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The rain came down in sheets, and had Anakin not been wearing goggles, there would have been no way to see. The droplets stung like little needles against his skin and pattered metallically off his pit racer glider as he soared through the barrage. He was soaked to the bone, but he hardly noticed.
He wooped as he passed the racer to his right, though he didn’t let his small victory make him lose focus. He had the final stretch ahead of him, and once he’d crossed the finish line, he could cheer all he wanted. And he was determined to stick the landing this time.
Padawan braid billowing behind him, short hair slicked down to his forehead by the rain, Anakin banked hard, cutting off the racer behind him. The finish was fast approaching, and Anakin Skywalker was going to win again.
Somewhere far behind him, a racer was taken out by a garbage canister. Anakin still didn’t lose his focus, even as he felt the scream then felt their light dim out.
He pulled hard on the handles to slow his descent, but it was a second too late. He easily sailed over the finish line, and only started coming down several meters past it. His legs pumped through the air, then hit the grimy ground in a run, and still, he wasn’t losing momentum.
He was reminded for the umpteenth time that this was not podracing.
He lost his footing for a split second, but that was all it took. The glider’s wings skimmed the ground, shooting up sparks, and the whole racer was thrown off balance. Anakin had a split second to make a judgement call. The racer was going to be destroyed, and he could let himself be destroyed with it, or he could jump out now and save himself. He called on the Force to yank the straps off of him.
Once he was free, his feet pounded in a vain effort to stay upright, but he was going too fast. He hit the ground hard and rolled. The world was a blur of colors and motion spiraling around him, and he splashed through grimy puddles more than a few times.
He could make out the metallic crunching and grinding of his glider but he couldn’t tell which way was up or down.
Anakin finally came to a halt several meters away from the finish line, and just lay there on his back for a moment. He tore off his goggles and gazed upon the black sky and towering structures above. Off to his right, the other remaining racers were finishing, some grumbling and some cheering. To his left, his racer was likely a torn, crumpled husk, which was disheartening, but not enough to take away from the ecstasy of the flight and the win. He could always make a new racer.
Anakin sprang back up, only briefly seeing stars, and the overwhelming exhilaration inside burst out of him with his wild smile, loud hollers, and pumping fists.
Eager hands gripping his arm had him swiveling around.
“That was wizard, Anakin!” the familiar Mirialan praised.
“Thanks, Tika! Though, I’m gonna need to make a new racer.”
The two gazed mournfully at what was now scrap metal, before exchanging grins again. “How’d you place?”
His friend’s smile was toothy and his Force signature was bright and radiant. “Fifth!”
“Hey, that’s great!” Anakin praised, smacking the boy on the back.
“Thanks, Anakin! No one can beat you, though.” The still-goggled Tika gave his shoulder a friendly shove.
Anakin shoved back. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll beat me someday.”
“Never,” Tika laughed. Anakin felt a pang of loss as he remembered the friend who he’d left behind on Tatooine. Tika reminded him so much of Kitster. If only he could see him now. If only his mom…
Anakin pulled his friend into a sideways hug, then started running backwards.
“I’ll see you around, Tika! I gotta get back before Obi-Wan notices I was gone!” he called, clutching his goggles in one hand and waving with the other.
“See you, Anakin!” Tika called back, waving his entire arm.
—————————————————————
Anakin’s sopping wet socks squished uncomfortably in his boots as he crept his way back towards the quarters that he shared with his Master. The adrenaline of the night had worn off, and now he felt every ache and scrape he’d sustained during the race through Coruscant’s underbelly. The journey back to the Jedi Temple had been long, and he was tired and sore. All he wanted was to take a warm shower, curl up in his warm bed, and sleep for about 10 hours.
The door opened with a silent swish, and Anakin slipped in on the tips of his toes, careful not to make too much noise and wake Obi-Wan. He’d made it about halfway to his bedroom when the light flicked on. Anakin winced and shielded his face from the sudden onslaught. Perking out from under the arm slung over his eyes, Anakin could just make out the displeased curl to Obi-Wan’s lips, under the beard and mustache, which seemed to be a permanent new addition to his face.
“What’re you doing up?” Anakin groused.
“Mind your place, Padawan,” Obi-Wan scolded mildly. “I’m the one who should be asking you that. Just where have you been?”
Anakin sneered and grumbled, letting his arm fall from his face and smack dramatically against his thigh. “Getting some fresh air.”
“Right,” Obi-Wan drawled slowly. “So that must explain the oil stains, and the cuts and bruises?”
Anakin grit his teeth and looked down at his dripping boots. He belatedly hid his racing goggles behind his back.
“You’re only digging yourself in deeper by lying to me.”
“Fine,” Anakin ground out. “I was out pit racing. What, is it illegal—“
“Actually, it is.”
“—is it against the Jedi Code to race?” Anakin argued, his cheeks heating up. Obi-Wan seemed to have a way of sapping away all of his joy and leaving him bitter and angry. Why couldn’t he just congratulate him and be happy for him? That’s what his mom did, even though she hated when he raced. That’s what Qui-Gon did.
“Regardless of legality or ethics, you are not to leave this temple—by yourself, in the dead of night, no less—and you know it, Padawan.” Obi-Wan sighed in exasperation and rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. He probably did.
“Why!” tore out of Anakin’s throat before he could stop himself. He was shaking now, from the cold, or anger, or some combination.
Obi-Wan’s eyebrows shot up, then his face hardened in warning. “Do not shout at me, young one.” His voice was low and quiet, as if to rub Anakin’s failures in his face. To flaunt his Jedi-like calm, to—to mock him.
Anakin’s fists balled up at his sides—his goggles creaked from the stress. His cheeks burned and traitorous tears pricked at his eyes. All elation he’d garnered from the race was stamped out and replaced with seething anger and gaping sorrow.
“Why can’t I—mm.” Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. He lowered his head, cleared his throat, then tried again. “Why can’t I see her?” he croaked.
“Attachments are forbidden, Anakin. You were made aware of this before you joined the Order.” Obi-Wan’s voice had softened, and it was clearly meant to soothe him. But his Master’s words didn’t match his tone, so the intent didn’t matter.
Anakin shifted from despondent to livid in a second. “I don’t care! I love her!” he shrieked, probably loud enough to disturb their neighboring Jedi, but Anakin couldn’t find it in himself to care.
“Anakin—“
“You say attachments are forbidden, but—but so is hate, even though you hate me!” Anakin sobbed brokenly into his hands, suddenly feeling very much like a little boy. Tears mingled with the droplets dripping from his shorn hair. So much for not crying.
“Anakin...” Obi-Wan sounded so tired. So broken. It almost made Anakin lose his resolve. “I don’t hate you. You know that.”
“No I don’t! I want to see her!” Anakin rasped, aggressively scrubbing at his face with his fists. He was hyper aware of how his rain-soaked robes rubbed uncomfortably against his chilled skin.
Obi-Wan opened his mouth to speak.
“I want Qui-Gon!”
His mouth clicked shut, the words dying on his lips. He looked so old and so young.
Anakin couldn’t bear to see his Master’s face anymore. He knew that if he kept looking, he’d regret what he said.
He could just barely make out the soft, “Me too.”
Anakin ran for his room, and once the door swished closed behind him, he hurled his goggles against the far wall, fell to his knees, and sobbed.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” he muttered to himself, over and over and over until he’d fallen asleep, curled up on the floor.
—————————————————————
Obi-Wan didn’t know how long he sat with his face in his hands, listening to the muffled sobbing of his Padawan and the raindrops pattering against the windows.
He was a terrible Master.
Nothing had ever been so challenging as raising a child. He felt as though he always said the wrong thing, always managed to wind Anakin up. How did so many of their interactions turn out so wrong, so hostile? Anakin was recently 15, and the teenage angst was supreme.
Had Obi-Wan been this hard on Qui-Gon? Obi-Wan shot up, silencing that line of thought. He needed some tea.
He mechanically headed for the kitchen, barely conscious of his movements. His hands shook as he opened the cupboard and pulled out a teacup.
There was a crashing sound, and Obi-Wan startled. He looked down.
He’d dropped it.
He stooped to clean up the glass, hissing as the sharp edge caught on his hand and tore. He clasped the uninjured hand over the leaking wound and stood, rummaging around in the other cabinets for a medkit.
It was muscle memory rather than conscious thinking that had him cleaning and bandaging the wound.
He left the broken tea cup on the ground for the time being, settling for a new one and getting the kettle and the water set up. Anakin’s crying and muttering ebbed off into nothing.
He was a terrible Master. He was failing the child already.
His hand stung and pounded in time with his heart.
“I’m sorry, Master,” Obi-Wan numbly whispered.
The kettle whistled and he poured himself a cup. His hands still shook.
He shuffled back to the sofa and plopped down. He would not be sleeping well tonight, and the first sip of his tea only solidified his fate.