Chapter Text
Obi-Wan hadn't realized how much space his partner's houseplants took up until they were gone.
For months, his one goal was to keep them alive. It became his hobby, his passion, daresay his obsession; but between his busy schedule and his decidedly random fits of neglectful grieving, and without mentioning his terrible luck with plants in general, he was plucking dead leaves from his carpet on the daily.
Each time he lifted the lid of his trash can to toss out a wilted plant, bagged with the lawn clippings and tree trimmings like some evidence of a murder (was it not?), he spoke an apology. I'm so sorry, Qui-Gon. I know how much it meant to you.
As if Qui-Gon himself would hear the pain in his voice, the tears choking his words, and say I know, my heart. I know. If only. But the grief was all his own, now. There was no gentle hand to rest upon his shoulder and remind him to breathe, that his honest apology was enough, that it was alright.
The situation became only more dire once Obi-Wan realized something shocking. His boxes upon boxes of books, set into storage long ago to make room for Qui-Gon on their shelves, made little progress on filling those empty spaces. No amount of miniature marble busts- of which he had many, more than he remembered buying- could replace the life that Qui-Gon had breathed into their home.
As a young man, Obi-Wan had taken comfort in the idea of a modest lifestyle. Qui-Gon had cared little for decoration, and had given the young Obi-Wan free rein over their home. Beiges and soft off-white walls were the product of Obi-Wan's dreams. Strokes of earthy browns and pops of gold. Nothing offensive in style, nothing terribly brave, and nothing out of place. Simple, serene, and safe. A place to lock himself away from the world, where he could control existence for a while.
But as they had grown in their relationship together, Qui-Gon's personality crept into the decor. (He insisted he wasn't decorating, even as he meticulously arranged his String of Pearls to drape just so.) It was so gradual that he truthfully had barely noticed. A slow accumulation of vibrancy.
That sudden, and oh-so terribly recent, deterioration revealed just how empty his perfect design was. With the memory of that lively home still fresh in his mind, returning to his forgotten serenity had felt like the end of summer. Cold house, cold colors, cold sheets.
But.
The cycling of the seasons stops for no man, and the universe enjoyed keeping Obi-Wan on his toes.
The emptiness had eaten a hole into Obi-Wan. He tried to hide his hollowness behind an imitation of himself. He played his usual parts, went through the motions, pretended that he was alive whenever someone thought to check in.
It took months before he swallowed his pride and typed: Room for Rent, Private Bathroom.
By the time Obi-Wan tossed the final houseplant, he was too exhausted to apologize. Most days, he would find interested parties waiting at his door after work. Many of them saw the monasterial, moodless rooms, the stacks of books on ancient Jediism, felt his sorrow burrowing in the walls like mold..
..They would thank him for his time, and never call back.
Those who didn't mind it were often turned away by Obi-Wan himself. "Thank you for your interest" became his favorite phrase. It was simple, and gentle, and it was easy enough to build on if he had the energy. Thank you for your interest, but..
Those words were on the tip of his tongue from the moment he'd first interacted with Anakin.
Obi-Wan had written a few emails back and forth with him. He would ask a question and receive an eager response within the hour, which had seemed a little odd.
Mister Anakin Skywalker was an engineer with a passion for robotics. His work was mainly freelance, customizing droids for various purposes. He was moving to Coruscant from Naboo on a self-proclaimed "mission", had never been convicted (he had stressed convicted) of a crime, and assured Obi-Wan that paying his rent monthly would not be an issue. He had no pets, just a few boxes of items, and would be taking a cruiser to meet in person within the next few days.
As promised, a knock came a few days later. It was rhythmic, familiar in a way Obi-Wan couldn't describe; tap-tap-taptap-tap, like an old friend coming home.
Obi-Wan peered out the kitchen window to perhaps catch a glance of his new guest. He couldn't see the man himself, but he could see the vehicle he had come on. A motorcycle leaned on its kickstand in his driveway. It looked like a broad-shouldered puma crouched and waiting for prey.
He was more on-edge than usual when he opened the door. Obi-Wan smiled preemptively, warmly, to hide the misgivings that begged to show on his face.
The very first thing he noticed was the T-Shirt. Black fabric with bold white writing; Some Assembly Required, it read. As if to draw attention to itself, Mister Skywalker's mechno-arm swiveled at the joint, calibrating.
Unsure of what to say, Obi-Wan's smiling eyes tried to locate Anakin's, and found instead that he was himself being scrutinized.
Anakin's eyes raked over him slowly, analyzing him from his shoes to his sweater. Obi-Wan found himself holding quite still as blue eyes journeyed the length of him, settling finally on his own. Anakin smiled at him with odd familiarity, a little teasing in the way he lifted his brow.
"Anakin Skywalker, I presume?" Obi-Wan said. His voice tried to refuse him, the words sticking to the inside of his rib cage.
"That's me," Anakin replied with an easygoing grin. "The one and only."
"In that case, do come in," Obi-Wan invited. "I'll give you the tour."
~*~
Throughout the tour, Anakin was nothing but polite.
He was curious and good-natured, with a sudden calmness about him that he seemed to be savoring. Obi-Wan may have dared to say he seemed nostalgic.
It was difficult to say exactly why he felt unsettled. Each time he probed his mind for an answer, it would reply to him with a cold shock down his spine; something half-remembered but important, like the feeling of I missed something after leaving the grocery store.
Each time he went to speak, to politely send Anakin on his way with a thank-you and a smile, Anakin seemed to sense it. He would ask a question or make a statement that filled Obi-Wan's mouth with different words.
As the tour led them out onto the patio, Anakin's eyes surveyed the backyard in one slow sweep. He seemed to be looking for something.
Anakin telegraphed his question by opening his mouth, and then by turning his head. His expression was uncertain.
"You used to smoke, didn't you?"
Obi-Wan felt a little self-conscious then. He ran his tongue unconsciously over his teeth, breathed into the palm of his hand to scent his breath. Where was the evidence? He had been told in his youth that he had the look of a smoker, a leggy kid with fingers made to be stained with tar, and a smile that he would exhale smoke through. Death Sticks, Qui-Gon used to call them. Qui had hated the odor more than anything. He said that it stuck to everything, skin, hair, tongue and clothes.
Obi-Wan could see now that it was true. Cigarette smoke clung to Anakin's jacket, souring whatever cologne he was wearing. Just standing within five feet of him made Obi-Wan's entire body itch.
"I recently quit the habit," Obi-Wan answered at last. What he didn't say was, I recently quit the habit because Qui-Gon said it would kill me, and I wanted us to grow old together.
He felt watched as he patted himself down, fumbling for the foil-wrapped package of nicotine gum in the pocket of his slacks. He popped one of the pieces into the palm of his hand. Anakin's eyes were knowing, his smile wretchedly friendly, bordering on adoring. Obi-Wan felt that cold shock shoot up his spine again.
"You don't like me much, do you?" Anakin asked quietly. It wasn't an accusation or really even a question, it was said more like a simple observation. The sky's blue today, the sun is warm, you don't like me much.
Obi-Wan stalled by chewing slowly and returning the Force-forsaken hated gum to his pocket. He wanted to consider his phrasing carefully. The scent of cinnamon was on his breath when he finally spoke.
"I don't dislike you, Anakin." Being a professor taught him that bad news was more easily swallowed when bracketed by kindness. "I'm looking for someone with similar tastes," Not entirely the truth, but not quite a lie. "And I don't think our personalities match."
That was the understatement of the century.
Anakin looked as though he spent his paycheck on leather pants and car parts. Obi-Wan disliked pigeonholing, but everything about Anakin made it easy. Low-hanging fruit such as; an old pink scar over his right eye, the smell of a dense cologne likely titled Campfire Stoked with Gasoline, and a black jacket he wore draped over his shoulders like a self-important runway diva.
From the top of his head to the soles of his shoes, Anakin was the dreaded bad-boy archetype. It was a specific niche with difficult criteria to meet, but Force forgive him -- Anakin had arrived on a motorcycle. It was too easy.
His neighborhood was lined with houses built forty to fifty years prior, each occupied by elders who had purchased them while they were still new. Obi-Wan was comparatively young, being in his mid-thirties. Outside of the occasional hello-how-are-you, Obi-Wan didn't do much socializing with his neighbors. Even still, he would never be able to look them in the eyes again if he allowed Anakin Skywalker to tear up their sleepy little cul-de-sac on a blood red motorcycle.
"Thank you, truly, for your interest." Obi-Wan managed at last, although it came out a little strained.
Most prospective renters took that as their cue. Anakin, however, only nodded and smiled, and took a few ambling steps toward him.
From a socially acceptable distance, the height difference between them was less noticeable. As Anakin neared him, it became impossible to ignore. He found that his eyes were drifting steadily upward as Anakin approached, needing to compensate just to maintain eye contact.
"You're shorter than I thought you'd be," Anakin smiled. He had the audacity to stoop, to bend forward a little.
Obi-Wan was maced by his own cinnamon-scented breath reflecting off of Anakin's face. He blinked reflexive tears away and frowned, only just beginning to remember that this was a perfect stranger he had allowed into his home.
The news was ripe with stories of kidnappings as of late. Obi-Wan didn't find himself to be particularly spectacular in build or in face, but the attractiveness spectrum wouldn't be considered during an organ harvest, would it? His bo-staff was still in the garage, but the kitchen was full of freshly-sharpened knives. He could take advantage of Anakin's long hair. He'd pull it, knee him in the--
"You don't remember me, do you?"
Oh.