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tennessoui · 10 months

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democratic fic part two

(democratic fic masterlist) (5k)

Four days after meeting Obi-Wan Kenobi for the first time, Anakin has an unexpected and incredibly unfortunate break in his schedule.

“Are you sure about pulling down the committee meeting?” He asks, verging on desperate. His eyes look through the tinny figure of his fellow senator and out through the transparisteel windows of his office. Coruscant moves around him, early morning settling gently into early afternoon. “It was supposed to be four hours.” “Yes,” Senator Amidala says very slowly. “And everything on the agenda can be discussed via written missive. We do not need to physically meet to discuss things that can wait until after the coming assembly—”

“But I think I’ve found a solution!” Anakin interrupts, no longer bordering desperation but rather falling directly into near-begging.

“A solution,” Senator Amidala repeats. “To…galactic slavery in the Outer Rim?”

Anakin’s eyebrows furrow and his lips purse. “Yes.”

“Oh, by all means then,” the tiny comm figure crosses her arms, tilting her head to look disbelievingly at Anakin. “Please, tell me.”

Fierfek.

“Kill…them.”

“Kill them,” Senator Amidala repeats. “Kill the slavers?”

“...yes,” Anakin says and then winces, knowing what’s to come.

Senator Amidala puts her hands on her hips as she tries to stare him down through the poor connection of the holo comm. “Alright,” Padmé decides. “What is going on, Anakin? You haven’t suggested such a policy since your first year on Coruscant when you actually started learning about how politics worked.”

Anakin scowls and looks away, jaw clenching and then unclenching. Most days, he still doesn’t think his younger self was wrong to advocate for the death of all slave owners, but Padmé is right: he knows better now than to say that. That’s how he and Padmé have managed to build and maintain their friendship over the years, even though their policies and values couldn’t look more starkly different on paper: Anakin swallows his words, and Padmé pretends she did not see him move as though to speak.

“Nothing is going on, Senator,” Anakin replies with a mutter, rubbing a hand over his eyes and then down his face. If she is calling him by his first name then it means that the official part of their business has concluded. Reaching up, he unpins his hair and tosses the ceremonial hair-piece to the side. It makes a heavy clunk as it lands on his desk. “I was simply looking forward to that meeting.”

“Banthashit,” Padmé surmises immediately. Anakin scowls. He hates when she— “Ani, ten years ago if someone told you that one of your four hour long meetings was cancelled, you’d be halfway down to the lower levels by now.”

“Maybe I’ve grown up,” Anakin replies and then winces again.

“If only the growing up had happened six months ago,” Padmé’s tone turns sharp. “Perhaps before the holonews were flooded with pictures of you pressing some podracer bunny up against an illegal pod we both know you’ve been flying for decades, hands stars know where—”

Anakin remembers exactly where his hands were, but he thinks probably that information is better kept between him, the stars, the woman he’d slept with that night, and all of the users of the Holonet who had thought to raise the brightness on those photos.

“You almost sound jealous,” Anakin’s mouth moves without his permission, and he can’t stop the wince that follows because karking stars, he shouldn’t have said that.

Padmé laughs, which is almost more offensive than anything else she could have said. “Of your image in the media? No, I wouldn’t say so, actually. Just tell me what is wrong, Anakin. You do not have to pretend to be so alone.”

Anakin feels his eyebrows furrow and a sneer grow at the edge of his mouth. Pretend? Rich, coming from Padmé Amidala, who grew up surrounded by people her age, other girls who adored her, a large family who loved her as well. Anakin did not have to pretend to be alone. He simply is and has been for more of his life than he hasn’t.

But…if Padmé is so insistent on being helpful, then…maybe she could help him solve his sudden and dire problem.

“There’s this boy,” Anakin tells her before he can think better of it.

Any malcontent seems to wash from her face at this confession, and her mouth falls open in surprise. “There’s a boy?” Her eyebrows fly down into a suspicious look. “How young is this boy?”

“Scandalously so,” Anakin admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Anakin—”

“I know, I do,” he cuts her off quickly. “But he is a visiting dignitary, the grandson of a Count who wants to get into politics—”

“Anakin, a boy saying he wants to get into politics does not mean you should take him into your bed—”

“That isn’t what’s happened, Padmé, come on. He just—he requested that I escort him around Coruscant for an afternoon, and I couldn’t say no, his grandfather and the Chancellor were right there, alright, I’m not a monster. But I am uninterested in pursuing the boy—the scandal that being seen alone with him would bring me….”

Padmé’s eyes narrow. “What does this have to do with our committee’s meeting.”

“I told him that I would comm him should I have free time to escort him, Padmé! I am honor-bound to see that vow to its conclusion.”

The tiny figure of his friend raises her eyebrows. “Genuinely, you are not,” she says, but her words do not soothe the part of him that insists he must follow through on his word—the part of him that knows he will be comming Kenobi within minutes of ending his call with Padmé.

“I am,” he insists, resting his hands on the desk in front of him. Perhaps not as gently or as naturally as he would like, he adds, “but if you were to escort me escorting him, there would be no scandal for the holonews to write about.”

Padmé blinks. “I’m sorry?” “Think about it,” Anakin says, tone edging back into desperation. “If you accompany me, he will assume we are together and any interest he may harbor for me outside his ambitions in the Senate will dwindle.” Without Anakin having to say anything one way or another, which is the best scenario Anakin’s thought of yet.

Though to be fair, he does not know if Kenobi has any interest in him in that way. After all, he had also flirted with Palpatine’s secretary.

But, a tiny, self-satisfied voice points out in the back of his mind, he did not ask her to show him around Coruscant, did he?

He shakes his head quickly to dislodge the thought. What he has to be self-satisifed about, he doesn’t know. Kenobi’s appreciation of him, perhaps the boy’s infatuation with him, will only cause him problems if he does not act to rid him of it.

“You won’t be in any meetings, will you?” he adds innocently, and when Padmé does not immediately scold him for the cheek, he knows he’s won.

After all, they have been good friends for years now, and she stepped up to guide and mentor him when he first arrived on Coruscant to be Senator of Tatooine. Their names are tied together on the holonews—any scandal that Senator Skywalker invites reflects badly on Senator Amidala.

“Alright,” she relents. “I will join you two.” The edge of her mouth curls up into a smile. “It will be an excellent jaunt down memory lane, won’t it, Ani? I have not had to act as your shield against suitors since we were in our twenties.”

“Yes, well. Who knew you would have to reprise the role?”

“Certainly not me,” Padmé tells him archly. “After all, from what I’ve seen, you’ve been handling your suitors just fine.”

—--------

Kenobi is, of course, free. His comm message comes through perhaps half a minute after Anakin had sent him an inquiry as to his schedule for the rest of the day, given that Anakin’s own had opened up rather unexpectedly.

Yes, Kenobi types. I will be free at 1700. Perhaps we can meet at the North Entrance of the Senate Sector Gardens? I have always thought they looked beautiful from the outside.

Anakin wrinkles his nose and wonders if he can beg off because of allergies. The Senate Sector Gardens are, in Anakin’s mind, one of the most offensive displays of wealth and greed on Coruscant. They are open most of the calendar year, regardless of the manufactured temperature of the planet. This is because each of the plants grow inside a near invisible force field, one that carefully monitors the temperature and humidity and soil texture of its plant. It’s Coruscanti artifice at its most beautiful.

But, he remembers, a walk through the gardens has a set beginning and end point: a destination where he can separate from Kenobi, duty fulfilled and honor intact.

Of course, Anakin replies. I will meet you there at 1700.

Kenobi does not respond, and Anakin does not think anything of it until he sees him several hours later, waiting quite docilely with his hands behind his back as he appears to study the entry requirements of the gardens.

He must not have responded to Anakin’s comm because he must have thrown his own down and spent the next five hours getting ready.

Stars.

The curse is apt, at least, as upon his approach, he sees that the boy has placed strategic flecks of silver glitter on every one of his freckles, and the boy has many cascading down his shoulders and back, which is bare to Anakin’s eyes. A silver chain rests loosely against the dip of his lower back. There are freckles made into stars here, too, at the base of his spine, Anakin’s eyes tell his brain, as if this is necessary information to know.

Kenobi turns around, as if waiting for him to get closer. His smile is bright, a flash of white teeth framed by deep dimples. The neck of his tunic stretches almost up to his chin, but his shoulders are bare, the edges of his clavicles visible before the dark blue fabric stretches up his neck.

He has woven silvery chunks of metal into the fall of his hair, and they hit the light each time he moves his head even slightly.

Anakin is quite upset to realize that his memory of the boy does not quite do him justice. His eyes are paler, his hair a crisper strawberry blonde. He’d somehow forgotten the beauty marks on his face, a faint one on his forehead and the other on his cheek. What a great disservice Anakin had done him by forgetting these marks.

“Hello, Senator,” Kenobi says, stepping forward and offering up his hand. Anakin would be a fool to take it. He would be a fool to scorn him. He takes his hand and brushes a kiss over his knuckles, lips catching on the cool bands of metal that frame his knuckles. Rings, each with intricate patterns and bright jewels set into them. “You look lovely.” Anakin does not, of course, having worn the same dark clothes he wore to the Senate today.

“I think the dark tones suit you,” Kenobi adds, hand coming to rest on the large wine-red collar of Anakin’s outer tunic. “It makes you look powerful.”

“I thought you said I looked lovely,” Anakin replies, taking an unnecessary yet completely rational step closer to the boy. His hand is still extended between them, laying almost on his chest. It looks rather delicate—pale and willowy against the darkness of Anakin’s robes.

Obi-Wan has painted his eyelids a glittering silver, a color just a few shades lighter than his eyes. It’s…enthralling, especially when the boy looks up at him from beneath his pale eyelashes. “Do you not believe that something can be both lovely and powerful at the same time, Senator?”

Anakin has the unignorable and quite worrying feeling that he is looking at one such thing now. The boy’s hand is still on his chest. There are very good reasons why this cannot continue, and Anakin is quite sure he recalls them all.

“Powerful things are not lovely,” he murmurs. “Not by their nature. But lovely things…” Kenobi cocks his head as Anakin trails off. A piece of his hair falls out of its delicate arrangement and rests against his cheek. Anakin watches his hand reach out and grasp the strand as if he was not in control of his body. He carefully tucks it behind Kenobi’s ear, only just realizing that the boy has draped his ear with a dangling, sparkling silver chain that wraps along the shell, threads through the lobe and hangs down almost to his shoulder. Kenobi shivers at the touch of his finger. The reaction makes Anakin’s mouth dry. “Lovely things are always powerful, one way or another.”

When their eyes meet once more, Kenobi’s seem to have darkened considerably. A faint flush has bloomed across his cheeks.

“Anakin!” A voice cuts through the charged moment, and Anakin steps back from the boy automatically, as if he’s been caught red-handed. He hasn’t been caught at all.

Obi-Wan’s face shutters at the interruption, though his eyes remain fixed on Anakin’s face, like he expects Anakin to get rid of the intruder and return his attention to Obi-Wan alone.

Unfortunately for him, Anakin had invited this intruder.

“Padmé,” he says, turning from the boy completely to face her. He even holds out his arm for her to loop hers through, thinking that maybe such a gesture is overkill until he catches sight of Kenobi’s sour expression and the way his eyes are focussed with laser-like intensity on where Anakin’s arm is covered by Padmé’s hand. “You look wonderful.” Padmé had dressed in a soft pink outfit, like the sky just as dawn breaks. With a wide golden headband and her hair loosely braided, she did look wonderful.

And yet Anakin couldn’t stop thinking that she paled in comparison to Kenobi.

“Thank you,” Padmé replies gracefully, smiling up at him the same way she did when he was twenty and she twenty-five. It makes her look girlish and soft around the edges, and Anakin can barely stop himself from snorting. He knows her too well to fall for such an act after all these years.

But Obi-Wan Kenobi does not.

“Sorry,” the boy says, not sounding very sorry at all, “who are you?”

Padmé’s smile turns a hair more genuine as she turns to look at Kenobi. “My name is Padmé Amidala, young one. Ani said you were interested in learning more about Coruscanti politics? I am one of the senators of Naboo.”

Kenobi scowls. “I’m twenty-three,” he says, no sign of the temptress angel anywhere in his tone or face. He ignores the last part of Padmé’s question, running his hand over and behind his ear instead—perhaps subconsciously copying Anakin’s touch.

“When you’re our age, young one, everyone thirty years and below looks young,” Padmé replies, waving her hand through the air with a slight smile.

“Your own failure to age with grace should hardly color the faces of all those younger than you, my lady,” Obi-Wan says rather scathingly. “Such a mindset is indicative of an underdeveloped and immature worldview, one I am surprised to hear come from a senator. I am twenty-three.”

His eyes land once more on Anakin’s arm, and his lips soften from a scowl into something more closely resembling a pout.

For a man who insists on being treated like a fully-fledged adult, he certainly knows how to look rather young and indubitably pathetic.

Anakin sighs inwardly and offers his other arm to Obi-Wan. The boy’s face lightens considerably as he accepts it, and Anakin feels suddenly infused with a strange sense of warmth, almost like he can feel the boy’s pleasure wrapping around his mind.

Maybe he can—after all, the boy was trained in the Force, up to a certain point at least. That sort of control and power isn’t so quickly forgotten, despite how many years it’s been since he received a proper education. After all, Anakin had had several lessons in the Force when he was a teenager, once it was clear that even though he was too old to be trained as a Jedi, his connection with the Force was not fading and in fact only growing more feral and out of control.

Instead of simply locking their arms together as Padmé had, the boy curls his hand to rest on top of the length of his arm, bare fingers touching his bare wrist.

The scamp, Anakin cannot help but think. He keeps his face resolutely straight forward as he leads them both into the gardens, ignoring whatever look Padmé is shooting him.

What was he supposed to do? The little harlot was pouting up at him like he’d broken his heart and left him for dead simply because he’d given Padmé attentions he hadn’t given Kenobi. And Anakin isn’t a monster.

“Shall we?” He says, not giving Padmé time to speak or Obi-Wan time to protest.

“I hadn’t realized you would invite another,” Obi-Wan says finally, after several minutes of tense silence.

Anakin makes sure to shrug artlessly, carelessly. “I remembered you told the Chancellor that you were interested in immersing yourself in Coruscanti politics over this next season. He advised me to bring along another Senator so that you could begin to make connections.”

Obi-Wan falters for half a moment, head snapping to look at Anakin’s face. “He did?” he asks, sounding rather strange. Perhaps slightly disconcerted that the Chancellor had opinions and advice on his life.

Palpatine hadn’t said anything to that effect of course. All he’d said about the Count’s grandson after they’d left the office had been a short and rather mysterious: “Be careful with that one, my dear boy.”

Anakin hadn’t liked the idea—or rather, the reality—that even the Chancellor of the Force-damned Republic not only knew of Anakin’s…appetites, but also felt the need to warn him away from scandal.

“What did he say?” Kenobi insists, hand tightening on his wrist, like he’s considering jerking Anakin to a stand-stil.

“Nothing of note,” Anakin reassures him. “Only that it may do me well to help you find your way.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow, as if silently calling the words banthashit in his mind. He’d be right, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that.

A moment later, his face smooths out, as if a change has overcome him. His eyes brighten and widen, and his grip softens significantly. “And would you, Senator?”

“Uh,” Anakin says, distracted by the appearance of a moue between the boy’s eyebrows. “Would I what?”

“Guide me,” Obi-Wan replies, finally pulling Anakin to a stop in the middle of the garden path. “You are in need of an aide, I checked the Senate accountant files myself. I know it wouldn’t pay much,” his nose wrinkles at the thought, and a part of Anakin has to stop himself from snorting. Most honest jobs would pay less than being a Count’s grandson. “But I would be such a hard worker. Diligent and passionate.”

“Uh,” Anakin says, unsure if the emphasis he’s hearing on certain words really exists or if his dirty mind is tricking him into all the ways Obi-Wan Kenobi could be a hard, diligent, passionate worker.

“Do you have a resumé of past work experience?” Padmé asks with interest from Anakin’s other side. He almost startles, having forgotten she was there at all, despite her holding his arm.

Obi-Wan’s face scowls as he remembers her presence as well. “I may,” he says shortly.

“I would be interested in taking a look,” Padmé says with all the grace of a queen. “At least I could perhaps offer some insight. At best, I myself am looking for another aide—”

“I thought all of your staff had to bear a resemblance to you in order to work in your office,” Obi-Wan lifts his nose in the air and turns away from both Anakin and Padmé. “I should sooner die than bear that burden.”

Anakin chokes slightly on thin air and then on the ghost of a chuckle when he realizes what Obi-Wan’s just said. Padmé lets out a vaguely offended noise, and Anakin pats her on the arm. “There, there,” he says in an undertone as he watches Obi-Wan stalk further up the path from them. The loose chain against his lower back swings with each step, and Anakin finds himself halfway to entranced just watching it move.

“He is incredibly….” Padmé trails off with a shake of her head.

“Beautiful, I know it,” Anakin agrees, running his eyes up to linger on the boy’s rather muscular back.

“I was going to say spoiled,” Padmé replies with an arch of her eyebrow. “Conceited, in fact. Catty, not to mention outright rude.”

“There, there,” Anakin repeats, patting her arm once more. “You know you’re beautiful as well. The opinions of a twenty-three year old hardly matter.”

Padmé arches one fine eyebrow, but before she can say in return, Obi-Wan is calling Anakin’s name from further onward.

Anakin goes, only realizing he has let go of Padmé when he arrives by Obi-Wan’s side unencumbered. “Yes?”

“Look,” Obi-Wan murmurs, eyes fixed on a fully-bloomed light blue rose, growing out of harsh, dry desert soil. “They say it is from Jakku.”

Anakin hums, looking between Obi-Wan and the rose. “Do you have—some sort of connection with Jakku?” “I’ve never visited a desert planet,” Obi-Wan tells him lightly, fingers hovering over the forcefield protecting the plant. “Tatooine is one though, yes?”

Anakin grunts his agreement.

“Do you believe something as beautiful as this could grow on Tatooine?”

“This isn’t even growing on Jakku,” Anakin points out rather dismissively. “Beautiful, fragile things do not last long on desert worlds.”

Obi-Wan does not reply for long moments, studying the rose. “Stewjon is a desert world,” he finally murmurs, allowing his hand to drop once more to its side. “I was shocked when I found out…I have no memories of the planet. The Jedi took me when I was quite young, you see. Just a babe. But when Dooku found me, he took me there.”

“I thought you said—”

“I requested that we leave before the ship even broke atmo,” Obi-Wan admits quietly. “I knew just from circling the planet that it was not my home. It could never be my home.” He looks once more at the rose before turning to study Anakin, expression unreadable. A moment later, his face breaks into a small smile. “I’m far too pale and fair for a desert planet, I would burn to a crisp within a week.”

“When I’ve visited Tatooine, I’ve worn light protective cloth and escaped without a single burn,” Padmé remarks, having silently come to stand beside Anakin’s side. “You do not have to renounce your home just because you feel as if you are ill-suited for it.”

Whatever vulnerable light that had been shining in Obi-Wan’s eyes shutter once more at the interruption. “I like to think that the planet is ill-suited for me, Senator, not the other way around.”

“Does Serenno suit you more?” Anakin asks curiously, allowing Obi-Wan to take his arm once more.

Obi-Wan grins, a small, artificial thing. “Does it look as if it suits me, Senator?”

Anakin swallows rather uncomfortably. It does, of course. Obi-Wan Kenobi looks resplendent and wonderful and angelic and lovely. He knows better than to say this.

As a group, they move further into the gardens. After perhaps an hour, Obi-Wan stops frowning whenever Padmé speaks, settling into a chilly sort of acceptance rather than throwing out outright insults.

Over a particularly rough patch of cobblestoned path, Padmé trips, and Anakin moves to catch her automatically.

Whatever progress Obi-Wan and Padmé have made withers and dies the moment Obi-Wan turns from examining a hanging vine to see Anakin’s eyes wrapped securely around her waist, her hands braced on his chest.

Thirty minutes of what Anakin can only describe as bitching later, Padmé decides to take her leave. They’ve barely started through the section of the gardens dedicated to the Mid-Rim planets, but Padmé will not be convinced to stay.

“Ani, if he says one rude thing about Naboo’s greenery, we may come to blows,” she tells him in an undertone as Obi-Wan moves ahead of them, carefully examining each plaque beneath each plant—looking, no doubt, for the ones from Naboo, for no other reason than to release barbed and vitriolic comments.

“Padmé, come on, you know the risk of scandal should I—”

“It occurred to me several hours ago that you never said that you did not want to sleep with him,” Padmé interrupts, eyebrow raised. “Just that you were uninterested in pursuing him because of the scandal.”

Anakin flushes. “I am uninterested in sleeping with him.”

Now, both of Padmé’s eyebrows raise. “You would lie to me so blatantly after I just spent the last two hours putting my life on the line as a favor for you?”

“You’ve hardly put your life on the line—”

“Either tell him you will not fuck him or fuck him somewhere private. Where no holo cameras can find you,” Padmé says in a very no-nonsense tone.

“Pads—”

“And then after, refer him to my office,” she adds, looking down the path at the boy. “He’s quite—lethal. If you do not want him as your aide, I’ll take him as mine.”

Anakin blinks. “What?” he says. “He hates you.”

“Then be a dear and fuck it out of him,” Padmé replies archly. “He could be useful if all that hate was directed a different way.”

“I don’t want to fuck him,” Anakin protests far too loudly. His eyes dart to Obi-Wan, but the boy seems distracted by a venus fly-trap from Dereak.

Padmé looks pitying and unamused. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Ani. Please don’t tell me the details.”

Anakin scowls and opens his mouth to argue once more. Before he can, she turns and leaves in a tidal wave of soft pink.

He hates it when she does that.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says when Anakin comes to stand next to him. “Did your friend leave?” The brat.

Anakin purses his lips. “She had somewhere to be,” he lies.

“How unfortunate,” Obi-Wan lies in return, and Anakin’s lips twitch up into a slight smile before he schools his expression.

“We should hurry through the rest,” he says, “as it is almost dark.”

“Yes, of course,” Obi-Wan says, entirely docile once more like a loth-kitten allowing its fur to be smoothed flat now that the danger has left.

Anakin shakes his head. If the boy is serious about getting into politics, the first thing he should learn is how to be a better actor—or at least, how to better control his emotions.

“I was thinking,” Obi-Wan tells him thirty minutes later, twilight now fully taking over the Coruscanti upper levels. “This was quite fun and very educational.”

“Yes,” Anakin agrees, only slightly reluctantly, but he cannot pretend that he did not have fun. Obi-Wan’s company has been surprisingly pleasant, the boy surprisingly endearing.

“Thank you for acting as my escort,” Obi-Wan adds, gently touching the back of Anakin’s hand.

“You’re welcome,” he replies rather roughly. The twilight throws fascinating shadows over the lines of Obi-Wan’s face. He shines in the pale light, like something truly ethereal.

“But this is not really Coruscant,” Obi-Wan says, blinking up at Anakin’s face. “It is too…artificial. It reminds me of the Jedi Temple gardens: carefully tended to and carefully curated. Incredibly fake.”

Anakin had thought the same thing when Obi-Wan first suggested the location. “I feel the same way,” he says, feeling as if he is walking into a trap.

“I would like to see the Lower Levels,” the boy says. It sounds like a demand, and it must to the boy as well, because he adds a nice little please at the end.

It doesn’t do much to soften the blow of the words. “The Lower Levels?”

Obi-Wan nods, looking quite serious. “We could get something to eat down there, you could show me what Coruscant is truly like! Please, Senator, this is the only home I have—I want to see it all now that I have returned!” “You can’t go down to the Lower Levels dressed like that,” Anakin shakes his head and rubs his free hand over his mouth as he looks at the boy. “Stars, you’d be torn to shreds.”

“You’d protect me,” Obi-Wan says confidently. Too confidently. Anakin resents the assumption the boy has made, similar to the one Padmé had made: that he wants this boy. That he will go out of his way for him.

“No,” he says, shaking Kenobi’s hands off him. “I will not, young one. The Senate meets for assembly tomorrow, and—”

“Please,” Obi-Wan interrupts, voice shaking. “I would like to see them, and you make me feel safe, Senator—” “And I said no, Kenobi,” Anakin snaps, and Obi-Wan recoils as if he has been slapped.

The rejection hangs in the air between them for several still moments before Obi-Wan throws back his shoulders and tosses his hair back. “Fine,” the boy sniffs, somehow looking cooly down his nose at him, despite their height difference.

He spins on his foot and stalks away from him.

“Where are you going?” Anakin snaps, moving forward to keep up with the boy without consciously deciding to follow him. “It is late and dark—I must ensure you get back to your apartments—”

“I’m going down to the lower levels,” Obi-Wan declares, halting in his path to glare at Anakin. The garden lights have flickered on as the night fully descends. The golden lights of the floating orb fixtures dance across Obi-Wan’s face and make his eyes glow slightly as well. “Without you if I must.”

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin starts, but Obi-Wan turns his cheek away from him.

“Must I?” he demands, blue-gold eyes finding Anakin’s and fixing him in place. “Must I go alone, Senator?”

#obikin #democratic fic #obi-wan is the cattiest brattiest bitch in this i truly love him #he is endearing to anakin who loves a disaster #sith obi-wan kenobi #senator anakin skywalker

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