Chapter Text
Obi-Wan’s chest is hollow, shuddering around emptiness scooped out in the shape of Qui-Gon. Even before his master died, Obi-wan conceived of the place he occupied inside of himself as absence rather than substance, a vacancy, a paradox—this man he loved who did not love him, this approval he sought that would never come, this wisdom he yearned for that he would never fulfill. Untouched, unkissed, unwanted. A hole—but Obi-Wan was a fool, then. He knew nothing of holes. Nothing of grief. Now that his Master is dead, he understands all he had, all he is now missing.
The boy is a welcome distraction. A lost little thing, wandering about the halls outside their temporary quarters in Naboo crouching down to speak to droids as if they are alive. He puzzles Obi-Wan, and that puzzlement is the only thing that untethers him from his paralysis and blinding grief. He cannot fall to pieces, because there is a child who needs him.
On the day after Qui-Gon’s funeral, Obi-Wan catches a whiff of smoke and charred flesh in Anakin’s hair, and his stomach turns as he realizes Anakin hasn’t bathed since they came to Naboo. Or—Obi-Wan hasn’t bathed him. It’s his responsibility, after all, Anakin is his ward, soon to be his Padawan. A strange realization, when he still feels like a Padawan himself, but true all the same.
So, he runs a bath in their quarter’s fresher. Puts bubbles in it how he liked when he was a child, and steers Anakin inside to the steaming room with its condensation wet walls of green and terra cotta tile. “There you are,” he says. “Leave your clothes on the counter, I will have them washed for you as well. I apologize it didn't occur to me sooner you might want a bath. It’s been—well,” he cuts himself off, swallows a thickness in his throat. “I’ve been busy with the arrangements,” he settles on, unable to operationalize that arrangements means a funeral pyre, the shutting and purging of Qui-Gon’s quarters back in the temple, all the unthinkable changes that lie ahead.
That particular clumsiness is not Anakin’s sticking point, however. He looks up at Obi-Wan, quirks an eyebrow. “Bath?” he asks, like he has never heard the word in his life.
And well. Of course he hasn’t. He was a slave child on a planet where water is a scarcity. Obi-Wan shakes his head, internally kicking himself. “Yes, a bath, they’re a custom in many places for cleaning oneself,” he explains, guiding Anakin to the edge of the tub “You, um. You undress and climb into the water. Scrub the dirt from yourself with this,” he says, gesturing to a sponge and soap bar sitting on the green tile patterns flanking the tub, “and then use this ladle, here, to rinse off. It’s also quite relaxing, to soak,” he awkwardly adds, blushing for reasons he can hardly articulate.
“All that water,” Anakin mumbles, peering. “To sit in? Not to drink?”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan clarifies, realizing how silly and wasteful it must sound to Anakin. He rolls his sleeve up and reaches into the sudsy froth. “It’s warm, and not purified, so it wouldn’t be good for drinking, only washing. But see, down here there’s a drain. And when you pull the plug, it all washes down a pipe, and eventually comes out to water the plants in the queen’s royal garden,” he says. He does not know if this is true, but he doesn’t want Anakin to fret about what happens to the water. “In the Jedi temple, there’s a filtration system. The water is cleaned after the bath and piped back up into the tank to be used again. It’s a closed system, so you need not worry about waste.”
Anakin’s eyes are still wide, his mouth twisted into a skeptical frown. “It’s just. A lot of water to sit in. I don’t know how to swim,” he says in a small voice.
Obi-Wan’s heart breaks, and he drops to his knees so he is on Anakin’s level, laying his hands on his shoulders: one dry, one still damp from the bath. “It’s shallow enough you can sit without needing to swim. But I realize this is probably quite unorthodox for you, even frightening—if you’d like, I can use this bath and you can think about it a bit longer before you take your own. I was going to let you go first but—”
His eyes widen. “Both take one? But that’s double the water.” He glances to the tub, anxiety visible on his face—of course, the amount of water in this tub alone would likely be more than he had ever seen concentrated into one place. Obi-Wan chews the inside of his cheek, self-recriminating. A vow of poverty and living free of possessions in the Order can make him feel as if he’s not terribly privileged, but with every turn of this conversation, he’s realizing more and more how insensitive and ignorant he sounds. He wishes Qui-Gon were here instead—he would have thought of this, eased Anakin into the idea, or else tried something entirely different. Obi-Wan has never been good at this sort of thing, empathizing with people and feeling their feelings in his own heart.
“I’m sorry Anakin,” he says then, since there is nothing else to say. He keeps his voice very gentle, very sincere. “I hadn’t considered how this might upset you. But it is perfectly reasonable that it does…the water has soap in it now, so even if we did purify it we couldn’t drink it. What do you suggest we do? Is there anything that might feel alright for you?”
Anakin chews his lip. “Can we just go at the same time?” he asks. “I still don’t even really know what to do. How to do it right.”
Obi-Wan blinks, Anakin’s words failing to process until a few seconds later. Go at the same time…oh. Share. Share a bath. He feels himself color scarlet, eyes glancing away to the tub, which seems very small to him, as large and opulent and confusing as it seems to Anakin. He weighs the options for a few moments before caving—yes, this is likely the best course of action. Anakin does not share Obi-Wan’s shame and embarrassment regarding his body, there’s no reason to project that onto him. Obi-Wan can set aside his minor discomfort in order to accommodate Anakin’s, which is both more justified, and greater. At least this one time “Certainly,” he says. “For your very first bath, it only seems fair I instruct.”
Relief spreads across Anakin’s face. “You said we undress?”
“Yes, start by undressing,” Obi-Wan says, trying to keep his voice even as he stands up and pulls his own tunic over his head, folding it neatly on the counter before methodically removing his boots, socks, and trousers. For a moment he considers leaving his underwear on, as absurd as it sounds—it just seems terribly inappropriate to sit in a bath with a child naked—even though it is terribly inappropriate under any circumstances to sit in a bath with one's clothes on. Eventually he peels them off in a single motion, cupping himself with a palm as not to expose his body to Anakin, who is standing quite naked and quite unabashedly, staring at swirls and eddies of suds with something like combined fear and wonder on his pinched face.
Obi-Wan steps in to the water, and then turns to offer his free hand. “Come now. I won’t let you slip.”
Anakin lets out a startled little sound as his foot submerges past the suds. “It’s warm!” he announces, delighted, surprised like Obi-Wan had not already described it as such. “How nice. M’always cold, since we left hom—Tatooine.”
“Then this should help you warm up,” Obi-Wan says, sinking into the bath and crossing his legs, grateful for the thick suds obscuring the lower half of his body. Anakin tentatively joins, sitting down facing the faucet, his narrow, tan back turned to Obi-Wan. The tub is large enough they do not touch, and Obi-Wan is grateful for that, too. “The water comes out of there,” he explains as Anakin reaches out and touches the copper spigot with curious fingers.
“Where does it come from?”
“A well,” Obi-Wan explains. “Buried in the earth, with a pump.”
“Wizard,” Anakin says softly, impressed, like some of his panic has subsided. Obi-Wan lets out a trembling breath, still smelling smoke on his inhale.
“Let’s wash your hair,” he says, taking the ladle from where it hangs on the rim and filling it with foamy water before handing it to Anakin. “Wet it down.”
Anakin dumps the label over his head unceremoniously, then hisses. “Ow. Stings in my eyes.”
“You’re not supposed to get it in your eyes—here,” Obi-Wan says, realizing he’s not actually helping like he said he would, and Anakin really doesn’t know how to do this. “Let me…tilt your head back.” Anakin does, and Obi-Wan gently cups his fingers over his eyes even as he closes them. Then, he carefully ladles water onto Anakin’s hair until is is soaked through, dark and slicked back. Then, he takes a bottle of shampoo and squeezes a dollop onto his palm before massaging it into Anakin’s scalp until it is thick with lather.
“Mmhm,” Anakin purrs, squirming happily. “You were right. It is relaxing.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Obi-Wan murmurs. He gets lost in the scrunching moment for awhile, eyes trained on the bend of his own knuckles. Once Anakin’s hair is throughly cleaned he rinses it out, then gives him the bar soap. “This you can do yourself—get some suds between your palms ands them clean yourself.”
Anakin gives him a reproachful look, wrinkling his nose. “I know what soap is.”
Obi-Wan smiles, touched by the barbed, defensive scrappiness that comes so quickly to Anakin’s voice. “You’re quite right, of course you do. It’s not that I don’t think you know things—it’s I who is ignorant, of your customs on Tatooine. You must teach me, so I can understand.”
“It’s not very interesting,” Anakin says, rising to his knees so he can properly rub himself down with the soap. Obi-Wan politely and decidedly looks away. “We don’t have baths. We have a little bowl—the bathing bowl—and it’s mostly water we already used for something else, dishes, maybe—and then we get a cloth wet and wipe. Just the dirty spots, I hardly ever wash my hair.”
“I see,” Obi-Wan says, nodding. Anakin ladles himself off, then sits back down. “I’m clean—do we have to be done?”
“No,” Obi-Wan says. “I like to stay in my baths until they run cold. And I still have to clean my hair.”
“Good,” Anakin says, solemnly handing the ladle to Obi-Wan. “Here’s this. Don't get it into your eyes.”
Obi-Wan barks out a laugh—the first one since Qui-Gon died and it feels obscene, too soon. He schools it into a smile instead, and Anakin smiles back, studies him as he methodically and somewhat self-consciously rinses and lathers his own hair. Then, quite suddenly, Anakin reaches out with tender fingers and strokes Obi-Wan’s Padawan braid, where it sweeps across his shoulder.
Shocked, maybe even offended, Obi-Wan flinches away.
“Sorry,” Anakin murmurs, snatching his hand back. “I just. I was wondering, if I was going to get one. When I become your apprentice.”
Obi-Wan’s heart is pounding, and he tries his hardest not to let it show. He thinks of Qui-Gon—tries to think of Qui-gon—but instead all that exists is this moment. Humid room with its sweating green tiles, this little boy and his flushed cheeks and curious eyes. The grief inside Obi-Wan’s chest isn't solid—it’s a hole. Anakin could crawl inside, if he wanted, and curl up in the vacancy. “Yes,” he manages, somewhat breathless. “You will.”
“My hair’s not long enough,” Anakin murmurs, toying with the bits sticking out, wet behind his ear.
Obi-Wan’s heart softens in spite of himself—in spite of everything. “Well. I will be removing mine, won't need it anymore, so. We can take some of the hair from it and braid it into yours, for length. It’s not customary but, well—“ he laughs again, helpless and sharp and yes, still obscene, but there all the same. “Nothing about this is.”
“I would like that,” Anakin announces as he nods and settles closer, sudsy water licking around his narrow frame. Their knees brush in secret under the melting layer of foamy white clinging to the bath water’s surface. There is something in Anakin’s eyes, in this moment—something resolute and dark and certain, and it does not feel like a hollow. It feels like a fist, a stone, a buoy. Obi-Wan is the adult, but he clings to it all the same, and feels his chest swell, as if there really is a boy’s body, climbing into the space between his aching ribs.