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The scent of burnt sugar and Coruscanti sweet-spice fills the kitchen of the modest, sunlit apartment they now call home. It is October 8th, exactly fourteen years since the galaxy didn’t fracture, and Anakin is currently losing a battle against a multi-layered cake.
"If you use the Force to level that frosting, it’s going to taste like ozone, Anakin," Obi-Wan says smoothly.
He doesn't look up from the countertop where he is meticulously slicing meelofrit fruit. His hair is heavily salted with gray now, his beard trimmed close, but the dry, grounding warmth of his presence in the Force remains entirely unchanged. Anakin huffs, setting down the spatula. He is forty-six, his cybernetic right hand clicking faintly as he flexes his fingers. The phantom weight of five dark, terrible days—fourteen years ago, before Obi-Wan pulled him back from the edge of an abyss—still lingers in the quietest corners of his mind. But today is not for ghosts. Today is for the twins.
"I’m not using the Force," Anakin grumbles, though a stray crumb floats back onto the platter. "I’m using technique. There’s a difference."
Obi-Wan steps into his space, his shoulder brushing comfortingly against Anakin’s. He catches Anakin's flesh hand, squeezing it briefly. "Of course. My apologies to the master chef."
The front door chimes, and the peaceful bubble of the morning bursts into a flurry of chaotic, youthful energy. Luke and Leia burst into the dining area, talking over one another in a rapid-fire rhythm that has characterized their entire lives.
"Happy birthday!" Anakin booms, abandoning the cake to pull both of them into a rib-crushing hug.
Leia laughs, her dark hair woven into intricate braids that she’s clearly spent an hour perfecting. Luke melts into the hug, their smile bright and familiar, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Obi-Wan steps forward, offering a more measured but deeply affectionate embrace to each.
"Fourteen," Obi-Wan murmurs, a soft, rare look of pure vulnerability crossing his face. "Where does the time vanish to?"
"To the Senate, hopefully," Leia says promptly, sliding into a chair at the dining table. She sits perfectly straight, an inherent regality to her posture that always reminds Anakin so sharply of Padmé it catches in his throat.
Anakin blinks, setting down a platter of pastries. "The Senate? Leia, you're fourteen. You're supposed to be complaining about hover-scooter regulations, not writing them."
Leia leans forward, her eyes flashing with an ambition that is entirely her own. "Uncle Bail and Aunt Breha called from Alderaan this morning. They’ve officially cleared the path for me to enter the junior diplomatic corps. I’m starting my political apprenticeship next month."
Anakin’s jaw drops slightly. He looks to Obi-Wan for assistance, but his husband is merely smiling, a look of profound, unsurprised respect on his face.
"An apprentice legislator," Obi-Wan says softly. "Bail mentioned he was impressed by your thesis on outer-rim trade taxation, but I hadn’t realized he’d fast-tracked the appointment. Congratulations, my dear."
"Wait, wait," Anakin says, holding up his hands, waving a towel. "Alderaan? That's halfway across the galaxy. You're going to be living in a palace? Dealing with politicians? Leia, they're vipers. I've killed half of them—metaphorically!" he quickly amends at Obi-Wan's sharp look.
"I can handle them, Dad," Leia says, her tone fiercely confident. "Besides, Aunt Breha promised I’ll have my own security detail, and I'll be learning statecraft from the best. It's what I want. I want to make a difference where the war left scars."
Anakin feels a familiar ache in his chest, a mixture of terrifying protectiveness and overwhelming pride. He reaches out, tapping Leia’s nose. "You’re going to run the galaxy before you’re twenty, aren’t you?"
"That’s the blueprint," she smirks.
"And what about you, Luke?" Obi-Wan asks, turning his warm gaze to the other twin. "Have you got news to share?"
Luke has been unusually quiet, fiddling with the hem of an oversized, soft gray tunic, shifting their weight from side to side. Luke looks up, glancing toward the hallway where a familiar, Togrutan form is quietly waiting. Ahsoka Tano steps into the archway, her arms crossed over her chest, a supportive, encouraging smile on her face. She gives Luke a tiny nod. Luke takes a deep breath, looking directly at Anakin, then at Obi-Wan.
"I’ve been talking a lot with Aunt Ahsoka lately," Luke begins, their voice quiet but steady. "About... who I am. How I feel in my own skin. And how the Force moves through me."
Anakin feels a sudden, sharp spike of anxiety—not at Luke, but for them. He steps closer to the table. "What is it, Luke? You know you can tell us anything."
"I know," Luke says, a soft smile breaking through their nerves. "That's why I am. I’m not a boy, Dad. I don’t feel like one. I’ve tried to fit into that box, but it just feels like wearing clothes that are three sizes too small." Luke pauses, swallowing hard. "I’m androgynous. I don’t want to be called a son, or a brother. I just want to be me. Your kid. Leia’s sibling."
The room falls into a profound silence. Anakin stands frozen, his mind racing. He thinks of his own youth—the rigid labels of slave, Padawan, Jedi, monster, hero. He remembers how heavily those titles suffocated him. He looks at Luke, who is watching him with wide, hopeful, terrifyingly vulnerable eyes. Anakin moves before his thoughts can fully process. He crosses the space between them and pulls Luke into a fierce, tight embrace, burying his face in their blond hair.
"You are my kid," Anakin chokes out, his voice thick with emotion. "You are exactly who you are supposed to be. I am so proud of you, Luke. So proud."
Luke lets out a ragged breath, clinging to Anakin’s tunic, their shoulders shaking slightly with relief. Over Luke’s shoulder, Anakin catches Ahsoka’s eye. She looks incredibly proud, a soft sheen of tears in her own eyes. When Anakin finally releases Luke, Obi-Wan is right there. He steps forward, his expression deeply contemplative, his analytical mind already spinning a thousand miles a minute, but his eyes are brimming with absolute devotion.
"Well," Obi-Wan says, his voice crisp but laced with immense tenderness. "This is a momentous day. A politician and an androgynous teenager. I suppose this means we have a significant amount of adjusting to do."
Luke blinks, wiping a stray tear. "Adjusting?"
Obi-Wan pulls a data-pad from his pocket, tapping the screen with an air of immense gravity. "Naturally. We must consider the logistical implications. First and foremost, Luke—or rather, my dear child—does this mean we need to completely redecorate your quarters? If the traditional binary layout no longer suits your identity, I can source new textiles. Do we require more neutral tones? A different cut of tunics? I can contact the tailors on Corellia; they have marvelous linen blends that are entirely non-restrictive."
Luke stares at Obi-Wan, a bewildered, joyful laugh bubbling out of them. "Papa, my room is fine. I like my model skyhoppers."
"Yes, but do the skyhoppers reflect your true self?" Obi-Wan presses, perfectly serious, though his eyes are twinkling. "And what of your diet? Does an ontological shift require a change in nutrition? More protein? Less synthetic sugars? I read a medical journal from the mid-rim suggesting that adolescence combined with self-actualization demands a heightened caloric intake."
"Obi-Wan," Anakin laughs, throwing his arm around his husband’s waist. "They’re androgynous, they didn't turn into a different species."
"I am merely being thorough!" Obi-Wan protests, though he leans heavily into Anakin's side, his hand coming to rest over Anakin's cybernetic fingers. He looks back at Luke. "And what of your favorites? Does this alter your preference for bantha-hide boots? Or your stance on starfighter schematics?"
"I still love the T-16, Papa," Luke laughs, the last of their tension completely evaporating. "And I still hate green vegetables."
"A pity," Obi-Wan sighs. "I hoped a profound personal revelation might cure your aversion to nutrition."
Leia leans her chin on her hand, watching her family with a look of supreme satisfaction. "See? I told you they'd be weird about it, but the good kind of weird."
"Hey," Anakin points a finger at Leia. "I am not weird. I am incredibly cool and understanding."
"You cried when I cut my own hair last year, Dad," Leia points out.
"Because you used a vibro-blade, Leia! You could have decapitated yourself!"
Ahsoka laughs, finally stepping fully into the kitchen to grab a piece of the meelofrit fruit. "They're doing great, Skyguy. Both of them."
Anakin looks around the table. He looks at Leia, who is already drafting a galaxy-changing future in her mind. He looks at Luke, who looks lighter, freer, and more grounded than they ever have before. And he looks at Obi-Wan—the man who refused to let him fall into darkness, the man who stood by him through the grief of losing Padmé, the man who learned how to change diapers and soothe night terrors right alongside him. His husband.
"Alright," Anakin says, clapping his hands together. "The cake might look like a thermal detonator exploded near it, but it’s time for breakfast. Sit down, everyone."
As they all gather around the table, Obi-Wan catches Anakin’s hand beneath the surface, tracing the knuckles of his prosthetic. Anakin looks over, meeting the brilliant, steady blue of Obi-Wan’s eyes.
We did good, Anakin thinks, sending the wave of emotion through their bond in the Force.
We are doing good, Obi-Wan corrects softly in return, squeezing his hand. Every single day.