Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“LET ME OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR ON THE FORCE I WILL SMITE YOU WHERE YOU STAND YOU SON OF A BITCH !”

There are voices - so many voices crying out at the display, so many life forces hanging behind them in disarrays and forces reaching for them- but they can’t, they can’t they can’t they can’t, the only thing splitting them from the door is a bunch of fucking Stormtroopers and oh I could make them bleed I could rupture their fucking lungs inside their bodies if they don’t get out of my fucking way this bloody instant you scum-

Screams. Orders, the sense of the force. They must be lashing out, with animalistic snarls emerging from their lips, and then they’re shoving the guards back and bolting . Running, running, their feet hard on the concrete as they ignore all sense of direction and get the fuck away from that room , all of those people staring on and the projections of the force watching their back and their Master, so fucking displeased with their display it’s ridiculous-

Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me, I swear to god, I will fucking end you, I’ll strangle the breath from your lungs, I will kill you like the dirty bastards you are-

Grabbing at their head. The world’s tilting, and there’s this awful noise they can only recognize as their own feminized screaming as they feel their body hit the floor. There’s an awful pain from their ribs, another agonized scream, but they’re only scrambling up like this, trying to run, and they don’t know where they are except for all of the people staring at them, at them -

Seth. Seth. Seth. Seth. Get the fuck away from me you dirty piece of shit, don’t you dare touch me again, I’ll light you on fire, I’ll watch you burn all OVER AGAIN -

Falling. Falling. Hitting the floor with another scream in an empty hallway, their head finally slowing in their agony as they scream at the floor, bury their face in the tiles, dig their nails into the concrete separating fine quartz blocks.

Footsteps. Footsteps. They look up.

There’s a figure down the hall.

“ Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me, I’ll fucking flay you alive, so help me I’ll do it, don’t fucking TOUCH ME! ”

He's already unbelievably annoyed. It's like all the energy in his body has just reassembled itself into little less than pure enmity, a sharp rage that's so white hot it's blinding. They don't trust me! They think I'm worthless. All they do is fucking ignore me and he just stood there watching it! I hate them-

It's only when he rounds the corner that he notices the figure on their knees in the middle of the hallway, their voice pitched into a tone that seems unnatural as they continue to scream. They're clawing at their clothing, and their head is half buried against their chest, but even through that, he can feel the anger. The full brunt of it, through the force, aimed at him.

Anakin's more than tempted to throw it back in their face with the way they seem to be so violent about it, every inch of his body already tense and itching to fight somebody, undo the lightsaber from his belt and run it through any living thing that crossed his path. But there’s some semblance of rationalism underneath that, something that's telling him he shouldn't… be aggressive.

It was more than likely they were feeling the same way as he did. Or, well, maybe a little worse considering they were on the ground screaming. He's hardly the type to try and imagine what they're going on about- doesn't really care what they're screaming about, really- but the sudden wails of…

Don't touch me. It doesn't allow much in the way of information. And at that point, the nineteen year old was already kneeling beside them, close to reaching out and- no. They said not to touch them.

But what would happen if I did?

It isn't a second before the thought gets out that he finds himself on his back, the figure’s hands on him roughly, pressing him flat against the stone of the hallway and screaming words that Anakin can hardly make out. All he knows is that his breath has left him, that he wants to just shout fuck you! and push them away, because force be damned, they're acting crazy and-

It's too similar. It's too similar to what happened before, to when he thought about killing them… everyone. The men, women, children… the Jedi.

“H-ey… c-calm…” Anakin attempts to choke out, but the hand is against his throat and speaking is nearly too rough and kriff, they better not have ruined my voice box or something. Bantha hork! His hand tries to rest against their shoulder, all thoughts of not touching thrown to the wind. Get off of me!

They can’t think through the blinding agony of it. Don’t, don’t, don’t touch me, get away, die, die you filthy little piece of scum, die, I’ll fucking DOUSE YOU - their hands are around something, slamming against the floor, with the constant pitch of screams in the back of their head as they fight, fight him , get him away before he can do anything more to scramble up their fucking brains again-

The world is turning and they let a savage growl out - lurch up and dig their teeth into yielding flesh, ripping away with blood, blood, sweet blood dripping over their face. They spit the offending chunk out from between their lips, pressing their whole body up despite being pinned to the floor. Alexei can’t move, not like this, can’t even think , just wants to be let go, let free, and fuck if I’ll let anybody pin me down again fuck it I’ll kill them all if I have to I’ll burn them to a crisp-

There’s something coming down the hall. Something . . . soft. Hazy in their head, like it doesn’t settle right with them, choking their throat. They spit into the man’s face above them as their struggle pauses; whoever it is, it’s not somebody with the Force, it’s not somebody who means them harm - no no no, it’s soft, so soft , calming, soothing, like a cold cloth draped over their forehead and their very eyes-

Alexei lets out a weak groan, one that sounds like an attempt at a scream. And then they quiet, as they feel that energy come close enough to smother the thoughts of violence in their head.

She's filled with fear the second she hears it- the screaming so rough and animalistic it doesn't seem like it's even lucid, and seeing the person on the floor, their eyes widening as she gets closer to them, struggles seeming to stop the closer she gets, practically sends her into a panic. But Padme is nothing if not level headed, and keeping her poise like this is what she's best at.

She's reaching out toward them and trying to ignore the figure on the floor, eyes focused solely on the still shaking woman- man?- who seems to be quivering at the implications of touch, their eyes such a fierce green it isn't possible to get past them. There's something utterly feral about them, something Padme can't shove off as her hand touches their shoulder gently.

“Can you speak?” she's asking them, and her voice is almost soothing, trying to put as much gentleness into it as she can manage. She's skirting her eyes across them and the blood on their skin, their torn tunics, and… Ani. The senator has to hold the gasp in, going rigid at the sheer notice of her friend lying on the floor, his eyes shut tightly and the rough imprint of hands around his throat.

She tries to focus on the person in front of her. “Can I help…? What's your name?” Even thinking back to the common techniques for treating panic or fatigue, she can't remember much. “I'm here… you're safe now. Nothing’s going to hurt you…”

“Y- Y-You-” their voice isn’t working. Nothing is, not the way their head is spinning and how heavy everything feels, not the sudden brightness of the hallway around them and . . . and everything, everything , not like this. No, because they . . . where had they been? They don’t . . . don’t recognize, don’t recognize this place, hardly recognize the woman standing above them-

They’re reaching up with a hand, startled to see the tips of their fingers glowing - but no, no, they hadn’t . . . hadn’t lost control in so long. Now? Why now? Their breath shakes as they breathe in and watch the lightning playing on the tips of their fingers-

“P-P-Padme . . . A-Amidala?” they breathe out. They still their energy for a brief moment; they clutch at her sleeve with weak, tame fingers. “Y-Y-You . . . you a-a-are . . . you . . . y-you . . .”

They can’t string together words. Broken - something is horribly broken, and they don’t know what, or why. There’s just a thudding in their head, a horrible pain in their chest, such fatigue they feel like they’re being swallowed whole. They swallow with a parched throat. Their head falls to one side; they want to keep looking at her, at- whoever she is. Padme . They want to keep looking at her, when she looks like- like an angel , but . . .

“Water,” comes out in nothing but a breath. “W-Water, please, w-water . . . I-I don’t- d-don’t . . . w-water-”

Padme can't do anything but nod, trying to straighten the fabric of the elaborate robes she's wearing as she glances back toward the hall. She wasn't sure where she was going to get water unless she took them to the medbay- which was probably the most reasonable course of action. Something seems to tell her that it would only set them off even more though.

She nods, and looks back toward Anakin. He's pulled himself up slightly, back pressed flush against the wall and trying to steady out his breathing, the imprints on his neck starting to look more like bruises as time passes. “Yes. I need to see if I can find you any- I'm not starting sure there's much I can do for you out here. Could you maybe follow me? It would be easier if I could talk things over with you. We'll get you some water too.”

“P-Padme,” is all that will pass their lips, even as she helps them sit up, slowly guiding them until they’re somewhat vertical again. Even that feels like too much - their head is spinning, and they’re falling forward against her chest, forehead pressed against her collar and oh gods, I’m so weak . . . what- why do I feel so-

“ Padme ,” comes out as a gasp this time as they find their fingers digging into the back of her robes, pulling her closer. Ground - she was grounding, holding them like this, dragging them back to earth - the saliva’s so thick in their mouth as their head turns. Why- they’d been so lost. Back there, back in that mess of an engine room, the gasoline was covering their hands . . . there was nothing but that sense of the Force so twisted and wrong as he chased them, tore at them, tried to take them apart all over again-

Vomiting. They’re turning to the side and vomiting, choking on their own bile as they hear Padme crying out. But they’re lurching farther away, sure not to dirty her with it, not- not like this, and it’s only when they’re coughing up air and pulling in oxygen again that they manage to lift up a sleeve to wipe their mouth, let their whole world spin as they feel like falling again.

The second they fall to their knees, she’s grabbing them and pulling them back up, into their arms and away from the mess of vomit that coats the floor of the main hall, smoothing back their hair with soft murmurs Padme can hardly make out. Their hands are shaking, grabbing at the sleeves of her longer robe, eyes wide and nervous, almost as though they’re being torn apart by something she can’t determine. It’s horrifying and makes her feel nearly desperate, even if just for their sake.

She’s grabbing hold of their arms and pulling them against her body, trying to help them move closer to the door she can see just off the main hallway with a steadying hand, her fingers fumbling to press the button beside the door. It’s a relief when the hum of a med droid sounds from inside, and a woman whom she can only assume is a healer steps out, eyes going wide.

“I need some help.”

He’s still cringing. The pain around his neck is almost unbearable, to a point where even breathing hurts, and Anakin isn’t even sure how to procure his voice at this point. He presses his back further against the wall, tries to keep his neck a straight as possible, isn’t sure if he’s even able to move- or, well, he is, but there’s some part of him that would prefer not to. Maybe it’s purely for the sake of theatrics, but Anakin Skywalker really can’t bring himself to give a damn anymore.

All he knows is that he wants to scream, was so close to lunging forward and shoving them away, but their hands were unbelievably strong, so harsh and suffocating it made him physically ill to even look at them… he doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t understand it, because if I’m so weak, why do I even bother anymore? Every time it seemed as though something had started to go right, he’d run into someone and they’d fuck everything up again.

It might be just a little bit of denial on his part… taking the blame had never really been easy for Anakin, unless it was in something that really counted, like maybe getting one over on that son of a bantha Feris Olin. He thinks he’s so perfect.

Well, to the council he was, at least. To the council, basically everyone was, aside from Anakin himself. They’re holding me back, is obviously the first conclusion, followed by a sharp echo of it isn’t fucking fair.

It seems almost too sudden when a thought is immediately reflected back at him.

“If you’re going to wallow in self-pity, you should at least keep your shields up.” The Padawan barely manages to raise his head and look around, half startled into dropping his hand from where it’s been resting against his purple and red throat, eyes wide despite how much they just wanted to shut.

He found absolutely no solace in the inability to form a single word aside from a breathy moan. I swear on the Force, next time I’m shoving them off, regardless of how fucked in the head they are. I’m not going to be choked out again like some nerf-herder. I should just kill-

It’s only then that he realizes he isn’t even in the hallway, but in the medbay, barely looking around the heavily lit white room, stark and pristine in cleanliness. It only makes him more aware of his roughed-up, haphazard appearance, though he has little care for that when he spots… them. Sitting up, looking at the nurse, their hand braced on Padme’s arm- Padme’s arm!

I hate everything!

They don’t understand what the meddroid is trying to say. Lots of things, they guess, probably the same spiel they’ve heard before following one of these . . . incidents . When their mind broke so wholly it felt irrepairable, when they grew so weak all they could do was cry. It’s not worth listening to again . . . possible diagnosis , they think to themselves in tandem with the droid: post-traumatic stress disorder, panic attack, seizure, psychosis, schizophrenia . It never changed. Only the time and location did.

Their throat is so dry. They’re coughing up a storm as they try to breathe, but when the angel - their angel - tries to move away, they simply tighten their grip around her arm, trying to keep her there. She’s so warm, and so soft, and- they know it’s the senator, Padme Amidala, but all the same. Something about her energy was so soothing, enough to put their mind at ease again from- from whatever had caused that violent trauma to return.

Maybe it’s because of their mind. Everything so fractured, broken into pieces so small sometimes they stumble upon a piece and are shocked it’s even there, still working. After all, they think, they’d been so broken they never thought they’d get a semblance of control back. Then again, every time they thought they did, this happened. And it only seemed to happen at random.

The meddroid is whirring away, to another part of the room. They can hear her, Padme, trying to talk to them. They shake their head, and hold onto her tighter. Their face buries into her shoulder, her clavicle.

“N-N- . . . stay. S-Stay. Please. Angel, stay. Stay.”

She can hardly hold onto them, their slurred words and distant expression far too indistinct to piece together accurately. It unnerves her, how slowly they’re speaking, practically rambling with their eyelids fluttering closed as they force out shaky breaths and bury their face into her collar. They look scared- terrified, really, in a manner she can’t quite place.

Her hand is rubbing circles against their back, as if it could help to soothe them, whispering out soft, gentle words as she smiles at them and tries to offer the best comfort she could, syllables thrown into hesitant, “Hey, hey”s and “It’s alright”s making up most of her words. She pulls them closer, hugs them against her chest, presses her face into their hair.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to sit with you until you calm down.”

She’s so close. It’d be almost romantic, if they remembered a semblance of what that even was, anymore. What was it? Blushing cheeks, soft words, warmth? Then . . . then hurt. Hurt, trauma- they almost have to force themselves out of their own memories, to keep from sinking in again. Their grip around the senator tightens. If only they could slide their legs off the cot, they’d probably have her in a full-body grip, just from pure need . . .

But the fabric of her robes is so soft, and her voice is, too, and god , nobody had told them that the Senator Amidala was so perfect. They aren’t even sure how they didn’t recognize it before - or, for that matter, how they remembered her, her name and her title, when they’d never seen such a splendid creature in all their life. A projection clip? A hologram? They don’t-

There’s a distant door opening and another Force presence, all too familiar, and they’re crying out and nearly yanking Padme onto their lap from fright- “NONONO GO AWAY I’M SORRY MASTER I’M SORRY-”

There’s a soft hand in their hand, and another on their wrist.

“Shh. Alexei, it’s alright. Just put the nice woman down, okay? I’m right here. I’m not upset with you.”

“It’s alright,” Padme said, trying to keep the shake out of her voice as she tilted her head up, facing the speaker with a smile on her lips, as smooth as it could be given the circumstances. Honestly, she didn’t have the heart to push them- Alexei- away. It didn’t seem like they meant her any harm, really, and she felt comfortable enough like this with them. If they needed comfort, it was better for her to give it to them than someone they didn’t trust.

Still, they seem to ease up at the sound of the voice, allowing Padme a chance to breathe, running a hand through their brown hair gently as she kneels beside the bed they’re lying in, hand grasping Alexei’s gently as she allows them to watch her nod, presses a comforting squeeze as her fingers wrap around their palm. “Hey, Alexei, right? You’re okay now. I can stay if you want. Your master’s here. You going to be okay?”

Turning her head to the man, she almost admires the aura he seems to radiate- one that’s more calm in a lot of ways than she’s used to seeing at the senate, but doesn’t seem so out of place in a Jedi. “Sorry,” Padme apologizes quickly. “They were having a rough time… ah, I thought it would be best to bring them to someone who could help more. I would stay longer, but I do really need to get going… I have a meeting with the viceroy in awhile.”

“You found them? Well, that’s a relief,” he gives an awkward little chuckle, as well as a shrug as he scratches at the back of his neck. “I’m sorry for the trouble. I’d meant to go after them, but they’d been so fast. And it’s hard to get out of a council meeting with the Chancellor, you know? Ah, anyways . . . I’m their Master, Osiris. My sincerest apologies for having taken up your time, Senator.”

He looks at Alexei. They’re so pale - unnaturally so - though he doesn’t think that Padme’s seen the yellow-green of their eyes yet, the way they’d flashed yellow as they lost control. He’s not sure, though; they still seem so out of it, clinging to Padme like a lifeline. Osiris isn’t sure what to say . . . two years, and they were still struggling so badly . . . it’s bad. Very bad. He sighs as he brushes a quick hand through their hair, trying to ignore their shaking as his fingers tickle their scalp.

“Thank you for calming them down. I was so worried-” he starts, until he sees the padawan sitting across the room. He looks grumpy, rubbing at the bruises on his throat; it’s an obvious tell-tale sign, and Osiris walks over to the man with a frown.

“I guess you found them too, right? I’m . . . I’m so sorry, sir. Are you well?” he kneels next to him and reaches up, applying light fingers to his neck. “Damn. They should heal well, but are you dizzy at all? Do you need help returning to your room, sir?”

Sir? The title catches Anakin off guard, something he’s only heard Jedi using to refer to members on the council, or their own masters. It feels out of place when it’s directed at him, really, despite the feeling of satisfaction that seems to creep into his chest at the thought of it. Sir, indeed.

Still, it’s all too sudden when the man touches his neck, the bruising already far more swollen than before, sore to the touch as he tries to croak out a word the best he could. “Y...ye-ahh?” It doesn’t sound real at all, so light that he can hardly make out his own voice. And kriff, the voice is so frustrating it makes Anakin groan in annoyance. I needed that, fuck. I hate you.

Not that he was going to say that, when the man- their master?- was staring at him with an expression that’s almost… caring. As though he’s actually worried about him- and Anakin has to bite his lip, looking up questioningly. Does he actually give a shit about me? It’s different, with everyone always acting so… well, like sons of banthas. Not trusting him or listening to him or even looking at him.

He smiles back cheekily, hand reaching out to rest on the older Jedi’s shoulder gently with a quick nod. Maybe it isn’t all bad. At the very least, the bruises might catch Obi-Wan’s attention.

“Hmm. They might’ve damaged your voice box a bit. Should heal fine on its own, but- well, I’m not a Force healer like Suzuka,” he mutters as he presses his fingers around the boy’s throat. He looks like he’s ready to protest, at least until Osiris is channeling soft, light energy through his fingers, into the skin, suturing up the broken blood vessels and reaching deeper to poke at his voice box.

“Yeah, compression issue. Let me just . . .” and he’s surrounding it with the Force, letting the energy relax his voice box until it seems to be in better shape. Osiris pulls back, then releases his throat; the padawan looks confused, trying to open his mouth and speak.

“Don’t worry; it should be back in a minute. The throat is always a delicate area,” he says as he stands. “Anyways, I’m more of a mental healer, not a physical one. I’m Alexei’s master, after all. They pulled me out of the goddamn desert for them, and I’ll be damned if I haven’t tried picking up some skills as a result,” he shrugs, and holds his hand out to pull the padawan up. “You’re still a student, right? Who’s your master? Sure they’re in the council meeting, but I could pull them away and get you supervised back to your quarters.”

Anakin’s eyelids flutter for a moment, torn between staying open and slipping shut as his tongue flicks across his lower lip, glancing down to the floor again. He can still feel the press of the force against his throat, a soft, warm energy that’s all too pleasant to ignore. And yeah, it’s honestly complete bullshit that anything pleasant could’ve come from this, but…

I’m fucked. The teenager thinks to himself, fingers pushing his braid back behind his ear, fiddling with the beads attached to the end as he barely manages a smile again. Force, Anakin still can’t be sure if it isn’t angry looking, because he can feel the flow and ebb of heat pulsing through his veins, fingers curling in the fabric of his pants as he stares blankly at the Jedi again, before offering a cough.

“Obi-Wan,” the blonde choked out, his eyes shutting tightly as he pressed his hands against the master’s shoulders again, barely resting there, trying not to just curl fingers in the fabric and start rambling. “And, uh, you could take me?” There’s a pause. “I mean, back to my quarters. Take me back to my quarters- bantha hork.” He’s trying the best he can to keep the red from shading his cheeks, positive that if he were anywhere else, not around Padme and this shockingly attractive Jedi master, he would’ve been bright red.

Still, there is no mistaking the short quip of laughter that leaves Padme’s lips, her figure staring at him from near the doorway, an amused smile on her face. Anakin could almost swear she was mocking him- if he didn’t know Padme Amidala so well. Teasing, maybe.

Osiris gives him a smile. Clearly the boy is more than a little flustered - perhaps because there’s the senator in the room, clearly giving him a little giggle in earnest. Still, he’s still concerned about his safety, and he nods. “I’ll help you up to your quarters, and then I’ll let your master know what happened. Good it’s Obi-wan; he’s rather understanding, no? I’m on good terms with him, unlike much of the rest of the council. In any case, we should get moving. And perhaps on the way, you’d like to escort Senator Amidala back to her meeting as well?”

It feels like a bad hangover. One that they can’t seem to shake off, even a few days later, with their head spinning and their balance completely shot. They’re not sure they could even walk straight if they wanted to. At least their appearance seems better, because they no longer look deathly pale when they look into the mirror, and their eyes have become less yellow, more green. It’s little differences, but it’s fine. Anything that helped them come down from the attack is well worth the effort.

But the bad balance, and the poor coordination - that’ll only go away with practice, they tell themselves. So they practice their katas in a training room overlooking the city, watching the sun rise as they practice one particular strike over and over again. It’s not landing right on their mental training dummy, isn’t falling the way it’s supposed to, and it’s that broken concentration that allows their focus to suddenly fracture, nearly sending them to the floor with a gasp as they read what’s outside the room in their old panic- not him, not him, no no-

Mace Windu, in an office on the other side of the building. Obi-wan Kenobi, walking down the hall in deep discussion. And with him - oh, gods, no . . .

There was a hint of annoyance that seeped into his chest, practically making Anakin’s hands shake from the sheer frustration of it all, the way his master had hardly spared a glance to him aside from asking something about his lessons- have you finished your holovids? Or maybe it was I heard about the disturbance in your lessons again, and it wasn’t like it was Anakin’s fault that Ferus Olin had to be so kriffing infuriating.

Even Tru hadn’t said much in the way of backing him up this time, and nobody had even said anything to him aside from asking about the marks on his neck a few days ago. It was like they were purposefully trying to ignore him! All his hard work over the last few days, and the council overlooked it, the masters overlooked it, the other force-damned padawans overlooked it…

Still, Anakin tried to silence the thoughts with a rough sigh, before adding, still somewhat with a strain as he glanced over his master’s form, “I had a rough day.” That was it- no explaining, just in case Obi-Wan decided to give him another lecture on the importance of shields and how emotion was “a path to the dark side.”

“I wish Master Yoda would quit being so kriffing philosophical. It sounds like he’s trying to play therapist to a Sith, not educate the future of the century.” There’s a pause as the teen’s lips slide upward at the corners. “I find it difficult to focus… it’s painful, master. Nobody understands me… they prefer to act like I don’t exist anymore. I…” I hate it. It goes unspoken, but it’s blatantly obvious.

“You’d find it a bit easier if you had more patience with everybody. You are a student, the same as them. They cannot be distracted by their studies simply because you are the Chosen One, Anakin,” Obi-wan shakes his head. “You need to relax. Your focus should be learning, not criticising.”

Criticising. It’s enough that Anakin can’t help giving a rough sigh in exasperation, turning around to press his back against the wall, staring at Obi-wan with a scowl. “I know I’m the ‘Chosen One’, Master. But they don’t pay attention to me otherwise. They don’t trust me. It’s not like I have the best rap sheet as far as that goes, but you’d think the council would at least acknowledge my presence!” There’s a strangled breath as his voice escalated, before dropping sharply again. “You don’t get it.” You’re holding me back. All of you!

“You’re only nineteen, Anakin. And believe me; making friends as a padawan is just as hard for them as it is for you. You have to reach out,” Obi-wan shakes his head. Once again, he’s at a loss for words. It’s a familiar feeling, with Anakin. It hadn’t been so bad ten years ago, when he was wide-eyed and energetic and so excited to become a Jedi . . . it’d been so easy, back then, with the dead of Qui-Gon still choking him up and the distraction of Anakin to ease his conscience. But then . . . well, something happened. Things got to his head, he supposes. And now, of course, he’s taken things personally .

More than that, though, is the problem of Anakin’s frustrations. Obi-wan sighs. “Have you been practicing your daily meditations, my padawan?” he asks. “I cannot offer you help if you will not help yourself. And I understand that you feel like we’re attacking you - I understand - but we are not,” he pauses. “Qui-Gon was rough with me, as well, when I was your age. It took some time to understand what he was teaching me - and now I’m more confident in my knowledge than I was before. I know you want to skip steps, Anakin, I really do. But in order to become the master, first you must know the basics.”

He can hear Anakin’s thoughts like a loudspeaker: I am learning the basics! And Obi-wan is sure he is, at least to the best of his abilities. But then again, he’s trying to learn so much at one time; he wonders, for a moment, if it isn’t a little much for the teen. He’s thinking back to when he was Anakin’s age, back when he was still learning . . . “I met Master Windu when I was your age, Anakin . . . he and I are still friends to this day. He’s the reason I passed any of my courses in that last year,” he chuckles and hums. “Perhaps your problems are more connected than you think.”

“That’s different,” Anakin quips almost immediately, halfway to just turning around and leaving. He can feel the sudden onslaught of emotions leaving his thoughts each time Obi-wan opens his mouth, knows that it’s too much for someone who’s supposed to be a Jedi… and yet he hardly cares enough to push it back. Obi-wan keeps telling him to work on his shields- meditating- and the thought is far less than appealing.

He groans lightly at his master’s words, adding, “It’s not like I’m as much of a poster child for the Jedi cause as you were, master. It’s different. You know Master Windu doesn’t trust me- he didn’t even want you to take me! It isn’t fair…” Anakin sighs, trying to shield any more of his thoughts from slipping through their bond as he turns his head from Obi-wan again. “Besides, meditation is boring as all hell. I’m not surprised you don’t see it, considering you’re an old man at this point…”

It’s a teasing quip and the padawan is barely catching the unamused expression on his master’s face when he hears the sound of a door click from down the hall, an evident shake in the force at the presence behind it. For a second, Anakin has to keep still, staring at the cracked panel on the wall cautiously.

“Nevermind, master… forgive me. I’m out of line.” It’s all he can really manage to get out, turning away from Obi-wan again as he’s half tempted to walk away, up and leave. “Although if I skip anymore lessons, at least there’s ample reason behind it.”

“Anakin, you are hearing my words, but refuse to listen!” Obi-wan says - doesn’t shout, never shouts, especially not with Anakin. “Even if I was a ‘poster child’, or whatever you claim, you must understand: I could not get through it alone, and neither can you. You must learn , Anakin. I understand that you may find it ‘boring’, but for the sake of us all , could you simply behave and at least attempt to understand? You test an old man’s patience sometimes.”

He sighs. But that’s besides the point, now; Anakin looks like he’s ready to leave, and Obi-wan’s half-tempted to convince him. He can sense the presence down the hall now, with his attention somewhat sorted out. It’s from inside one of the training rooms, one of the ones with stronger glass so students could get in morning practice. Unfortunately, the combination of heights and the heat that built up within it meant it got little use, though he does recall many hours he’d spent there as a youth, too, meditating. It wasn’t easy, but it made him grow stronger, he feels.

Though then again . . .

He’s in too rash a mood and they’re not responding in kind. He shakes his head. There would . . . be a day to introduce them, but that was not today. He looks back to Anakin, still debating whether to leave or not. He finally shrugs and starts, “Anakin, perhaps we could continue this-”

“Continue what?” Is the only answer the hotheaded nineteen year old has any mind to give, having more than considered the conversation over with. His arms are folded tightly across his chest, fingers tapping against the side of his right elbow as he continues trying to ignore the way the force shifts so frequently around him, his head pounding from the strain of all the criticism.

Some part of Anakin is sure it’s supposed to make him better- because isn’t that what all the masters say, Siri Tachi and Ki Adi Mundi and Windu? Still, the denial counteracts it- and perhaps it’s almost too childish to be fuming like this, but he can’t even fucking help it. Everything feels impossible anymore- don’t do this, don’t say that, don’t show your emotions, attachments are bad, blah blah blah.

Even if it went in one ear and out the other, it wasn’t that he didn’t try to listen. It was just that half of what they said seemed like it would have the opposite effect of what he wanted. And besides, he’d saved Obi-wan’s ass how many times? There wasn’t any reason to scold him anymore!

Anakin bites his tongue, ruefully, looking away again. “Fine. You want me to meditate? I’ll go meditate, master. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Anakin!” he says, but he’s already throwing his hands up, walking away from him, right past the trianing room - and Obi-wan can feel it, the sudden spike in the Force, and he gets the gut-feeling of what’s about to happen before he knows it. He’s taking a step closer and calling out, trying to warn him-

The hem of Anakin’s shirt flips up.

And then, with a hearty surge of Force energy, Anakin- his padawan is upside down, hanging in mid-air .

The redness that suddenly spills into his cheeks seems more from embarrassment than anger, because for the life of him, Anakin cannot figure out why he’s hanging upside down in the middle of the kriffing hallway. It’s enough that all he can get out is a startled yelp- that sounds particularly distraught- flustered as he tries to pull out of the force-grip tight around his ankles. “ Are you fucking serious?”

Obi-wan’s frozen for a moment, staring at Anakin as he nearly flails in the air, unable to break free - it’d be almost humorous, he imagines, if it was somebody else. But no - that’s his padawan , and he knows exactly who’s doing it and what kind of lesson they’re trying to teach. He’s advancing to the training room door, ready to rip it open-

But they slide it open themselves. Simply, without fanfare. Their eyes look so tired, but they’re giving a little smile, as if somewhat . . . amused. Now that Obi-wan thinks about it, they probably haven’t smiled in days.

“Master Obi-wan,” they say, before putting their hands together and giving a deep bow. “My apologies, Master. I thought I would simply . . . intervene. You see, this was one of my basic lessons, one of the first, and I’m wondering if your padawan will think so highly of his abilities after this.”

“There is no need to interfe-”

“Anakin, was it? I think you’ve noticed that my Force abilities are strong,” they say. They tighten their grip on his ankles, tangle their fingers together behind their back as they watch him. “Try to break free. I’m curious to see if you can do it.”

And why should I do that? I don’t want to play any games with you. You still owe me for bruising my neck up. Anakin Skywalker, with little surprise to anyone, was practically on the verge of snarling. He could feel his tunics dangling as well, his back suddenly more exposed than he thinks it’s ever been, and for some reason, it almost makes him want to keep his tongue to himself.

Experimentally, he shifts slightly, trying to push at the binds around his ankles, legs kicking slightly and bending hard at the knee as he tries to loosen them. It’s too much, too suddenly- and though he could, in all likelihood, blast himself free by forcing them back a few inches, it really wasn’t worth the scolding he was likely to get.

Or the fact that Obi-wan already seemed to be disappointed in him and he didn’t want to make it any worse. It was… stupid, really, that he cared so much about what Obi-wan thought all of a sudden. He didn’t want to make the older Jedi seem like a failure as a master… or make him feel bad. And honestly, fuck it all, because all he wanted was a little bit of recognition, not to get suspended by his kriffing feet.

“Let me down.” He says suddenly, still bright with shame, the sudden self-doubt seeming to pool within his head, dropping into the force a little bit at a time, a sense of something almost loathing that he couldn’t cover up. “‘m sorry…” It’s so low, pitched under his breath, and he almost thinks Obi-wan can’t hear it. Anakin can’t decide if he actually wants him to or not.

Obi-wan hears it, alright. And he’s stepping back, watching Alexei carefully, because . . . because they aren’t like this when they want a simple apology. No - this was a lesson . If anything, for as much trouble as they were worth, they certainly were eager to dispense lessons .

“Your masters,” they say, “Will teach you how to get out of this sort of hold in time, but for now, your steps are: identify the path of the Force energy around you. Identify the source of the manipulation. Identify your weak points and, lastly, use those weak points to your advantage. That’s what your masters will teach you . . . and this,” they say as they snap their fingers and lower them to the ground, “Is what a Sith is taught. Master Obi-wan?”

He’s hesitant. Hesitant, because if they’re bringing up . . . that , then this means that Anakin and Alexei have met before. This . . . this wasn’t what was supposed to happen. He can already sense the Force shifting around him, almost in warning . . . but, for now, there was no chance to do a thing. Only to play along.

He closes his eyes. The Force is around his ankles, hoisting him up-

Snap . And then he’s flipping to the ground, just as the pain bolts through and leaves his head.

He opens his eyes. Alexei is just rising from their crouch.

“You need to acknowledge, right here and now,” they say, “That you are automatically at a disadvantage. The Sith are ruthless, and the Jedi are firm. You can take the time to identify your enemy and cut them where they’re weak . . . or you can cut it off right before it begins. For a Sith, that means cutting right into the source of the power. Right into the mind ,” they frown. “If you’re strong in the Force and the mind, then a cut like that won’t deter you. But if I asked you to do the same thing to me as Master Obi-wan did, and I reacted as a Sith? Then you’d have a searing headache and a trip to the medbay from one little trick.”

They bring in a breath. They lace their fingers together and stretch, careful to crack their neck to the side before rolling it around their shoulders.

“You may think you know the basics,” they say, “But you need to know more . Take what you know, start applying it, start practicing and thinking around your obstacles. Most importantly, strengthen your mind. You may find meditation boring ,” they say as their tone grows sharp, “But believe me . You don’t get a second chance outside these walls, Chosen One. And a Sith with any knowledge under his belt can start cracking at your mind before they crack at your body. Trust me. I’ve been with the Sith . . . and my mind is so fragmented that I still don’t have all the pieces sewn back together nicely.”

Obi-wan’s stunned. Isn’t sure what to say. Alexei just looks to him, and gives him a low bow.

“I am sorry,” they say, “For my impulsive behavior. If you need me, I’ll be meditating,” they say, and with a slump of their shoulders, they return into their training room and slide the door shut behind them.

The second they’re out of the hallway, Anakin tries to erase the expression of shock from his face, his mouth suddenly dry, throat parched. It wasn’t… complete ignorance, but it wasn’t like they hadn’t been right either. He did have a lot that he needed to learn and focus on- aside from being angry all the time. Didn’t change that it was easier said than done, but…

Kriff, he really did owe Obi-wan an apology. It takes a few seconds for the teenager to regain his bearings, hands in place across his chest again, staring at the door with an expression that’s almost shock for a couple minutes before nodding finally. “Well, good game.” He finally says. “And I guess I should be apologizing again, Master.”

It earns an expression of surprise that Anakin barely manages to shove off. “Anyway. Time to get out of here..” He presses his head to the door. “Have fun with meditating!”

He half wonders if he should be doing something more… something that could help, because the thoughts are like demons, and the tear away his skin and eat at his head without the slightest regret for the decay they cause. Practically every time he closes his eyes, he can see her there- his mother- and the pain etched across her face, her body mangled and dirty in the sand… it’s gutwrenching.

He wakes from the dream ready to purge the contents of his stomach, with a headache far too great to simply push off. Every step he takes to get out of bed makes his skull throb, the pressure turning the expanse of black behind his eyelids into a vivid white, tearing at whatever remnants of sanity remained. It takes far too long to find the door of his room, and even longer to pull himself from their quarters and into the hallway.

Anakin barely has mind for the lack of dress, his disorderly appearance, hair pressed in all which ways and a thin robe barely covering his body when he finally turns out into the main corridor. Pale moonlight is streaming through the windows- it could be pleasant, potentially, if the heat hadn’t acclimated in his body to a point where he had to question his wellbeing.

He slumps down on the floor, pulling his way into a space just hidden behind a pillar, enough that it isn’t visible from the main walkway. Undoing his robes, it takes Anakin a few minutes to fumble for the small vial he’d tucked away beneath them, the needle held tightly in his hand, so hard he can feel blood leaking from his fingertips.

She can’t die. They can’t die. Nobody. I can’t- I can’t die… not like this. I’m going to… going to die. Be sick… they don’t understand. It’s so… cold. Everything… so cold, can’t feel my skin, want to get warm, make me warm again-!

There’s a faint echo of footsteps that the padawan tries to force out of his mind, barely glancing back around the pillar, his head still too hazy for a view of anything proper. He was fumbling with the death stick, the red liquid sliding about inside of the tube as he finally managed to fit it with the needle, already aching far too much to hold off any longer. But Anakin can feel his presence in the force, the emotions already out there, hard for him to handle.

Not now. He didn’t want the force right now, didn’t want to be made to feel like this… so he pressed the needle against the curve of his abdomen and pressed it in.

“And what would your Master say,” they say into the echoing corridor, “If he knew you were taking drugs?” they’re lifting him up from his hiding spot and dragging him over, no mind of his wide-eyes and his mind rattling from their use of the Force. They can see the vial dropping from his hands - still half-empty, filled with red that reminds them too much of blood and ugly tattoos. Alexei scratches their head with their free hand, gives a tired sigh; of all the things to deal with tonight, this was not on their list.

“You’re vulnerable now, you know,” they say as they reach in, poke at his mind. They can see him visibly flinching now, his body caught between tensing up and completely going lax. They sigh; the mess of addiction in his head isn’t firmly rooted, but it’s there, alright. Pulling it out in one piece wouldn’t be easy . . . and honestly, they’re not interested in ripping out other little bits of his brain at the moment. Just got messy. Like he did to me .

“You know what? I was just headed back to my room anyway. Fuck it,” they drop him unelegantly, watching him slump to the floor. They walk over and hoist him up, yanking one arm over their shoulders and wrapping the other around his waist. It’s . . . uncomfortable, with their chest unbound for once, and nothing but a thin robe to cover their body, but fuck it - they didn’t come out here for the sake of beauty. They readjust his weight and start pulling him down the corridor, opposite from where they came. “I’d say you owe me,” they point out, “But I’ve choked you out and hung you by your ankles, sooooo . . . consider this even.”

I don't care, Anakin thinks to himself, pushing it out through the little access between his mind and the force, although his body is so close to becoming deadweight, limbs heavy and eyes watering despite how much he tries to cover it up. There aren't any words he wants to say- not to them, to Alexei, only made more insubstantial in their presence than he already felt to begin with. But there's a pleasant haze filling his mind now, from the inside out, and it's so much relief to feel so ignorant, even if only for a short time.

He isn't sure they'd understand, although the feeling of having them poke around in his head, examining all the secrets tucked into the corners of his mind, was a bit too much of a projection. Anakin isn't sure he wants them to understand, but he's stumbling along at their side, fingers curled in their robe and clinging to them as if his life depended on it and- oh. Oh. It feels beautiful… a bliss and an incoherence that's muffled by the sheer feeling of drifting away.

Because the force is hardly there now, not after two death sticks, or at least practically, and ll the humming in his ears is warm, engineered by his own mind and not by a connection to others. He can't sense his mother, not now, not her dying corpse riddled by flesh wounds and bugs, can't sense Obi-wan and how disappointed he would be if he only knew…

“I wanted to disappear,” the teenager tried to say, as they're opening a door and letting him slip inside, Anakin’s body half collapsing against the wall, sinking to the floor with a muffled moan. There are so many other things, other ways of disappearing, even stronger than this, and he regrets that Zan Arbor hadn't been around long enough to show him…

My mom. She's… they're all dead. Just let me die first. I can't watch this any longer. It's agony that he can't shield, nothing he can tuck away again, and there's a gnarling depression in his bones. Or perhaps it's desperation- desperation for acknowledgement… love. A Jedi is forbidden attachments, but it doesn't seem all that reasonable any longer.

“Let me… lemme… feel. Some… something else.”

“That death stick’s made you feel plenty . What were you thinking, trying that big a dose? Or trying it at all ? I get the drug temptation, I really do, but all it does is make things quiet for a bit. It all rushes back in the end,” they sigh as they kneel down and look him over. For being the oh-so-mighty “Chosen One”, he doesn’t look the part. His eyes are totally rimmed in red, with black bags hanging from the corners of his eyes like hammocks strung up to sleep in. The rest of his face is pale, so pale, from his eyes to his lips to his cheeks . . . bland, all of it. He doesn’t look like a jedi, not like this . . . he looks more like a drug addict. Probably how I looked after all of it, too .

They sit back and tap at their chin, thinking. They’d acted fast - he’d only taken half of the quadruple death stick, and while it was far from fatal, it was definitely a lot more than anybody ever needed. There had to be a way around from it, though; they can remember numerous of their colleagues, eyes dull and heads just tumbling around on their shoulders, pulled to attention within seconds with just a look and a strong pulse of Force energy. Never learned that pretty trick, though , they think as they crack their neck from side to side. And I’m not betting anything on the strength of his mind, so . . . either we wait this out, or I risk turning him into a vegetable. Not great odds .

It should wear off in a few hours, right? Yeah . . . they think so. They’d seen worse, for sure. And he wasn’t violent, not like the others, so . . . they finally push themselves to their feet with a groan. “I’m getting old,” they mutter, before giving him an even look again. “Alright, brat, you can hang out in my room tonight. Just gimme a moment to get changed, okay? I may be willing to help you, but I’d rather wear something more than a flimsy little robe while I do it.”

Not like I’m exactly wearing anything more than a flimsy robe either, Anakin has the mind to think to himself halfheartedly, rolling his eyes as he leans back against the wall, chest heaving for breath that is so unsteady and insubstantial it hurts. Hesitantly, he presses his hands against the skin of his thighs, only clad by thin, grey fabric as he digs in nails and turns his face to the side, shaking having quelled for the most part.

He hardly notices the curve of breasts as they begin stripping down and pulling clothes out from a drawer in the chest at the foot of their bed, and when he does, it’s almost as though he’s perplexed for a minute. The thought that Alexei had been female… never really crossed his mind. Well, any thoughts of gender had been obscured by their persona, really- strength, but in a way that Anakin had never imagined anyone, Jedi or Sith, to wield.

He isn’t sure why everything seems so striking now, not why the swelling and painful throb of his aching skull seems to feel as though it’s compressing his body, overbearing… his heart feels so slow he thinks it might stop. There’s a warmth in his veins, still, but it’s not the same as before- sweat sliding down his forehead and the back of his neck, bumps lining his arms uncomfortable, nearly as much so as the memory of thin scars, mostly outlined on his skin in pale shades that hadn’t been opened for quite some time…

He is nearly ashamed of his body, in this moment, and for a second, it seems as though he feels what Alexei does. Not in the same way, of course, but in a sense that is undeniable. It’s like being weak… everything feels weak. I am weak. I’m the weak one. And admitting it is something new for Anakin, really- something he could never admit during the day, or when he’s lucid, but something that lingers underneath his shields regardless, always.

“I’m being torn apart,” he breathes finally, softly. “I didn’t ask for my emotions. I didn’t fucking want to feel like this- I didn’t want to be the Chosen One, I didn’t want the Council to hate me, or the others to fear me. I didn’t want to leave my mother. I wish…” A pause. “Sometimes I wish Qui-Gon had never found me on Tatooine.”

“Ever wonder how many padawans feel the same way when they grow up?” they ask. They can tell that he’s looking - staring. It wasn’t like their chest went unbound very often, even during training. They’re pulling a shirt out of their drawers and just staring, for a little, at the soft silken fabric they’d grown so used to so long ago. “I’ve seen more than a few kids break down at being taken away from their homes before. That’s what my master and I get sent to do sometimes - we take the willing kids here. Within days, they miss their mommies and their brothers and their home. There isn’t much we can do. It takes a few weeks for them to stop crying about it, and even then, they’re nine year olds . We ask so much of these kids from such a young age that they become dysfunctional.”

They look over to Anakin. He seems startled, or else shocked; they shrug. “There aren’t a ton of kids like you, I know. But there are some. Some of them, apparently they get really fucked up. Do the same thing as you, turn to drugs and stuff like that. Never helps. Jedi Order asks too much - hide your emotions and pretend they don’t exist. Well, I’ll tell you right now, it doesn’t work. Doesn’t work the other way around either; Siths say you should take everything and let it run dry as it wishes. Just gets people hurt. Believe me, it’s hard to recognize megalomaniacs and psychopaths for what they are in a place like that. Makes it hard to believe in a happy medium when all you see is extremes.”

They shrug, and finally pull the shirt over their head. It’s strange, to have loose silk over their bare breasts; when they look down, they can even see their nipples straining, creating little bumps in the fabric. Alexei sighs and tries to smooth them down, hefting one breast for a moment as they talk. “‘Everything in moderation’. That’s Osiris’s favorite mantra, and he’ll say it a million times. Annoying, but he’s right - moderation is key. You just gotta learn it. S’better than relying on drugs,” they say as they stretch and yawn. “ God , I didn’t intend on giving life lessons tonight. Kriff, you bear down hard on people, y’know? Chosen One indeed - the one chosen to yank life lessons from the very lungs of his teachers.”

“I believe a lot of the Masters would say ‘the one chosen to yank life from the very lungs of his teachers’,” Anakin answers, shrugging back to them, eyes finally tearing away from their lithe, well-muscled form and focusing on the darkness of the room, closing until he can try and find solace behind his eyelids. It feels surprisingly clear for once, a semblance of clarity that’s rarely ever there on a day to day basis. Still, it doesn’t discount that they had a point- that there was some sort of grey space in between the Jedi and the Sith that was less compromising than either.

The thought would be comforting if it wasn’t such a nuisance in his ears. Anakin’s fluttering his eyelids open and staring straight forward, the walls and lines of the furniture, everything without color, blurring together in front of him until vision becomes fuzzy and he feels dizzy again. There’s an odd desire to faint- an odd desire for the aftermath of the talk, or the death sticks running his system dry to just knock him out, make it so he doesn’t have to feel like this.

“You’re interesting,” he finally says to them, trying to attempt something amiable in his voice, raising an arm and tilting it experimentally, pleased to see that the motor control seems to be mostly restored again. He isn’t entirely certain what should be said, other than perhaps an apology- or gratitude, but, well, Anakin Skywalker had never been particularly good at the latter. “It feels… different, somehow. Hearing it from you, and not from the Masters. Most of them sound preachy- and they cover up the real meaning of their words with philosophical shit. It’s no wonder people think the Order is overrated.” It’s meant as a joke, but the teen can’t even be certain that it comes out as one. Everything’s just a bit too unbalanced for it to make sense.

“There’s… I’m not really sure. I just know that as soon as I came here, I’ve been told I was too dangerous- too dangerous to train, too hazardous to the other padawans, too reckless to become a Jedi. It’s only now that I can see there’s been so much truth to it… and yet it somehow only provides a feeling of sickness. I… there’s just a feeling that they’re holding me back. And they’re doing it for a reason . It’s not as if I don’t know… I’m a threat. Or maybe that’s ranking myself too highly- don’t you think?”

They think they might laugh. Well, they want to - maybe it’s because of the exhaustion, or maybe it’s just the way Anakin speaks. His voice is so slurred - he makes absolutely no sense like this, which almost makes them feel like they’re the healthier one in the room. Well, at least they’re the most put together . . . compared to a drugged-out Jedi, they probably look like the epitome of health.

Still, Anakin makes a fair point. Alexei shrugs, and sighs, and sits down on the edge of their bed. “The Jedi Order likes control . Believe me, they don’t make decisions unless they can control the outcome in their favor. Why save a boy from the desert if it doesn’t benefit them? . . . why save a sith unless they can somehow be useful,” they mutter.

They won’t reveal it right now - not how it’s them , taken as a means of intel but too fucking mind broken, too victimized and raped, to be of any help. And that’s why they were here, right? Here, reduced to padawan, with a grey-Jedi as a master. They almost want to resent him - Osiris - for it, but then again, he was pulled from the desert, too. He was used, too.

And then they really laugh - because now they just sound like a conspiracy theorist . “That’s nothing new,” they mutter with another chuckle. “If you want to find drama,” they’d told somebody once, “You can find it with the Jedi and the Sith”. They hadn’t been wrong. Here, it felt like drama fucking central . And here, before them, had to be the downright queen of it all.

They look up at the ceiling of their room. They reach up, bop one breast just to feel it bounce and shake against their chest. “Y’know, I don’t think it’s philosophy you dislike,” they muse quietly. “It’s the big words. Not to say you’re stupid, though, because I hate the big words too. Give me my katas and some simple instruction any day.”

There’s really no objecting to that. Anakin shrugs again, as much as he can really manage to, though his body feels even more drained than a few minutes before, and he’s hardly sure he can stand again. It’s amusing enough, he supposes, to watch them laugh, tapping their chest lightly with a hand as they turn away, almost as if they’ve conjured up a hilarious memory that he isn’t aware of.

“If you called me stupid, you wouldn’t be the first,” he acknowledged. “Still, it’s true. I guess I just like the effect of bluntness- I relate to it more, and I’m more likely to listen to it. It’s kind of bad to say it like that, I assume. Or at least, it would be to the council. Less room to throw in discreet life lessons and scoldings without being forthcoming.”

It only takes him a few seconds of scratching at his bare forearm gently, pulling the grey robe tighter across his chest, before he’s glancing back to the door, half ready to ask them to leave, half wanting to divulge something that’s been grating on his nerves for a bit too long. “Don’t laugh, but… I wasn’t originally going to use a death stick tonight. I wanted… I wanted to sleep with Obi-wan. But… it’s difficult now, because I can’t help feeling like he doesn’t want me. Kriff, he’s said it before- he didn’t want me when Qui-Gon was still around, didn’t want me when the council asked, only did it as a favor. And for some reason…” Anakin trails off, muffling his voice. “...for some reason, I still want him to hold me.”

It strikes at something in their chest - Alexei nods, not facing him, but refusing to look away. “I know what you mean,” they murmur. “Osiris and I . . . well . . . I respect him a great deal. He’s done more to try and heal me than the Order ever has. I’d even dare to say I love him, in some ways. Not that I’ve felt the need to say it aloud in this place. Still . . . that’s the one reason I will never join the Order. They don’t understand the power that our loving emotions have.”

They look at Anakin and look him over. He’s looking better, now, the high beginning to drop, and the blush is settling in his cheeks. It doesn’t take hardly a nudge to read his thoughts, to see how he feels about Obi-wan, though it’s clear he, himself, doesn’t even know it . . . they chuckle. “Seems like you care about him more than you let on, even to yourself. Chosen One, maybe that’s your legacy: to show the Order that you need love, in some way. And you should know, too, that Obi-wan cares about you. It’s clear in the way he talks to you. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”

He still looks completely washed out - completely exhausted. They sigh, and raise a hand to push him back on their bed - first guy in a while who’s been anywhere near my sheets , they think with a snort. Still, they ruffle his hair before getting up and stretching. “Nngh . . . know it’s a struggle, but you gotta find your ways, okay? You’re being torn in two directions, I know, but the job of the Chosen One isn’t meant to be easy. If it was, we’d all try to take the chance at it,” they pause. “You should sleep. There’s a few hours until morning and death sticks take long enough to wear off. I’ll wake you before you miss lessons . . . but after that, you’re on your own.”

There's a muffled groan of annoyance as the padawan buries his face in the pillow, hands clinging tightly to the blankets and eyes fluttering shut finally as he lets his body adjust to its current position. Taking a deep breath, Anakin finally allows a sigh of relief to slip past his lips, throbbing in his skull becoming more and more gentle as he takes steady puffs of air in through his nose. “G’night…”

He could barely see the sunlight filtering through the windows, the curtains allowing a faint glow of orange and gold to bounce across the walls as Anakin let loose a rough, heady moan, rolling onto his back and arching away from the sheets slightly. His face scrunched up in annoyance as the sound of someone banging something next to his head came through completely, the Jedi’s lips parting in a complaint.

“I hope you aren't like this with everyone you let sleep in your bed.” It's barely acknowledged with a lazy blink of one eye open, and another soft moan.

He barely managed to flip over halfway before fingers were locking around his barely exposed wrist, making the young Skywalker flinch away almost instinctively. “Don't want to get up…” he started, unable to do much more than blink absently at them and try to pull his hand away again. “‘s not fair. Obi-Wan lets me sleep in.”

There’s the sound of sputtering, and the grip around his wrist tightens. “I’m also sure,” Obi-wan replies, “That ‘Obi-wan’ prefers looking after your health, rather than letting you sleep in a strange person’s bed. Or have I changed, recently?”

“ Oh, Force, please be fucking with me,” Anakin hissed out, eyes settling on his master's face and cheeks shaded with a deep red blush. His hands tried to tangle in the Jedi’s robes, blinking softly at him. “Um… Obi-wan forgives me for being insubordinate?”

“Obi-wan is completely blown away! Death sticks , Anakin?! Where would you even FIND such a thing?!”

“I’m not sure that matters right now,” Alexei points out from across the room. He stares at them; gives them a really long stare , one that probably could be mistaken for a glare if he wasn’t so good at not glaring. Still, they’re unintimidated, simply shrugging and leaning back against the wall, wearing clothes that look far too at ease for one of the Order.

“I had a talk with your master, Anakin,” they say. “Yeah, about the death sticks, but mostly about the two of you. And guess what, bro: he’s not mad. And he’s not going to lecture you that much.”

“But I am concerned, Anakin,” he says as he looks back down to him. It’s so clear, he doesn’t know how he missed it before - bantha hork , he looks exhausted! He’s putting a hand to his forehead in concern, trying to recognize a temperature. “Death sticks are dangerous, you know this. And if Alexei hadn’t found you, I can’t imagine what would’ve happened with four of them in you! You worry your master sick, Anakin!”

“I thought Jedi didn’t have emotions,” Alexei kicks in. Obi-wan sends them a gla- intense gaze .

“If it hadn’t been for Alex, I never would have noticed, Anakin. And perhaps there is fault in myself, for being so unaware - but I wish you had come forward and talked to me ,” he stresses as he looks back to Anakin. He’s started to realize how flush his face had become - he leans closer and puts the back of his hand against his cheek. “I have a right mind to take you to the medbay, Anakin. If I didn’t remember how volatile you act in there, I’d do it without question. As it is, you are entirely unfit for lessons. Goodness, what would the Council think? . . . actually, I’m fairly sure you don’t care what the Council thinks . . .”

His head is swimming with thoughts, all jumbled up until they become little more than a hodgepodge of muttered curses and soft groans that leave his throat. He feels like he's about to choke on air, especially looking up at Obi-wan with his throat growing more and more tight, breathing so shallow it's becoming labored.

There's sweat lining his brow, and Anakin can feel his eyelids flutter wide, body so tense at the sheer proximity to his master. He feels impossibly sick, almost as though he's ready to pitch forward and spill the contents of his stomach across the clean sheets.

Instead, Anakin’s breathing just grows thin again, his eyes barely able to contain the tears, sclera bloodshot and with broken veins, choking on his own words when he finally forces “The Council.” And it's barely accompanied with a high laugh, pitched to a degree where the brokenness echoes through like a warcry. “The Council hates me, Master. They don't trust me, they don't approve of my training, they want to hold me back, and if they could, they'd keep me away from you, too. I'm dangerous, aren't I?”

But even then he can't prevent the tears from sliding loose, across his cheeks and over his lips, until they're soaked with bitterness and the salty essence of anger. His skin is bristling, though Anakin can't be sure of whether it's from the fever or from the emotion, sinking teeth into his lip until he can feel red seep through the flesh wound. “I thought I knew… I'm sorry, Master. I have… failed. I just wanted to escape. And I can't even do that right. I'm a kriffing addict, Obi-wan. Because I can't control my kriffing emotions.”

It’s clear that Obi-wan has no idea what to say. What to do , even. Alexei can see it in the tenseness of his body, the clear conflict on his face. Alexei almost smiles. It’s . . . it’s so obvious. Obi-wan has so much pent-up emotion within him; he’s just grown so good at hiding it that not even he knows the extent of it, just like Anakin doesn’t know the extent of his own affection. It would hurt to watch, if Alexei felt any closer to the Order. As it is, it mostly hurts just watching Obi-wan struggle, trying to react.

They finally push themselves off the wall and walk over, touching Obi-wan’s shoulder and watching him flinch. “A hand under his head,” they say quietly, and Obi-wan quickly adjusts as so. “You can lay his back in your lap, if you want. Stroke his hair a little. Should help him calm down; just hold onto him for a little bit, okay? He should pass out soon, but he’ll be feverish for a bit. Feel free to stay here; Order members won’t look for you here.”

Obi-wan swallows. “The Council will be looking for us,” he says. His eyes haven’t left Anakin’s once.

“I’ll ask my master to make excuses. Just worry about him, okay?”

“I . . . yes,” he says, with a little nod. Alexei finally lets him go and walks back to the door, buzzing it open and letting it seal shut behind him, only overhearing a final “Anakin . . . I’m sorry,” before it shut.

At last.

Alexei puts a hand to their face and digs nails into their skin; the tiredness is pulling at them, the insomnia hasn’t gone away. It’s just clawing at them now, begging for them to sleep, but . . . no. I have other things to do , they think as they look around and finally break into a jog down the long hallway, thankful that so few are up so early. A jog - that’d bring them back to themselves. Back to the present. And it’d . . . take away from how nice the two of them looked, sitting together like that. They hadn’t . . . hadn’t been treated like that before, only done the treating. They’d always been in Obi-wan’s position, before.

The only time their role was reversed was . . .

They turn a corner and immediately screetch to a halt when they see her.

“S-Senator Amidala!” they nearly backpedal, thankful that they don’t fall over their own feet in the effort, though they do have to catch themselves on the wall beside them to catch their breath. “I-I- didn’t realize you were s-still here, m’lady. Um, I’m- m’sorry for the other day. Erm, if you- remember. Guess it wasn’t a big deal, but-” they look away and cough into their elbow. “Yes. Well. Not important for you I guess. Um. But thank you,” they feel themselves shrinking as they reach up and cover their chest with their free arm. “Um, I’m sorry for disturbing you- I’ll be going now-”

“No, no!” Padme cried almost immediately, a slight blush creeping onto her own cheeks from the sheer appearance of the flustered Jedi, their embarrassment obvious. It sunk into their tone, their eyes averted and hair a mess, half hanging in their face as they tried to keep themselves shielded.

It's enough that the Senator can reach out, place a hand on their shoulder in some light attempt at comfort. Sure, it doesn't have the force or proximity of the grip a Jedi would have, but the subtlety of it seems to make Alexei relax, looking at her so suddenly, their lip caught between teeth and red staining their complexion so well that Padme might have laughed if the situation had been anymore mirthful.

“I'm very glad to see you up and about, Alexei,” Padme offers them a smile, full of affection as the corners of her lips slide just slightly enough to radiate a sense of empathy. She isn't sure if Alexei can feel her concern, in the force or through her touch, but she's pleased enough to see them that keeping it to herself hardly mattered.

The younger Jedi turns their head again, only greeted by Padme extending her arms to pull them into a tight hug, her elaborately done hair pressing into their cheek at the position of the embrace. “I do regret that I didn't have a chance to say goodbye to you the other day. You were so shaken up… it worried me. And I'm sure the medbay was more than enough to make that panic flare…” she frowns, slightly, muting her thoughts. “Please, walk with me? I do wish to know how you've been getting on.”

“Th-There’s no need to concern yourself w-with me, Senator,” they stammer. “I assure you, I am- err- f-fine. Just fine. Some bedrest and meditation h-helped. I was just about to get my morning ru-” and they’re only halfway through the thought as the Senator drags them along, giving them a radiant smile - one that makes their heart melt a little bit. Her hand - it’s so warm. So soft, a piece of clarity they’d clung to in the past few days, and now . . . they swallow and just- follow her. Even as they lick their lips and try to think of what to say, they can’t help but notice that she doesn’t release their hand, simply rests her other over theirs and watches them as they walk.

“My apologies for involving you in my personal issues,” they murmur, though they hear Padme make a soft noise of dismissal. They shake their head. “No, it . . . it’s not an uncommon occurrence, m’lady. It’s a case of PTSD, or p-post traumatic stress disorder. You most likely know why. M-My full name is Alexei Wright. I was the - well - the Sith. The one that turned sides and aligned with the Order. Unfortunately there’s a fair bit of trauma from my time on the dark side, much of it I relive following certain triggers. It’s partially why we haven’t met, or at least from what I remember we haven’t; meetings like those often make my condition all the more obvious.”

They look away from her as they walk, and swallow. They . . . they aren’t sure they can focus. They’re trying to be civil, polite - but the touch of her hand. Her gaze. All of it , it was . . . so foreign, but so very . . . needed. Desired. Whatever the words were. It was the same thing they felt when they trained with their master, but that was only a part of it. Touch . . . they’d had so little of it before, even in the Sith. For it to be offered so casually, and by Lady Amidala . . .

They bite their lip. Thankfully, though they can tear at the delicate skin there, no blood seems to flow. “M-My apologies, Senator,” they say, confessing, “It’s very rare that I am asked to partake in casual- err- a-any discourse, really. I tend to speak too much. Please, excuse yourself if my rambling is too much.”

Padme doesn’t have to be force-sensitive to see the effect her touch is having on the Jedi. Alexei’s skin is cold, and seems to tingle wherever she touches it, though their hands come to find hers quickly, and they don’t pull away. She can see the way they worry their lower lip with teeth, biting and chewing off the fragile skin, and it’s enough that she can’t help placing a finger against their face, smiling. “There isn’t any reason for you to apologize, Alexei. Though I am worried about how that lip of yours is going to fare after being so savagely attacked.”

It’s a calm joke that makes them seem to brighten, if only a bit, and the redness in their face is fading away to a light pink that still dusts their full complexion. Still, it isn’t anything particularly bad- more like cute, although for some reason, Padme feels that calling Alexei cute might warrant a slight argument. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t noticed the way their arms folded across their chest, trying to press against the outline of breasts beneath their shirt and flatten them.

Honestly, Padme hasn’t had much contact like this in the Senate, though she expects it is far more than any of those at the temple, Council member or not, have been graced with. A twinge of sympathy seems to pass through her at that, but nonetheless, the woman keeps her head held high, searching Alexei’s face as though waiting for them to continue. When they seem to be at a loss for words, she brushes a hand through their short, brown hair, glances across the hall for a second, before fixing eyes so that they’re gazing directly into Alexei’s startling green ones.

“Honestly, Alexei, think of me as you would a friend. I’m very happy to hear about how you’ve been fitting in here- asked after you the other day. It’s a very brave thing you ended up doing… although from what I hear, it wasn’t exactly by choice.” There’s a rueful smile, almost trailing into sadness. “I admire your courage. If you ever need anything…” she trails off, shrugging slightly. “Please, keep in touch.’

“A-A friend?” they croak out. They would’ve asked it more . . . with more dignity , but oh god, they’re not sure they can speak. Her touch is still so light, and her tone is, too, even as she speaks of . . . of their past. Admire? Who? Honestly, they’re not sure they’re picking up on much she’s saying, not after all of . . . of that . To think that she’d asked after them, when they’d nearly vomited on and then crushed her in their arms . . .

They pull in a breath and close their eyes. In . . . out. Yes, that would center them, that would give them the sense of balance they so desperately needed. Meditation. It was the only thing that kept them together most days, all that kept them rooted to the earth - except this time, they can’t disappear into it, not when her soft hands are holding theirs , making their throat dry up, and oh, lord . . .

Their eyes snap open again. She’s still staring up at them, so softly, and their head spins for a moment. They hope their slight stumble wasn’t obvious - it felt like it was - but they do force out, “W-Wasn’t courage, m-m’lady. Just- well. Couldn’t stand it. What. What they were doing. I . . . a-am I really not interrupting you? You don’t need to stay for my sake, I-I’m not so ill you need take time away for me . . .”

“It may have been a need to escape that brought you here, but you saved yourself, didn’t you? I’ve heard things about this… PTSD? before. It’s something you can’t control, but you’re managing it, Alexei.” Padme’s fingers curl around theirs, squeezing their hand again as she lets the digits entwine, still unable to move her eyes from their nervous face. “Honestly, Alexei, I would assume you knew by now that you’re not burdening me in any way. I do enjoy our time together… it isn’t often that I find someone so engaging in the Senate. I suppose that’s a difference between the Order and politics.”

“Well, I’m certainly not in the Order,” they say quietly, before adding, “And I’m not a politician either. All I know about politics is that it confines me to this building when I’m not in missions. I’m sure Coruscant would be more interesting if I could see more of it.”

“I should keep that in mind then,” the Senator replies with a short smile, before adding, “In case I am ever in need of a date to one of these parties.” The reddening of Alexei’s cheeks dims, before growing brighter again, their eyes so bright and nearly hopeful, no matter how they tried to shield it, that Padme can’t find herself wanting to pull away. Even her meeting with the Chancellor was beginning to look more like a chore than an event.

“I should get going, Alexei. Please, keep in touch. I should look forward to seeing you on my next return to the Temple.”

“I-I . . . a-absolutely, Senator Padme!” they nod furiously as Padme finally releases their hand. They give her a low bow. “I-It would be my honor, Senator Padme. U-Um . . . I-I shall await your next visit eagerly, my lady.”

Padme gives them a giggle - then, a stunning smile, one that makes them shake all over, cheeks burning with red. And then she’s walking away, giving them a quick look back before rushing along, surely with . . . with some place to go . They swallow with their dry throat. And she took time out for me? They think. Despite being so tense before their run, they think they’ve almost grown worse, in ways they can hardly mind . . .

A hand rests on their shoulder. They turn their head and stare into the face of their Master.

“That sounded,” Osiris says with a grin, “Like a pleasant conversation.”

“Sh-She was concerned about my health,” they cut back, trying to push back the bloom in their cheeks. “It seems like sh-she may request my support- err- p-protection. Yes. While she’s in the city.”

“Well, then you shouldn’t disappoint her, no?”

“You’re supposed to come with me on missions like these!”

“Never said I wouldn’t be at a distance,” he says as he steps away with a finger to his lips and a wink on his face. Alexei turns to him fully as he starts pacing further away.

“Master!”

“What? I’m not part of the Order and I wouldn’t dare stand in the way of twoo luve ,” he mimicks as he steps off and floats away on the Force. “Get back to your run, padawan.”

They flip him a sign that was probably highly inappropriate, but only makes their master laugh. They sigh, and simply lower their hands. “Fine, fine,” they mutter, and they step back into their jog, hoping they can rid their head of those words as fast as they rid the miles beneath their feet.