Chapter Text
24 Hours After
Obi-Wan Kenobi can’t do this.
It’s officially been a day since he lost his master. Time wasn’t passing normally. Just a day ago, only a day, Qui-Gon was alive and loving him, loving the Force, loving this enslaved child and swearing he would be free. Twenty three hours ago, Obi-Wan held his dying master in his arms.
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon had breathed, one soft hand reaching up to brush Obi-Wan’s cheek. He let his hand run along Obi-Wan’s Padawan braid, reaching the end and falling back onto his own chest. Obi-Wan had felt his eyes burning, but he forced the tears down. His heart felt like it was actually ripping in two, but he forced himself to focus on his master’s lips, lips he had kissed, lips he loved to see curled in that half smirk.
“I love you,” Obi-Wan had whispered then, knowing it was too late for Qui-Gon to hear him, that Qui-Gon had gone somewhere he could not follow. He felt as if he could almost see Qui-Gon’s spirit leaving him to join the Force. He even glanced up for half a moment, expecting to see his master standing there above him, beckoning him. But he wasn’t. Obi-Wan was alone.
The funeral was horrible. Obi-Wan stood silently, clutching Qui-Gon’s cloak tightly around him, the boy at his side. His Padawan braid was gone, singed off with his own lightsaber and tucked in Qui-Gon’s robes just above his heart. He would keep his master’s cloak, but his braid belonged with Qui-Gon.
He accepted the murmurs of condolence from the other Jedi, but it was as though he was underwater. The words didn’t register and he couldn’t breathe. He stared at the flames until it was only himself and Anakin in the chamber. He told himself it was the smoke that made his eyes water and caused tears to cut through the soot on his face. Attachment was forbidden, and if the Council had known of the love between Master and Padawan, they surely would’ve been expelled. But it was alright to mourn properly now, when Qui-Gon’s body had already burned to ash, with only little Ani to witness his sorrow.
Time wasn’t passing normally. One moment he was at the funeral, the next Obi-Wan was in the quarters he had shared with Qui-Gon, now home to himself and Anakin. He stares at the clock on the wall, an old fashioned one with hands, made by his own hands. Now it was twenty four hours and ten seconds, fourteen seconds, twenty nine seconds, each one taking him farther away from Qui-Gon.
The door to Qui-Gon’s room opens automatically as Obi-Wan approaches. After a moment’s hesitation, he enters, the room exactly as Qui-Gon had left it. His room was methodically neat, a fact Obi-Wan teased him about mercilessly, but there were bits of Qui-Gon there in the near empty tea cup on his nightstand, the faded quilt he kept on his bed, the mediation cushion Obi-Wan had made him in the corner of the room. Qui-Gon’s scent was all over the room, flowers and heat, soft as the touch of a cat’s paw.
Obi-Wan’s boots scuff through the carpet. He smells like smoke and he knows he should visit the ‘fresher so he doesn’t stink up the room, but he can’t bring himself to care. Qui-Gon’s cloak still wrapped tightly around him, he sinks into his side of the mattress. Here was where they held each other every night. Here was the indent of Qui-Gon’s body, where he would never lie again.
The tears come hot and fast and Obi-Wan doesn’t bother to wipe them away. Barely even aware of what he’s doing, he reaches into his tunic, withdrawing both his and Qui-Gon’s lightsabers. He places his own deliberately on the nightstand, letting his fingertips rest on it for a moment. He turns Qui-Gon’s lightsaber over and over in his hands. When he stops, he knows instinctively it is twenty four hours, thirty five minutes, and forty one seconds since Qui-Gon died. The lightsaber is pointed towards his stomach and he is just about to press the button to ignite it, when the door slams open.
“Master Obi-Wan, sir!” Anakin nearly shouts. Obi-Wan startles so badly he nearly hits the button anyway. He fumbles the lightsaber spectacularly until it hits the floor with a clatter. His heart starts to pound as the surprise gives way to anger. Anger at Anakin for interrupting his attempt to join his master, rage at the Sith Lord that took his master away from him, fury at the whole entire universe, and all of it directed at Anakin, this child who has no idea he’s walked into the middle of a suicide attempt.
“What!?” he growls, standing quickly and pacing towards the child. Anakin’s eyes grow wide, but to his credit, he doesn't back away.
“Well, sir, it’s just…uh…” Anakin stammers, one hand sneaking up to touch the new short strand of hair where his Padawan braid would be. Obi-Wan stops in his tracks, remembering how he does the very same thing when he’s nervous. In fact, he finds himself reaching up to stroke his braid now only to remember it isn’t there anymore. The anger is gone as quickly as it came, replaced by shame and sorrow.
“What is it, Anakin?” he asks, more gently this time. Anakin’s brow relaxes slightly, but Obi-Wan sees his tensed shoulders, his shuffling feet. He reaches out and places a hand on Anakin’s shoulder, stroking his thumb over the fabric of his shirt.
“I was wondering if you could do my braid,” Anakin asks shyly, the words running together. Despite the weight in his chest, Obi-Wan feels the corners of his mouth lift a bit.
“Come here,” Obi-Wan says softly. He resumes his position on the edge of bed, scooping up the lightsaber from the floor and placing it next to his own on the nightstand. He sees Anakin side eye the sabers, but he doesn’t say anything. Retrieving a comb and a small hair tie from the top drawer of the nightstand, he motions to Anakin to sit on the floor in front of him. Anakin obeys, sitting with his legs crossed in front of Obi-Wan, his hands fidgeting in his lap.
He’s uncharacteristically quiet as Obi-Wan combs through the section of soft hair, splitting it into three. In fact, Anakin doesn’t say a word as Obi-Wan plaits his hair, gently weaving the blond strands, and securing the end. It doesn’t take long to do, but Anakin’s eyes are closed, his face relaxed. Obi-Wan recalls having his own hair braided. He often dozed slightly as Qui-Gon braided, something his master never chided him for. It was a way of meditating together. Perhaps this was his first meditation with his own Padawan. He feels his own feelings calming slightly as he ties off the braid.
My Padawan, Obi-Wan thinks with a start. As resistant as his mind is to the idea, he can’t deny the bond he already feels with Anakin. He wants to protect him, teach him everything he knows about the Force and being a Jedi. Obi-Wan already aches, knowing he’ll braid Anakin’s hair every time he asks, and even when he doesn’t ask.
Obi-Wan shifts slightly to kick off his boots. Anakin’s eyes open, but he doesn’t move, not until Obi-Wan is bootless and his cloak is neatly hung in Qui-Gon’s closet. Obi-Wan doesn’t offer, and Anakin doesn’t ask, but when Obi-Wan pulls back the covers, Anakin stands and crawls between them. With a deep sigh, he nods off to sleep almost immediately. Obi-Wan pulls the top quilt off the bed, the one patterned with banthas, and wraps himself in it. Grabbing the tea cup from the nightstand, he quietly crosses the room to sit on Qui-Gon’s meditation cushion.
It’s purple and soft, squished down from the weight of his master. Inside the tea cup are the last few sips of tea from the last day Qui-Gon was here. Obi-Wan doesn’t know when he started crying again, only noticing that the surface of the tea was now rippling. He places his lips on the rip of the cup, where his master’s lips would’ve been, where they had been. The tea is cold, overly sweet, and too strong, but he finishes it anyway. It’s saltier than usual.
******
Obi-Wan is usually an early riser, but the sun is above the horizon and turning the sky pink when he wakes. His whole body hurts from where he fell asleep sitting up and the tea cup is locked in his hand. He sets the tea cup down, stretching his arms and flexing his fingers. He places a hand on the small of his back, groaning softly as he rubs the muscles. When he glances up, Anakin is still asleep on Qui-Gon’s side of the bed, the sun’s rays lighting up his hair like gold fire. The thought of Qui-Gon sends a jolt of pain through his chest, stealing his breath, and then he’s looking at the two lightsabers on the nightstand, lying together where he left them.
As Obi-Wan slowly stands, staring out the window at the persistent sun, it occurs to him that perhaps Anakin didn’t interrupt him accidentally. He’s not entirely displeased by the thought.