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“I’m just worried, ‘cause so much of the timing and the seeping is determined by touch and feel, but my species runs so much colder than hers, and I don’t want—”
Anakin does not recognize the voice of the person speaking. It’s not unusual for someone to be visiting him and Obi-Wan’s rooms— his Master is a social creature and has plenty of friends around the Order, on top of people who swung by for more official reasons or for help translating something— but this voice is very, very young. Younger than him, probably.
That’s more unusual, and Anakin stops, more out of surprise than anything. He catches the next part of the conversation, hand hovering above the door activation button.
Obi-Wan laughs, deep in his chest and fond. Something in Anakin’s chest spasms at the sound.
“This blend should make that significantly easier. It’s very forgiving, and a few seconds over or under the recommended time won’t change the flavor at all. Just count to 45 twice once you put the leaves in.”
“And—” A note of thready anxiety entered the young voice. “And you know for sure that she likes this one?”
Obi-Wan’s voice is warm when he responds. Anakin can hear the smile in it. “She’s mentioned to me before that she prefers her tea mild and floral, which I can assure you that this is.”
“Okay! I just...I wanted to double check.” There is a second’s pause, and then they continue, soft as a secret, “I just want it to be perfect.”
“Dear Padawan,” Obi-Wan says, “I think that she’ll think that it’s perfect simply because it’s coming from you.”
There it is again, that deep warmth in his voice, and Anakin is so busy thinking about it that he isn’t prepared for the door to slide open in front of him.
“Oh!” The other Padawan blinks vertically at him. He was right about their age; they’re probably a year or two younger than him, 9 or 10 standard. The strand of beads that stands in for a padawan braid short and stubby, maybe only days or weeks old. They’re some reptilian species Anakin can’t remember the name of and they seem feminine to him, but he’s been getting chewed out recently for assuming gender so he forces himself not to assign anything beyond that.
The other Padawan drops into an easy, shallow bow, arms at their sides, the kind that equals give each other. “Padawan Skywalker. Pardon me if I startled you; I was consulting with your Master, and now I’m just leaving.”
“Uh,” Anakin fumbles, and returns the bow a beat too late. “You didn’t, I was just lost in my thoughts. I’m the one in your way, Padawan…”
“Teppa.”
“Padawan Teppa.” Anakin steps to the side, to give them room to pass. “What were you consulting Master Obi-Wan about?”
“Tea!” says the other Padawan brightly. “I’m performing a tea ceremony for my Master, one that originates from her home world. It’ll be the first time I sit foveo with her!”
She says that word— foveo — as if it should mean something to Anakin.
It does not.
“That sounds great,” Anakin says, because the statement feels like it needs a response and he can’t think of another.
The Padawan nods, joy nearly rippling through the Force around them. “I want it to be. Joyous evening, Padawan Skywalker!” And then they nearly skip away.
Anakin watches them go, his stomach still squirming, because— he is coming up on two years here, and he’s still hearing words that he doesn’t understand. Words he doesn’t understand, which people say as if he should understand them. Then he activates the door and walks into the room.
.
Obi-Wan stares at the cup of tea in front of him, debating what to do with it, because he doesn’t want to drink it. He doesn’t have much of a taste for floral tea. He likes his tea bitter and earthy, a taste inherited from Qui-Gon, or herbal and spicy, a taste he’d already had which was further cultivated by Satine.
That being said, it seems like a shame to pour out an entire cup of tea.
He hears the door slide open, and the familiar footsteps and Force presence of his padawan enter the room.
“Ah, Anakin,” he says, not glancing up from the tea. “Welcome back. How was Galactic History today?”
“It was alright.” Anakin sounds more subdued than he usually does, even after one of his least favorite classes. And he’s hanging by the door instead of striding directly to his room; a clear sign that he wants to talk about something, but doesn’t know how to bring it up.
Thankfully, there are many ways to help facilitate that, and one of them might also solve his other, far less important, problem.
“Would you like this?” Obi-Wan asks, lifting the teacup to Anakin’s attention.
Anakin, still never one to turn down food or drink if it was offered, walks to the table. He takes the cup between his hands.
“Why don’t you want it?”
Obi-Wan gets up and begins to prepare his own cup of tea. “I don’t like the flavor.”
With his back turned, Obi-Wan can hear Anakin slurp at the tea. His lips twitch up, though he ducks his head to hide it. Etiquette will come in time. Childhood exists now, and he lets his padawan indulge in it.
Anakin is frowning at the cup when he sits down across from him.
“This tastes like the way perfume smells.”
Obi-Wan laughs. “Yes, that’s why I don’t like it.” He sits down across from Anakin and takes a sip of his own tea.
Anakin reaches out and pulls the sugar bowl over. He places three heaping spoonfuls into the cup and tries it again. He shrugs.
“It’s alright when you do that.”
Obi-Wan smiles. And he waits.
Anakin drains a few more sips. He purses his lips. His leg begins to bounce under the table.
Obi-Wan feels the warmth of the porcelain under his fingers.
“Padawan Teppa almost knocked me off my feet on her way outta here,” Anakin says.
“Did she?” Obi-Wan stirs his tea. “She’s very enthusiastic.”
“Yeah.” Another weighted pause. “She said something to me that I didn’t understand.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. A word.”
“What word, Padawan?”
Anakin pursed his lips, and then said it slowly, forcing his lips around the unfamiliar verb sounds. “ Foveo?”
And, oh . Oh .
Goodness, it’s hard to remember, sometimes, the things that Anakin doesn’t know. Everyday, Obi-Wan is reminded of just how hard it is to integrate someone into a new culture they weren’t born into, in a way that is respectful to both the person’s original culture and the one they’re joining now. There are lessons that he struggles to articulate enough to teach, because he doesn’t actually remember being taught them; they’d been gently pressed into his soul from the moment he passed into the Temple’s embrace.
And then there are things like this. Which, Obi-Wan is self-aware enough to know, he put aside as a lesson for another day , and then allowed himself to forget about.
He will need to meditate on that later. Perhaps seek council, to be sure it didn’t happen again.
But that was for later. Now, Obi-Wan needs to teach, and teach carefully.
“ Foveo, ” Obi-Wan begins, “is a Jedi tradition. A kind of informal ceremony that a Master and Padawan can complete together.”
Anakin’s brows draw together. “Like Reflection?” he asks, naming a holy day that took place in early winter.
“Not quite. Reflection happens once a year, and is very structured. Foveo can happen far more frequently than that. It could happen every day, even.”
“Then why haven’t I heard about it yet?”
Obi-Wan places his tea cup on the table. “Because it’s considered fairly private. Something between Master and Padawan only. It’s a way to reaffirm their bond, and...well, express affection, I suppose.”
Immediately, Anakin’s face shuts down, and Obi-Wan curses himself. Blast, that hadn’t been the right way to phrase it at all.
Anakin shoves his cup away from him and pushes himself away from the table, head ducked. “I understand, Master ,” he spits out, and it hurts Obi-Wan’s heart to hear that title, which they had both so tentatively worked their way up to, thrown out with that much venom. “You don’t need to explain anymore, I’m going to—”
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan interrupts, persistent but soft, trying to sound anything but angry. “Padawan, please let me finish talking before you leave. I promise that the conclusion you just jumped to is incorrect.” Delicate, delicate. He cannot not break this fragile, blooming trust, a year and a half hard earned.
Anakin stops, brows set and eyes on the floor. He’s so tense that he’s barely moving, but he hasn’t fled the room, so Obi-Wan pushes on.
“The other thing that sitting foveo accomplishes is a gentle lesson about the role a Jedi plays in the universe,” Obi-Wan continues. He turns in his seat so he is facing Anakin, leans forward so his forearms rest on his knees— like this, they are nearly at eye level. “Jedi live their lives in service to greater powers— the Senate, the Republic, and, above all, the Force. We make the choice to give our lives to obeying it, as best we can. A Master-Padawan bond is also one where both parties are providing something to the other. As your teacher, your Master, I am in service to you. It is my duty and my joy to teach you, guide you, help you grow. Do you follow so far?”
A long beat, followed by a slow, tentative nod.
“Good.” Obi-Wan continues. “ Foveo is a celebration and reinforcement of all those things. How it is acted out varies from pair to pair, though there are certain words that must be spoken to make it what it is. But, fundamentally, sitting foveo requires an act of service on the side of the Padawan, and a formal acceptance of that by the Master.”
Anakin looks perplexed, which is good, because he no longer looks angry. “Act of—”
“Service, yes. Such as performing a tea ceremony, as Padawan Teppa is planning to do,” Obi-Wan confirms. “Or preparing a meal, or laying out clothes, or grabbing them a cup of caff, or many other things. And then the two exchange those words I mentioned before. And that’s it.”
His Padawan’s body language has relaxed. He looks oddly exhausted. Slowly, Obi-Wan leans forward and reaches out. He takes both of Anakin’s hands inside of both of his.
“I did not tell you about this at first,” Obi-Wan says, “because there were many other, more important things to teach you. There are many Master-Padawan pairs who don’t do it at all. You know my friend Quinlan?”
Anakin nearly rolls his eyes, which Obi-Wan counts as a win. “Yes, Master.”
“He and his master never participated in this tradition at all. It is not something required, nor is it anyone else’s business but our own. At first, it seemed more important for us to focus on other aspects of being a Jedi.”
Anakin stares down at their joined hands. “Just at first?”
His padawan is perceptive and learning, and Obi-Wan is so proud of him. “Yes,” he says. “At first. Afterwards, I—well. I let myself forget about it, because I wasn’t sure if this particular tradition would be constructive for you. Because what service means to me is very different than what service means to you, the same way Master sometimes still means something very different to you than it means to me.”
There is a long moment, as Anakin processes this. “But we worked on the Master thing,” he says, voice hushed. “That part got better.”
“It did,” Obi-Wan nods.
“And I don’t,” Anakin presses his lips together and swallows, obviously fighting to find the correct words. “I don’t want to be defined by that forever. I don’t want to not do things because of where I come from.” That had been his argument, all those months ago, when he’d stated that he wanted to start calling Obi-Wan Master , no matter how the two of them balked at the title then. “I want to be more than that. I am more than that.”
“You’re right,” says Obi-Wan, “you absolutely are. But needing time to heal from something, feeling the leftover effects of something terrible that’s happened to you, doesn’t mean that you are defined by it. It means you need more time to process and understand it, before those emotions can be released back into the Force. And there’s nothing wrong with that. That being said,” he sighs. “I should have brought this up and talked to you about it before now. This is part of our world, and it was wrong to keep it from you.”
Anakin says nothing, but not in an angry way. He seems to be thinking, mulling the information over. Obi-Wan lets him, their hands still clasped together, projecting as much calm and affection into the Force as he could. They stay like that for a while.
Anakin pulls away from him and perches on the closest chair. Their knees nearly touch. “I,” he starts, stops, and tries again. “I still don’t think I get it. I don’t understand why it’s good.”
“Ah,” says Obi-Wan. “Well, that’s perfectly understandable.”
“Is it something you and Qui-Gon used to do?”
“Occasionally, yes.”
“And that made you feel—”
“Happy,” says Obi-Wan, unusually open, but this was important. “Safe.Like he had proof, now, of how much his teaching meant to me.”
Anakin’s mouth twisted. “So you, what, laid his clothes out for him? Cleaned? Made him dinner?”
Obi-Wan pauses for a moment at that, memories rising unbidden.
The word foveo, in a language no longer spoken, roughly translated to “cherished.” And that was what it was supposed to do; make both parties feel cherished, and safe, and protected.
But Obi-Wan couldn’t help but think back to a different time, when he was young, in the early days of his apprenticeship and the darkest days of Qui-Gon’s depression, when he had done all those things— cooked and cleaned and pulled his master out of bed when he refused to move or eat— and not felt cherished, or safe, or loved. He’d felt scared and in over his head. He’d felt overworked and stressed and bad, and he felt like it was his fault.
Qui-Gon recovered from that depression eventually, with help. Their relationship also recovered, eventually. But that time scarred.
But now is not the time to relive that particular memory with his Padawan. If he has his way, it never will be.
So Obi-Wan smiles instead. “No, nothing that traditional. I read to him. Poetry, in several languages both of us spoke..”
Anakin smirks a bit, all mischief, and Obi-Wan’s heart again eases. “Not a tea ceremony? You’re so fussy about it.”
Obi-Wan laughs. “Oh, Stars, no, tea was much too personal an indulgence for both of us.”
The two of them smile at each other.
Obi-Wan gets to his feet, collects both empty tea cups. “And, to reiterate,” he says, “if this is something you’re never comfortable with, we will never do it. That does not make the bond we share any less real or important. There is a reason that foveo is considered private.”
Anakin hums. He leans his cheek on his hand, and half-pouts, the way he does when he’s thinking.
“It’s not the thing that bothers me,” he says, when Obi-Wan’s back is to him as he washes out the cups in the sink.
Obi-Wan lets the silence that comes after that statement linger. His heart sings as it does. His Padawan is taking his feelings and analyzing them, thinking about where they come from, why they feel the way they do. Obi-Wan is so proud of this boy.
“It bothers me,” Anakin says at last, “because I still don’t understand it, Master.” His voice is low and quiet. “I think about it, and it feels bad, but mostly it’s just confusing. I want to understand it, before it becomes bad forever.”
The teacups find their way to the drying rack. Obi-Wan hums. “That’s very wise, my dear Padawan.”
Anakin ducks his head. “If you say so, Master.”
“I do.” He turns back to the table. “I’m not sure if I can help you find that understanding, but fortunately I might have just the person for you to talk to.”
.
“Good afternoon, Padawan Teppa.”
The younger Padawan blinks up from her holo, surprised at the interruption. “Oh,” she says, “Good afternoon, Padawan Skywalker.”
“You can call me Anakin, you know,” he says, and then indicates the seat across from her. “Can I sit?”
“Oh, uh, sure, of course.” He sits down, and she offers him a small smile. “You can call me Teppa, then. Uh, my species doesn’t do last names, so it’s just Teppa,” she explains, before her words can be interpreted as rude.
“Wizard,” Anakin nods. “So, uh, I’m here because my Master sent me to talk to you.”
“Master Obi-Wan?” Teppa asks, suddenly looking more interested.
“Yeah,” says Anakin, and then jumps right in before he can think better of it. “So, alright, you know I came to the Temple way later than I should have?”
And he launches into an abridged version of the whole situation, mostly about his confusion regarding foveo , skimming around the exact reasons why it felt bad. Teppa listens dutifully.
“And,” Anakin finishes, “Obi-Wan thinks talking to you will help me get it more, I guess, maybe because we’re the same age? I’m not sure. But anyway, now I’m here.”
“I’m not really sure why Master Obi-Wan sent you to me either,” Teppa says, eyes wide, “but I’d be happy to help if I can.”
Around them, the Temple bustles with life. Both of them think.
“Well,” Teppa says slowly, “what if you got to see it being performed?”
“What?” Anakin blinks. “Like, watch it as it’s going on? Isn’t it, like, a private thing?”
“Yes, and it would definitely be weird if you were in the room when it was going on.” Teppa’s mouth puckers at the thought. “But what if you could watch a recording of it? A holo.”
Anakin tilts his head. “Do people usually record it?”
“Well, no,
people
don’t.” Teppa sighs. “But, see, my Master has this droid, who adopted her on a mission, and now—”
Anakin bursts out laughing. “They like recording things?”
“So many things!” Teppa half groans, a smile pulling at her lips. They grin at each other. Teppa continues, “So we have footage of it, if you want to see.”
Anakin pushes his lips together and does his level best not to fidget. “You’d,” he hesitates, “you’d be okay with that?”
Slowly, Teppa nods. “Well. Yes. You said you want to understand, and that you think this will help. I trust you not to be a jerk about it. And,” she shrugs. “it’s not fair that this is something you miss out on, just because you didn’t grow up close enough to it to understand.”
“Oh,” says Anakin, unexpectedly dumbfounded.
Teppa pulls out her holoreader and set up the data transfer. They wait for the video to upload.
“If you have any questions about it, feel free to ask me,” Teppa says, when the transfer is finished.
They both stand up. Anakin starts to leave.
“Padawan Skywalker,” Teppa calls, and Anakin turns back to her, confused about the sudden return to formality.
He freezes in shock when he sees that she has risen to her feet, and is performing a Pentiant’s Bow— clasped hands pressed to her forehead, bending at the waist. She’s bowing low enough to show that she's expressing regret for something she considers to be a not-insignificant infraction.
“Wha—”
“Myself and your other agemates,” Teppa cuts him off, “have done you a great disservice. We often interpreted your actions and attitudes as a disregard or disrespect of our customs. It should have occurred to us that is was because you didn’t know them. That you’re not making us uncomfortable on purpose, you just didn’t realize you were doing that. And we should have responded to that with offers of help and explanations as to why what you were doing made us uneasy, but we instead responded with avoidance. We are Jedi—we should be better than that. So I apologize.” She bows even lower. “Allow us the chance to do better in the future.”
Anakin gapes at her. “I— what—” He swallows. “I’m doing things that make people uncomfortable?”
Teppa bites her lips, then nods. “You stand too close to people,” she says, “you touch too freely. We all feel the Force in each other and the world, but we’re young—our shields aren’t strong yet. And your signature is very powerful. If you get too close, or if you touch people unexpectedly, it causes...well, pain, sometimes. Like getting hit in the head with a ball.”
“...Oh.”
Teppa shrugs, helplessly. “Jedi keep a physical distance from each other for a reason. We feel things. And we can sometimes feel things from others. But we’re supposed to feel safe around each other, and in the Temple.”
“I...see,” says Anakin, bewildered by this revelation. After a pause, he straightens his shoulders, and returns the Pentiant’s Bow. “Then I apologize, too. And I accept yours.”
Teppa releases a breath, straightens up, and smiles at him. “Good,” she says, “I’m glad. Joyous afternoon, Anakin, may the Force be with you!” and then she darts out of the room, holopad tucked under her arm.
Anakin watches her go, eyebrows furrowed. Then he walks back to his quarters to watch the tape.
.
Anakin doesn’t understand tea ceremonies, at least the way he’s seen them since coming to the Temple. All the unnecessary movements and motions, the symbolism made fussy and easy to mess up.
He watches the holo of Teppa and her Master, and maybe understands it a little more.
The motions are fluid and ceremonial, easy as a dance. Teppa looks grounded and at peace. Her Master looks at her with a mix of gentle pride and joyful surprise— looking up to discover the sky was a beautiful color, the love of a wonderful day ended with something to make it even more special.
Teppa pours the tea. She melts into a bow the way Anakin has seen children melt into a hug.
“Thank you for the honor, Master.”
And her master responds, the affection deep in her voice. “I delight in you, Padawan.”
.
Obi-Wan is being called away for a mission. It’s diplomatic, but also in the middle of a war zone, and so is considered over the head of 11-and-a-half-year-old padawans, no matter how talented and whiny they are. Anakin will sleep in the dorms until he gets back.
Anakin sits on Obi-Wan’s bed and watches him fold a few changes of clothes into a duffel bag.
“Was your conversation with Padawan Teppa enlightening, Padawan?”
“Yes, Master,” Anakin responds, picking at the blanket with his fingers.
“And are you feeling better about what we talked about?”
“I’m getting there.”
“Good.”
Obi-Wan continues to pack.
“I think it’s less confusing now,” Anakin squirms. “I think I know why people would want to do it. I just, still…” he trails off, at a loss.
Obi-Wan pauses, breathes out, and crosses the room. He kneels in front of Anakin. He smiles.
“Back on Tatooine,” he says gently, “did you ever do something for your mother, just to make her happy? To make her life a little easier? An action to make her smile, so she knew that you were aware of all she did for you, and give a little of that back?”
Anakin stares at Obi-Wan, face pulled into a surprised O .
Obi-Wan reaches out and squeezes his hands. “We can talk more about this when I get back, dear one. Take care of yourself while I’m gone.”
He gets to his feet.
“You take care of yourself too, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says, his hands twisted in the blankets below him.
.
Anakin’s earliest memories are of his mother’s hands.
Long fingers dancing over the insides of a deconstructed generator. Gentle fingers, over his forehead or in his hair, soothing away fever and scrapes and bruises.
In a desert, two things are paramount, essential to survival; your hands, and water.
He remembers the rolling hills of his mother’s body, curled on their sleeping pallet. Her vibrating shoulders as she shook from— tears, exhaustion, fear, the constant feeling of being small and weak in a world where big and strong things hurt you.
And their water ration was more precious than life, but his mother was more precious than even that, and anyway, Anakin knew all the tricks.
A saying, passed along the ladies of Tatooine, from farmer’s wives to bounty hunters to slave women. Both a proverb and a skill—
Stretch a drop to fill a bucket.
His mother’s brow, her wrists, under fingertips and cloth.
Her eyes, blinking up at him, infinite softness and endless love. His name like a prayer:
“Ani.”
.
And then, much later, Obi-Wan, who also has kind hands. Who will explain a concept in four different ways to help Anakin understand it. Who lets Anakin take things slow because this is a strange new place, but tries to guide him into the world of Jedi and how they live.
A gentle grip correcting a hold on a training ‘saber. Catching him when he’s learning to fall with the Force. Holding his hands while a Healer puts bacta on a nasty scrape.
The months they took to both work up to the title Master . The patience. How much time and care he puts into every step Anakin takes.
And Anakin pauses in what he’s doing. Thinks, Oh .
.
Obi-Wan stumbles into his apartment, late at night.
The mission went wrong, and not even the kind of wrong that makes good stories. It’s the kind of wrong that has Obi-Wan slogging through a swamp for three days, guiding a group of politicians to a new safehouse.
He has been wet, cold, and miserable for a week. The sonic showers on the ship home leave him blissfully free of muck, but they are nothing on water showers. And, honestly, water showers are nothing compared to sleep.
It’s possible he hasn’t slept much for a week, either.
He walks through the door, ready to collapse into bed. Maybe give himself a rare extra hour to sleep in tomorrow.
Obi-Wan is so out of it that he nearly misses his Padawan, sitting quietly at their kitchen table.
“Ana—” He swipes his hands over his eyes, forcing his over-tired brain to focus. “Padawan, what are you still doing up? Is everything alright? Do you need—”
And suddenly Anakin is in front of him, hands hooking around his wrist, pulling him forward and herding him into a chair.
The lights are dim. There are a few things on the table. There is a folded cloth, of the same rough materials Jedi make their cloaks out of. There is also a wide, shallow bowl, filled with what can only be a few teaspoons of water.
Anakin is still oddly silent. He moves back into the seat across the table.
“Anakin, what is—”
Anakin shakes his head, little face dead serious. Obi-Wan lets the question trail off, and silence cloaks him again.
Anakin reaches out his hands across the table, palms up. He holds them there, staring at Obi-Wan, waiting and expectant.
Slowly, confused but willing, Obi-Wan reaches out his own hands and places them tentatively on top of Anakin’s.
Anakin moves one hand to the side, and takes the other in both of his. And then he picks up the cloth, folds it just so , and dips that edge into the bowl of water. He holds it there until the water soaks in, but not enough to drip when it’s raised.
He places it on the back of Obi-Wan’s hands, and starts methodically washing the skin.
He starts in tight, concentric circles on the back of the hand, before moving to the backs of the fingers. Every time the cloth begins to dry, Anakin carefully dips it back into the bowl. No matter how many times he does this, the water barely goes down.
Anakin turns over Obi-Wan’s hand to look at the palm. As he begins the process again, he starts talking at last.
“Where I come from, water is precious,” he says, not looking up from his work. “But you’re precious too, you know?”
Understanding dawns on Obi-Wan like the warmth of the water on Anakin’s cloth. His breath catches in his throat.
Obi-Wan reaches into the Force and across their bond, searching for fear or discomfort or any other indication he should stop this for his padawan’s own good. He finds nothing. Obi-Wan lets this continue, heart pounding.
Anakin washes each finger, then under the nails. Then he moves onto the next one.
The silence around them is heavy, but comforting. A weighted blanket. Half-melted ice cream.
Anakin sets both his hands on the table. He folds the cloth, places his own hands on top of it. Breaths.
“Thank you for the honor, Master,” Anakin says, at last meeting his eyes, and smiling so wide Obi-Wan fears his face will split.
And Obi-Wan feels— he feels so soft for this little boy, he feels all of the love in the universe rising up through him and overflowing, he thinks, this is what it is to have a child ; the knowledge that he would die for this miraculous being without a thought.
And Anakin, so brave to try this, so boldly confronting the things that scared him, trying things before he gave up on them, reaching out when Obi-Wan knows it’s so hard for him—
He looks at his Padawan and thinks, ‘I love you.’
And he reaches out with his clean hands to cup the side of Anakin’s face, and says, “I delight in you, Padawan.”
And he means every word.