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"Anakin, could you come here a moment?"
Anakin startles at the sound of Obi-Wan's voice, mid way through dumping the contents of his mission pack into the laundry basket and trying to work out where the hell he'd put his tabards. He'd not been expecting a summons so soon — they'd barely been back in the Temple for an hour, after a long slog of a mission in the Mid-Rim, and usually that meant they'd be busy unpacking their respective bags until dinner. It's much too early for that.
But still, it's his Master calling him. "Coming!" he yells in return, giving up the tabards as a lost cause and making a note to requisition a new pair, shaking his bag to get the last stray sock and heading out into the living room. "Is something wrong?"
"Not wrong, as such. Could you make a pot?" Obi-Wan is sitting at their table, legs thrown up on the chair opposite him and datapad in hand, gaze fixed on the screen.
Anakin can't help but note that he's tapping against the wooden tabletop with his fingers, an arrhythmic beat that doesn't tend to bode well for either of them. "Sure, Master," he says anyway, turning and heading into the kitchen. Yes, tea. Tea makes Obi-Wan pliable. Tea is a good idea.
Anakin fills the kettle with water, reaching questing fingers into the Force as he sets it to boil and measures out the tea leaves. His Master feels off in the Force — not panicked, nor pained, but something akin to resignation paired with catharsis. A sense of, 'I wish it hadn't come to this, but at least the waiting is at an end'. He looks fine, tapping away at his datapad with a slight squint, but the roil of his emotions in the Force has Anakin even more on edge. The water takes altogether far too long to heat.
"I made that Rylothi blend with the spices, I hope that's alright." Hefting the tea set in his hands, Anakin steps to the table, setting the tray down with only a little too much force — he's only just finished yet another growth spurt and he's not used to his longer arms just yet. He hopes this is the last of them, he's taller than Obi-Wan now which is weird in and of itself, but mostly he's just sick of crashing into everything every few months as his limbs run away from him. If he could fill out and stop looking like a beanpole, that'd be even better. He seats himself with about as much grace, wincing when he smacks his tailbone against the wood.
"Thank you, Anakin," Obi-Wan replies, briefly tearing his eyes away from his screen with that slight smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. His true smile, Anakin's favourite. With deft motions, Obi-Wan swirls the pot and sniffs the fragrant steam before setting the tea back down to continue steeping. "You mentioned an advanced astronavigation course you wanted to take sometime soon, when was that going to run again?"
That's… not what Anakin expected, for the start of this conversation. Not something that would lead to the disquiet in Obi-Wan's Force signature. The apparent non-sequitur has him frowning, confused at the direction of his Master's thoughts and displeased by the sensation. He hates when his Master talks around the topic like this, it always makes him feel like he's lost in the dark.
"It starts next week, but like I said, Master, I can do it remotely. The sims aren't mandatory." The sims would be, frankly, enormous fun — especially when he didn't get to fly ships anywhere near as often as he'd like, but missions were miles more interesting than being stuck in the Temple for weeks. "Why do you ask?"
Obi-Wan sighs, picking up the teapot again and pouring two perfectly measured cups of amber liquid. One he pushes over to Anakin, and the other he plucks from the table and holds under his chin. He takes a slow sip, obviously fortifying himself, and Anakin can't help but start to bounce his knee with the anxiety swirling inside him. What's got his Master so off kilter?
After an agonising moment, Obi-Wan says. "We're going to need to stay in-Temple for the next few weeks. Possibly a couple of months, depending on how things go. So I'd recommend signing up for the class while there are still open slots left."
This doesn't tell Anakin anything useful, actually. His knee starts to bounce harder, the chair vibrating under him as he fidgets, rolling the warm mug between his hands. "How things go? What's going on, Master? Are you alright?"
The lack of immediate reassurance informs Anakin that no, Obi-Wan is not alright. The working of his Master's jaw and the unsettled ripples in the Force tell him that it's both serious, and something where his Master is worried that Anakin will take the news poorly. Anakin is taking the silence poorly, his mind spiralling out various scenarios where Obi-Wan is dying, or leaving forever, or worse.
Obi-Wan finally clears his throat, taking another sip of tea and sighing. Then he tightens his jaw and looks back up at Anakin, breathing deep. "Before we left for Hisseen I had a lump on my chest biopsied. Unfortunately, it seems that it's malignant, and I need to have it removed." He breathes out, rolling his mug between his palms, gaze flicking back down to the table. "Since I need surgery anyway, I've asked the doctors to remove all the tissue in the area."
Anakin's eyes drop to Obi-Wan's chest, still hidden as it is behind his layers of robes. He's pretty sure he's in shock, but the only thing he can think of is —
"Why?" he asks, sounding slightly petulant. He likes his Master's chest — its gentle curve, the softness of it under his cheek or against his own chest, the delight of sparse hair against his own smooth skin. His Master has a large chest for a man, and Anakin delights in it.
Obi-Wan looks up again, a wry twist at the corner of his mouth. He sets his teacup down on the table, and Anakin makes a conscious effort to slow the jostle of his leg so he doesn't accidentally knock it over.
"I've known for a long time that I run a high risk for cancer in my chest. It isn't the only location, I don't suppose you remember me needing surgery some years back?"
Surgery? Anakin can't remember Obi-Wan needing anything more than his annual shots or treatment for mission injuries in the time they've been together. He shakes his head, racking his brains for anything he might have missed.
Something of his concern must have shown on his face, because Obi-Wan soothes, "It would have been when you were eleven or so, I truly don't expect you to remember it. That surgery was to remove a cancerous testicle, though it's all part of the same condition."
Anakin can't stay sitting any longer, energy building frantic in his chest with this latest reveal. He stands, perhaps a little too sharply if his Master's quelling look is any indication, and starts pacing in the narrow space between their table and the back of their sofa. That would be the initial shock wearing off, the logical part of his brain notes, even as the rest of him is full of prickling panic.
"Condition? What condition? You seem fine." He rakes his eyes over Obi-Wan, seeing nothing but slightly overlong hair and tired eyes. He didn't look sick, or like he had a condition. But maybe Anakin had never seen him well, maybe he'd been dying all along, maybe—
"Anakin, please calm down, this isn't something to fret over. Most of the time it's nothing serious."
He holds out his hand, and Anakin gratefully strides over and grasps it between his own. It's warm, dry, and Anakin can feel the steady pulse of Obi-Wan's heart in the tip of his thumb if he presses hard enough against it. Reassurance. That his Master is still here, still alive. Still with him.
"What is it then?" Anakin asks, squeezing his Master's hand tighter. Something that meant Obi-Wan needed surgery didn't sound like 'nothing serious' to him.
With his free hand, Obi-Wan pours another cup of tea, sliding Anakin's cooling cup over towards where he's now standing at his Master's side. "It's a hormonal imbalance, at the core of things."
Anakin makes a face. He doesn't know much about medicine, but that didn't sound like how cancer worked. Cancer doesn't sound like the sort of thing a hormonal imbalance would cause. He lets Obi-Wan finish talking, face sceptical.
"I make all the normal hormones you'd expect, in normal amounts, and most of them are used appropriately. However, my body doesn't know quite what to do with testosterone. I make enough, but my body doesn't actually use it to do normal testosterone things. The condition is very common on the planet where I come from, so nobody was surprised, lest of all myself."
Shifting his weight from one foot to another, Anakin's hip bumps against the table, hard enough that the delicate teacups judder, before rolling onto their sides and spilling their contents all over the pock-marked wood.
"Shit, sorry!" Anakin releases Obi-Wan's hand, though his Master reacts too slowly to avoid the tea spilling over the lip of the table and directly onto his lap. The hems of his outer layers are soaked in seconds, though the layers themselves mean none of the hot liquid comes in contact with his skin.
His Master takes this with his persistent good grace, laughing as he stands and strips his outer layers off, throwing them in the direction of his room. "Anakin, you know there are easier ways to ask me to strip. Your words will do."
Anakin, fetching a cloth from the designated drawer, manages to smack his head on the edge of the counter, he jerks up so fast. "Master!" he croaks out, pressing his handful of fabric to his head even as he feels his face burning red.
"Anakin." Obi-Wan laughs, not at him, a warm embracing sound that has Anakin chuckling too at the absurdity of the whole situation. A moment to let their emotions out into the Force, for Anakin to try and process everything he's been told in the past few minutes.
They mop up the tea in companionable silence, and Anakin takes Obi-Wan's hint — namely placing the empty teapot in his hands with a hopeful expression — and goes to make another pot while Obi-Wan takes the used cloths and his damp clothing to the laundry chute. When he comes back, he settles on the sofa, and once the new pot of tea is ready Anakin takes it over.
Obi-Wan pours the new blend — a shig that's been a fixture in their kitchen as long as Anakin can remember — simply smelling the steam for a moment before looking over. Any questions? the look asks.
Anakin nods, curling up at the opposite end of the sofa, legs tucked beneath him, before blurting out the question that's been floating through his mind. "You don't look like your body doesn't use testosterone."
He winces a little the moment the words leave his lips, even as he gestures vaguely in the direction of his Master's beard. It's true — the beard is not the patchy, speckled things some of his fellow Padawans are trying their hands at, but a dense thicket over his chin and jaw that's been manicured to perfection. It frames his face so well, and Anakin has been envious of it ever since his own first androgenic hairs began growing. At his current rate, it'll be a decade or more before he has a beard of his own.
"Yes, we tried high dose androgens when I was going through puberty, which seem to have helped me develop normally." His Master stops for a moment, looking briefly discomfited in a way he rarely lets himself show. "Except for my chest," he adds, "which it developed rather abnormally for my gender, all things considered. A not-uncommon side effect, and I was warned in advance of the possibility, though it certainly didn't help me feel at home in my body."
His shoulders curl in a little, and his sip of shig is clearly intended as a distraction for him as much as a moment's break from speaking.
"I like your chest," Anakin says, a little mulish. He gently kicks Obi-Wan in the thigh, trying to break him from his maudlin thoughts. "I like it a lot."
Obi-Wan captures Anakin's ankle, tugging his foot into his lap even as Anakin half heartedly tries to escape the grip, sliding down the sofa as he wriggles and grapples, both of them mostly trying to stop themselves from falling off the sofa altogether.
With a breathless smile, the tousle calms in order for them to gather their breath. Obi-Wan's the victor, of course — holding Anakin in a loose lock so he can't continue kicking. He's not looking sad anymore, though, so Anakin thinks he's the real winner here.
"I know you like it, dear one," Obi-Wan says eventually, once their breathing has slowed. "That's perhaps the only positive thing to have come out of the whole mess. But my health comes first, as I'm sure you agree. Removing all the tissue means one less thing to worry about in the future."
Anakin doesn't respond. He just lets himself be held, savouring the closeness, the smell of his Master, the warmth. The softness of his chest pressing against Anakin's back. He could stay like this forever, he thinks, just like this. Just the two of them. He rests his head against Obi-Wan's shoulder, and the other man presses their temples together.
Across the room, there's a 'ping' as Obi-Wan's datapad receives a new message. In a display of very improper use of the Force indeed, he calls it over — rather than disentangling their interwoven limbs to fetch the device. Anakin mutters about improper use, faux disappointed, and Obi-Wan jostles the two of them with his laughter.
The padd's in Anakin's line of sight, so he can read the message clearly, as Obi-Wan no doubt intended — the surgery's been arranged for a week's time, first thing in the morning. Obi-Wan will be in a bacta tank for two days afterwards, then released to his rooms provided he has someone to care for him while he's recovering. There'll be a meeting with whoever Obi-Wan chooses to assist with his care before the surgery itself, itself tentatively booked for three days' time.
Anakin can hear his Master's sigh, feel it fill the space between them.
"Oh that's faster than expected," he murmurs. "They must be more worried than I thought."
He wishes there was something he could do, that he could make the problem just go away. The fact that Force healing can't just make the body stop making cancer cells seems so stupid to him, surely it should be able to do that. It's a sickness, surely there should be a better cure than just removing the problem. Surely there should be something. Maybe he'll ask the healers to explain it to him when they go to the appointment, get them to tell him why. Obi-Wan would like that, he thinks.
The padd floats towards their weird lopsided ottoman, and his Master's forehead thuds down against his shoulder. "Will you be alright helping me in the weeks following the surgery, or should I see who's in Temple right now? I understand if it's too much, I'll be rather out of it. I always am following a bacta dip."
Anakin can relate, he'd needed to be dipped once before and everything felt off-kilter for a month. Something about bacta messed with his connection to the Force — not enough to be dangerous, but enough that everything felt subtly wrong until the last of it passed from his system.
He doesn't want somebody else taking care of his Master when he was feeling like that. He doesn't trust that they'll take care of Obi-Wan the way he deserved. Anakin was closest to him, he was his Padawan, they'd lived in each other's pockets for years by now. He should be the one to do it. He wants to be the one to do it. And Obi-Wan had asked. Obi-Wan wants him to do it, too.
The fact that his Master had asked Anakin to help, asked him to watch over him when he wasn't able to do it himself — it warms that cold kernel of fear that's always lodged deep in his chest. The fear that Obi-Wan doesn't want him anymore. He knows it's illogical, that Obi-Wan has made his love abundantly clear over the years, but despite it all Anakin can't quite shake it. It doesn't matter right now anyway, because Obi-Wan needs him. And that's even better than want.
Anakin twists around so that he and Obi-Wan are face-to-face, slipping his arms around his Master's waist. "I can help," he promises. "I'd like to help." Then, after a pause he queries, "What will I be helping with?" It doesn't matter, whatever it is he'll do it, but if he needs to prepare then he better start on things now.
Obi-Wan smiles, that real smile again, crinkles and all. He looks so unabashedly fond that Anakin almost wants to squirm with the intensity of it all.
"Most everything, from what I gather." Obi-Wan shows no signs of trying to escape Anakin's grasp, even setting his one free hand on Anakin's shoulder, fingers brushing against his neck. "Especially heavy lifting, and anything involving me lifting my arms above my shoulders."
Lifting and fetching things? That's easy. He does that already when Obi-Wan's too immersed in his reading to get up and make himself tea or remember to eat, how much worse could it be? His Master could ask him to fetch things every five minutes and he wouldn't complain. Well, he wouldn't complain much, at least.
"No problem, Master. Isn't that what Padawans are for?" His stomach gurgles, as if in agreement.
He gets the laugh he was hoping for, and the hand on his shoulder moving to the middle of his back, pressing the two of them tightly together. Anakin rubs his face against the top of Obi-Wan's chest, only separated from his skin by a single layer of fabric, trying to memorise the sensation. He doesn't want his Master's chest to go anywhere, especially not now they're close enough that he can actually touch it and not just dream of it in the dark of his rooms, but if the other option is his Master going away forever… well.
Only one of those things makes the dragon in his chest roar with fear. When it comes down to it, it's not a choice at all.
Obi-Wan sets his chin against Anakin's head, letting Anakin suffocate himself with a wry smile. "Yes, the hard part of the endeavour will be keeping me company," he informs him. "A week in bed and I'll be mad as a rynock without distraction."
"I could tell you about the latest podracing season?" Anakin teases, muffled against his Master's skin.
He gets jostled for his efforts, happily moving along with the motion like a scruffed tooka. "I said distraction, Padawan, not torture."
Anakin's stomach grumbles again, louder this time.
Obi-Wan laughs, removing his hand from Anakin's back. With great reluctance, Anakin releases him as well, pulling back so that there's a modicum of space between them and nearly falling ass-first off the sofa for his troubles.
The happiness on his Master's face makes the balancing act worth it. "Shall we do dinner in fifteen minutes? I heard your stomach join our conversation, but I'd like to shower and change before we go. I still smell like hyperspace."
Anakin doesn't mind the smell, it's a good one — one of escape, and adventure — but his Master is fastidious by nature and it must be galling him to still smell like travel when they've been back for some time now.
So it's with great reluctance he stands, stretching up to his full height and preening when Obi-Wan's eyes follow the motion and catch on the slip of skin between his pants and top. They've been together a while now, but it's still such a thrill to be seen — to be wanted.
"Sounds good, Master, I'll finish putting my stuff away."
As Anakin's most of the way to his room, he hears from the sofa, "Don't forget to sign up for your class before we go."
With everything that's happened in the last half hour, he'd completely forgotten about the astronav class. Right, he'd better do that before they go to dinner or Obi-Wan would be insufferable about it. If only he could remember where he put his datapad when he was unpacking…
Casting around for it, he calls back, "Yes Master, and requisition new tabards, I know." Better to get it all done at the same time. He'll definitely forget to do both otherwise, and missing out on the astronav course would suck.
A rustle from the living area, then, "New tabards? Anakin, what did you do with your old ones?"
"If I knew that, I wouldn't need new ones, would I!"
Aha, the datapad was buried under his backup snacks, of course. Anakin pulls it out, sending wrappers crinkling to the floor like sand. It doesn't matter, he'll pick them up later, it's not like the floor was clear at the moment anyway — too much to reorganise now they're back. And more important is signing up for his course and making sure he still has clothes to wear. Obi-Wan would agree.
Also, while he has his padd out he's gonna spoogle the surgery that Obi-Wan's having. If he's the one caring for his Master, he's going to make sure it's perfect.