Chapter Text
It creeps up on Obi-Wan innocently enough, so slowly that he doesn’t notice it at first.
Another sleepless night where he can’t quite seem to rid his skin of the stench of blood and blaster fire, nor escape the gnarled, disfigured demons that desolately haunt his dreams. On the few occasions he actually manages to sleep, it’s fitful, and he often wakes with silent tears streaming down his face. Those are the only moments that he seems to be able to feel anything these days; as the pathetic dregs of sleep start to fade away with the morning light, numb detachment slowly overtakes him again.
Another day, another fight with Anakin, another round of caustic barbs carelessly hurled at one another without thought. One would assume that the magnitude of the stressors of war would bring them closer together, but it’s the exact opposite. The chasm grows less traversable with each passing day, the easy camaraderie of their earlier relationship slipping through his fingers like sand.
Obi-Wan can’t stop it, he realizes. Yet another casualty of the fucking war. Besides, his former Padawan doesn’t need to know just how far the famed Negotiator and Jedi Master has fallen. No one does; it’s none of their business.
Another Council meeting that leaves him even more hollow and disillusioned with the Jedi Order and the Senate, anxious and dreading the next assignment that will inevitably be dumped in his lap. Obi-Wan grieves the old missions, the old challenges, and the old meaningless worries of the past. He miserably laments those carefree, insouciant feelings.
Another failed attempt at meditation. These days, the once calming act proves deeply frustrating, and he can’t seem to push his wildly fluctuating emotions into the Force like any good Jedi should be able to. Like he would have been easily able to prior to the onset of the war.
Lacking a healthy outlet for dealing with the stress, Obi-Wan constantly feels agitated, like he’s absorbed a static charge and can’t manage to disperse the disconcerting prickly feeling that aches deep underneath his skin.
This is how it all starts, with a single drink now and then to placate the intense discomfort of his inner narrative. To calm nerves frayed raw and recentre himself in a way that meditation, sleep, or his connection with Anakin used to accomplish easily.
One drink quickly turns into a losing count of his indulgences.
One drink quickly turns into stumbling back to wherever he is sleeping that night.
One drink quickly turns into waking up fully clothed in bed, dizzy and disoriented, with a stale taste of liquor sour in the back of his throat.
That is, if he even manages to make it back to his bed in the first place. There have been a few particularly rough nights where he has startled awake in… less than savoury locations. Surprisingly, he’s never been mugged, or worse, on those nights, though the shame of having to sneak back to his quarters quickly overshadows that miniscule win.
The hangovers are terrible, but if there is one thing Obi-Wan Kenobi is good at, it’s compartmentalizing. They are at war. He’s expected to be on much higher alert, despite his far sorrier state, with much less sleep. As a Force-sensitive, Obi-Wan has the ability to dissipate the intoxication, but he never does. He repents for his poor judgment by wallowing in the malaise, resigning himself to deal with the fallout silent and alone.
As he should.
The hangover is part of the punishment for his many grievances, and Obi-Wan isn’t one to shy away from facing the consequences of his abysmal judgment.
Eventually, the euphoria of drinking far too much starts to fade, failing to separate him from the cacophony of feelings exploding in his mind like fireworks. That’s usually when Obi-Wan starts to clock the not-so-subtle looks being thrown his way, ones he has failed to acknowledge up to this point given how lost he was in his own misery and drinks.
Obi-Wan isn’t an idiot. He knows he is a relatively attractive man and that he is bound to catch someone's attention. Before the war—in what feels like an entirely foreign lifetime—he would have been the one casually tossing such loaded glances in the hopes of enticing someone back to his bed for an evening of carefree pleasures of the flesh. Such encounters used to be a way to blow off steam, ones Obi-Wan walked away from with a spring in his step, feeling lighter and refreshed.
It’s decidedly not like that anymore, though the enticing notion of further escape from reality proves a temptation too strong for Obi-Wan’s diminished self-worth to resist.
Recently, his nights have been saturated in bottom-shelf liquor, which quickly devolves into risky and clumsy hookups. Never are the faceless men concerned with Obi-Wan’s pleasure, though if he’s honest with himself, he prefers it that way; this isn’t about passion or lust or desire. Far from it, in fact. It’s about castigation and personal penance.
If Obi-Wan’s lucky, and most of the time he isn’t, he and his nameless partner might manage to make it to a dirty, pay-by-the-hour hotel room. Usually, they are only fortunate enough to stumble into a bathroom stall or the back alley of whichever grimy dive bar Obi-Wan has the misfortune of patronizing that evening. Typically, neither manages to spare a thought to consider using protection, but Obi-Wan can’t find it in himself to care; it’s one way he can play roulette with his well-being that won’t affect his usefulness on the frontlines.
The simple fact of the matter is that… he is good at conducting warfare, and his skills are needed, regardless of how deeply he suffers. His anguish isn’t unique and he doesn’t deserve any special sympathy… he is one of billions. Obi-Wan isn’t optimistic he’ll live to experience peace anyway, so he’ll do what he can, give what he can, while he is able.
These men often buy him drinks. Of course, Obi-Wan has the means to buy his own liquor, but that’s not what this is about. It’s about the way their lips curl ever so slightly at the corners. The way their gaze grows cruel and sharp as they observe his coordination become sloppy, his tongue trip over his words, and his inhibitions unravel like the ever-fraying rope that is his disintegrating sanity.
Sometimes… sometimes they offer him other things. Spice that burns the back of his throat as he quickly snorts it off of the back of a hand while they huddle in a dark corner of the street waiting for a taxi. Or small, bitter pills passed between seeking tongues in the chilly darkness of run-down hotel rooms.
Obi-Wan always accepts, no matter the substance.
He isn’t addicted to the substances, per se. No, this is an addiction to the depth of hatred he has for himself when he wakes up in the morning. It’s about purposely degrading himself to make amends for his part in the war.
This is about temporarily staunching the uncontrollable, overflowing emotions of agony and grief that leave him feeling debilitated even on the best days. This is about surrendering himself to the freefall of his guilt. About replacing that pain with self-loathing, which is much easier to understand and categorize. This is about purposely objectifying himself so that he wakes up dishevelled, hungover, and filthy, so that his physical state matches how he feels deep inside his heart.
It is a full-blown fixation on how sharply he spiralling in silence without anyone noticing the gravity of his situation.
It all boils down to one hard truth: Obi-Wan never wants to sleep with these nameless, faceless strangers. He doesn’t particularly want their grimy hands and disgusting mouths on his body either. But that in itself is exactly why he needs it; he seeks it out because he’s addicted to the feeling of being debased, used, and corrupted irrevocably in the bright rays of the morning sun.
Obi-Wan wants to punish himself.
This is how he finds himself, once again, sitting at the bar in some nondescript establishment—if it could even be called that—once again lost in the desolate depths of his thoughts. Obi-Wan leans forward unsteadily to reach for his glass, frowning at its empty state. With a grumble, he splays a hand next to the glass, grimacing as his skin sticks to the tacky surface.
Why are the bar tops always fucking sticky?
Obi-Wan pulls his damp tunic sleeve away from the disgusting mess with a sneer. His displeasure twists his usually stoic and controlled features into something he would likely not recognize had he been able to look at himself in a mirror.
Considering Obi-Wan’s current state, that is likely a very good thing. A blessing in disguise, really. He will save the embarrassment and self-hatred for a more appropriate time. Like during daylight hours, when he’ll unfortunately be far too sober, but that’s a problem for future Obi-Wan.
He doesn’t even want to think about how far he’s fallen, nor the personal battle he’s losing.
Now isn’t the time for such abysmal, nihilistic thoughts.
No, now is the time to allow an alcohol-induced stupor to nestle into the dark, broken fissures of his mind and aid him in forgetting the bitterness of war. To assist him in escaping the nastiness of his reality by making bad decisions in the quest to feel something other than detachment and shame. Short-lived pleasure—though not for him—followed by regret and shame is far better than guilt-induced apathy, right?
Right?
Obi-Wan casually brushes aside the persistent thoughts of fighting a losing battle with his vices and refocuses on his empty glass. He leans back on the barstool, putting more space between himself and the abomination in front of him. Leaning further back, in an effort to avoid scrutinizing the offensive surface in front of him too closely, he uncharacteristically loses track of his body in space and very nearly over-balances himself on the stool. With a startled gasp, Obi-Wan desperately flails his arms, grasping onto the counter before him, almost face-planting into the surface and associated syrupy nightmare.
Fuck it.
Now both of his tunic sleeves are saturated in stale liquor, sweat, and who knows what else. At least he had the foresight to wear non-descript civilian tunics. And... he reckons he’s far enough down in the city's underbelly that his face shouldn’t be recognized. Probably. Hopefully. Obi-Wan doesn’t need the Council on his case about his ‘state of mind’; it’s bad enough that he has to keep pushing Anakin away so he won’t discover the true depths of his mentor’s struggle.
“God fucking dammit,” Obi-Wan mutters under his breath, shaking his hand as though that would get rid of the disgusting mixture of fluids coating his palm.
Obi-Wan eyes the offensive surface for one final drawn-out moment before deciding that it’s not worth his attention when there are more important things to lament.
A war spanning an entire galaxy.
War fatalities too innumerable to count.
The lives of civilians, clones, and children, and the unfortunate casualties they suffer despite not having any say in this fucking situation.
Lives, all of those bright lights full of potential in the Force, that are being snuffed out without a second thought only because it suits the needs of people who don’t even recognize their existence.
Despicable.
Bars like this one allow Obi-Wan to surround himself with similar feelings of despair and hopelessness, so that he doesn’t have to feel so alone for once, emotions echoing those permanently carved into his soul. They are a place where he doesn’t have to pretend he’s not drowning in the hypocrisy of a society gilded in gold, where the war is just a red mark on a scrap piece of flimsy to the wealthy and powerful—to those not forced to face the reality of tallying the dead every dawn. Impersonal and heartless.
Obi-Wan shakes his head harshly, forcibly breaking that unfortunate train of thought yet again. He spends almost every waking moment tearing himself to shreds with self-condemnation, self-resentment, and self-loathing. Now isn’t the time for any of that. Now is the time reserved for other things.
Like alcohol. And hopefully mind-numbingly horrible sex.
Leaning tentatively against the bar, pointedly avoiding the messy surface, he flashes a trembling finger at the bartender—a tall, bulky Chiss man with deep blue skin, disconcerting red eyes, and greasy black hair—who tilts his head in acknowledgement. A tacky, murky glass filled with an amber liquid is placed in front of him, and Obi-Wan nods his thanks, tossing a handful of un-counted credits onto the counter in exchange.
“Nah, is on me.”
Obi-Wan startles badly, body jerking harshly at the sudden vocalization. His heart hammers in his chest, and he has to forcibly control the sharp breaths threatening to escape his mouth and the panic nearly overtaking his mind. He’s in a bar on Coruscant, not some backwater battlefield, and he’s not in any danger—that he hadn’t put himself in, anyways. It takes him longer than he would have liked, but he finally focuses on the other man scrutinizing him.
“I… I beg your pardon?” Obi-Wan slurs, tasting the syllables of the words curiously as if saying them for the first time.
The man grins sharply and pushes his credits back towards him. “I said… it’s on me,” he speaks slowly, as though keenly aware of the muddled state of Obi-Wan’s thoughts.
‘Ah,’ Obi-Wan realizes suddenly. ‘Finally.’
He grasps the glass, casually fingering a chip on its rim, and draws it towards himself. Obi-Wan bites his lip suggestively as he looks up at the other man through his lashes in what he hopes is an alluring manner and observes the other man. The Chiss isn’t attractive, nor is he Obi-Wan’s type, but he’s offering a distraction that is utterly and wretchedly addicting, and Obi-Wan isn’t about to ignore the offer.
“Is that so?” Obi-Wan murmurs, the words feeling much too large for his mouth. “And what do you want in return, hrm? I know just as well as you do that nothing is given for free around here.”
The man chuckles, the sound grating and ugly. He leans on the bar in front of him and pushes confidently into Obi-Wan’s face, breathing out a plume of sour breath as he speaks, “Looks like you’ve ‘ad a rough night, doll. My shift is almost over. How ‘bout we go somewhere an’… get to know each other a little better?”
Obi-Wan hums musically, as if he’s taking his time to consider the proposition even though he’s already decided. He’s disgusted by it, but he is also hopelessly addicted to the feeling of spinning wildly out of control, and he isn’t about to pass up such an offer. He’d rather face the sharp edges of his shattered pieces head on than feel nothing at all.
He shallowly nods his assent as he brings the proffered drink to his lips and swallows the acrid substance all in one go. It’s cheap, distastefully so, and viciously burns the back of his throat. There’s also a characteristic bitter aftertaste to it, Obi-Wan notices. Spice, only one of the most rampant substances on the market. How… unimaginative. This nobody has obviously clocked him as the… less observant type, and is counting on Obi-Wan failing to pick up on the addition. At least this asshole seems to only want Obi-Wan more fucked up and less disinhibited, instead of completely blacked out like some of the others he’s engaged with in the past.
Obi-Wan always notices.
Apparently, it’s going to be one of those nights.
Not that he cares.
He slams the glass back down on the bar top, the sound of it hitting the surface lost in the low din of the crowd, and knowingly meets the excited crimson eyes of the Chiss. “I’ll wait.”
This scenario is exactly what he craves, even if he’ll regret it in the morning.
Which is rather the point.
As he waits, his vision slowly starts to pixelate at the edges. Obi-Wan releases a long breath, and the anxious pressure on his chest finally abates. A fuzzy, light feeling starts to spread through his body, and he can’t help but smile at the promise of a night absent of dreams permeated with the clamour of blaster fire and the agonizing screams of troopers suffering through their last moments.
On a scale of typical dive bar to absolute shit hole, this establishment is creeping towards earning the gold star designation of shit hole bar of the year.
Anakin grimaces and closes his eyes, allowing his consciousness to slip gently into the Force. Yeah, this is exactly where it had been insistently pulling him for the better part of the last hour.
It had started as a light brush of… something at the periphery of his bond with Obi-Wan as Anakin had settled into bed for the night. Unexpectedly, he had found himself back at the Temple for a few nights and was looking forward to sleeping in a real bed, a rarity these days—even though he would likely wake up screaming after only a few blessed hours of rest.
He had just settled in, the covers tucked tightly beneath his chin when a maelstrom of grief, abhorrence, and confusion slammed into his shields from Obi-Wan’s side of the bond, immediately fracturing his tentative peace into unrecognizable fragments.
Anakin had been out of bed and fully dressed before he even realized what was happening, his worry for his former Master outweighing his desire for rest.
Obi-Wan’s side of the bond is always steely and impenetrable these days, so the abrupt change is incredibly alarming. His former Master never allows so much emotion to cascade through the bond that they share, at least not since before the war, and even then.
Obi-Wan must be in trouble.
The late hour combined with the deviation from Obi-Wan’s typical austere aloofness finds Anakin especially worried. Yes, they argue frequently and disagree constantly, but lately, the other man seems to be trying to pick fights, finding flimsy excuses to push his former Padawan even further out of his orbit.
Anakin suspects Obi-Wan is dealing with something deeply personal and is fighting like hell to hide it from everyone. It’s likely the war—how could it not be—but why his former Master refuses to confide in other Jedi, or even Anakin, who are all living the same hell is a mystery. Anakin knows that Obi-Wan is an intensely private man, but he’s never seen him like this.
Ever.
It terrifies Anakin in a way that he’s never felt before. It feels like he might… lose his Master and not be able to do anything to prevent it.
And Anakin, well, he had realized during the early days of the war that his feelings for Obi-Wan extend far beyond those appropriate for Jedi. Obi-Wan… he means a lot to Anakin, but it’s a dangerous line of thinking, so that’s as far as Anakin has ever allowed it to go.
They will have time to figure it out after the war. As long as they both manage to survive it.
Regardless, Anakin tries his absolute best to be there for the other man, even if Obi-Wan feels more like a stranger to Anakin these days, regardless of the depth of their shared history.
This is how Anakin finds himself standing awkwardly outside of a bar that has obviously seen better days—he eyes the questionable surroundings dubiously and concludes that it was still most likely an utter shit hole even in its prime—without remembering how he had gotten there, nor how many levels into the planet's core he had descended. All he knows is that the Force led him here, and he can feel Obi-Wan burning over-bright and out of control inside.
Anakin scrutinizes the neon lit sign, which has more letters burned out and flickering than not, before cursing under his breath and pushing roughly through the door.
… and running bodily into someone exiting the bar at the same time.
Or rather, someones: a slighter individual, unsteady on their feet and face covered with a dark hood, and a tall male Chiss with oily blue skin and limp black hair. The Chiss has a possessive hand on the other’s lower back as he eagerly steers the other out. Anakin doesn’t need to read the energy in the Force to glean his intentions for his intoxicated ‘companion’. The predatory motives are written hungrily all over his ugly, scarred face.
Anakin grunts as he collides with the two, hands coming to grasp the shorter man’s shoulders as the other stumbles and just barely manages to catch himself on the doorframe, though the slight impact shouldn’t have resulted in such a severe loss of balance. The motion causes the hood to slide off his head, and Anakin’s jaw drops at the sight.
“Mas—Obi… shit, are you okay? What are you doing here?” Anakin breathes anxiously, trying to catch the other Jedi’s eyes.
“We was jus’ leavin’,” the Chiss responds for him with a grunt, hand curling avariciously around Obi-Wan’s waist and trying to pull him quickly out the door and into the shadowy maw of the street.
“The fuck you are,” Anakin growls, eyes not leaving his Master’s face as he grasps Obi-Wan’s cheeks and forces the other man to look at him. Obi-Wan’s head lolls back with the sudden movement, as though he has no control of his neck muscles. He’s sickly pale, and a thin sheen of sweat covers his forehead. Most concerning, however, is the fact that he has yet to acknowledge Anakin’s sudden presence. In fact, he doesn’t even seem capable of focusing on anything at the moment. His eyes are glassy and confused, as though he is staring right through Anakin, unseeingly.
All of that pales next to Obi-Wan’s presence in the Force.
It’s pure, white-hot agony. Pain-guilt-need-anger-terror-inadequacy-helplessness -confusion all but assault Anakin as he slides into their bond, and he has to backpedal quickly and slam his shields shut to staunch the torrential flood of emotions practically bleeding out of Obi-Wan.
The picture it paints is horrific.
Obi-Wan is heavily intoxicated, and most likely drugged by the man standing next to them. Anakin needs to get Obi-Wan out of here.
NOW.
Anakin draws Obi-Wan against his chest and his former Master follows, limp like a doll, though the stranger's hold on Obi-Wan’s waist only tightens. Anakin turns to glare at the Chiss and hisses dangerously, “What the hell did you give him, asshole?”
“Nothin’. He’s jus’ real drunk. Found ‘im like that,” the man drawls, voice icy and tight with the blatant lie. His face glowers in frustration, obviously angry at having his quest for evening entertainment interrupted. The Chiss reaches over and grasps Obi-Wan by the chin, forcing him to meet mean red eyes. “You consented, right doll?
Obi-Wan’s eyes dart back and forth between Anakin and the other man, as though struggling to keep up with the conversation, mouth gaping. “I… I, ah… yes, we were…” He trails off as though forgetting that he was speaking in the first place.
“Back the fuck off, shit head. I will disembowel you slowly, right here, and enjoy every fucking second of it. Call my bluff, I dare you,” Anakin snarls, grasping the Chiss’s hand with his mech arm and forcibly prying it from Obi-Wan’s body. He holds it in his grasp, tightening his grip until the servos in his arm start to whine, watching with sick glee as the other man’s face twists in agony. “You have three seconds to turn around and leave, or I’ll break your wrist.”
Anakin isn’t exactly sure what his expression looks like, but if the terror spreading over the other man's face like wildfire is any indication, crazed and dangerous is likely just the tip of the iceberg.
“Fuck, fine! You’re fuckin’ crazy, man,” The Chiss shouts, disappointment at losing his prey and the humiliation of ceding dominance twisting his features into a hideous mess. Immediately relenting, he tears his wrist out of Anakin’s grasp and rubs it with his other hand as he backs away, disappearing like a wisp of smoke into a dark alley next to the club.
Anakin barely spares the idiot another glance and instead turns his full, undivided attention back to Obi-Wan. He throws their bond wide open once again, immediately reaching through and enveloping the other man with his presence to console and comfort him. He clutches the man tightly to his chest, shivering as Obi-Wan buries his face into the front of his tunics and ushers them both to the curb while simultaneously flagging down a taxi speeder. “Obi-Wan? Are you okay? What the fuck is going on?”
Obi-Wan murmurs something incoherent under his breath and presses closer to Anakin in place of a proper response. He stumbles, feet unsteady, and his body goes boneless into the circle of Anakin’s arms.
Anakin is terrified, terrified and irate. He’s never seen his former Master in such a state, and has no idea what the Chiss has given him or what Obi-Wan may have ingested on his own. Though unsteady on his feet and mostly non-verbal, a quick assessment with the Force assures Anakin that the other man is not physically hurt and in no immediate danger of overdosing.
Obi-Wan’s simply incoherent and disinhibited within the depths of his high.
Right now, he needs to get Obi-Wan back to the Temple. He can deal with the rest of this shit show, and his former Master’s distressing lack of regard for his own safety, after.
Anakin sighs, ruthlessly shoving his rapidly simmering worry and anger to the back of his mind as he opens the door of the speeder that lurches jerkily to a stop next to them. “Let’s just get you back to the Temple, but we will talk about this later,” he mutters, words urgently gentle.
When Obi-Wan finally glances up at him, he seems like he doesn’t know who Anakin is, but he allows himself to be ushered into the cab, regardless. The other man doesn’t seem to care that he could be in danger, and Anakin catches a stray feeling floating through their wide-open bond that he wants to be taken advantage of. Though when Anakin climbs into the speeder and settles onto the bench next to him, the other man slouches into Anakin’s shoulder and curls an arm around his chest, muttering a barely audible, “... Anakin?”
“I’m here, Obi-Wan.” Anakin immediately flings an arm over Obi-Wan’s shoulder and draws him closer to his body. He can feel the heat radiating off his former Master and how his heart is wildly beating out of his chest through his layers of clothing. Anakin presses a chaste kiss to the top of Obi-Wan’s head before drawing the man down to rest against his shoulder, tucking his Master safely underneath his chin.
Obi-Wan desperately curls into Anakin’s embrace, remaining silent, and Anakin’s heart shatters into a million pieces.