Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing to go are the colors.

In his nineteen years in the galaxy, Anakin has never held any particularly strong opinions on colors. While he appreciates the warm gradient of a Tatooine sunset or the verdant foliage of Naboo as much as the next Jedi, he certainly doesn't spend hours mulling over art or debating the merits of cerulean versus argora’s egg blue.

But he notices when they fade.

One morning, Anakin throws open the small window of his Temple chamber and takes a deep breath of the morning air, noting the slight sting of cold in his lungs, the nip of the changing weather against his fingertips. The view is not the most colorful of scenes: all permacrete and durasteel and glass. It is, however, one with which he is intimately familiar, the first sight that greets him each morning when he continues the tradition he’d begun back when he was nine years old, marveling at the sense of freedom, that he could see everything and go anywhere.

But today, something seems just a bit off, especially the speeders, blurring shots of blue and green and yellow. Everything appears a little…dull. Not dull even, just lacking a certain degree of vibrancy. Anakin glances up to the sky, expecting to find it overcast, but there isn't a single cloud hindering his view. It's so empty he could probably see clear into atmo with the right equipment.

He blinks blearily and then shrugs, turning from the window with a yawn. The color thing must be due be exhaust build-up from the morning speeder traffic.

Obi-Wan is making tea when Anakin wanders into the kitchen to make his instant caf — because of course he is; he’s everywhere lately, inescapable even when Anakin is alone with his own thoughts.

He doesn't realize he's staring until Obi-Wan raises a brow at him.

“Do I have crumbs in my beard?”

Anakin jumps, startling out of his reverie, a disconcerting warmth crawling its way up his neck.

It certainly isn't the first time he's stared at his master (nor will it be the last, he's pretty kriffing sure, unless he gets hit over the head or, preferably, succeeds in tossing this new…problem back into the Force or wherever in the galaxy it had emerged from).

“No, you just…actually, um, yeah. Yes. Here.” Anakin mimes brushing the right side of his cheek, and Obi-Wan mimics the gesture, then looks questioningly at Anakin.

“Got it.”

“Thank you. Would hate to look the fool this morning. I have a meeting with Master Windu.”

Anakin winces, thankful he has training all morning and will not need to attend. He can only imagine the depth of the disapproving glower he would receive if Master Windu somehow picked up on Anakin’s new staring problem, and everything else he’s been struggling with since The Chin Incident last month.

“Happy to help,” he returns weakly, and then Obi-Wan gives him that smile that crinkles his eyes, and Anakin nearly gasps.

His eyes. His eyes aren't their normal shade — they’re just the tiniest bit less blue, more gray now than anything. He waits until Obi-Wan’s gaze has moved back down to his teacup before perusing his hair.

It's difficult to tell indoors because the burnished copper highlights always stand out more in sunlight, but his hair looks a bit darker, too.

Anakin slams down his shields instinctively as panic rises inside of him. (It’s an unnecessary gesture, as he’s been keeping the shields mostly closed for the past month, because, again. Problem.)

He knows it’s unwise to keep quiet, knows that Obi-Wan is the very first one he should tell if he suspects something odd is happening to him.

But what is he going to say? “Oh, by the way, Master, I noticed when staring into your eyes and forgetting how to breathe that maybe I might be going blind or something. Weird, right?”

He decides to wait a day or two and see if things improve.

They don't, but they also don't get any worse. Anakin decides that counts.

By a week later, he thinks that maybe he just imagined the whole thing and that Obi-Wan's eyes have always been this color, and thinking elsewise had just been a trick of his fickle and overactive imagination. Everywhere he looks — including the eyes and hair of every Jedi in his vicinity, not only the one with whom he shares quarters — colors all the seem the same as usual.

A week after that, he forgets all about it.

He does not, however, forget about The Chin Incident, nor is he as successful at giving his problem to the Force. If anything, he finds himself thinking about it more and more.

Tonight, he can’t sleep, and he tinkers idly with the language processing center of an old R2 unit while he lets his thoughts run free.

It’s easiest to call it attraction. Want. Desire, even, though that has the feel of a holodrama and not something anyone would actually say.

Such things are, of course, natural for many Jedi and are in no way forbidden. Only attachments are dangerous, with the passions that often accompany them. The negative emotions that can lead to the Dark Side. The dangerous imbalance of an unrequited, one-sided love that can lead to Hanahaki disease, a sickness where your midi-chlorians begin to turn against one another, destroying your ability to commune with the Force. (Of course, when they’d learned about that one, all of his agemates had asked their masters if they’d known anyone with Hanahaki, and not a single one had. So, as far as Anakin is concerned, it may well be an ancient load of bantha shit meant to creatively encourage future generations of padawans to complete their required meditation hours.)

“However, unlike attachments, dalliances are acceptable.” Anakin cannot recall the name of the poor, ancient Mon Calamari master who’d been tasked with giving a bunch of rowdy fourteen-year-olds The Jedi Relationship Talk during Ethics of the Jedi Code, but he remembers the man’s rumbly voice forging ahead despite the titters in the room. “They may be engaged in as long as consent is freely given by all participants, with minds unaltered by substances or mind manipulation of any kind. Dalliances can even be encouraged in some circumstances, if one finds them helpful in reducing the biological interference between one’s innermost being and the Force.”

The phrase “biological interference” had become an inside joke among his agemates, one they’d giggled about for weeks when they thought their masters weren’t listening.

The thing is, Anakin has dealt with biological interference before, and he is adept enough at resolving it by now, whether it be on his own or with someone else. One attempt with a fellow padawan where things had gotten messy on her end has put him off of the idea of an agemate, but a pretty stranger on a mission or down in the Lower Levels is always a pleasant way to spend a few hours.

But his problem doesn’t feel the same as the itch he gets when he craves intimacy, another body pressed to his, below him or inside him. It feels like more, like something complex and strangely beautiful, compelling when he pokes at it in his mind, trying to determine the shape of it, the essence.

But he’s probably just overthinking. The thought that it’s anything else…well, it isn’t. So that’s settled. It’s attraction. There. He can think it. Attraction. Want. Desire. Biological interference. He’s just building it up unnecessarily.

Of course, there is the fact that this very specific and thoroughly indefatigable desire is for his kriffing master.

Which isn’t precisely what he would call a small problem, if he were to be totally honest.

Nonetheless, it's there, and it has been there since one fateful day several weeks before.

They’d been sent on a simple diplomatic mission to Minola, a self-sufficient planet that normally kept to itself, and only a last-minute call had warned them that Obi-Wan would need to be clean shaven before interacting with the Minolians.

“The Minolians believe that one’s spirit shows through one’s face and nothing is meant to obscure it. In recent generations, this has translated to eschewing facial hair. To embark on this mission in your current state would be to show insensitivity to the culture at best, among other, more serious motives.”

“I see,” said Obi-Wan, nodding seriously at the blue-tinted holo of Madame Jocasta.

“I apologize for the late notice, Master Obi-Wan. It has been nearly four generations since our last mission to Minola, and our records have gotten a bit lax. I will see that they receive a full update with any other new information we gather.”

He thanked her, exchanged pleasantries, and ended the call.

“That’s ridiculous,” Anakin said after the holo shut off. “Surely you’re not going to shave just because—”

Obi-Wan shot him a quelling glance. “I am, actually. You don’t think we owe them the respect just because their traditions differ from our own?”

“No, of course not, Master. That’s not what I meant.”

“I should hope not.” When Anakin didn’t say anything further, Obi-Wan continued. “What’s the problem, then? It’s only hair. It will grow back.” As though he were missing it already, Obi-Wan’s hand came up to caress his carefully trimmed beard.

Anakin couldn’t explain where his reaction had come from, so he changed tactics. “I’m just afraid it might grow back all white. You are getting older, Master.”

“Yes, that’s clearly the issue here.” Obi-Wan’s tone was as dry as the sands of Tatooine.

A series of beeps indicated they would need to emerge from hyperspace shortly, and they went about normal landing procedures, conversation dropped.

After they were safely on the landing pad, Obi-Wan disappeared into the ‘fresher while Anakin waited for him outside of the ship, taking in the lush atmosphere of the planet. There were three suns, all at varying positions in the sky, and the area surrounding them was all green grass and purple trees. The very air had a floral tinge to its scent, but rather than being cloying, it was light and airy and subtly sweet, and Anakin found himself gulping down great lungfuls of it.

Then he heard a noise from the boarding ramp and turned to investigate. A silhouette of a man stepped out of the ship, the smallest of Minola’s suns setting directly behind him and highlighting the breadth and strength of the man’s shoulders. He turned, and the light struck the strong angle of his jaw. Anakin felt a deep thrum of heat in his gut, followed almost immediately by the realization that the profile and shoulders and chin all belonged, of course, to Obi-Wan.

It had only been a split second, maybe two. But it had changed everything.

Anakin lets his mind drift back to the present, to his master’s beard, which has now grown back into its former glory (sans a single white hair, because the Force can’t even allow Anakin that tiny victory). Which he has to stop himself from thinking about more often than he’d like to admit. He’s never once felt it, and he wants to know if the hair there feels as soft as it looks, if it’s rough, if it will scratch against his cheeks or lips or—

Anakin grits his teeth.

There. Attraction. Want. Desire.

That’s all it is.

He abandons his tools and stands. It’s late, but he might still be able to find an opponent at the salles. He has Trials to prepare for. (Not officially, not yet. But he wants to be ready when they finally come.)

##

Then the next day he sees Obi-Wan go out of his way to help a group of younglings trying to float tiny berries in the mess hall, and he’s smiling his full, real crinkly-eyed smile and being so patient and kind with them, and Anakin feels something inside his chest twist nearly to the point of pain.

In that instant, his own fruit drops onto the table, and he feels a split second of confusion. He must have been more distracted than he’d thought. He plays it off as a joke, making a worried face and complaining about how the younglings are all doing so much better than he is, and they all laugh.

His own laughter is hollow and fake.

This is not biological. This is not purely attraction.

Anakin has no idea what the problem is, but it’s…different. And whatever it is, it is most definitely not good. It feels good, like the most natural thing he’s ever felt, but logically, he knows that it’s very, very bad.

He has to figure out how to make it stop.

##

And then Padmé reappears as though sent by the Force itself as an answer to his conundrum, and he’s so relieved when his old, pre-adolescent feelings for her come flooding back that he embraces them whole-heartedly.

The galaxy picks up speed, and things happen one after another. His first solo mission is to guard the most beautiful woman in existence, and he kisses her. He rescues his mother from near death and returns her to a husband and family he’d known nothing about before leaving immediately to fly to the aid of his master, where he finds the beginnings of war and loses an arm to a blood red lightsaber. Dozens of Jedi are slain in his first battle, and he knows it is only the beginning of something even more terrible.

But she’s still beside him, this angel of a woman, and she wants to marry him, and he’s feeling too much and not enough, and he agrees before he can stop to think of the Code or Jedi or should or shouldn’t.

Anakin has never been good at thinking before he acts.

He doesn’t want to think.

They marry in secret the instant he’s released from the med bay.

By the time he realizes his mistake, it’s too late.

##

They try to make it work. They do.

But it’s clear almost from the start that they’re doomed.

Padmé is every good thing in the world. She is lovely and kind and committed to serving her people and making the galaxy a better place.

Yet that doesn’t mean that she’s right for him.

No one would be. Anakin is a Jedi, first and foremost, and it’s only days before the gravity of what he has done hits him. Before the cloud of the chaotic dust-storm of events can settle and he can begin to process everything. Before he can realize that a childhood idolization, a few kisses, and the trauma of a life-threatening situation are not a basis for a life together, nor do they erase feelings for someone else — someone who is not his wife, because he has a wife now — still lurking beneath the surface.

Still, he tries. Anakin tells himself that he can be a Jedi and respect the Order and serve the Republic while being a good husband. These things don’t need to be mutually exclusive just because some group of Jedi thousands of years earlier had thought so. After all, they certainly hadn’t envisioned future Jedi becoming generals of war, and Anakin is adapting to his new duties on that front better than he’d ever have imagined.

Even so, his determination cannot fix everything. Their relationship is made of Felucian glimmer-stones, beautiful but weak. It has no foundation upon which to stand, and when the cracks begin to form, secrecy and pressure and guilt wreaking havoc, there’s nothing underneath to keep it from crumbling.

Six months after the marriage, they mutually and quietly agree to have the papers drawn up.

“I’m sorry. I should never have asked this of you,” Padmé says, seated beside him on the edge of her bed.

“It isn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have agreed.”

“I can’t believe I got caught up in everything. I usually have a more level head.”

Anakin makes a playfully rueful expression. “That makes one of us.” It’s meant to make her laugh, and she does, patting his cheek as though she’s already moved past being his wife, as though they’ve never lain in this very bed together.

“Oh, Ani.” She sighs. “This was never going to work as a marriage, but I’d be happy to still call you a friend.”

Maybe she wouldn’t say that if she knew everything, but Anakin has no desire to tell her the additional, secret way he’s failed her as a husband, that while he hasn’t placed a finger on another in the past six months, while he dutifully casts out unfaithful thoughts, he can’t seem to release the constant, warm bubble of anxiety when Obi-Wan isn’t near, or the equally constant desire to pull him closer when he is.

He doesn’t want to hurt her any more than he already has.

Two weeks later, he has another brief reprieve from battle, flies to Coruscant, and stops by her home to sign on the dotted line, and that’s that.

Their marriage is over as quickly as it had begun.

He finds himself speechless as he hands the datapad and stylus back to her, and she smiles sadly.

“I’ll always care about you. Don’t forget that.”

“And I, you.”

“Don’t get yourself killed, alright?”

“I’ll try my best.”

##

Meanwhile, the fighting continues.

Time passes differently during war. Each day seems to last an eternity but pass by in a blink. It’s only been seven months since Geonosis, but it feels like entire lifetimes. He’s become a knight, gotten a padawan of his own, developed military instincts, and tried his best to lead in a way that will make his men proud.

Sometimes the effort of it all has Anakin so tired that he feels far older than his twenty years.

And yet, despite all his accomplishments, he feels constantly inadequate as a master, like he never quite knows what to tell Ahsoka when teaching moments arise. He has a few easily quotable nuggets he’d picked up throughout his time as a padawan, but when it comes time to share something of his own, he struggles.

He’s sure he’s going to mess up and tell her something very wrong at some point. He also knows he gives lip service to some elements of Jedi life that he himself has not yet mastered.

The subject of attachments comes up when they’re talking about Ventress, of all things, and Ahsoka makes a comment about how Obi-Wan seems to be flirting with her sometimes.

“That’s just a distraction technique,” Anakin scoffs.

“I don’t knooow,” she sing-songs. “Seems like something might be going on there.”

Anakin grits his teeth, his stomach revolting at the idea. “Trust me. I know him better than anyone, and besides being our enemy, she’s even not his type at all.”

“If you say so.”

“Plus, attachments are forbidden for Jedi.”

His eyes are on the flight controls, but he can practically hear her roll her eyes. “I know, Skyguy. That’s, like, one of the first things they teach at the creche.”

Which, in Anakin’s opinion, is actually a little messed up, even though he understands that it’s an important tenant of the Jedi code.

One that he has broken more than once, which he continues to break every single day, but that is neither here nor there.

“Then why even bring it up?”

“Just joking.”

He glances over, and something in her expression seems pensive, like she’s trying to put together a puzzle, but Anakin turns back to flying.

Hypocrite hypocrite hypocrite, his mind chants. As though he doesn’t find himself spending even more time thinking about Obi-Wan lately, now that he no longer has the distraction of trying to salvage his sad excuse of a marriage.

Anakin shakes off the thoughts and concentrates on the nav controls, loses himself in the numbers and the gauges and the Force. The act of piloting relaxes him, and he’s grateful for it.

A few hours later, they land on TIOW-389, a tiny uninhabited planet currently in the brief lull between extreme seasons. They’re meant to investigate the possibility of a Separatist base on the equally small twin planet which has a slightly better solar position that renders it habitable, but the scout report will only come at noon the next day. They have a full night to rest and prepare for the mission.

Ahsoka goes to sleep in her room, and Anakin knows the wise choice would be to do the same.

Sleep when you can. That’s another thing he’s learned. You’re never guaranteed a full night, not when ambushes or new intel or attacks can come at any moment.

But he doesn’t want to sleep, not just yet. He has things to work out. Not only because he wants to be a good example for Ahsoka and stop feeling like a hypocrite, but also for himself. He’s never been an expert at giving his feelings to the Force, but he has been doing an especially lousy job of it lately.

He decides on moving meditation instead of sleep, something he hasn’t done for weeks. After closing the door to his quarters, he strips down to his trousers and bare feet and takes a breath, going through a few warm-up moves before transitioning to katas. As he moves through the forms, he starts to feel the Force more clearly, and his thoughts begin to loosen and flow. He let his mind wander, finds thoughts and feelings, acknowledges each one, then lets them go. It gets easier as he continues, leaving no stone unturned in his mind.

The situation with Padmé is a challenge, but he is able to work through it, piece by piece.

Then he immediately feels guilty for moving on so quickly, for the comparative ease with which he’s been able to let that go when he has gone so long without being able to release a different attachment, one that has long surpassed the strictures of the Jedi Code.

The guilt is another struggle to release, but he perseveres, feeling light and nearly unstoppable when the burden floats away.

This is possibly the most productive session he’s ever had. He feels at one with the Force in a way he almost never achieves, even in moving meditation, and if he’s ever going to be able to let go of his feelings for Obi-Wan, now is the time.

And then, there they are.

Rooted deep and strong and flourishing. He inspects the feelings, the intricacies of them, the veins and arteries and the strong, beating heart. And instinctively, he knows this isn’t going to work.

But that doesn’t stop him from trying.

And trying.

And trying.

Anakin moves through his katas with desperation, going through routine after routine, and he is covered in sweat, muscles aching, and still, he tries again, tries so hard, and still, they haven’t gone.

He continues for so long that he nearly forgets himself. He is only two things, the Force and these feelings. And there, he finds something new, something he’s never felt before.

It’s a sense of calm and tranquility. As though these feelings are simply a part of him, that something deep inside his innermost being knows they aren’t for releasing. As though the Force itself has accepted and even approved of their presence.

They may not be in accordance with the Code, but they’re his. The Force doesn’t want them; the Force has practically given him its blessing.

And, finally, he has peace.

And after an eternity struggling with the feelings and coming to know them intimately, he knows the word “attachment” is woefully inadequate for what he harbors. The right word comes immediately, clicking into place like a speeder engine taken apart and put back together again, each part in perfect working order.

Love.

So much Force-forsaken love, and as he lets himself think the word, his chest expands, and he feels like he’s going to explode with it, that his lungs will crack and expand and shatter, and he’ll just be pieces left on the floor.

It’s swiftly followed by a wave of guilt, harsher this time. He should have let himself acknowledge what he’d been doing to Padmé, using her as a shield. She hadn’t deserved that.

He takes a breath, acknowledges the truth of the feeling, and then lets it go. It slips away with ease, so effortlessly it’s almost disconcerting.

This is one of the few times he’s ever been able to understand why Obi-Wan actually enjoys meditation.

And just as the thought occurs to him, he’s torn from said meditation by a beep indicating someone is at the entrance of the ship.

Anakin blinks, disoriented, seeing the small room around him for the first time in what feels like years. He’s surprised to find that he’s out of breath, his limbs weak and shaky, skin sticky with sweat, and he wants to lie down and get some water, preferably simultaneously. Instead, he reaches out with the Force and senses a signature he’d recognize anywhere. Obi-Wan. He’s both the first and last person Anakin wants to see right now, but he knows if he doesn’t answer the door that Obi-Wan may barge in regardless, if he’s concerned for Anakin or Ahsoka’s wellbeing. It isn’t as though he doesn’t know the code.

Then comes a wave of concern. Why is Obi-Wan visiting in the middle of the night? Maybe something is wrong, and if it’s bad enough that he can’t use the comms—

Anakin stalks to the entrance, grabbing a single white undertunic to fling around his torso on the way, then throws open the door, already on the alert.

“What’s wrong?”

When Obi-Wan doesn’t answer immediately, Anakin stops scanning their surroundings for threats to look at him. He is staring at Anakin with what appears to be mild alarm, and Anakin’s cheeks warm when he looks down and realizes a large swath of his chest is exposed by the hastily knotted tunic, covered in sweat from his exertions. Obi-Wan’s tone is dry when he finally asks, “Decide to get in some early morning drills?”

“It’s not—” Is it morning? He’d begun his moving meditation before midnight. He gazes past Obi-Wan once more, and indeed, the light is weak and lavender-hued, but it is light. Early enough that Anakin would most definitely have complained about an interruption in his sleep, had he actually been abed. “I was meditating, if you must know,” he says with an air of superiority, mostly to cover the fact that now that he’s no longer focused on impending danger, Obi-Wan’s appearance combined with his recent revelation is making him feel rather dizzy.

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows raise just a fraction. “On Mustafar?”

“Moving meditation.”

“Ah.”

“So, what is it?” Anakin doesn’t want to sound rude, but it’s better than I love you, which is the only thought pounding through his brain right now, and he most definitely can’t say that.

And then there’s a weight crushing his chest, because of course he can’t say it. He’ll never, ever be able to say it, and it’s one thing to come to terms with feelings and another thing entirely to realize that there’s no galaxy in which they’re going to be returned, and he’s just done both in the space of a few minutes. (Anakin has, of course, always known this, even from the very first inkling. He’s known it’s all him, that Obi-Wan will never feel the same way. But he’s never understood the depth of his attachment until now, and despite its familiarity, the pain of knowing everything he feels is unrequited is stunning in its intensity.)

“I just came over to see if you wanted a cup of tea.” Obi-Wan holds up a small, delicate wooden box with floral details along the sides, and Anakin wants to laugh but also cry but also kiss him and his kriffing tea.

“You came to my ship before dawn to see if I wanted to drink tea?”

“Well, I picked up a delightful brew last week, and it’s so rare that we get a peaceful morning. I just thought…but never mind. I apologize for interrupting your meditation.”

He’s turning away, and Anakin’s deep-seated self-preservation instinct is glad of it, yet he still finds himself blurting, “No.”

Obi-Wan swivels back to him. “No?”

“No, don’t leave. I can jump in the ‘fresher while you heat the water? Just try to keep quiet. Snips is still asleep.” Anakin moves aside to let him through, pressing hard against to the durasteel entryway to prevent any part of their bodies from accidentally touching.

“Sure.”

“How did you know I was awake?”

“I could feel you wrestling with something. Through the bond,” he admits, and Anakin has to turn around, hiding his expression under the guise of guiding Obi-Wan to the kitchen, as though he doesn’t already know where it is.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I just thought I could come to offer some assistance, if you are inclined to want any. And if not,” he shrugs, “we can just watch the sunrise together and enjoy a moment of quiet.”

“Great. I’ll just go…” Anakin gestures over his shoulder.

“I think that would be wise. I’ll get everything set up here.”

A few minutes later, Anakin is scrubbed clean and clad in fresh tunics (a full set, correctly tied this time), his hair still damp when he finds Obi-Wan setting up a small folding table and two chairs on the ground near the entrance ramp, out of view of the other ships and facing where Anakin assumes the sunrise will happen.

Anakin sits without a word, and Obi-Wan disappears into the ship and then reappears carrying the tea set he keeps stowed aboard. Anakin reaches out for the teapot to pour it, but Obi-Wan taps his fingers away gently in rebuke.

Anakin jerks back from the contact as though he’s been stung by a stingfly, but Obi-Wan doesn’t seem to notice. He just pours tea for both of them without a word, settles back in his chair, and blows gently into his teacup. He gazes out at the sky, which has faded from lavender to gray, just beginning to turn to blue.

“What a lovely planet. Too bad it’ll be hot enough to boil water in a week’s time.”

“Is it really that extreme?”

“According to the reports. Why else would this planet be uninhabited? I would stay here for the sunrise alone.”

Anakin hums in agreement. “It’s beautiful.”

The color reminds Anakin of something, and when Obi-Wan turns to meet his gaze, he realizes what it is.

It’s the shade of Obi-Wan’s eyes. What they used to be. Just a hint bluer than they are now.

Then it hits him like a blaster shot to the chest.

The colors.

He’s discovered throughout his life that there are a few things he experiences differently than other people, even other Jedi, due to his abnormally high midi-chlorian count. But what if…

“Do you think—” he stops, then reconsiders, his thoughts whirring.

“What is it?”

“Do you think there’s a possibility I see colors differently than you do?”

Obi-Wan frowns and takes a sip of tea, considering. “I suppose it’s possible. There truly is no way to know what people are experiencing when they see what they define as certain colors.” He makes a contemplative noise. “It’s actually quite subjective, now that I think about it. What an interesting concept.”

Anakin grinds his teeth, panic beginning to claw at his throat. “No, no. I mean, yes, that’s interesting and whatever, but I mean, like, because of the Force. My midi-chlorians. Do you think maybe I see more colors? Or, I don’t know. Deeper. Brighter.”

“Why? Do you think you do?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“Well, we’ve noted differences due to your midi-chlorian count before. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve proven an exception. A naturally heightened sense.” He nods slowly. “Yes, that would make sense. Why do you ask?”

Anakin doesn’t answer, couldn’t even if he wanted to. His ability to release his feelings to the Force, so effortless only a short time ago, has completely deserted him. He can barely even think.

There’s no way. It doesn’t even exist. There’s no way.

It’s been a year since that morning he’d opened the window and noticed that the world looked just a little less vibrant than before. He’d dismissed the entire thing as a weird delusion, but what if he’d been wrong?

He thinks of Obi-Wan’s not-as-blue eyes, his hair that’s just a hint less red than it used to be. Than Anakin used to see it. Perceive it.

He thinks of all the times in the past year when the Force has behaved slightly differently than he’d expected it to, when he has had to add just a smidge more energy than he’d calculated, his aim just a hair off, his jump a few centimeters too short.

His mouth goes dry, but his throat is so tight he doesn’t think he can drink the tea Obi-Wan has so carefully prepared.

“I need to go check on something.”

He sets the teacup down carelessly, and it clatters against the saucer. He knows it’s a testament to the fact that Obi-Wan had sensed his distress earlier that he doesn’t comment on it.

Anakin’s shields are up now, slammed tight and sealed shut, and it’s all he can do to walk instead of run to his quarters.

He powers up his datapad with shaking fingers and searches “Hanahaki disease” and then slides to the floor next to his bed, waiting while it sifts through the thousands of files. He has the standard set of reference files every Jedi carries, about diplomacy and healing and history among other subjects, now bolstered by hundreds more on military protocol and battle strategies.

But none of the military files have anything on this. There are only two entries from the standard Jedi dataset. The first seems to be a list of recorded cases of the disease — apparently there have been a few dozen documented cases since the beginning of the records. While rare, it certainly isn’t the legend he’s always assumed.

The other is a simple reference page, dry and impersonal and casually destroying Anakin’s entire life in a few lines of text.

Hanahaki Disease

Cause: Unrequited love

Effects: Midi-chlorian count diminishes, resulting in complete loss of Force sensitivity

Cure: None

Note: Though not a cure, the only known effective intervention is intensive mind manipulation to remove the object of subject’s attachment from their memory entirely.

See also: Attachment, Diseases (Incurable), Force Sensitivity, Jedi Code, Meditation, Midi-chlorians

Underneath the summary, there is a long, detailed explanation, but a quick scan reveals that the words midi-chlorians begin attacking one another and unknown and limited data.

He jumps to the end, heart thundering in his chest. There has to be a cure.

But there isn’t. The article only reiterates that no cure has ever been found.

There is only slightly more information about the intervention method.

The intervention must take place while the subject’s body still contains a measurable midi-chlorian count. It is a precise and strenuous task, requiring at least three highly trained Jedi; more if the subject has a long history with the object of their attachment. All memories featuring the object must be exterminated in order for the intervention to be effective. Though only performed on a limited number of subjects, all who have undergone the process have returned to their former midi-chlorian count within one standard month. Despite the perfect success rate, it is not considered a true cure due to the high cost to the subject.

Anakin can’t move. He can’t breathe.

He has Hanahaki disease.

He, Anakin Skywalker, of the midi-chlorian count so high that he’d been called The Chosen One, has a disease that’s going to drain away every bit of his Force sensitivity.

He’s not going to be able to be a Jedi anymore. He won’t even be able to feel the Force.

Anakin doesn’t have any idea how to be anything other than a Jedi; it’s all he’s wanted since even before he was nine years old. He would have settled for being a pod racer then, but the idea is laughable now. He could join the GAR in a regular, non-Jedi position, but the only thing getting him through this war is the knowledge that one day, it will end. A wild thought of going back to his mother on Tatooine, taking up farming with her new husband, enters his mind, and it’s absurd. He loves his mother, of course he does, and he desperately wants to visit her again, wants to get to know her and learn her story and remember what her hand feels like clasped between his, learn how it will feel now that his hands are larger than hers.

But then he wants to leave, to return to his life as a Jedi, because that’s his calling. That is what he does, is who he is.

He has never lived without the Force, wouldn’t even be able to begin to comprehend the very concept. He’s felt the Force every moment since he developed the ability to form memories and, he imagines, before that. Even in his darkest moments, when the negative emotions get the best of him and he can feel the slithering tug of the Dark Side, the Force is there with him, keeping him grounded in the Light. (He knows that isn’t how it works, not really, but that’s the way it feels.)

He doesn’t know how to exist without the Force.

But.

The only alternative, the only way he’d be able to become a Jedi again would be to forget Obi-Wan.

Pain invades every cell of his body as dozens upon dozens of memories flood his head. He can’t forget Obi-Wan. That would be…it would be to forget over half of his life. It’s unthinkable.

To throw away every single experience they’ve had together. To forget every morning tea, every raised eyebrow, every dry quip, every piece of advice, every sparring match, all of the quiet moments and the rare smiles and the inside jokes and the feeling of camaraderie they’ve developed in the past year. It would be like throwing away a piece of himself, like carving out an essential organ and expecting his body to continue functioning without it.

He won’t give up Obi-Wan. He can’t.

And yet, if Anakin isn’t a Jedi, if he doesn’t even have the Force, what is he?

No matter what he chooses, he’s going to lose everything.