Chapter Text
The operetta would start soon, but until then, guests milled around the box at their leisure, and Anakin did his best—while not forgetting why they had been invited—not to let it become a pervasive anxiety that stiffened his gestures until he was as rigid as machina.
They were here for the same reason that he found himself dressed and gilded like a polished trophy; they were on the marriage market, though unlike him, they all had their pick of choices. They could afford the luxury to seek out the wealthiest, the most powerful, the most well-bred, the most attractive.
In other words, they could chase the Star of the season and have reasonable expectations of catching it.
He wasn't sure why most of them had answered Mace's summons. A kindness extended to his wife Depa, perhaps, well liked as she was in society. That clearly hadn't changed while he'd been away.
And it wasn't as if he was a total stranger to the young men and women conversing all around him. Ferus was the one he was most familiar with, due to their shared schooling. They were far from friends, but at least they hadn't even come close to blows yet, which was a marvel in light of past history.
Padmé, Anakin knew by reputation. She had been above his station and away at boarding school for most of his life, but a beautiful girl was always a target of speculation for the rags, and thus, to the ton at large. It was a relief to see that she was not snooty and empty-headed, despite her vaunted passion for fashion; she spoke with a soft, confident manner and had a knack for smoothing over awkward gaps in conversations as if they didn't exist at all.
Riyo Chuchi, Anakin didn't know at all; she was a new face in town, the daughter of a diplomat. Not ton, but welcomed. Foreign aristocracy was exotic, thus desirable in the otherwise reliable and steady cast of characters that orbited Coruscant.
And Korkie…
Anakin struggled to be civil to him.
The young man didn't deserve to be treated poorly, for all that Anakin had zero interest in him or anything he had to say. As the heir to the Mandalore Duchy by way of his aunt, Korkie was uniquely positioned among them to be one of the most powerful people in the country, therefore the world. He was the youngest present at barely eighteen, and his somewhat sheepish, genuine behavior was almost embarrassing to engage with. Sincerity was not a common or cherished trait in high society.
But that wasn't why Anakin discreetly snubbed him. Korkie seemed a tolerable fellow, if uninspired, but he had the misfortune of being related to the one that had gotten away from Obi-Wan.
Whom he may still love, Anakin thought with a queasy clenching of his insides. He'd noticed that Obi-Wan sat in the Duchess’s box. How could he not? If there was any credence to all that balderdash about extrasensory perception, rather than being the work of charlatans, then Anakin possessed it in spades when it came to the matter of the Viscount of Stewjon. If Obi-Wan was somewhere in the vicinity, the air changed in some undefinable way that Anakin lacked the words to describe. He was a scientist, not a poet. And thus, the law was that when Obi-Wan entered a given radius, Anakin would know.
And would seek him out.
Even after all this time.
His early dinner threatened to crawl up his throat. Casting up his accounts would reflect incredibly poorly on him and his sponsor, so Anakin swallowed back the self-loathing and attempted to drag a hand through his hair, only to remember that it wasn’t to be touched, that Depa had clicked her tongue in the carriage and pulled out a comb and styling gel from her purse, doing something with his wavy curls to tame them. Dark magic, potentially.
He met her dark gaze now and hastily lowered his hand.
Below the stage, the orchestra filed into the pit. The lights in the House flickered three times in a rhythmic pulse, signaling that the audience should take their seats.
Noticing this, Riyo, Padmé, and Korkie murmured their parting pleasantries and exited. Ferus, due to his status as an Order member, was implicitly expected to remain, and did.
Anakin used his Galilean binoculars to confirm that Obi-Wan remained in the Duchess’s box, a bit of flagrant self-torture that he had thought himself to be well past. What madness, what defect of his mind, evoked such yearning to pull at scabs? What benefit lay in such an act of harm?
The Duchess had her hand on Obi-Wan’s forearm, their heads bent in intimacy.
They looked… good together. Fair of coloring, similar in height, with an ease of decades of shared experiences, together and apart. The Duchess of Mandalore had never married. Neither had Obi-Wan.
Anakin knew the old tale, though. Everyone did. The ton wasn't exempt from loving a tragic fairytale.
Once, Anakin had been convinced that he was Obi-Wan's happy ending. Now, he could only be certain that he'd been irritated by Korkie’s sincerity due the bitter reminder of his own.
Love made fools out of all men. And Anakin was no exception.
The lights dimmed again, three steady pulses. A hush fell over the crowd as a violin note began in the darkness, the held breath before the curtains rose and the operetta began.
In his own life, those curtains had long revealed the cast, and he hadn't been the fortunate beloved taking shelter in the arms of their intended. He'd been something else. A debt, an obligation.
Anakin did not point the binoculars at the Duchess’s box again for the rest of the night, not even during the intermissions where the old song and dance of socializing resumed even as the actors on the stage below prepared to finish their tale.
He absolutely needed to speak to Obi-Wan one last time, rip off the scab. That was half the reason he'd returned to town. What was he to do, swallow thickly and wrestle with his demons for the rest of his life when their paths crossed?
No. Anakin deserved to be set free, even if it was from the horrible whisper of but what if inside his own head. One final meeting. One more chance to offer up his heart.
And then he’d move on.
If pressed on what the story on stage had been, Anakin would have floundered and then ultimately shrugged, annoyed. Fortunately, no one asked; no one cared. Windu offered to take Ferus back to Dexter’s, since they were already dropping Anakin off, but Ferus, in that officious way he had of one-handedly speaking for Anakin that reminded him exactly of why they’d clashed so often, turned him down, and instead said he and Anakin would be hailing a cab to the club, which was on the opposite side of town to the Windus’ house.
Anakin would have been angrier, but it spared him from the tête-à-tête of how the evening had gone. Even if he was sure he’d upheld his end of the bargain and behaved himself, Anakin was in no mood for a review.
So he stayed his tongue and didn’t contradict Ferus. Just went along with it as if it were something they’d decided together.
To avoid the gridlock as people fled the Coruscant Opera House in favor of bed and other entertainment, Ferus and Anakin walked several blocks on foot, then hailed down an automated cab. Ferus inputted the address for Dexter’s into the console, and then they both sat within the confines, their knees almost touching. Automated cabs weren’t known for their spaciousness.
Or, as they rumbled over a pothole, the entire frame shaking, their smooth ride.
For lack of anything to say, Anakin peered out the window at the darkened shops they passed. He was preoccupied with how to carry out his plan, now that he’d decided on a course of action.
Ferus bluntly asking, “Why have you not joined the university?” was not an opening volley Anakin was ready for.
“I went abroad.”
“Not to school, you didn’t,” Ferus said, as if he somehow had the ability to check the student roster of every technological institute on the continent.
Definitely bringing back why Anakin used to loathe him. “Classrooms aren’t the only way to learn.”
“You’ve been apprenticing, then?”
“No,” Anakin answered shortly.
“But you’ve been doing something. You would rather cut off your hands than stay still for three years.”
Anakin glanced sidelong at Ferus. Not appreciating that someone so irritating knew him that well. Or that Ferus was that interested.
Their knees knocked together. Anakin did his best to summon space from nowhere to pull his leg away. “What part of this conversation will tip you off that I don’t want to discuss where I’ve been, or what I’ve been doing?”
Ferus looked thoughtful. “Stop being so defensive, Skywalker. You might be reckless and cocky—”
“Me?!”
“—but you were one of the brightest at the academy, and obsessed with the work besides. I braced to deal with your childish attitude at the university, only to hear after the fact that you’d vanished from town. Are you planning to join now?”
And he called Anakin cocky? “That’s none of your business, Olin. The subject is closed,” Anakin bit out, his tolerance running dry.
Ferus sighed, as if finding him tiresome. But he didn’t continue prodding, and Anakin didn’t have to discover how to punch someone in the jaw without elbow room.
—
THE CORUSCANT CHATTERER
Primeday 20th, 3rd Month
The mystery of where young Mr. A. Skywalker, adopted son of the departed Earl of Serenno and Mrs. Skywalker, has been since his coming of age is not yet solved, but we do know where he is now—and that’s in the marriage market.
Formerly the Viscount of Stewjon’s ward after the passing of his parents, we dare not speculate on Mr. Skywalker’s personal finances, but he appears to be sponsored by one-time friend of the Serenno-Jinn family, the Earl of Essel. Now, you know me, readers: I cannot help but spy a contradiction. Why now—and why Lord Windu? Why not Lord Kenobi?
If anything, that’s the true question we’ve been asking all these many years, isn’t it? Why not Lord Kenobi, indeed.
—
Obi-Wan set the paper down on the breakfast table. It wasn’t his habit to read the gossip rags, but between Quinlan’s hedging and the events at the opera house, he now had excellent reason for sending out the houseboy to procure a copy of the most salacious publication around, the Coruscant Chatterer.
Could one sue a gossip rag? He stroked his beard, contemplating the logistics. A libel suit, perhaps?
Maybe later. He had a more pressing matter at hand.
Mainly, as always: Anakin.
It hadn’t occurred to him that outside of their admittedly healthy social circle, others would be so vested in their relationship. Discovering that it went far beyond the confines of close friends and Order members, people had fully anticipated that he would marry his own ward.
That Anakin had thought so as well, when Obi-Wan could frankly say that… he hadn’t. Ever.
Oh, Anakin was a beautiful boy. Complicated, brilliant, difficult, loving, brash. He’d been the sun at the center of Obi-Wan’s life from the moment he’d taken Anakin’s hand into his during the funeral and made his peace the new alignment of his being. From then on, it was Obi-Wan’s highest priority to educate, protect, and love the son of his mentor, to honor the wishes of his wife. Anakin would grow up honorable, strong, and above all, free.
Free to choose his own path in life. To have the best of all worlds: the well-bred upbringing of a noble, but beholden to none of the strict rules and demands. Shmi had married for love, not for wealth, but he could still recall the regret on her face as she’d gazed out over a glittering ballroom, looking small and cold. She would have been much happier if Qui-Gon had been a cobbler, not an earl.
She hadn’t expressed as much, but Obi-Wan had read between the lines. She had feared Anakin would marry for the wrong reasons, to maintain his way of life as an earl’s son who could not inherit.
Now it was happening, all because Obi-Wan had reacted without restraint, without considering how Anakin would react—that Anakin’s feelings for him ran true and hot enough for him to leave and stay away, rather than permit Obi-Wan to argue him away from what was clearly a naïve delusion of love. The rift had formed, and Obi-Wan, grasping that this wasn’t youthful infatuation, had decided to let events play out. Distance and time would cool Anakin’s regard for him.
But in the meantime, he hadn’t had certain important, frank discussions with Anakin about his future—about what Obi-Wan had intended for him—not wedding bells, but security, and a lifelong offer of friendship.
So no, contrary to what others plainly believed, he had not been waiting to pounce like some sort of Gothic villain on his vulnerable ward. Insulting as it was that they believed him capable of such lechery, it was even more disturbing that they approved, as if destiny trumped questionable morals.
His next step was obvious. Anakin was in dire need of rescue, to understand that he need not deliver himself like chattel to the highest bidder.
And if he’s marrying for love?
Obi-Wan drummed his fingers on the table, reluctant to entertain the possibility, but refusing to dismiss it. Then… Obi-Wan would do right by Qui-Gon and Shmi and verify the love match was a true one on both ends. But really, Anakin had only come out the night before. His heart wasn’t so fickle. Once he grasped that Obi-Wan was still his stalwart ally, still the man who had raised him, the whole matter would be resolved. Apologies would be extended to Windu, and Anakin would…
Anakin would? Leave again? Obi-Wan shifted, suddenly uncomfortable despite the cozy familiarity of the breakfast room. Well, he’d cross that bridge when it came to it. Anakin was a man grown now; he might have dreams and aspirations that Obi-Wan could only guess at.
Cody entered with the morning's post on a silver tray, setting it beside Obi-Wan's cooling cup of tea. "The usual invitations, my lord. Lady Ti requests your presence at her soirée, the Organas are hosting a garden party—"
"Thank you. Please set them aside; I shan’t be attending social functions until further notice." Obi-Wan said. Too much was on his plate.
"My lord." Cody's tone carried a pointed edge. His butler reserved that for major crises, which meant either the sky was about to collapse over the city, or the Lord Chancellor himself was on the doorstep. "I would advise a closer inspection."
Without another word, Obi-Wan reached for the pile. Beneath the cream-colored cards with their elegant script, one envelope stood apart—heavy paper, a distinct orange shade, with a green wax seal.
His fingers worked the seal with more haste than dignity. Inside, no lengthy preamble, no artful turns of phrase. Just Anakin's instantly recognizable handwriting; tiny, the way he filled blueprints and sketches with hundreds of comments and notes:
We need to talk. Meet me at 3 in the billiards room.
Obi-Wan read it twice. This was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? Though that it was Anakin reaching out first quickened his pulse. The lack of courtesy could augur either ill or good.
"Shall I lay out your afternoon attire, my lord?" Cody asked.
"Yes," Obi-Wan said, still staring at the note. "Yes, I believe you should."
—
Five minutes before the chronometer on the wall rang at the appointed hour, Obi-Wan knocked on the billiard room door and then opened it without waiting for an answer. It was a public use room, after all, which could not have escaped Anakin’s notice, even if he was new to the establishment.
In other words, far from the intimacy of meeting in their rooms on the floors above. This was a statement. But much like the terse note, Obi-Wan could not reliably parse the intent. This was novel for him, so accustomed to navigating the inner workings of Anakin’s kind. Unpleasantly so.
The billiard room was vacant so early in the day. After dinner and port, members would trickle in to play a game, but that would not be for hours yet. And so, Anakin was the sole occupant waiting for him.
Anakin sprung up from his armchair with alarming speed, then collected himself. His expression was complicated, but his nervousness was plain. As was the determined tension firming his jaw.
For the first time in years, they faced each other in private. No distance or crowds or music to fill the gaps and dull the edges.
"Anakin," Obi-Wan spoke first, feeling that he ought, partly to gain some control over the meeting and partly to make up for the cut direct during the Windu ball. He stepped forward, allowing the door to shut behind him.
Gods, how awkwardly Mr. Skywalker had fit in his mouth. Yet anything else would have been improper, and Obi-Wan had been determined to maintain propriety, if nothing else.
"Obi-Wan." Anakin's voice was steady, though his hands betrayed him, flexing at his sides, then stilling with visible effort. "Thank you for coming."
"Of course." Obi-Wan gestured toward the chairs. "Shall we sit?"
Anakin hesitated, then shook his head. “No. This won't take long."
That could not possibly bode well. Obi-Wan chose to continue as he’d begun, for he had to explain, to show Anakin that he was not without options. “Anakin, listen; I acted wrongly in our last meeting. In our last meetings.”
Anakin's composure cracked, just slightly. "What?”
"What I mean to say is—" Obi-Wan took a breath, gathering his thoughts. “I have been remiss and cruel. You need not feel compelled to enter into a mercenary arrangement. I know your circumstances have changed, that you believe you must secure your future through marriage, but—"
"Obi-Wan—"
"Please, let me finish." He stepped closer, urgency driving him forward. He missed the flicker of hope crossing Anakin’s face. "I should have made this clear that day. You have always had a place, always had security, by my side if you wanted it—I’d dared to imagine you’d choose that, you… I was caught off guard by what happened between us, and I reacted with fear, when I should have…” He trailed off, unsure of where he was going with that. What should he have done?
Anything but what he actually had, arguably. But Obi-Wan could not say whether what was most regrettable was shoving Anakin away and sending him off like a misbehaving child, or that he’d taken leave of his senses and kissed Anakin back.
“I shouldn’t have let you go.” Obi-Wan settled for a truth that didn’t address either flaw but nonetheless spoke to the heart of the matter. “That was wrong of me. I let you walk out of our home with too much unspoken and failed to correct my mistake for far too long.” He swallowed thickly. “And this has led you to a choice I never wanted for you.” That Shmi had not wanted for her son, but his brain strained to speak faster, make his case as if he’d run out of steam if he wasted his words.
“Last night, watching you, was intolerable.” Obi-Wan spoke from the heart, the frustration of having been forced to sit idly by and watch the spectacle unfold coming through in the way he bit out intolerable. That had been a singularly galling experience, and only Satine’s even-keeled reminder to retain his dignity had prevented his abrupt exit.
“Last night,” Anakin echoed, skeptical, studying Obi-Wan. “And what was intolerable about that?”
“Everything. It shouldn’t have happened. You deserve so much better than that. Which is why, if you’ll forgive me for allowing this all to spiral…” Obi-Wan had been shortening the distance all along; now he extended his hand, palm up. “I wish to make things right, dear heart.”
Though his bewilderment was apparent, Anakin’s expression softened, his bottom lip catching on his teeth for a beat. Obi-Wan held the hand out faithfully, giving Anakin a moment to process what was understandably an uncharacteristic display of emotional frankness from him.
Obi-Wan was not ashamed of his emotions, but he was of the belief that it was best not to be ruled by them, to allow them to pass through rather than settle and grow roots. In that sense, he was the antithesis of Anakin, who structured his inner world around what he felt, what he saw, what he experienced. Many times their arguments had stemmed from this intrinsic difference, but Obi-Wan had never been able to find it in himself to say that he’d prefer Anakin to be different, to be more like him.
Because if he was more like Obi-wan, then he’d be less like Anakin.
Anakin’s throat clicked as he swallowed. He stared at Obi-Wan as if weighing the odds that Obi-Wan had lost his mind, or perhaps worse yet, that he would fail him again.
Finally, his fingers curled into Obi-Wan’s waiting palm, the touch settling something in his chest that Obi-Wan hadn’t realized until then had been straining, a clockwork motor with a snagged windup. Thank the stars; Anakin was willing to hear him out.
Obi-Wan tentatively curled his own fingers to meet Anakin’s, surprised that they were so rough. Anakin had always fiddled with machina components, but this was extreme. Those calluses spoke not of experiments and hobbies, but of grueling work.
Guilt settled on Obi-Wan’s shoulders. “Dear heart,” he started, no longer rushing ahead to beat back Anakin’s refusal. “You need not marry for money. I will finance your lifestyle, which I know will not be one spent indolently or luxuriously, that your great purpose in life is to invent and push progress along. In that sense, I hope you can come to consider me a partner, if not an investor, in the bright future you have ahead of you.”
Anakin’s fingers spasmed and then went still. He blinked, some of the hazy tenderness clearing from his eyes. “I… would like that?” he said, though he sounded unsure.
Obi-Wan smiled at him encouragingly. Anakin returned it in a small, uncertain way. “I wish only the best for you, as I always have. Focus on your studies, on your work, and let marriage be a joyful development when the time is right, with the person who stirs you as much as machina does.”
Anakin’s small smile froze.
"Marriage," Anakin repeated. "With someone else."
"When you're ready, of course," Obi-Wan said, sensing Anakin had an issue with that. "There's no rush. You're young still, you have time to find someone suitable. Someone who—"
"Let go of my hand."
The demand cut the air like a blade. Obi-Wan blinked, finally registering the fury building in Anakin's eyes.
"Anakin—"
"Let go."
Obi-Wan released him immediately, confusion warring with concern. "I don't understand. I thought—"
“You thought!” Anakin’s laugh was ugly, raspy. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it a mess, physically vibrating with anger. “I thought so too. We were both wrong.”
“Pardon me?” Obi-Wan took a step back, then changed his mind before his back foot had even settled. He’d seen Anakin upset before, even furious. But not like this. This, by equal measures, broke his heart and frightened him.
Anakin crossed his arms, holding onto his elbows, scoring Obi-Wan with a vicious glare. “I assure you, we were having two very different conversations, but I am now caught up.”
"Anakin, please—"
"I don't want your money, Lord Kenobi." Anakin’s glare whittled him down until Obi-Wan felt scraped raw. "I have not been your obligation for three years now, and I never will be again. You can mark my words on that.”