Work Text:
“You must absorb the pain and let it go,” Ferus said.
“I’m not in pain,” Anakin said back, his teeth gritted, his fingers curled around the hilt of his lightsaber. “I’m angry.”
He itched to push past Ferus, to go after the civilians who’d taunted him, played with his braid, touched the small of his back. But Ferus was solid and agile, blocking Anakin every time he tried to get past.
“Anger is a secondary emotion, Anakin,” Ferus said. “It can come from sadness, it can come from shame. It can come from pain.”
He put his hand on Anakin’s lightsaber, and that was the last straw. The Force sharpened, every little particle of light clear and slow, and there was a rush of air, of power, and suddenly Ferus was flying backward — just a step or two, but it was enough. The garden wall slammed against his spine; there was a crack, a click of teeth, as his skull crashed against stone.
He looked up. His eyes were flat. Blood beaded on his bottom lip. He met Anakin’s eyes without expression — and there was a lecture brewing in his throat, Anakin just knew it, but he didn’t stick around to hear what a failure he was, how he didn’t belong. He pushed through the crowd and left Ferus behind.
But he never found the men who touched him.
The trip back to Coruscant was long and silent. Anakin spent the first day on pins and needles, his adrenaline spiking every time Obi-Wan stepped into the room. He analyzed every little expression, every gesture, waiting for the private chat, the disappointment, the guarded look of almost-revulsion Obi-Wan got whenever Anakin broke the rules. His palms were slick with sweat and he wiped them on his robes.
Not revulsion, he told himself, and he knew it was true, that Obi-Wan didn’t hate him, but he couldn’t force himself to believe it. Just disappointment and worry, that was all.
He thought of his failures with Krayn, the look in Obi-Wan’s eyes when Anakin killed him, the slow, hesitant acceptance when Anakin lied to him later. Back when Obi-Wan still wanted to believe in him. He thought of his failure at the podrace, the way he let his emotions get the better of him, almost drove into the crowd — the fear in Soara’s eyes during their lightsaber lessons, when he used his anger to push Ferus back, the way her voice shook when she talked about his ego — the exhilaration of the elite academy he’d joined, the scholarship students and their band of mercenaries, the feeling of finally belonging somewhere, finally having true control, all while Ferus—
Anakin snuck a look at his fellow Padawan. Ferus was meditating in the back of their shared quarters, his spine straight, his legs crossed in picture-perfect Lotus position. Everything about him was perfect: he’d taken the time to comb his hair after Anakin mussed it and replaited his learner’s braid. He’d used cold water to get the dirt out of his tunic and straighten the wrinkles from when he crashed into the wall. He’d even mended the tears in the fabric where his spine hit stone, but he couldn’t hide the open cut on his bottom lip, bloodless now, where his teeth tore through his own flesh.
Anakin sat down next to him. He lowered his voice.
“You didn’t tell my master,” he said.
Ferus’s eyes stayed closed. His breathing was even and calm, as a Jedi’s should be. “You will tell him yourself,” he said.
There was no challenge in his voice, Anakin thought with a flare of anger. It was like he was stating a fact, like he knew for sure Anakin would tell — complete and utter confidence that he was right, as always, that Anakin would do it because it was what Ferus would do, what they’d been taught as younglings. And why would they ever do anything else? Why think for themselves, why go against the grain?
Anakin shifted against the durasteel wall, his arms crossed, slouching out of spite.
“He can help you,” said Ferus softly.
Anakin glanced over and found Ferus already watching him, his eyes dark and knowing. A chill cascaded over Anakin’s scalp and down his neck.
“Help me with what?” he asked.
Ferus inclined his head toward the cockpit, where Siri and Obi-Wan had secluded themselves. “You have a darkness inside you,” he said, his voice neutral. “Pain. Master Obi-Wan can teach you how to absorb it—”
“How?” asked Anakin. He was too exasperated to even bother arguing the first half of Ferus’s sentence. His blood pulsed in his temples, those words circling in his mind on repeat — you have a darkness inside you — as patronizing and snobbish as Ferus could be, this was the worst. “How could he possibly help?”
Ferus opened his mouth, but he was too slow.
“You have to go through pain to learn how to absorb it,” Anakin said. “Obi-Wan’s been through nothing. He’s like you — born and raised in the nicest Temple on the richest planet in the galaxy, all his meals prepared for him. He doesn’t know what it’s like.”
Ferus should have looked stung, defensive. Instead he just seemed thoughtful.
“What doesn’t he understand?” he asked.
Fury welled up in Anakin, rushing through him so fast that he had to turn away. He could taste the grit of sand between his teeth, could feel the gnaw of hunger in his gut — see his mother’s face, drawn and weathered and exhausted — hear the scornful voices of free men walking past him in the street.
And then a sour taste slicked his tongue, and he thought of the Temple instead, the Senatorial building, the—
“Anakin?” said Ferus, voice soft.
Anakin stood so fast that the bunk shook, and Ferus had to wrap his fingers around the edge to steady it before it folded in on itself.
“Forget it,” said Anakin brusquely. “You wouldn’t understand, either.”
He didn’t give Ferus a chance to respond. He put on his mask, his expression of false serenity, an expression he’d been faking every day since he was nine years old — and he went into the cockpit and sat between Siri and Obi-Wan without a word.
They didn’t speak to him, either. Maybe they didn’t notice the Force hammering at him from all sides.
Maybe they didn’t care.
There were nights when Anakin was called away on missions, but they were rare. More often, if he heard a knock at his door past lights-out, it wasn’t his master — it was Tru if he was lucky, looking to sneak out together, or it was a Senatorial aide in nondescript clothes with a pleasant smile, ready to usher him away.
But tonight there was no one. Anakin woke in a sweat, his clothes clinging to his skin, his heart pounding, and waited for a knock that never came.
Just a dream, he told himself. But he could still feel those hands, smell that expensive, almost-sickly cologne. He sat up, gathered the Force around him like a blanket. It didn’t help. Obi-Wan would tell him to meditate — and he could meditate anywhere, he could meditate here if he wanted to — but the thought of sitting here in his itchy sweat-soaked blankets made his skin crawl. He pulled his outer tunic over his head and left the sleeping quarters entirely.
He needed to do something with his hands. He needed to train — or find the droid repair room — fix something the way he used to before the Temple, in Watto’s shop, that mindless work coursing through his body slow and thick and cold, chasing every thought away, making time fly.
He sucked in a deep breath and nodded to himself. He turned toward the droid repair room. He had to conceal his presence as he snuck past his master’s room, had to absorb his distress and send it away. It didn’t really work — not totally. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding against his chest, his sweat running cold. But he made it past the Room of a Thousand Fountains without being caught. He made it to the antechamber without anyone stirring.
And that was when the door across from him opened, and Anakin froze.
A Chagrian male entered the antechamber, fine golden robes sweeping over the Temple floor. His eyes scanned right over Anakin without spotting him. Anakin recognized him — he’d seen him dozens of times, outside Palpatine’s office, fetching lunch or tea for the Chancellor, filing datawork — petty tasks. Never this. He stepped back, using the Force to blend into the shadows.
And that was when the Chagrian moved aside and Ferus Olin stepped through the door.
His perfect tunic was rumpled, his belt folded and clasped in his hand, his outer robe slung over his arm. His hair was mussed, his learner’s braid undone, his cheeks and jaw marked with pale pink not-quite-bruises and thin red scratch marks, tiny wounds that could be healed with bacta before anyone saw them in the morning.
He scanned the room just like the Chagrian had. He met Anakin’s eyes.
“Tomorrow night, if you’re not on a mission,” said the Chagrian with a casual sternness, like a schoolteacher reprimanding a student — not like a Senatorial aide deferring to a Jedi. But Ferus nodded his head, unbothered, face blank, and he stood still until the Chagrian left.
The dull thud of the door echoed through the antechamber as it closed.
“You’re up late,” said Ferus.
His voice was toneless, unreadable. Could’ve been pleasant, could’ve been defensive. Either way, it came out with a rasp, like he’d been shouting. Anakin stepped forward into the dim light, and up close he could see just how bad the scratches were — the swelling on his throat, as if he’d been choked — the reek of sweat and sex clinging to his body. Ferus’s eyes flickered over Anakin’s face, reading his reaction.
“Walk with me,” Ferus said. He inclined his head to the eastern hall.
“Where?” Anakin asked.
“The Room of a Thousand Fountains,” said Ferus. Already he’d turned that way, taking a few sure steps. Anakin fell in stride next to him.
“There are masters in there meditating,” he said quietly. “I saw them on my way out.”
A flicker of expression crossed Ferus’s face — disappointment and longing, there and gone in a flash. “The gardens, then,” he said instead.
The gardens. They stepped through the door together, out into cold night air that neither of them was properly dressed for. Anakin pulled the Force tight around him to keep warm, but beside him Ferus let the air hit him and didn’t defend himself at all — welcomed the cold into his body — let the shivers wrack him as he stepped off the cobblestones and onto fog-damp grass. They sat on the low garden wall together, their heels bumping against the cracked stones, and Ferus lifted a hand and touched the scratches on his cheek, the swelling on his throat.
“You understand,” Ferus said.
Anakin stared out at the ornamental grasses swaying in the breeze, the nightwisps unfurling with a subtle glow.
“I saw it in your eyes when I walked in,” Ferus said. “You know where I was.” His voice sharpened. “Who I was with. You understand.”
Anakin’s tongue was thick and heavy. Could Ferus smell the stale sweat dried on his skin, the same way he could smell it on Ferus?
“How long has it been going on?” Anakin asked finally, still staring at the nightwisps. “For you.”
“Since I was an Initiate,” said Ferus. “You?”
The taste of sand. The clenching of his stomach as the Council tested him, questioned his connection to his mother. The Chancellor’s soft smile, his unwavering and simple belief that Anakin could be a Jedi — a great Jedi — someday. The low lighting of his office, the soft leather of his chair, the warmth of his lap.
“Since I came to the Temple,” Anakin said.
It’s our secret, Anakin, the Chancellor said.
And, You’re a special type of Padawan, you know.
And, That’s why I’ve made you my protegee. That’s why we meet here in secret, so the others don’t know.
And, I wouldn’t do this for anyone else.
Anakin closed his eyes just as they started to sting. His throat tightened. He’d thought he was the only one; he’d assumed no one else would understand. He’d hated them for that lack of understanding. But at the same time, burning low in his gut, was a different kind of anger, a different kind of loss, the type he couldn’t bring himself to face.
Deep down, he’d liked it. He’d liked being special. He’d liked being the only one.
“Does he ever take you to his private garden?” Ferus asked, his calm voice splitting the night.
Anakin leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He forced himself to open his eyes — dry now — and ignore the ache. Of everyone in the Temple to share this with, it had to be Ferus — the perfect student, the perfect Padawan, his tunic always pressed and clean, his lightsaber form always flawless, the Jedi Code leaping to his fingers at the slightest need. The one who’d watched him since day one, who’d judged him every time he strayed from the path…
“Yes,” said Anakin, his voice almost as raspy as Ferus’s. “He’s taken me to the garden.”
He could feel Ferus’s gaze on him.
“Close your eyes again,” Ferus said.
Anakin took a deep breath, irritation flaring in him — that tone, just like a Master with a student, the same tone Obi-Wan treated him to on missions. But he obeyed.
“Picture his garden wall,” Ferus said. “You know what it looks like.”
It wasn’t a question. Anakin nodded anyway. He tried not to think about what this meant — about the fact that the Chancellor did the same things to them in the same places, that they both stared at the wall, that Ferus knew without asking that Anakin would understand.
“Picture the cracks,” Ferus said. “The places where the stones have broken, where they haven’t been repaired.”
He knew them all too well. Cracks that snaked through the old gray stones, naturally shaped by years in the old-world rivers of Coruscant. Little rivulets where the gray was darker, almost black. Patterns that looked like spider legs, each one lacing with the next to form an image — a map of the lower levels, if he looked hard enough, or a human face — the Chancellor, his master, his mother—
“Look at them,” Ferus said. “Look closely.”
Anakin inhaled, his chest expanding, his lungs burning.
“Now go inside,” Ferus said. “Go inside the cracks — go through them — to the garden on the other side.”
Anakin’s heart crashed against his ribs. He shouldn’t have known what Ferus was talking about; it shouldn’t have made sense to him. But it did. The cracks grew wider until all he could see was blackness all around him, absorbing him, sucking him in. He stepped through — away from Palpatine, away from the carefully-cultivated gardens of the Senate building — to the other side.
“What do you see?” Ferus asked.
The spiky, bioluminescent petals of aura blossoms twisted up to meet the sky, each one pulsing with the Force. Dewflowers and commelina were planted at his feet, wisps of light drifting from their leaves. The crisp green scent of grass filled his lungs, the moonlight bouncing off a pool of water in the center of the garden — and when he listened, he could hear the trickle of clear water, the same melody and hum of nature that he heard in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, the room Ferus had tried to drag him to so they could talk.
“It’s beautiful,” Anakin said, and his voice floated out of the cracks in the garden wall to his real body, and he could hear it in both worlds, the physical and the unreal. “It’s peaceful.”
Ferus hummed. “It’s where I go,” he said distantly. “When he…”
But either he stopped talking or the sound of the garden drowned him out — the buzz of bumblebees in Anakin’s ear, their blue-gold fuzz tickling his cheek, the dancing light, moon and sun, the butterflies flitting from flower to flower, the scent of earth baked by the sunlight, the fragrance of flowers in bloom—
The scent of decay, of plants and grasses rotting, sweet and natural and nothing to be afraid of. The earthy muddy scent of mushrooms springing from the rot.
“I know I shouldn’t,” Ferus said, and the guilt in his voice dragged Anakin back. He blinked at the ordinary garden before him. Somehow it seemed dull, unmagical, the efforts of hundreds of generations of Jedi paling next to the world he’d built in his mind. He looked at Ferus and saw his posture had sagged; he was picking at the scrapes on his knuckles, his face pinched as he bit the inside of his cheek.
“Shouldn’t what?” Anakin asked.
Ferus’s gaze remained fixed. “Shouldn’t go there,” he said. “To the place beyond the cracks.”
Something inside Anakin thrummed just at the mention of it, a jolt of excitement, an electric spark. And then it was doused in cold water — Ferus’s disapproval ruining the moment as always.
“Why not?” Anakin asked.
Ferus’s cheeks hollowed out. “It’s an escape,” he said. “It’s … dulling. It’s an avoidance.”
Anakin opened his mouth to argue, but Ferus shook his head.
“A Jedi should embrace his emotions,” he said, and he used the same neutral, calm tone he always used when he was reprimanding Anakin — only now he was reprimanding himself. “A Jedi feels his emotions fully, and then absorbs them. He does not avoid or push away. He does not allow his emotions to control his decisions. He…”
The column of Ferus’s throat shifted as he swallowed. His voice gave out, and for a moment, Anakin thought it was because of the swelling, the bruises — he’d so obviously been choked. But then he saw Ferus’s lips trembling, just a little, before he got them under control — and the sheen of wetness in his eyes, never spilling over into tears, never going away, either. Ferus clenched his hands into strange fists, his fingers curled over one another, his knuckles turning white.
Always the perfect Jedi, Anakin thought, but for the first time ever, he thought those words and he looked at Ferus and his chest began to ache.
“Will you go back to him?” Anakin asked.
Ferus gave him a tight nod.
“Why?”
There was no answer. Ferus’s face was a mask.
“Will you?” Ferus asked eventually.
Anakin looked out at the ordinary flowers of the Temple garden. His gut twisted. He remembered his dream, the hands grasping at him, the fear and anger curling inside him. The rush of affection, of being praised. The bitter taste on his tongue, something dark and metallic, something like power.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Ferus didn’t ask him why. They stared out at the flowers — unremarkable, unhelpful — and in his mind, Anakin retreated again to the cracks in the garden wall, to the secret place Ferus had carved out for himself over the years — the place where nothing hurt. The place he’d invited Anakin into like it was nothing.
Dimly, he felt Ferus reach over and take his hand.
He barely felt the touch.