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It shocked Obi-Wan to his very core, when he finally found out.
But it shouldn't have. He should have seen the signs. All those times Anakin had avoided baring his arms; when he had refused to disrobe to let his former Master take care of his injuries all those months ago, when he had refused to swim on Naboo for no other reason apart from the usual "I'm tired" less than two weeks ago.
Or he should have at least sensed something. He should have been able to feel that Anakin's exhaustion wasn't just physical. He should have felt it seeping out of the boy's every pore, clinging to his soul. That everlasting anguish, his never-ending sorrow.
And yet he had not figured it out.
Only when he had burst into the 'fresher because Anakin hadn't responded to his calls did he find out. Upon seeing the red smeared across the tiled surface; across Anakin.
The boy had barely been awake, sprawled out on the floor weakly with his outer robes discarded next to him. The glister of his desperate eyes, shining next to a matching glint of a sharp pocket-knife, would haunt Obi-Wan for the rest of his life.
It hadn't been a slow realization—no, it had hit him immediately, like a merciless freight speeder slamming into him. His gaze had found itself on the thin scars crossing pale skin—barely visible beneath all the blood—and he had just known.
"Anakin," he had said, horrified and scared.
And the man—the boy—had responded weakly, achingly. "Obi-Wan," he had breathed, sounding just as he had when he'd been 10 years old.
He'd sprung into action, kneeling next to his dear Padawan and inspecting his wrists to find the cut that was actively draining Anakin of his life. Knees aching on the cold floor and head pounding, he had stayed there, taking care of his Padawan until the threat was gone.
When he had finished, his hands were slick with sticky blood. The substance had been everywhere: spattered on his robes, smudged on his face, matted in his hair. It still haunted him. He saw it in the red of the Republic logo, in the maroon of the markings on shock troopers's armor. It followed him in his nightmares and in his dreams. The blood that the boy he had raised had carved out of himself.
The smell of bacta, he also could not stand any longer. It only made him think back to that night.
Anakin had fluttered his eyes open, staring dimly at Obi-Wan. His own trembling, blood-caked hand had come up to meet his Master's, squeezing weakly. He'd radiated shame and guilt in the Force.
His voice had been a fragile whisper when it came. "I'm sorry..."
And, before Obi-Wan could rush to comfort him, "Please, M'ster," he'd mumbled, slurring over the words. "Don't tell anyone."