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Anakin woke up to the feeling of being torn in two.
Half of him was on fire.
It was inside him; liquid and fervent and corrosive. He could feel it burning inside his veins, sizzling like a lightsaber wound, but somehow even worse than when Count Dooku cut half his arm off.
He had been feeling this pain since— how long? Anakin remembered the glint of steel, of being too late, of the vibroblade plunging into the soft flesh of his abdomen, and then— Everything became dark, and everything became painful.
The other half is underwater.
Anakin always longed for water, even when living on Tatooine the sight of a rainy sky only greeted its inhabitants once a year. Anakin would look up and see the clouds become gray and heavy, and immediately he would run outside, mouth open waiting for the first droplets to fall—he hungered for the taste of it, clean and pure and so unlike everything on his life.
As a teenager and a Jedi Padawan, he rejoiced on the water showers, on the fountains, on the aquatic worlds, on the rain, the excess of it—the way that it made everything bloom, including Anakin himself.
Now, he felt it, cold and gentle against his hand, enveloping him in a small bubble of safety; the only place where the fire couldn’t reach.
Anakin tried to move and found out he couldn’t. He tried to open his eyes and found out he couldn’t. He tried to open his mouth and scream— and found out he couldn’t.
The water moved up and down his hands, caressing his skin. Anakin wanted to cry; if only he could’ve.
His last thought before slipping out of consciousness again was that the water felt too alike the fingers of someone he knew too well.
“I'm trying my best, Obi-Wan, but this kind of poison spreads too fast.” Said a voice that Anakin managed, very faintly, to remember as being Rig Nema’s. Kriff me, he thought, still trying to break through the haze of whatever was making him feel so useless. “Being honest, I’ve already done everything I can.”
Was it supposed to stop the pain? Because if it was, Anakin would very much like to inform Rig Nema that it was not working. But alas, he couldn't even think coherent thoughts—much less translate these into something resembling words.
And did she say Obi-Wan?
“Isn't there anything else? Anything stronger?” Ah, yes. This was Obi-Wan’s voice indeed. Anakin easily recognized him; something which he could do in sickness, in madness, and in death. “If there's something you need, some kind of medicine, I can find it. Just tell me where.”
Anakin didn’t need to look at him to know the truth of his words. Obi-Wan would go to the Sith hells and back if Nema said that there was something that could help Anakin’s situation, no matter how little.
If only he could raise his hand; just a finger would do, anything to tell Obi-Wan not to worry. He was okay, he would be okay. It didn't even hurt that much.
Not enough for Obi-Wan to risk his own safety.
“I already administered the antidote. Everything from now on depends on how much he will fight to survive.” Oh, a lot! Anakin thought. I like living. Living is fun. There is podracing, and the stars, and Ahsoka, and Obi-Wan— “You know I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Obi-Wan. But you should prepare yourself for the worst.
She's lying! Anakin wanted to scream, but he couldn't, so he had to listen as Obi-Wan sucked in a trembling breath before reaching for Anakin's limp hand. I'll pull through, you'll see!
How could Nema even say that? He was fine! His body was burning and his head felt too light and his lungs felt full of lead but he was fine. Or he would be fine, in the end.
Anakin Skywalker had been through much worse than a small knife coated in poison.
You know me better than anyone, Master. I always pull through.
Maybe, Anakin conceded, he wouldn't pull through this one.
His body hurt as if someone had dropped him into a tank of acid and left him there, waiting for his flesh to dissolve so they could pick up his bones and make a trophy out of it.
General Grievous wouldn’t be above that. Neither would Asajj Ventress.
Forget the moment Count Dooku maimed him—the horror felt right then worse than that, worse than the hardest beating Watto gave him — he’d been four, and his mother had cried and kicked and screamed, and he couldn’t move for five days, after —, worse than being flung into the wall by the force of an explosion, worse than—
Well, than anything that had ever happened to him. And a lot of things had happened to Anakin Skywalker since his birth.
In his rare moments of lucidity, all Anakin could think was after everything, I deserved at least the mercy of a good blaster bolt right in the middle of my face. Quick, instant death. What a relief it would’ve been.
Not being able to move was a good thing; else he would’ve tried to reach anything to end this pain with.
Sleeping was easier. When Anakin slept, he didn’t feel pain, nor hopelessness, cold, or fear. When he slept, he could hear his mother singing, could see Ahsoka smiling, could feel Obi-Wan wrapping his strong arms around him.
Sometimes, the dream was so good it clung to him even after he woke, and he was lulled back to sleep by Obi-Wan’s lips against his forehead, Obi-Wan’s voice humming close to his ear, Obi-Wan’s hand holding Anakin’s own.
There was no way of knowing how long he spent drifting in and out of consciousness. But Obi-Wan was always there, in the form of a touch, a whisper, a smell—and that was the only clue Anakin had to know he was still alive, after all.
Few things demanded such effort of him as the act of, at long last, opening his eyes.
“There you are, beloved.” After so long, hearing Obi-Wan’s voice so clearly almost made him cry. “You know, for a moment, I feared— No matter. All will be well.”
Anakin wanted to open his mouth, to say please and thank you and I was scared too and I love you, but Obi-Wan cradled his face in a sweet, loving hand before he could try moving his lips.
“I know, I know.” A trembling thumb caressed Anakin’s cheekbone, gathering a sole tear that made its escape. There were tears in Obi-Wan’s eyes too, or maybe it was just the excess of light coming from the open windows that made everything look too bright for Anakin’s eyes. He couldn’t tell, and he really didn’t want to. “You still need to rest, hear me? The damage caused by the poison was… extensive. And the blade tore through your lung, causing it to collapse.”
Ah, Anakin thought. That’s why breathing hurts so much.
In times like these, where Anakin was lying on a bed after surviving by the will of the Force — and a generous dose of luck — and Obi-Wan was watching over him, filled to the brim with worry, Anakin would laugh and tell him nothing was wrong. You old people don’t know how to have fun, that’s the truth about it. And Obi-Wan would laugh and maybe scold him and maybe hug him so tightly it became hard to breathe, and Anakin would pretend he wasn’t hurting in dozens of places at once.
This time, all he could do was to keep his gaze fixed on Obi-Wan’s own and use their bond — fragile as it became after his brush with death — to pass on every good feeling he could muster.
It didn’t work as well as he expected it.
If anything, his Master looked closer to tears than before.
“Of course you’re going to be fine. You are the Hero With No Fear, after all,” Obi-Wan chuckled, caressing Anakin’s scalp with familiar fingers. “Which leaves me with the arduous task of fearing for your life with every breath I take.”
A witty remark waited on the tip of Anakin’s tongue. There is no emotion, there is peace. But who was to talk, when every day he tried to smother the whirlwind of feelings howling inside his chest, and every day he failed?
He wanted to tell Obi-Wan there was no problem with that. A little fear was okay, once in a while. Keeps you on your toes.
His treacherous body, however, had other plans. Like shutting down.
Anakin took a last desperate breath, trying to raise his hand, to open his mouth, to let Obi-Wan know he didn’t need to worry anymore, that Anakin would be fine, that he would never do anything like that again, he wouldn’t scare Obi-Wan like that—
“It’s alright, beloved. Close your eyes. Let yourself sleep.” No, he didn’t want to sleep, he wanted to stay awake, he wanted to get up from this bed and fight, because the whole galaxy was relying on him and— “I’ll be here the next time you wake up.”
Darkness and silence wrapped their arms around Anakin and pulled him under.
After that, and after countless other times where he woke and had Obi-Wan hold him until he went back to sleep, Anakin opened his eyes to the sight of his former Master sleeping in a chair next to his bed.
It wasn’t the first time Anakin was greeted with a sight like that. The two of them became used to sleeping together long after passion and desire wedged themselves into their relationship; huddled together in cold planets, in damp caves, in all places that made Anakin’s heart beat too fast against his ribcage in a mad fight against his own fear.
He longed to extend his arm and touch Obi-Wan’s face, to beg him to come closer, to lie down beside Anakin and spend the night. But a closer look revealed what he hadn’t seen before: the purple bags under Obi-Wan’s eyes, the tired slope of his shoulders, the dullness of his hair, which used to shine auburn against sunlight.
There was not a single time Anakin woke up that he didn’t feel Obi-Wan’s presence by his side. How many days had gone since Salvara, since their failed attempt to bring the planet back to the Republic’s side, since someone thought it would be a good idea to plunge a blade into Anakin’s chest?
The Council would never allow their best general forgo his duties like that. If staying close to Anakin’s sickbed all this time wasn’t the clearest sign of attachment Obi-Wan could send, that what was it?
He had the impression his Master had defied not a small share of Council’s orders since they came back to Coruscant.
A twisted feeling stirred below his lungs at that line of thought. Trust Anakin Skywalker to cause problems even while unconscious. He had been reckless, and foolhardy, and careless, and had only noticed the danger before it was too late.
And now Obi-Wan was paying the price, the same way he’d been doing since Anakin was accepted into the Order, as if he were still the same headstrong and reckless boy that left the barren sands of Tatooine.
Maybe it was his fate, he mused. To be unable to please others, unable to do anything right; to be a burden on Obi-Wan’s back, making him pick up the pieces left by his failures until Obi-Wan had enough, until Obi-Wan said he couldn’t take it anymore, because Anakin was nothing more than a fuck up, because—
“Anakin, dear. What’s going on?” Oh, great. On top of everything else, he couldn’t even keep his feelings low enough not to disturb Obi-Wan’s sleep. Fantastic. “Are you in pain? Master Nema left a spare dose of medicine in case you felt like this. Let me grab it.”
He didn't want to drink anything, he didn't want to go back to sleep. Anakin wanted to wallow in his own misery, to bang his head against a wall, to remind himself how stupid he was, how useless, how—-
The warmth of Obi-Wan’s hand against his cheek stopped him from delving deeper into a tortuous line of thought. “Ani, please. I don’t need mind-reading powers to know what you’re feeling. And you are terribly, terribly wrong, padawan mine.” The words ran over Anakin like a balm, like water, mending the parts of him that had fallen apart. “I’m here because I couldn’t bear to be anywhere else but at your side. Do not think, not even for a second, that this wasn’t my choice.”
It’s a good thing he was able to move his head, at least, because that meant he could press his lips against the scarred skin of Obi-Wan’s palm, could bask in the smell of him, the closest thing he had to home since leaving the open arms of his mother.
“Also, I know you well enough to be sure that you’re blaming yourself, so please, don’t. You didn’t see the blade until it was too late because it was not directed at you, Anakin. The blade was meant for me,” Obi-Wan said in a trembling voice. His fingers touched the place where the knife had slashed open the barrier of Anakin’s skin, so light it made him feel like something holy, almost divine. “And, as you’re so fond of reminding me, I’m shorter than you by a whole two inches. And this means the strike was calculated in a manner that would have it cut straight through my heart.”
Truth be told, Anakin didn’t remember all that. Just the glint of pointed steel, and his body moving on its own, the alarm inside his head blaring danger danger danger.
It was pure instinct, like breathing, walking, or fighting.
Like protecting the ones he loved.
Slowly, still afraid to hurt Anakin even after all this time in the Halls of Healing, Obi-Wan moved closer and brought their lips together in a faint kiss.
Anakin had missed that so much it hurt more than the poison flowing inside his body.
So, before Obi-Wan could move away, Anakin used the meager strength that had been returned to him and grabbed Obi-Wan’s collar; their foreheads touching, their breaths mingling into the same air.
Stay, Anakin said with his limbs, with his eyes, with the Force; with everything minus his voice. Stay stay stay stay.
And Obi-Wan did.
This time, Obi-Wan’s blue eyes were already open when Anakin woke up, sweet and caring and just a tad too close, just as Anakin liked it.
So Obi-Wan had finally slipped into his bed, huh. Nice to know at least something good had come out of his mildly embarrassing personality crisis yesterday.
“Good morning,” Obi-Wan said, stroking Anakin’s lower lip with his thumb. Which, in Anakin’s opinion, was totally unfair, considering he was bedridden and could not answer in kind. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah,” he croaked. His lungs still felt too raw to do anything besides breathing enough air to keep him afloat, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try a bit harder, for Obi-Wan only. “Thanks to you.”
“Glad to be of use.”
“Funny old man,” Anakin said, trying his best to stay awake. It was a tough mission, especially with Obi-Wan’s fingers caressing his scalp. “How long?”
“Fifteen days and counting,” Obi-Wan revealed, putting a finger to Anakin’s lips before he could shout fifteen days? and fuck his lungs again. “Don’t fret. Rig Nema said you're going to be discharged today if nothing bad happens; which means that you'll be allowed to stay in your own room until you heal fully. So do me a favor of keeping your mouth shut and preserving yourself for a few more hours.”
Fifteen days, Anakin thought. Holy fuck.
Stripped both of himself and Obi-Wan, the frontlines must’ve been an absolute mess right now. Just the thought of it was enough to bring forth a faint ache to the front of his head.
Well, he would have no choice but to deal with that. Later.
“Just a last question.” His former Master turned the full weight of his disapproving glance on him, the one Anakin had been subjected to thousands of times in the last decade, but didn’t say anything. “How are you feeling?”
Before Obi-Wan had said anything, the Force gave Anakin an answer: all around him, he felt happiness, and tenderness, and the most absolute, unconditional relief.
“I’m better now, too.”
Then it was all worth it, Anakin mused. He opened his mouth to say it, but no sound came out, and soon he was closing his eyes again, lulled back to sleep by the stable cadence of Obi-Wan’s voice.