Chapter Text
As a young padawan, Anakin Skywalker hated touch. It reminded him far too much of the tender caress of his mother that he so deeply longed for. By accepting a hug from his master after a particularly successful meditation session, or from one of his fellow younglings, Anakin felt like he was betraying Shmi.
He didn’t run away from them, of course. He was trying to be on his best behaviour to show the Masters that he was worthy of being a Jedi knight, especially Master Windu. Running away would show that he was weak, unprepared for the unknown.
So, Anakin just ignored it. Tried to forget the sensation of warm arms around him, pay no mind to the messy mop of soon-to-be cut locks on his head anytime they were affectionately rumpled, reminding him so painfully of his mum.
Eventually, the elder Jedi began to get the message, backing off after a few hugs were met with stiff arms, held tightly by the small boy’s side. It took a few months for them to notice, as hugging wasn’t all too common, to Anakin’s relief.
However, three hugs spanning a few months was three hugs too much in little Ani’s eyes, and he was glad when the masters realised he did not need to be coddled, no matter his background.
The other padawans needed a lot more convincing, pupils around that age more touchy, unaware of the personal boundaries that may develop at an older age in most people, but of which Anakin had prematurely set.
But, still, they got the message, and backed off too.
Oh, how Anakin would come to regret that decision.
As an older padawan, Anakin Skywalker craved touch. He often reminisced of the times where the Masters in the temple would give him quick high-fives after a distinctly good mock ‘saber fight, a quick head pat after a meditation session with no disruption.
The ones he missed most were the scarce hugs of acknowledgement from his teacher, his Master, Obi-Wan. They were the warmest, the most proud. But, his Master being observant as ever, the most short-lived.
Obi-Wan’s touches were the ones that had stopped first, the first to take notice and become more hesitant towards showing physical affection towards his padawan.
At first, Anakin was glad. But now, he was overwhelmed with regret. His gut ached with the want, the need to be touched, to be held.
And so Anakin thought up a plan.
It was childish, it was desperate. But it was final. If his plan didn’t work, Anakin thought he would go crazy.
When he finally lost it, would the Masters realise what from? Would Obi-Wan? Would they be regretful? Sorrowful? Or would they scoff in his memory, recalling how he was the one who got himself into that situation in the first place?
Mind swirling in hypotheticals, Anakin conjured up his ideas, ways to get even the smallest of touch from Obi-Wan, no matter whether it’s a small brush of fingertips or a full-fledged hug.
None of that mattered to Anakin. His skin simply needed attention, no matter how ashamed he was of admitting it.
When he first came across the term “Touch-Starved” a few months prior, Anakin’s cheeks had flushed in angry shame, caused by the recognition of the symptoms, seeing the side-effects in himself.
He would do whatever he could to get Obi-Wan to touch him. Hell, it would be nice these days to get even an acknowledgement towards his achievements from his Master.
It seemed that lately, Obi-Wan let out more sighs of frustration, more out-of-character eye rolls, more signs of unadulterated annoyance towards Anakin.
Gone were the days of genuine praise, now all he seemed to receive in return for his actions were a heavy huff and an, “Anakin, I’m trying to complete this report.”
And it made the padawan feel completely rotten. Maybe, just maybe, if his plan managed to work, Obi-Wan would start appreciating his efforts again, maybe he would be proud of how hard he had trained. Maybe, he may even love him again.
And so his plan was set in motion.