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The days are long on Tatooine, and Obi-wan fills them with activity.
There is sand to sweep away, broken things to fix, so many things to do around his hut that he can barely keep track. There is even more to do away from his hut in the middle of nowhere; he barters for goods, lets himself be seen once in a while, visits Luke when he can bear it.
Luke looks just like Anakin did as a child. The same golden hair and the same big, blue eyes. The same twist of their mouths when they find something confusing, the same dimple on their chins, the same wide smile.
Luke looks so much like Anakin that it hurts, that it’s all Obi-wan can think about when he visits. He keeps expecting to feel Luke in his mind, to get a constant stream of Luke’s every joy, every hurt, the way he’d felt everything of Anakin’s before he taught his padawan how to shield. Instead, Luke is just like any other youngling to him. It feels wrong, feels like his world is breaking apart all over again.
I’m here, he thinks into the void between him and Luke. I’m here.
But Luke never answers. Never even hears him.
It takes a while before Luke is comfortable enough around him to stop hiding behind his mother. After that, though, it’s almost as if they’re old friends.
Luke’s hand is tiny in his as Luke drags him around, showing him what little toys he has, telling him about every little adventure he’s able to take, whether it’s going to the market with his aunt, or to the mechanic with his uncle. Luke’s smile warms him, soothes the ever-present ache in his chest for just a moment.
Luke isn’t as talkative as Anakin was, but he’s just as precious. Sometimes, Obi-wan looks at him and thinks he may feel love again for this innocent youngling, this dear child with nothing but light in his heart. Sometimes, Obi-wan looks at him and wonders if he will destroy Luke too.
I’m sorry, he thinks. I’m sorry.
Sometimes, Obi-wan wonders if it would have hurt this much to look at Luke if Luke had known him as Uncle Obi-wan. Then again, in that version of events, perhaps Luke would never have known Obi-wan at all, hidden away in Naboo with his family.
It’s okay, he thinks. We’re okay.
Obi-wan has no room in his heart for anything but optimism when it comes to Luke Skywalker.
It’s the nights that are the worst. Alone in the middle of nowhere, with Luke in the care of his aunt and uncle, Obi-wan himself with nothing to do but try to slip into sleep. Obi-wan’s bones creak in the silence, his body aching with the day’s work. His mind is scattered, restless, no more better or worse than it was yesterday, or the day before that, or any of his days since—since he lost—
He has tried and tried to meditate, to release his thoughts into the Force as he should. As he was taught since he was a child, as he’s been doing for most of his long, long life. But he can’t. There are some things he still cannot face, some things he still can’t accept. Some things he wants to fester, to push down until they shrink into unstable little things, wont to explode if left to stay that way for too long. He wants to hurt. He’s spent too much of his life pretending that he doesn’t feel; now, he does anything but.
Instead of meditating, he lies in bed, blocking out the cold, the heavy silence, the rest of the world around him. In his mind, he curls up at the foot of his old bond with Anakin. What’s left of it is tattered, raw, almost suffocating him in the pain it radiates. Obi-wan knows better than to pull on the bond; he has more care for Luke’s safety than that. But he does reach for it, presses against the throbbing, tender remains of it. It feels more painful than pressing against a bruise—infinitely more so. More painful than the ever-present ache in his chest as a youngling as he got passed over again and again and again. More painful than the agony of holding his dying Master in his arms. The only thing that could rival it is the memory of Mustafar—the searing heat of the planet, the tears in his eyes, a supernova building in his chest.
Anakin, he thinks. Anakin, Anakin, Anakin.
Anakin won’t hear him, not really. Not with the state of their bond, the gaping lack of it. But Obi-wan calls to him anyway, says everything that he never did before, when he actually had Anakin beside him. When Anakin didn’t hate him, when Anakin was still his padawan, his dearest friend.
I loved you, he thinks. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I still love you.
As little Ani, as Anakin, as Darth Vader, Obi-wan loves him. Hates him, fears him, fears for him. Misses him, wants him—just another glimpse of him, another chance to hope that Anakin would come back to him. Obi-wan loves him. Now that Anakin is gone, he barely remembers his reasons why he couldn’t have just loved him.
But his chance is gone. Obi-wan will never be able to tell Anakin any of the things he wants to say. Anakin won’t listen to him, won’t ever come near Obi-wan again except to kill him.
Of everything, that hurts the most. That Anakin is gone. That Anakin exists in this world but is so very far away from him, and Obi-wan is in the last place that Anakin would ever look for him. Even when they were on different planets during the war, even when they were apart, Obi-wan had Anakin in the back of his mind. Obi-wan could call Anakin any time, even if they couldn’t talk about anything substantial, anything that Obi-wan really wanted to talk about. And every few months, Obi-wan could see Anakin again. Golden and bright blue, like Tatooine on the very best of days.
That version of Anakin no longer exists, and yet Obi-wan hasn’t stopped loving him.
I miss you, Obi-wan thinks. I miss you.