes widen slightly at the invitation, but he removes himself from his pile of blankets and gets onto Obi-Wan’s bed, laying down on his side. Obi-Wan sits beside him and finds himself rubbing the boy’s back. Maybe it is too affectionate, too intimate a gesture for a master to give his Padawan, but in the moment he doesn’t care. He feels responsible for the boy’s sickness, feels responsible for making him feel better now.
“Did that food make me sick?” Anakin asks.
“You’re not used to it and just didn’t agree with you. You’ll be all right.” Obi-Wan decides to make a lesson out of this, in part to make up for his tenderness. “Try to eat better and this shouldn’t happen to you.”
“My stomach never hurt from eating before,” Anakin says, quietly. “Sometimes it hurt from…” But he cuts himself off and goes silent.
“Hurt from what?”
Obi-Wan waits patiently for Anakin to continue, and at last he does, quietly.
“Sometimes when Watto would lose on the races, he didn’t give us all our food money. Sometimes he didn’t give us any.”
Obi-Wan understands the meaning and doesn’t question further, is silent as he mulls over the anger rising up inside him, and continues to rub Anakin’s back. What can he say that isn’t empty or hollow, a false sentiment?
“At least my mom will get my food money now,” Anakin says, suddenly cheerful. “And she also got extra from when I won the race. I hope Watto doesn’t find out about it. I don’t think he will.”
Sweet boy.
A few moments pass.
“Are you feeling better?” Obi-Wan asks.
“A little,” Anakin sighs with an exaggerated tiredness.
Obi-Wan thinks he may be pretending to fall asleep to keep from being sent back to his own room, and smiles to himself. He lays down beside Anakin, sending him what he hopes are peaceful thoughts, feeling Anakin’s lingering discomfort fade away with the passing moments. It’s not long before the boy is deeply asleep, and he only makes the faintest sound of protest as Obi-Wan picks him up gently to carry him to his room.