Chapter Text
And that is when the cell door opens again.
Only the Trandoshan enters this time, a nasty, self-satisfied smile cracking his face. Obi-Wan tries to sit up straight and turn a stony glare on the being, but the effect is rather ruined by him being tied up on the floor.
He tenses up further when he’s ignored entirely, the man walking right over to Anakin. “Well,” he says, “This one seems to be coming along nicely.”
He nudges Anakin with the toe of his boot, and Obi-Wan snaps, “Leave him alone!” At the same time, Anakin suddenly lurches forward towards the larger man, but he seems to have been expecting that and quickly steps back out of range with a chuckle. Anakin continues to strain fruitlessly towards the Trandoshan, but…something about the sight is off.
Anakin is gasping and panting for air as he thrashes against his binds, but despite the violence of the movement, there’s a distinct lack of anger or aggression. Instead, Obi-Wan can only sense a sort of desperate need for relief. It’s not an attack, it’s a mindless chase to satisfy some craving the drug has implanted in him.
Fresh anxiety churns his stomach.
“Down, boy!” the Trandoshan laughs.
Obi-Wan grits his teeth. “What have you done to him?” He does his best to sound firm and authoritative. Their captor slants a cruelly amused look at him.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, ?” He turns back to Anakin and wiggles a few taunting fingers just inches from his pained face. “And you, . Not so ‘bored’ now, are you?” Obi-Wan’s stomach twists at the confirmation that they are being monitored.
The man steps over towards Obi-Wan, now. Behind him, Anakin slumps back against the wall with a miserable cry, and Obi-Wan fights not to let the pain of that show. The Trandoshan adopts a mocking falsetto, “’Oh, Master, help me, please.’” Helpless rage bubbles under Obi-Wan’s lungs.
Before he can say anything, though, the man scoffs. “You’ll be helping 'im soon enough.” (And what does that mean?) With a flourish, he pulls out another auto-hypo, and Obi-Wan mostly manages to hide his blanch. The being waves it mockingly in in his face as he moves closer, stopping just outside of his reach.
“Here is what’s going to happen,” he says. “you’re gonna sit pretty and let me give you this without any fuss. Or,” he gestures with the device towards Anakin’s gasping shape, “that one ‘ll get a second dose.”
Anakin doesn’t react, possibly unaware of what’s even happening as he continues to moan and shake. “It might not kill’im. You are s’posed to be hardier than most beings, right?” Obi-Wan feels a muscle in his jaw flex. “But everyone I’ve seen get doubled-dosed, stops their heart even if they don’t fight it.”
Obi-Wan breathes slowly and deliberately, wrangling his fear and anger under control. “Fine,” he spits. The malicious grin widens in victory as the man closes in. Just like earlier, he is perversely gentle in pulling Obi-Wan’s clothing out of the way and setting up the auto-hypo.
“Don’t worry,” he says, clicking the button. The Jedi can’t stop himself from twitching a little at the sharp sting. “Yours should kick in much faster.” Obi-Wan hides a nervous swallow.
He decides to press when the being stands back up. “What exactly is the point of this?” Obi-Wan would assume that it’s an interrogation technique, except nobody has actually asked them any questions. “What are you hoping to gain?” His voice is thankfully steady.
“Like I said, . ‘S to knock you down a peg. A taste of your own medicine.” He waggles the spent injector in Obi-Wan’s face to make his point. In the background, there’s a choked whine from the other side of the cell.
“Everybody knows you freaks run around using your mind-powers on whoever you can get away with.” The more playful ridicule the man has spoken with so far slips, for the first time, into open scorn. “You prey on regular people, good, honest folks just trying to live their lives, make ‘em do whatever you want. Make them let you fuck them and think they wanted it the whole time!”
What?! That—that’s insane! He can’t keep himself from objecting, “That isn’t true!” even as the implications of the accusation start to sink in. (“A taste of your own medicine.”)
At his outburst, the Trandoshan, quick as a flash, grabs a fistful of his hair and forces his head back against the wall, craning his neck painfully, making him cry out in both surprise and pain. His face is just inches from Obi-Wan’s, true hate burning out of it. “Your lies won’t work on me, Jedi whore!” In an uncanny contrast from his aggressive demeanor, Obi-Wan can barely perceive anything from him through the Force, with how strongly the blockers are suppressing his senses.
He lets go of Obi-Wan with a shove and leers down at him. “By now your buddy over there is nothing more than a bitch in heat, desperate for any shaft he can find. And soon,” he says, holding up the auto-hypo again, “you won’t be much better.” Anakin sobs again, pained and incoherent.
“Which of you do you think ‘ll take it?” Obi-Wan can only stare dumbly, mute with shock. His entire body feels cold. “That big fucker looks like he could hold you down and screw you ‘til your eyes fell out. But he does have such a pretty face, and you’re his teacher, aren’t you? Maybe you’ve already been training his hole.”
Obi-Wan can feel his breathing speeding up, starting to panic as the realization sets in. He has no retort, no witty comeback, can only stare with wide eyes. The Trandoshan sneers at him one more time, “Have fun with each other, . We’ll be watching,” and then he leaves the two Jedi alone.
Dimly, Obi-Wan feels himself begin to shake
There’s a loud click, and his shackles snap open. Agony rips through his shoulders as his arms drop for the first time in hours, but it feels distant from behind the wall of foul horror enshrouding his mind, stirring up nausea. He thinks he might be sick. No. No, no. They’re, he and Anakin, they’re going to be forced to—no. He can’t. He doesn’t want—not with anyone! And certainly not like this, forced into some drug-induced mania, on the whim of some sadistic political extremist. He doesn’t want this, has never wanted anything like it.
(Much as he can’t bring himself to admit it, Obi-Wan absolutely struggles with his attachments just as much, if not more than, other Jedi. But romantic attractions, sexual desires, are not things he thinks he’s ever truly dealt with. It just seems so messy, not at all worth the trouble, especially when such dalliances can greatly increase the likelihood of one becoming attached.
But Anakin, he knows, is absolutely not the same. One would have to have been blind, deaf, and concussed not to notice the boy’s infatuation with Senator Amidala upon their reunion prior to the war, the way that they look at each other when they think they’re being subtle. And Obi-Wan is, to his eternal embarrassment, well aware of his former padawan’s, ah, physical proclivities, as the simple outcome of living in close quarters with someone undergoing puberty.)
He can’t do this. Not with Anakin. His padawan, for all that the boy’s grown, who’s never indicated any sort of interest at all in Obi-Wan, it would be a breach of trust beyond anything, he can’t—can’t—
Not Anakin, please, no, not Anakin.
He can’t allow this, he—he won’t. He’ll—just have to hold out. Just until help arrives. He can do that. He can. He’s a Jedi, he has spent his whole life learning and practicing self-restraint. (He pretends not to hear the little voice whispering that no amount of self-control can overcome base biological reactions to chemicals.)
Obi-Wan hugs himself, rubbing harshly at his upper arms as he desperately tries to think of a way out, but then he freezes. He had thought that the sensation of his skin crawling had been entirely due to the emotional havoc of the situation, but now he realizes he’s starting to feel a real, physical itching all over his body. The lack of input from the Force only worsens his experience of the unpleasant sensation.
The Trandoshan was right, his dose is working faster.
He’s torn from his thoughts by a scuffing noise. Snapping back to the present, his head snaps up.
Anakin, it seems, had also been released from his manacles. He’s still slumped on the ground, but has pushed himself up on his elbows, arms trembling with exertion. Somehow, he has gotten his belt off despite his delirious state, and his robes spill out loose onto the floor around him. His head is tilted back, his face streaked with tears, mouth open as he continues to pant heavily. “Hahh…hahh…” His eyes are glassy, but they are fixed unerringly on Obi-Wan’s face.
As he watches, Anakin slides an arm forward and drags himself another inch closer to Obi-Wan.
“Anakin,” he says through numb lips.
There’s no response. “Hahh…hahh…” One of his boots scrabbles against the rough floor, trying to push himself forward.
“Anakin,” He says again, “You need to stop.” The itching is getting worse, more distracting.
With one trembling hand, Anakin tugs clumsily at the sleeve of his robe, wriggling until he can pull it off of his shoulders. Underneath, he wears only a short-sleeved tunic. He worms his way forward another handspan.
“We can’t do this, Padawan.” Obi-Wan’s voice is strained, his expression twisted in despair. “Don’t make me do this…”
“Mm…” Anakin whines quietly. The Knight blinks heavily and more tears fall from his eyes. “Mmm…”
Obi-Wan can feel sweat running down his back. His clothes, the same comfortable linens he has worn all his life, suddenly feel unbearable scratchy, painful against his feverish, stinging skin. There’s nowhere to go, no way to avoid his desperate padawan in this tiny cell.
“Mm…mmass…ter…” Anakin slurs out, with audible misery. He has not looked away from Obi-Wan. His flesh hand stretches out in front of him, reaching for his best friend, pleading. “…i’h…hurts…”
“Anakin…” Obi-Wan sobs out, hand over his mouth, losing the battle against his tears. Why, oh, why must it be him?
“Obi…” Anakin begs, “hahh…h-help…”
He breaks.
(He could never deny such a plea. Will always help his Anakin. Always.)
With slow, trembling movements, Obi-Wan shuffles onto his hands and knees. It feels like every inch of skin on his body is burning, blood pounding in his head, his muscles throbbing with it. Each movement causes his clothes to pull and slide against him, and it feels like road-rash, like sharp rocks scrubbing him raw.
He won’t do anything for himself, Obi-Wan decides, sobbing quietly. He’ll just hold still and let Anakin—do whatever he needs to, whatever will calm his body’s pain. Obi-Wan doesn't truly want that, is a little frightened (Isn’t it supposed to hurt? He’s heard that before.), but that outcome is infinitely better than the possibility of him being the one to hurt Anakin.
Obi-Wan crawls the few short feet between himself and his former padawan. The journey is agony, his entire body crying out in need. He sees a sort of hazy, disoriented hope bloom on Anakin’s face, and feels at once both a stomach-churning revulsion and simple, bleak determination. He’s going to help Anakin. No matter how despicable it makes him feel, he won’t let his padawan suffer.
As soon as Obi-Wan gets close enough, Anakin’s left hand darts out, far faster than he expected the other to be able to move, and snatches at Obi-Wan’s wrist, gripping it tightly. He gasps at the touch, not because it hurts, but because it doesn’t.
He stares down at his padawan’s scarred, tan fingers curled tightly over his paler skin, the tiny point of contact tethering him to the world while the rest of his body feels like a leaf tumbling through a monsoon, like a dying star eating itself from the inside out. He drinks in the solace of that single hand like a dying man.
But the sliver of scant relief must have brought Anakin a second wind. Before Obi-Wan can make any sort of conscious decision on how to proceed, the younger Jedi hurls himself upward, seizing the side hems of Obi-Wan’s robe and yanking on them. He gasps in surprise, grabbing Anakin's wrists on instinct and trying to hold him back even as his own arms tremble violently.
But Anakin’s desperation lends him new strength, and he tugs and tugs until Obi-Wan’s robe is pulled down from his shoulders. Without any further warning, Anakin shoves both his hands into the front of Obi-Wan’s robes and up under his tunic.
And the utter relief that the touch brings is staggering, outdone only by how much it seems to ease Anakin’s own suffering. He makes a weak, urgent mewling sound, bullying his way ever closer against his Master.
Obi-Wan, despite the crawling fear in his chest, consciously forces himself to relax, to stop fighting. He’s shoved down onto his back, and narrowly avoids being kneed in the gut when Anakin clambers on top of him. Obi-Wan will give his padawan anything he needs.
He starts to fumble with Obi-Wan’s tunic, pulling at it. Obi-Wan lifts his arms to make it easier for him. The ground is freezing against his bare skin. He feels simultaneously very far away from himself and trapped within his body, ungrounded and yet unable to connect to the world around him. (Damn suppressant collar.)
Anakin has somehow managed to get his own tunic off, despite his lack of coordination. He is straddling Obi-Wan, now, gazing down at him blearily, without focus, his face swollen and blotchy from crying. His skin is flushed bright pink, and he pants for breath to compensate for whatever the drug is doing to him. Obi-Wan himself is likely not faring much better.
It’s not his fault, Obi-Wan tries to fortify himself. He doesn’t want this any more than you do, and you need to be ready to help him when he comes out of it. Despite his best efforts, his fear still ricochets uselessly around his chest, like a bird throwing itself at a closed window. Vague expectations of brutality and pain crowd the front of his mind.
But instead of all that, Anakin, lacking any sort of grace, flops bonelessly down on top of Obi-Wan’s chest.
All the air in his lungs blows out of him in a loud grunt (the boy is heavy) and he feels strong arms worm their way under his back while he wheezes for breath. The rough leather straps of the prosthesis's glove feel painfully abrasive on his skin, but the contact from his flesh arm is heavenly, a balm against a burn.
Still wheezing, Obi-Wan’s arms come up of their own accord and fold around Anakin’s back. He feels Anakin squeeze him even tighter, and then hook his knees around and behind Obi-Wan’s, wrapping their legs together.
Obi-Wan feels embarrassment flair through him at the position, but he is a little more concerned with still being squashed by his too-large padawan (some distant, half-hysterical part of him is complaining that padawans shouldn’t be allowed to get bigger than their Masters, it isn’t right) and how the arrangement is making certain activities, such as breathing, quite difficult.
After a few seconds of awkward shimmying, he manages to roll them both over to the left, so Anakin is no longer on top of him. He feels the other shudder against him and try to wriggle even closer, shoving his head underneath Obi-Wan’s, like a particularly bulbous pillow.
And then…nothing.
Anakin doesn’t relax, exactly, his muscles clenched tight, but he still settles, in a way. The desperation of the last hour, the frenetic energy that had wracked his body begins to calm. The physical sensations that had been tearing their way through Obi-Wan’s body have quieted somewhat, as well. He can still feel the influence of whatever he was drugged with, lying in wait, but it seems that skin-to-skin contact alone has alleviated much of the distress.
Obi-Wan feels a cautious, fragile optimism unfurl in his chest. Maybe…maybe this is all that will happen. Maybe their captors gave them the wrong substance, or perhaps it just doesn’t work the way they thought it does. Maybe it will be okay.
The two brothers breathe together for a time.