Anakin is almost seventeen and old enough to stop sulking like a child and finally understand that his Master is doing his best to satisfy his insatiable need of contact. Yet he is still a Temple-raised Jedi, and, seeing how much he struggles with even the slightest displays of emotions, Anakin sometimes wonders whether his Master is human at all. He is trying to be generous with his praise and affection, knowing just how badly his Padawan craves them, but he still mostly looks lost and even somewhat overwhelmed every time Anakin all but begs for them.

Will you hold me a little, Master?

Can I touch your hand when we meditate, Master?

May I sit at your feet while you read, Master?

Every time the Jedi looks outright thunderstruck, but he keeps his promise and never turns Anakin away.

And yet, it’s still not enough. It’s never enough. And Anakin hates how far he is willing to go just to get a glimpse of his Master’s lenient kindness that is both sweet and painful for him to witness. It scares him how just one soft, indulgent smile can make him tremble with an all-consuming desire to serve. To be useful. To be good. Anything just to get even the briefest touch: a pat on the shoulder or a hair ruffle, and if he is really, really good, he might even get a forehead kiss. But it almost never happens anymore, so most of the time Anakin has to arrange elaborate set-ups to elicit a few crumbs of his Master’s attention. And they need to be good. Really, really good. Good enough to make his Master forget about his eluding and deflecting and masterful evasion, forget about being the kriffing Negotiator for one blasted minute and actually give his thirsty Padawan something. A smile. A touch. A look. Anything. Anything.

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“Won’t you heal me, Master?” Anakin looks at him with his entirely innocent puppy-eyes.

Obi-Wan immediately rolls his eyes in response.

“Will you ever grow out of your dramatic streak, Anakin? It’s just a tiny little cut. It will heal on its own in no time.”

“But Master!” Anakin looks affronted. “I am bleeding out here!”

He puts down the kitchen knife and raises his hand to demonstrate his palm covered in red liquid to his completely unimpressed Master.

Obi-Wan slaps his forehead with an annoyed growl, “Force help me! It’s not even blood, Anakin – it’s just juice from the tomato you’ve been cutting!”

“But I am suffering here, Master!” Anakin pouts petulantly. “You have to heal me!”

Obi-Wan pinches the bridge of his nose with a long-suffering sigh.

“You know what? Fine. If you are indeed as hurt and bleeding as you claim to be, it is my duty as your Master to send you to the Halls of Healing, so off you go!” He gestures to the door impatiently.

“But…” Anakin stares at him in disbelief. “But you’ve never sent me to the Halls of Healing, Master! You’ve always tended to me yourself.”

“Well, I’m sending you there now,” Obi-Wan counters, throwing his head back in clear annoyance. “Go!”

Anakin crosses his arms on his chest and insists with stubborn determination, “No! Heal me with your Force healing, Master! Or I will die.”

“From a minor cut?” Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow ironically. “I doubt it.”

Anakin stares at him indignantly for a long moment before he throws his palms in the air. “Fine!”

He storms out of their quarters in an angry whirlwind of robes.

In an hour, a Temple healer comms Obi-Wan to inform him that his Padawan is dying, even though there is nothing physically wrong with him.

Obi-Wan looks heavenward as he sighs.

Of sheer stubbornness then. Amazing!

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“The only physical injury we have been able to detect is a minor cut on his finger,” a Twi’lek female healer explains to Obi-Wan. “But it seems that the cut won’t heal, draining the living Force out of Padawan Skywalker’s body. His condition is deteriorating very quickly, I’m afraid. And whatever we try, the boy just doesn’t seem to want to get better. He is resisting us, Master Kenobi.”

“Thank you for all your efforts,” Obi-Wan says, bowing his head in gratitude, “but I think I’ll take it from here.”

He enters Anakin’s ward, his arms crossed in a sign of annoyance, but they fall limply to his sides the moment he sees his Padawan – pale and unmoving – lying on the cot with his eyes staring up at the ceiling. Glassy and empty.

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan gasps in terror as he rushes over to his side. “Wake up!”

His stomach feels full of lead after his heart has dropped into it, beating wildly and choking on adrenaline.

“Ani!” Obi-Wan breathes out, barely audible, as he shakes his Padawan’s shoulders.

His body limp and unresponsive, Anakin lies in his arms like a rag doll.

“No, no, no, no, no...” Obi-Wan shakes his head in disbelief. “Please wake up, Ani…”

His hands cup his Padawan’s ashen face, his palm sliding over the boy’s messy hair in a gentle caress, before Obi-Wan leans over him, so close, almost pressing his forehead against his stubborn apprentice’s.

“Oh, Anakin, what have you done?” Obi-Wan whispers inches away from his whitened lips as he closes his eyes, concentrating on his aura, reaching out with it to wrap it tightly around Anakin’s – weak and receding inward – like a protective cocoon.

“Heal!” he orders sharply, sending a wave of energy into the black hole of Anakin’s soul, and feels it shudder in response, reaching out to meet him with desperate need.

Pour your Light into me, it whispers with greedy, insatiable desire as it clings to Obi-Wan’s starlight essence. Let me swallow you whole. I want to have all of you. Shine only for me.

In the vast blackness of space – so achingly cold and cutting him with its sharpness – Obi-Wan feels like this black hole is the only thing truly alive. Hot and pulsing like a heartbeat, churning in its hunger and radiating this unbearable, dizzying need.

It will burn him if he reaches for it. He will be submerged by its intensity. He will be sucked into it – down and down – past the event horizon, into the bottomless gap where all matter ceases to exist and the infinite chaos reigns. He will fall deeper and deeper – to where his Light can no longer escape from – until there is nothing left of him…

And Obi-Wan knows he should draw back immediately, should remove his healing touch and stay as far away as possible. But he doesn’t. Because the black hole is pleading with him, enticing and magnetic in its promise of a warm, loving embrace, absolutely mesmerizing in its terrifying allure.

Fall into me. Let me wrap my velvet around you so gently, gently… Let me love you. Protect you. You’ll be safe within me. Master…

So no, Obi-Wan doesn’t shrink back in horror and disgust as he should. Instead, his hand tightens in his Padawan’s hair and yanks him forward until their foreheads are pressed together.

“Let me in!” he hisses as his essence bangs against the boy’s mental shields with ruthless determination.

Once. Twice. Again. Again. Again.

No finesse. No sharp skill. Just power – raw and blunt and brutal – the only thing Anakin Skywalker will yield to.

“You will let me in!” he growls, punctuating every word with a reverberating clatter.

He strikes blow after blow, vicious and unrelenting, until in the thunder of his attack he seems to make out a breathless plea.

Harder, Master! Push harder! Harder…

That desperate whine makes the last restraint in Obi-Wan’s soul snap with a ping.

“You will surrender and let me in!” he grits through his teeth, pushing forward twice as hard, breaking his Padawan’s shatterproof shields with merciless, unrestrained force, until they crumble and tumble down in billions of sharp pieces. And he walks on them, barefoot, feeling them crunch and crack under his weight, until he is at the very epicenter of the crisis that is Anakin’s soul.

There, surrounded by the hungry Darkness, he lets his own halo suddenly expand and flood his Padawan’s whole being, engulfing and overwhelming him, smothering him completely until he stops resisting.

Anakin’s Force Signature trembles and stills under the pressure of Obi-Wan’s essence all around him, as if he was actually holding him down with a foot on his chest.

Obi-Wan looks down at his apprentice, pinned like a moth under him, just lying there, totally surrendering to Obi-Wan’s will. He could do anything he wanted to the stupid boy right now. He could break him – crush him under his foot, grind him into dust as if he was nothing. He could burn out his Dark presence like a mere stain on the fabric of the Force. And he would be powerless to stop him. No, he wouldn’t even try to stop him, poor naïve child. He would just lie there, all pliant and obedient for his Master. He would yield, just like he took to doing during their sparring sessions…

“Now be a good boy, Anakin, and don’t resist,” Obi-Wan orders, leaning over him and placing a hand around his throat to prevent him from trying to escape, and his Padawan’s Dark halo shudders, submissive and vulnerable, helplessly susceptible to his Master’s overpowering presence.

I am yours. Do whatever you want to me.

Obi-Wan sighs.

“Let me heal you, you stupid child.”

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Anakin jerks awake, gasping for breath and trembling all over.

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe…

His lungs are burning as though he has been suffocating. He is gasping, gasping, trying to catch his breath with his open mouth, but he can’t. He can’t…

“Breathe for me, Ani,” his Master’s voice permits mercifully, and Anakin finally manages to inhale enough, entranced by the feeling of the hot palm around his throat slowly sliding away, revealing a necklace of bruises winding around his neck like a proud scattering of purple jewels.

His eyes opened wide, Anakin stares up at his Master’s face looming over his, drinking up every moment of his stormy blue gaze delving into his own, as though he may never get such undivided, all-consuming attention ever again.

“Master…” His lips part around the word with a soft exhalation of pleasure.

He has gotten what he wanted: for his Master to heal him – fix him – putting the shattered jigsaw puzzle of his essence back together, piece by piece, until he was whole again. Even if temporarily.

Yeah, he has gotten it, but at what cost?

Anakin shudders, suddenly distressed and anguished again: there is something vague but imminent, lingering darkly on the horizon of their Force Bond.

What if this time he has gone too far in his greedy, hungry longing for his Master, for the steady electric hum of his aura surrounding Anakin’s torn one with calm and soothing tones, for his unconditional comforting presence, enough to keep him centered and dissolve his roaring storm? What if Master doesn’t give it to him anymore? What if Master throws him out onto the street after what he has just pulled? What if…

Anakin starts trembling again as he lets out a heart-wrenching sob.

“Master, please… I’m sorry, I–” He throws his arms around his Master’s neck, pulling him down onto the cot with him, refusing to let him go.

“I need you. I can’t help it. I just can’t. Please…” he whispers urgently, hotly into his Master’s neck as he presses his nose into it, hiding his flushed, tear-stained face in an all too familiar gesture.

“You are almost old enough to be a Knight, but you are still a stupid little boy,” his Master murmurs the reproach, but his hands begin to gently card through Anakin’s hair anyway. “Do you even realize how badly you hurt yourself, Anakin?”

Anakin chokes on another sob, and Master doesn’t wait for his answer.

“You will never do that again.”

It’s not a request. It’s an outright order. And Anakin echoes it, his eyes closed and his lips half-open around a moan, “I will never do that again, Master.”

With only a moment’s hesitation, his Master presses his lips against Anakin’s wet, burning cheek in a light, chaste kiss, murmuring his approval.

“Good boy.”