Chapter Text
The first time it happened, he was alone.
It was just before dawn, in the stillness of his quarters. He had risen early to meditate, hoping to prepare himself for Anakin’s first day of Padawan training. His knees had just touched the mat when the pain began—a deep, twisting ache behind his ribs. It caught him off guard, made him fold in on himself. And then—
A wet cough. Then another. And another.
Something thick and soft spilled from his mouth, warm and wrong. He gasped and looked down.
A single, pristine white chrysanthemum lay crumpled in his hand.
His blood stained its petals.
He burned it in the corner hearth before the boy woke.
Anakin was already stirring, hair a mess of gold, face full of questions. “Master, are you okay? I thought I heard something.”
Obi-Wan forced a smile, willed the taste of copper down. “Just clearing my throat. Come now—we have a busy day.”
He never lied before Naboo, but he quickly learned to do so with ease.
~~~~~
The Jedi Temple stood stoic against the Coruscant skyline, but Obi-Wan Kenobi—Knight of the Order, Master to the Chosen One, victor of Naboo—had not felt stillness since Qui-Gon fell.
He moved through the halls like a ghost of the man he once was. Every polished corridor echoed with memories of footfalls that no longer existed beside his own. His shoulders were held high, back straight, voice steady. But his silence screamed.
Grief, he learned, was not like anger. Anger you could feel—it burned hot, reckless, sharp. But grief…grief was water. It crept through you, heavy and formless, until you drowned without realizing.
Qui-Gon’s death hadn’t been sudden. It had been impossible.
He had stood over the pyre, feeling everything and nothing. A part of him died that day—a tether severed. Not romantic love, no, but a bond deeper, older. The kind of love forged over years of trust, irritation, and admiration. A father. A mentor. A friend.
A void.
And now the Force demanded more of him. To raise Anakin. A boy whose eyes shone with the same reckless compassion, the same stubborn defiance. A mirror, and a wound.
He questioned constantly if it would have been better if Qui-Gon had lived instead.
~~~~~
The second time he coughed up flowers, it happened mid-mission.
Anakin had run ahead, chasing some lead through the underlevels of Coruscant. Obi-Wan ducked into an alley to catch his breath.
That’s when it hit again.
He doubled over behind a durasteel crate, coughing violently into his hand. More petals. A full bloom this time. White as frost.
They came with blood.
He wiped his mouth, trembling. He could feel it now—roots, curling up through his lungs, reaching.
He had read of this once, as a Padawan. Hanahaki. A rare affliction of the heart. A disease of unspoken love. But his feelings weren’t romantic, not in the way the ancient texts described. Yet the Force did not differentiate between kinds of love—only the intensity.
And he had loved Qui-Gon more than he ever admitted. Even to himself.
He hid it well. The flowers only came in private, and he disposed of them silently. Meditation only slowed the pain.
Anakin never noticed. Or perhaps he did, but said nothing.
Obi-Wan’s smiles became thinner. His voice more distant. When talking to others, he stood tall. In the training rooms, he guided Anakin with patience.
But at night, in the darkness, he clutched his chest and begged the Force for breath.
~~~~~
One evening, Anakin found him by the window, staring out over the city. “You miss him.”
Obi-Wan didn’t reply.
“He believed in me,” the boy continued softly, “but you’re the one who stayed.”
Obi-Wan turned, eyes rimmed with weariness. “He didn’t choose to leave us, Anakin.”
They stood in silence.
Anakin hesitated, then stepped closer. “If I fail…will you leave, too?”
Obi-Wan’s breath caught. Not from illness this time, but from the weight of that question.
“No,” he said, voice like glass. “I’d never you.”
That night, there were fewer petals.
He still bled. Still ached.
But the disease paused.
It did not heal, but it heard.
Grief was not gone and love was not returned, but somewhere in the pain, something new had taken root.
Responsibility. Hope.
Anakin.
And perhaps that was enough.