Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Present

Brooklyn, New York.

“Obi-Wan…”

“Obi-Wan, you’re going too deep—pull back a little.”

“Master Kenobi, yeah, I think you should ease up. It’s not supposed to bleed this much, right?”

“Ahsoka, if you think you can do better, be my guest. Obi-Wan’s clearly out of his depth here.”

“Oh please, Skyguy. I’m still a rookie—if I did it, you’d definitely end up disappointed.”

“For the love of—can you two give me a little trust here? Anakin, lie still. I’m almost done…”

His hands were shaking. And the two loud-mouthed kids beside him weren’t helping. He was beginning to regret this insane idea. He hated seeing Anakin bleed—no matter the reason.

One minute later, he finally pulled the tattoo needle away. The relief was almost palpable.

Obi-Wan let out a long, exhausted breath.

HBTK. Four letters, now forever etched into the curve of Anakin’s waist.

His boy was positively beaming. The moment Obi-Wan finished dressing the ink, Anakin leapt up and ran to the mirror, admiring it like someone unwrapping a Valentine’s gift—or a soldier receiving his first medal.

“Master Kenobi, your cursive is really pretty.”

“Well, of course it is. Obi-Wan used to teach literature, you know. You think he was born running a flower shop?”

Anakin brought it up casually, Obi-Wan fidgeted at the mention.

Anakin didn’t. He turned around, his eyes bright, and winked at him.

Thank you , he mouthed silently.

“You two are the sappiest couple I’ve ever met. Seriously— Happy Birthday to Kenobi ? Gross.”

But there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in Ahsoka’s tone. “I’ll admit, though—it’s probably the most creative birthday message I’ve ever seen.”

Their only intern florist, and Anakin’s underclassman—Ahsoka Tano, current Vice President of NYU’s student union—was now rummaging wildly through her backpack.

She finally fished something out with a triumphant grin: a small, elegantly wrapped gift box.

“Happy birthday, Master Kenobi.”

She hugged him tight, even planted a kiss on his forehead—like true family.

“Skyguy, if you’re done, throw a shirt on and come help. We’ve got a ton of orders today…”

Ahsoka tied her apron and headed for the front.

Anakin gave Obi-Wan a wide-eyed look of mock disbelief, and Obi-Wan chuckled.

“She’s a born leader,” he said. “Directing her boss like that? It’s basically part of our company culture now.”

He stood up, set the gift aside, and walked over to Anakin.

He kissed him softly.

“Does it hurt? You know I’m hopeless with things like this…”

“It doesn’t hurt at all. I wanted this. I’ve always wanted it.”

“I know.”

He kissed him again—his eyelids, his nose, his lips.

“You’re safe now. You’re mine. Always.”

He felt Anakin’s arms tighten around his waist.

HBTK.

It was a promise. A vow.

Not unlike for richer, for poorer —but without the rings or the ceremony.

They’d been bound together ever since that day four years ago, when Obi-Wan first reached out and took his hand.

And they’d never let go.

HBTK.

He Belongs To Kenobi.

-

Chapter Text

Four Years Ago

Kamas, Utah

The classroom lights buzzed softly overhead, their faint hum mingling with the sound of shuffling papers and yawning students. Obi-Wan Kenobi stepped into Room 3B with his leather satchel tucked under one arm, a coffee ring still visible on his lesson plan.

It was his ninth Wednesday morning at the school, and by now his feet knew where to go before he had to think about it. As he crossed to the front of the room, his eyes instinctively flicked to the second row by the window.

Empty. Again.

Obi-Wan tried not to sigh.

He wasn’t supposed to be here long. Just one semester—a temporary placement through an educational research initiative between New York State and rural schools in Utah. Observe, assist, compile data. Write a paper. Go home.

Now, nine weeks in, his time in Kamas was already more than halfway over. And yet, somehow, he was more entangled in this place than he had ever meant to be.

For nine consecutive weeks, Anakin Skywalker had been late to this very class. Not always by much—sometimes only five minutes, other times closer to thirty—but always on Wednesdays, always unapologetically. And no one seemed to care. No teachers asked questions. No students rolled their eyes. They simply made space for the fact of it, like rain on a Thursday or a fire drill in October. Inevitable. Unchallenged.

Even when he did show up, Anakin never paid attention. He sat slouched in his chair, hood up or collar high, head bent low over a battered sketchbook instead of the assigned texts. He didn’t doodle lazily like other bored teenagers—no, he drew , precise and obsessive, page after page of pine trees and crooked cabins, always surrounded by shadow.

Obi-Wan had brought it up with Qui-Gon after the fifth week.

“There’s a pattern here,” he’d said, keeping his voice careful, professional. “Same day, same behavior. It’s deliberate. And no one seems to care.”

Qui-Gon hadn’t even looked up from his desk.

“Skywalker’s not your problem, Kenobi,” he said. “You’re here to observe, not stir things up.”

“But he doesn’t participate. He doesn’t engage. If something’s wrong—”

“Then let whoever’s job it is handle it,” Qui-Gon cut in sharply. “You’re not here to fix kids. Don’t make trouble where there isn’t any.”

That had been the end of the conversation.

But Obi-Wan couldn’t let it go. He wasn’t wired that way. He couldn’t teach around a ghost.

Today’s lecture was supposed to be important—Milton, free will, the fall of man—but his focus snagged on the empty desk until he made himself look away. He began the lesson with a tight voice, chalk against board, students taking notes without urgency.

Then, right on cue—thirty minutes into the period—the door creaked open.

Anakin stepped inside.

He didn’t look hurried. He never did. He moved like someone entitled to time, like a star entering a room where the audience had been waiting all along. His boots echoed on the floor as he made his way to his seat, pausing only to tug his hoodie sleeve halfway down his hand.

Obi-Wan paused in mid-sentence. The class didn’t.

No one turned. No one whispered. No one seemed remotely surprised.

Anakin dropped into his chair, pulled out the same worn notebook, and began to sketch.

Obi-Wan stared at him a moment longer, the words of Paradise Lost dissolving on his tongue. Then he cleared his throat and forced himself to go on.

⸻

The bell rang with a shrillness that broke the silence like glass. Students shuffled out in lazy waves, some nodding goodbye, most not bothering.

Obi-Wan closed his folder a little too tightly and made his way to Anakin’s desk.

“Mr. Skywalker,” he said evenly. “A word?”

Anakin didn’t look up. “You’ve had nine weeks of words.”

“And every Wednesday, you come in late. Same time, same look on your face. I’m just wondering if there’s a reason.”

At that, Anakin finally glanced up. There was a smirk on his face—sharp, practiced, and just a little tired. “So you don’t know?”

Obi-Wan blinked. “Know what?”

The smirk deepened into something uglier. “Mr. Kenobi from New York City,” he said, voice thick with sarcasm, “I hope you stay out of my business. Don’t play saint.”

He stood abruptly, shouldering his bag with a casual flick, and turned on his heel.

But as he passed, Obi-Wan heard it—that rasp. A scratchy edge to Anakin’s voice that hadn’t been there last week.

“Is your throat alright?” Obi-Wan asked, his tone softening, almost automatic. “You sound hoarse.”

The moment the words left his mouth, the air shifted.

The hallway beyond the door went silent. The walls seemed to lean in.

Anakin stopped mid-step. His shoulders tensed.

And then, without a word, he turned and lunged.

Obi-Wan barely had time to process the movement before a fist connected hard with his jaw. He hit the ground with a graceless thud, the impact ringing through his ribs and the back of his skull.

His coffee-stained notes scattered like leaves across the floor.

-

Chapter Text

Four Years Ago

The bruise on his jaw was already beginning to turn purple.

Obi-Wan had iced it that night in his faculty apartment, holding a frozen bag of peas against the swelling as if it could numb not just the pain, but the confusion that came with it.

He hadn’t told anyone.

And ever since that punch, he’d been avoiding Qui-Gon.

It wasn’t difficult—Qui-Gon had his own classes, his own routine, his own way of disappearing into the institutional machinery that kept St. Severin Preparatory quietly running in the shadowed edge of Kamas, Utah.

But more and more, Obi-Wan had begun to suspect that the punch was only part of something much larger.

That perhaps every adult in this place knew something he didn’t.

⸻

He first heard the nickname The Chosen One during his very first week.

A passing joke in the staff lounge. Something muttered during roll call.

He hadn’t paid it much attention at the time—schools were full of nicknames. And Anakin, with his careless lateness and artistic detachment, had seemed like exactly the kind of student to attract mockery.

But now, with the memory of that sharp knuckle against his cheekbone and the venom in Anakin’s eyes—Obi-Wan found himself circling back to the name.

He didn’t ask the teachers. Not anymore.

Instead, he started asking the students—quietly, casually. Never more than one at a time. He’d pretend he’d forgotten something from the last assignment, or that he wanted a second opinion on the reading.

And sometimes, if the moment was right, he’d steer the conversation.

“Skywalker,” he asked one afternoon, as a sophomore boy lingered to pack up his things. “Does he go by that nickname often? ‘The Chosen One’?”

The boy looked immediately uncomfortable. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. I guess.”

Obi-Wan raised a brow, mild as ever. “Why’s that?”

The student shifted awkwardly. “It’s not… serious. Just, like, a joke.”

“I see.”

“It’s just—” The boy sighed, like he knew he was saying something he shouldn’t. “Mr. Palpatine started this scholarship a while ago. Big donor. Real rich guy. The last round, he gave out the whole thing—to Anakin. Like, not just a part. All of it.”

Obi-Wan’s fingers tightened around his folder.

“And every week,” the boy continued, “Palpatine takes him off-campus for tennis training. Private stuff. No one else gets that. People get salty. So they started calling him The Chosen One . Not, like, mean. Just… y’know. Ironic.”

Obi-Wan kept his voice level. “Does this Mr. Palpatine come every Tuesday, maybe?”

The boy scratched his head. “I think so. Feels like it, anyway.”

⸻

The tenth week of the semester brought with it the school’s annual Founders’ Day celebration.

Banners went up. Folding chairs were dragged out. Parents and trustees and regional heads would all be in attendance. Obi-Wan was assigned to help set up the main hall—streamers, tablecloths, a makeshift podium with an awful microphone.

He was sorting floral centerpieces when he saw Qui-Gon rushing down the corridor, uncharacteristically tense.

“Kenobi!” he called. “Have you seen Skywalker?”

Obi-Wan straightened. “Not since yesterday.”

“He’s missing. Gone for hours. No one’s seen him.”

There was a flicker of something in Qui-Gon’s voice. Not concern—urgency. Fear of something.

They searched the dorms. The library. The gym. Nothing.

By evening, the storm had rolled in.

Rain hammered the windows, turning the gravel paths into rivulets of mud. Teachers wandered with flashlights, hoods pulled up, voices shouting names into the wind.

Obi-Wan, trailing behind, paused near the edge of the campus.

And then he remembered the drawings.

The cabins. The forests. Page after page.

He asked an older groundskeeper—someone who had grown up in Kamas—whether there were any abandoned structures in the woods.

The man hesitated. “Old ranger cabin. Past the ridge behind the football field. Been empty twenty years. Kids sometimes sneak out there.”

⸻

Obi-Wan took a flashlight, a clean set of clothes, and an umbrella. No one stopped him.

The trail was muddy, and the rain came in waves. By the time he reached the cabin, his shoes were soaked through and his shoulders ached from the cold.

He spotted Anakin before he saw the door.

The boy was sitting on the stoop, arms around his knees, soaked to the bone.

Obi-Wan approached slowly.

“You’re going to get pneumonia,” he said gently.

Anakin looked up, surprised—but not defensive. Just tired.

“Why aren’t you inside?” Obi-Wan asked, stepping under the small porch.

“I feel dirty,” Anakin said quietly, voice ragged. “Didn’t want to go in.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “You’re just covered in rain, that’s not dirty.”

Anakin didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the ground.

There was a silence. And then Obi-Wan asked, very softly, “You don’t like tennis, do you?”

That made Anakin blink.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. A brittle, broken sound. “No,” he said. “Guess I don’t.”

Obi-Wan handed him the clothes. “Get changed. Then we’ll go back.”

Anakin took them, stood up, and stepped inside the cabin.

Minutes passed. Too many.

Obi-Wan hesitated—then pushed the door open.

He wasn’t ready for what came next.

Anakin was there, fully dressed—but the moment Obi-Wan entered, he was shoved back against the door. Lips crashed into his. A body pressed too close, too suddenly.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a dare. A weapon.

Anakin pulled back with a bitter smile.

“So this is what you want, huh? You care because you want this?”

Obi-Wan stood frozen, breath caught in his chest.

Anakin scoffed. “If not, then stop playing the hero. Stop pretending to care.”

He stepped back. Shoulders stiff. Face shuttered.

The rain against the roof filled the silence.

—

Chapter Text

Interlude - Present

Brooklyn, New York.

The late afternoon light filtered in through the storefront windows, catching on the petals of hydrangeas and tulips, turning the whole shop gold. Outside, it was still raining faintly—New York in spring, equal parts poetic and damp.

Inside, a woman was lingering at the counter longer than necessary.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” she asked, voice playful, eyes locked on Anakin’s face.

Anakin offered a polite, practiced smile. “Thank you,” he said simply, scanning her bouquet.

“No, I mean—really,” she insisted, lowering her voice like she was offering a secret. “You must not know. You’re Hollywood-level stunning.”

Before Anakin could come up with another gentle brush-off, a voice cut in from the side:

“He’s taken.”

Ahsoka stepped forward, arms crossed and eyebrows lifted. Then she pointed—bluntly, cheerfully—toward the back of the shop, where Obi-Wan stood trimming stems near the cooler.

“Him and him,” she said. “They’re a pair. Four years running.”

The woman blinked, startled by the sudden shift in tone. She glanced at Obi-Wan, then back at Ahsoka, then muttered a soft “Thank you” and retreated out the door with her bouquet hugged to her chest.

Ahsoka rolled her eyes.

“Seriously,” she said, turning back to Anakin, “sometimes I do wish you were less attractive. Don’t take that the wrong way—it’s just… ever since I started at NYU, it’s been like a line of women chasing you down every time you smile. I then had to clean up the mess…”

She gave Obi-Wan a mock salute across the room. “For Master Kenobi. Keeping the city safe.”

Anakin laughed, shaking his head.

But Ahsoka wasn’t done.

“I mean, I don’t mind being the bad guy for you two,” she added, grabbing her apron from the hook, “but I would appreciate it if Skyguy could start coming to work in a helmet.”

She leaned closer, conspiratorial. “You’re just too pretty. Does it ever bother you?”

It was a joke. A harmless jab. She didn’t mean anything by it.

But something about the phrasing made Obi-Wan pause mid-motion. His hand twitched, the clippers sliced too far, and one delicate stem hit the floor—ruined.

He looked up.

His eyes found Anakin immediately.

But the boy—his boy—didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense. Didn’t seem wounded by the comment.

He just grinned. Winked. Reached out and ruffled Ahsoka’s hair, smirking as she swatted at him.

“Of course not,” he said.

-

Chapter Text

Four Years Ago

They shared one umbrella on the walk back to campus.

The storm had lightened into drizzle, but the wind still howled through the trees, and Obi-Wan held the umbrella low to shield them both. Anakin walked beside him, damp curls clinging to his forehead, dry clothes clinging to his frame.

Neither of them spoke.

In the span of a week, Obi-Wan had been punched and kissed by the same boy.

It would have been almost comical, if not for the way Anakin had looked at him in the cabin—like a weapon, like a dare, like a prayer.

Now, with rain dripping off the umbrella’s edge and their shoulders brushing occasionally, Obi-Wan couldn’t find anything to say that didn’t feel inadequate. So he kept walking, and Anakin didn’t stop him.

⸻

The next morning brought sunshine, speeches, and forced festivities.

Founders’ Day.

Banners fluttered over the courtyard, brass instruments squawked through rehearsals, and the school gymnasium filled with visiting board members and donors sipping burnt coffee from commemorative paper cups.

Obi-Wan didn’t want to be there. But he smiled when expected, nodded politely when addressed, and tried not to think about cabins or kisses or the look on Anakin’s face when he said, “I’m dirty.”

He found Anakin behind the admin building just after lunch, hunched on the edge of a planter with a pencil in his mouth and a college application form in his hands.

“Skywalker,” Obi-Wan said, approaching. “I saw your submission. Just one school?”

Anakin glanced up, blinked once. “Yeah.”

“Utah State?”

Anakin nodded. “I meet the residency criteria.”

“That’s not the point,” Obi-Wan said gently. “You could get into schools far more competitive than that. Your grades are—”

“I like Utah,” Anakin interrupted.

Obi-Wan stared at him. The pencil was tapping rhythmically against his thigh. The form was crumpled around the edges.

“Is it that you can’t leave?” Obi-Wan asked softly. “Or that someone doesn’t want you to?”

Anakin didn’t answer. He just shrugged, smiled vaguely, and stood up.

“Happy Founders’ Day, Mr. Kenobi.”

⸻

It was late afternoon when Obi-Wan saw them.

He was cutting through the east hallway, hands full of leftover decorations, when he spotted Anakin in the distance—following closely behind an older man in a sharp gray coat.

Palpatine.

They were headed toward the back gate, away from the crowds, quiet.

Something in Obi-Wan seized.

He didn’t think. He just moved.

“Anakin!”

Both figures stopped. Anakin turned, startled. Palpatine merely smiled.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said, catching up to them. “Mr. Skywalker has a mandatory make-up session for literature today. He’s already missed too many.”

Palpatine’s smile didn’t move. “Surely that can be rescheduled.”

“I’m afraid not. I’m quite firm on this.”

Palpatine turned his full attention to him then, something cold flickering behind his gaze. “And you are?”

Obi-Wan lifted his chin. “Obi-Wan Kenobi. I teach literature.”

The silence that followed was a shade too long. Then Palpatine gave a small, courteous nod.

“Well, Mr. Kenobi,” he said smoothly, “let’s not keep the boy from his education.”

He turned and walked away without looking back.

Anakin stood there, unmoving.

Obi-Wan met his eyes. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll go over Milton. You missed the fall.”

⸻

Qui-Gon found him after dinner.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Obi-Wan looked up from the stack of graded essays. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t interfere with him. You don’t pull that kind of stunt unless you want this whole place to implode.”

“I didn’t know insisting on a student attending class was considered a stunt.”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about.”

Obi-Wan held his ground. “Anakin didn’t want to go with him.”

“Then that’s his business,” Qui-Gon snapped. “Not yours. You’re here for one term, Kenobi. Observe. Record. Don’t go playing savior in a place you don’t understand.”

⸻

He was assigned dorm check that evening as punishment.

It wasn’t official, of course. Just another way of saying stay in your place.

Obi-Wan moved through the halls with a clipboard he didn’t need, knocking politely, doing headcounts, writing nothing down.

When he reached Room 317, he knocked lightly, then stepped inside.

Anakin was curled under the covers, back to the door. The room was dark, save for the faint yellow glow of a desk lamp. Something about the stillness made Obi-Wan hesitate.

He walked over, checking the window lock out of habit. Then, without thinking, he reached down and gently adjusted the edge of the blanket around Anakin’s shoulders.

That’s when the hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

Obi-Wan startled.

Anakin turned over slowly, eyes open, face unreadable.

They stared at each other for a moment. And then—quietly, without warning—Anakin’s eyes filled with tears.

They didn’t fall. Not at first. Just brimmed, like a flood about to breach the edge.

Obi-Wan’s voice caught. “Anakin—what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” the boy whispered. Then he turned away and curled tighter under the blanket.

Obi-Wan stood there a long time before finally letting go.

⸻

The next morning, Anakin was gone.

No word. No explanation.

Obi-Wan sat in the dining hall with his coffee cooling beside him and listened, half-heartedly, to the teacher’s table trading jokes over dry bagels.

“Mr. Skywalker’s gone off to play tennis again,” one said with a chuckle.

“The chosen one, it’s not even the boy’s fault…” another added.

“He is just too pretty.”

They all laughed.

Obi-Wan didn’t.

-

Chapter Text

Four Years Ago

By week ten, Obi-Wan had stopped expecting Anakin to show up on Wednesdays.

That morning, he walked into the classroom and didn’t even glance at the second row by the window. He didn’t need to. He already knew the seat would be empty.

Palpatine had taken him again.

He didn’t know how. He didn’t know where. But he’d felt it—the shift. Like something being removed, quietly and precisely, from the center of the room.

Anakin was gone.

What he hadn’t expected was that Anakin would stay gone.

Not just for his class. Not for the rest of the morning. Not anywhere.

By lunchtime, something inside Obi-Wan gave out.

He pushed his half-eaten sandwich aside and left the staff lounge without a word.

⸻

The dormitory hallway was quiet, the overhead lights buzzing faintly.

He knocked once. Then twice.

No answer.

He opened the door.

The room was stifling. The windows shut tight. The air thick and sour.

And there—curled in a knot on top of the sheets, his shirt soaked through with sweat, his legs drawn up like he was bracing against pain—lay Anakin Skywalker.

His face was flushed red, curls stuck to his forehead, mouth slightly open. His body twitched with small, fevered tremors.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, crossing the room in two strides.

He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder—it burned.

“Anakin, can you hear me?”

A soft groan. A twitch of the brow. Then, barely audible: “It hurts…”

And he went limp.

⸻

The next hour passed in frantic blur.

Obi-Wan carried him down the dormitory stairs, flagged down the nearest staff member, commandeered a car, and rode to the nearest urgent care clinic with Anakin’s burning body sprawled across the backseat.

By the time they arrived, Anakin was unresponsive.

Obi-Wan stayed in the waiting room with his fists clenched and his mind racing, every worst-case scenario playing on loop.

Eventually, a doctor came out. Female. Late forties. Calm voice.

“Are you his guardian?” she asked.

“No. His teacher.”

She nodded. “Could we speak privately?”

⸻

They stepped into a narrow consultation room, pale blue walls and one too many chairs.

“He’s stable,” the doctor said. “It’s not serious—medically speaking. Acute gastritis, brought on by dehydration and poor eating habits. A few days of fluids and rest, he’ll be fine.”

Obi-Wan exhaled, shoulders sagging.

“But,” the doctor continued, her tone shifting, “there’s something else.”

Obi-Wan straightened.

“When we were examining him,” she said gently, “some things didn’t look right. Signs of… long-term physical strain. Certain patterns of bruising. Trauma to soft tissue. None of it recent, but—repeated. Consistent.”

She paused, choosing her words carefully.

“Based on what we found, there’s a possibility that this student is involved in… sustained, non-consensual sexual activity. Possibly coercive. Possibly transactional.”

Obi-Wan’s blood ran cold.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor added. “I’m not here to accuse anyone. But I have a duty to flag it, especially if he’s a minor.”

He couldn’t breathe.

The silence between them grew thick and unbearable.

Eventually, the doctor said, “I’ll give you a moment,” and quietly left the room.

Obi-Wan sat there, perfectly still.

Everything fell into place.

The nickname. The Wednesday absences. The exclusive scholarship. The unwilling steps down the hallway behind that man in gray.

The smirks. The silence. The He’s just too pretty .

He had known. Some part of him had always known.

He just hadn’t wanted to believe it.

-

Chapter Text

Four Years Ago

The monitors hummed softly in the corner of the hospital room. Somewhere down the hallway, a nurse wheeled a cart that squeaked with every turn. Outside the window, the sky lightened slowly into the blue-gray of early morning.

Obi-Wan hadn’t slept.

He’d sat in the same chair all night, watching Anakin breathe.

The boy hadn’t stirred once. The nurses said the sedative would keep him under until morning, and they were right—he barely twitched, fever-flushed and still, his body too exhausted to resist the medicine pulling him under.

Obi-Wan didn’t move. Didn’t read. Didn’t check his phone.

He just… sat. Watching. Thinking.

Anakin always came back to school late on Tuesdays. And every Wednesday, he’d skip class, or come in with shadows under his eyes and hunger in his bones. Obi-Wan had assumed it was teenage rebellion. But it wasn’t.

It was routine.

It was systemic.

He thought about how Anakin never ate properly. How he never mentioned family. How he had no one—no parents, no relatives, no one to call. If Obi-Wan hadn’t gone looking for him, no one would have noticed he was gone. No one would have known he was sick.

No one would have cared.

Obi-Wan felt the anger rise in him again—not at Anakin, but at the school. At the staff. At the adults who looked the other way. Who muttered jokes over breakfast and warned him not to “make trouble.” Who knew.

Who all knew.

He didn’t leave the room. Not even once.

⸻

When Anakin finally woke, the sun had risen behind soft clouds. Pale light spilled across the bedsheets, and Obi-Wan was still there—still sitting, still watching.

The boy blinked slowly, groggy from the meds. His eyes met Obi-Wan’s.

He stared for a moment.

And something in his expression shifted.

Softened.

“Now you know,” Anakin said quietly.

Obi-Wan nodded.

Anakin looked away.

⸻

There was a silence between them—not tense, not awkward. Just… heavy. Real.

Obi-Wan leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. “I’d like to understand,” he said. “If you’re ready to tell me.”

Anakin didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the ceiling, but not focused.

Then he said, voice flat: “It’s not that complicated. I needed school. He needed someone no one would miss.”

“You tried to fight him?”

Anakin gave a bitter laugh. “And lose my scholarship? My place at the academy? If he pulls his funding, the whole school collapses. Everyone knows that. Even the teachers.”

He paused. “Especially the teachers.”

Obi-Wan’s fists clenched in his lap.

“That’s why they let me do whatever I want. Skip class, mouth off. I’m radioactive. No one wants to get involved. I’m the Chosen One, right?” He smiled faintly. “Golden ticket to silence.”

Obi-Wan’s throat felt tight. “You’re a student. A child. They’re supposed to protect you.”

“They protect their jobs.”

Another pause.

“He’s the one who told me I could only apply to the University of Utah,” Anakin said. “Said I wasn’t allowed to leave the state. He doesn’t want me far.”

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, trying to keep the fury from showing on his face.

Anakin glanced at him. His voice dropped a little.

“I live like a parasite,” he murmured. “But the truth is, they all do. The whole system runs on pretending.”

Obi-Wan leaned closer. “You are not a parasite.”

Anakin didn’t answer.

Obi-Wan continued, quieter now. “And you’re not alone in this anymore. I’m going to help you.”

Anakin’s gaze flicked back toward him.

“We have a week,” Obi-Wan said. “Until he comes back.”

The words hung between them.

Anakin looked at him carefully. And this time, he didn’t look away.

-

Chapter Text

Interlude – Present 

Manhattan, New York.

The sky above Manhattan was a brilliant, endless blue. Sunlight bounced off rooftops and traffic glass, and in the middle of it all—on a hill of green lawn and folding chairs—Anakin Skywalker walked across the stage in a deep violet graduation gown.

Obi-Wan held his breath.

Bachelor of Economics, with honours.

Not bad for a boy who used to skip half his classes and draw forests in the margins of his textbooks.

The applause was polite, the ceremony formal, but Obi-Wan’s heart was full to the brim.

He wasn’t Anakin’s parent. He wasn’t even officially invited. But he’d never been prouder of anyone in his life.

⸻

Later, out on the lawn, the graduates swarmed in color and noise. There were handshakes and clapping, group photos and someone’s champagne bottle exploding in the grass. Obi-Wan kept his distance for a while, watching from the tree line with Ahsoka.

She had her arms full—bouquets, at least ten of them, probably more.

“Go on,” Obi-Wan murmured. “Your turn.”

Ahsoka rolled her eyes. “You think I can get a clear photo with that mob of girls around him? Half the NYU fencing team’s in line.”

But she walked over anyway, heels kicking at the grass.

When Anakin finally noticed her, he grinned and opened his arms automatically.

“Oh no,” Ahsoka said. “You’re not hugging me until you take these.”

She shoved the entire collection of flowers into his arms.

Anakin laughed. “Isn’t this a bit much?”

“You’re our unpaid model,” Ahsoka said, flicking his tassel. “We run a flower shop. This is marketing.”

Obi-Wan approached more slowly, smiling as he took in the scene—Anakin standing there with a ridiculous armful of color, framed by sunlight and joy.

He stopped beside him and said quietly, “Congratulations.”

Anakin turned, and his smile softened. He leaned a little closer, dropping his voice.

“This is my first graduation ceremony,” he said. “You know. Considering my high school got shut down by the government before I could walk the stage.”

Obi-Wan blinked. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

Anakin shrugged, not quite answering.

Then, with a small nudge, he added under his breath, “It’s over, Obi-Wan. I’m a college graduate now. You can let go of that invisible weight on your shoulders.”

Obi-Wan didn’t speak for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and looked up.

“Ahsoka,” he called. “Let’s go. I made a reservation at a very expensive restaurant. Please don’t be polite about letting me waste my money.”

He started walking ahead, smiling to himself.

Behind him, Ahsoka leaned close to Anakin and whispered,

“You ever notice how Master Kenobi always reminds us to eat? Like, all the time . I swear he’s terrified one of us is gonna end up in the hospital with a stomach bug if we miss a meal.”

She shook her head fondly.

“Three meals a day. On time. Always.”

-

Chapter Text

Four Years Ago

They came back to school two days after the hospital.

The nurses had insisted Anakin rest longer. But he’d been impatient, and Obi-Wan knew better than to force him to lie still when he didn’t want to.

Still—something had shifted.

Anakin stayed closer now. He didn’t flinch when Obi-Wan looked at him too long. He didn’t roll his eyes when Obi-Wan told him to drink more water or to eat something with actual nutrients.

If anything, he seemed grateful.

Which only made Obi-Wan more determined.

By the end of the week, he was walking Anakin to the staff dining hall at lunch—ignoring every raised eyebrow, every polite silence, every sideways glance from faculty who clearly thought he’d gone too far.

He didn’t care.

He watched Anakin eat. Watched him take the meds the doctor had prescribed. Watched him breathe.

It felt like holding together a dam with his bare hands.

⸻

It was Sunday night when Obi-Wan knocked on Anakin’s dorm room again.

The halls were quiet. Most students were at movie night in the library or sneaking out to the field. No one saw him.

Anakin opened the door, hair damp from a shower, wearing the loose sweatshirt he always wore to sleep.

“Hey,” he said. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“I have a plan,” Obi-Wan said.

Anakin raised an eyebrow.

“Come in,” he said, stepping aside.

⸻

They sat on the edge of the bed. Obi-Wan explained everything in low, careful tones.

The idea was simple, on paper: record Palpatine. Catch him in the act. Use the evidence to press charges. Obi-Wan would pay for the legal team himself, if he had to.

“If we have something solid,” he said, “we can take this to court. We can end it. Him. The silence. The school. All of it.”

Anakin sat very still beside him, head tilted slightly, arms draped over his knees.

“The school,” Obi-Wan continued, “won’t survive the fallout. But it deserves that. The faculty will be investigated. The students won’t be punished—they’ll be reassigned to other institutions, probably better ones. The ones who protected him… they’ll answer for it.”

Anakin didn’t say anything for a while.

Then: “You’ve really thought this through.”

“Yes.”

“And the catch is… I go with him again. One last time.”

Obi-Wan didn’t deny it.

“There’s no other way to get that kind of evidence.”

“And the court case—”

“It means going public,” Obi-Wan said softly. “It means… letting the world know what he did to you.”

Anakin leaned back, exhaled.

Then he looked at Obi-Wan with a strange kind of peace.

“I don’t care about that,” he said. “The shame, the news, the trial. I don’t care.”

Obi-Wan swallowed.

Anakin added, quieter now, “It’s just… the process. The danger. The being alone with him again.”

Obi-Wan didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. They both understood what he was saying.

The silence stretched.

And then, without a word, Anakin shifted.

He moved into Obi-Wan’s lap, straddling him with slow, deliberate ease. His hands curled around the back of Obi-Wan’s neck. His eyes searched Obi-Wan’s face, watching, waiting.

Then he kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tender. It was real.

Obi-Wan inhaled sharply.

They weren’t lovers. Not really. Not then.

But in that moment, with the stakes sharpened and the walls closing in, there was no other way to say yes . No other way to say I trust you . No other way to say don’t let go .

So he didn’t.

He shifted, wrapped an arm around Anakin’s waist, and kissed him back.

Then he laid the boy down.

⸻

They didn’t say much afterward.

They lay side by side, legs tangled in a too-small bed, breathing in silence.

Obi-Wan stared at the ceiling, heart still pounding, hands still tingling with the memory of skin.

“I just wanted to help you,” he said quietly. “This wasn’t about love.”

Anakin didn’t turn his head. “I know. I don’t love you either.”

He smiled faintly.

“I’m probably too broken for that anyway. I only know one way to say thank you.”

A long pause.

Then Obi-Wan said, “If this works—if we pull this off—come with me. To New York.”

Anakin finally looked at him.

“We’ll start over,” Obi-Wan said. “As friends. Just… see what happens.”

Anakin gave a small smile. “And what if we fall in love?”

Obi-Wan returned the smile. “Then I’ll tell everyone. Loudly. I’ll say that you belong to me.”

-

Chapter Text

Four Years Ago

They barely slept.

Just lay there, side by side, half-tangled in sheets too thin for the chill of night. The window was cracked open. Somewhere outside, the wind moved gently through the pine trees.

Anakin was the first to speak.

“Tell me about New York,” he said softly. “What’s it like?”

Obi-Wan turned his head, watching him in the dark.

“It’s loud,” he said. “But kind. You’ll find more coffee shops than you can count. Little bookstores that smell like paper and ghosts. You can eat your way across the world in two blocks.”

He paused, then added, “If you want to be unseen, you can hide. If you want to be seen, you can shine.”

Anakin was quiet for a while. Then he said, “It sounds like another world.”

Obi-Wan smiled faintly. “It is. And it will be yours.”

Anakin didn’t answer. He turned over in bed, his back facing Obi-Wan now.

A minute passed. Then, in a whisper meant for no one but the wall, he said, “I want to go to NYU. I want to stand in the sun with other students, laugh and drink. I want to be… normal.”

Obi-Wan looked at his back. At the tension in his shoulders. At how still he lay.

“You will,” he said quietly.

⸻

Tuesday came with indifferent sunlight and too-clean hallways. The school felt too normal. Too composed. Like it didn’t know someone was walking toward the edge of a cliff.

They had one last lunch in the staff dining hall.

Obi-Wan filled Anakin’s plate with everything he could reach—roast chicken, steamed vegetables, two kinds of bread. Neither of them had much appetite, but neither said it aloud.

Silence stretched between them, awkward and tight.

Then Anakin broke it.

“I read online that restaurants in New York force you to tip twenty percent. Is that true?”

Obi-Wan nearly laughed. “That’s what you’ve been thinking about all morning?”

Anakin gave a small shrug, a crooked smile. “Gotta be prepared.”

The tension eased a little.

Then Anakin leaned closer, voice low.

“Don’t feel sorry for sending me out there again,” he said. “I know it’s necessary. I can take it.”

Obi-Wan looked at him.

Anakin nodded, eyes steady. “I’ll do everything I can to keep him from hurting me. Even if he finds out… he can’t kill me, right?”

It was meant to be a joke.

But neither of them laughed.

⸻

Dismissal came at 3:15, as always.

Obi-Wan stood by the window of his classroom, the same one where he’d once first noticed the empty seat on a Wednesday morning. The desks were now all empty. The hallway beyond was quiet.

He saw them in the courtyard.

Anakin trailing behind Palpatine.

They walked slowly, toward the back of the school.

Palpatine was speaking, hands moving as he gestured. Anakin didn’t look at him. Didn’t respond.

Just before he reached the car, Anakin turned.

He didn’t look up directly. Didn’t scan the windows.

But Obi-Wan knew he knew.

Anakin smiled.

And got in the car.

-

Chapter Text

Epilogue — Present

Where you can hide and shine, New York.

They had dinner at The Fulton that night. Oysters, pan-seared bass, white tablecloths and soft jazz spilling through tall glass windows.

Behind them, the Brooklyn Bridge stretched across the sky in dusk-gold lines. Ahsoka was on her third round of photos, crouching, angling her phone, muttering something about exposure and symmetry.

Then she posted four of them in a row on Instagram and announced to no one in particular, “I have to take enough pictures to justify Master Kenobi’s extravagant spending and the 20% mandatory tip.”

Anakin laughed quietly, then returned to his grilled fish without a word. His smile lingered.

“So,” Ahsoka asked between sips of champagne, “now that you’re officially graduated, Skyguy—what’s next? Wall Street domination?”

Anakin didn’t look up. “Do I need to remind you that I already own a business?”

“That’s Master Kenobi’s flower shop,” she shot back. “You and I are glorified interns. I thought you’d be off dazzling the Fortune 500 by now.”

Anakin smiled, shaking his head.

“I already have everything I want,” he said. “A good job. The person I love.”

He looked at Obi-Wan when he said it. Didn’t even try to be subtle.

“The big world?” he added. “I’ll skip that this life.”

Ahsoka rolled her eyes, but her grin broke through anyway. “You two are disgustingly sweet, you know that?”

She raised her glass. They all did. The clink of crystal rang clean and light through the summer air.

The wind off the East River was soft, just warm enough to feel like June. Ahsoka leaned back in her chair, looking at them—her annoying, ridiculous, happy flower-shop bosses—and for a second she smiled just watching them smile.

Then she said, “Okay. It’s finally time.”

Obi-Wan and Anakin both blinked.

“You two have never told me how you met. Or how this whole thing started. Don’t you think you owe me something after all these years?”

They exchanged a look.

Something passed between them, silent and flickering—caution, memory, the shared weight of an old world neither of them liked to name.

“It’s okay,” Ahsoka added gently. “I get it. It’s hard.”

That made Obi-Wan freeze a little. For a moment, he thought maybe—somehow—she’d seen those old headlines. Found one of the stories buried under Utah snow.

But then she continued, bright as ever:

“You guys met on Tinder , didn’t you?”

Both men stared at her, stunned.

Ahsoka beamed, proud of herself for guessing right.

“Seriously, it’s okay! Totally normal these days. Nothing to be ashamed of. You just… you know. Slept together before you fell in love.”

Obi-Wan turned to Anakin, eyes wide in disbelief— But his boy couldn’t hold it anymore. Anakin burst into laughter.

Obi-Wan followed, helpless, shaking with laughter.

“Yeah,” Anakin finally said through the grin. “That’s how it started.”

He laughed as he had wished.

He raised his glass again.

Clink.

- End -