A Mano Armata

by poetesmaudits

Summary:

1976. After a ten year absence, Obi-Wan receives a telegram from Anakin urging to join him in Milan, Italy.

(Previously titled "We were brothers, once")

Notes:

so many things could change about this fic... the title included. couldn't wait to post this.
CW for obi-wan being problematic. classism, mild xenophobia, personal prejudices... it's all there for a reason. the narratorial voice is NOT my own.

Chapter 1: rimpatriata

1976

The news had arrived through an Italian telegram two months earlier, in the early days of April. As for all things with Anakin, it had been frantic yet brief and was composed only of two little sentences: RELEASED FROM SAN VITTORE MILANO JUNE 12 STOP NEED YOU PLEASE COME ANAKIN. It was the first time he was hearing anything from Anakin in what had felt like ages. They had last parted back in the States right before his young friend’s draft in ’65, or ‘66. Back then—and still now—Obi-Wan had been at a loss.

The rental car he had gotten from the airport was some second-rate banger that should have long since found its resting place in the landfill, and the midday sun was beating mercilessly over his head. To distract himself from this slow and painful torment, Obi-Wan turned the radio on, searching for an acceptable piece of music; but his mind would always return to the inevitable. He could not stop his eye from drifting towards the grey metal doors which he imagined would scream to life as they opened to release their lawbreaking children. He had always been fond of Paolo Conte, but there was no such luck on that day as he switched through tasteless pop ballads only continentals had the secret to. He eventually stopped on the news broadcast, of which he understood very little, something, as always, involving the upcoming elections and that disastrous Berlinguer party man, and continued his waiting. Lit himself a cigarette. Waited some more. Ended up finding it more bearable to stand outside under the torrid sun than inside this vehicle turned oven. The air over the tarmac trembled in the heat, and San Vittore offered no reprieve, this hot and towering fortress, reflecting sunlight blindingly.

Eventually the prison doors opened, and a man in his late twenties, or perhaps early thirties, walked out with a small bag containing his belongings. Obi-Wan waved from the other side of the street and went to greet him. He had gone for a handshake but was pulled into a bone-gripping hug instead, overwhelmed by the smell of him, sweat clinging to his damp skin.

Anakin had changed some since the last time he had seen him, ten years earlier. He had lost weight, looked tired. His shirt hung loosely from his frame. There was a sickly aspect to him, and stubble had grown on his upper lip and chin. He looked like a man.

Obi-Wan mentioned none of those things, and instead placed a hand on his old friend’s back, inviting him to get inside the car.

“Thank you for this,” said Anakin, sitting in the passenger seat.

“Of course,” Obi-Wan said in return, turning the engine back on.

“I’ll pay you back, when I get a job.”

“That’s not necessary.”

Anakin pulled a cigarette out of a half-empty pack, an MS, and lit it with an old lighter he struggled to extract anything out of. Obi-Wan only watched him from the corner of his eye.

“Is there anywhere you wish to go?” he asked, uncertainly.

“I’m tired.”

“Alright then. I booked a hotel room in the city, you can rest there, if you would like.”

Anakin did not answer. Obi-Wan followed the signs for the city centre anyways, concentrating on the traffic and refraining from expressing his deep resentment whenever someone honked at or undertook him. Anakin next to him remained quiet, simmering, which was unsettling in itself—a long time ago, he would never have even let Obi-Wan behind the wheel. Anakin did not initiate any conversation, and Obi-Wan was functioning too much on autopilot to allow himself to think of anything remotely interesting to say. He tried to offer small talk, about the mess at the airport to find a car, the weather, the heat, how beautiful Italy is at this time of the year, to which Anakin would answer with monosyllabic sounds, his pale eyes drifting out the window, watching the passing streets and houses, the people walking and existing as if nothing had changed in the last six years. Obi-Wan eventually changed the radio to put on some music, and Anakin asked him to turn it off.

After that, they simply sat in silence.

Obi-Wan had only arrived in Milan two days earlier and could not truthfully say that he knew his way around, but once he recognised the neighbourhood surrounding the hotel, he easily found their street and parked the car on the side of the road.

“Well,” he said. “Here we are.”

Anakin started opening the door, and Obi-Wan caught his arm to stop him before twisting his body around to reach in the back of the car, pulling out a hat, which he plopped on Anakin’s head. Anakin paused and looked at him with an unreadable expression. Obi-Wan turned away and climbed out, locked the car, then marched towards the hotel, Anakin following a few metres behind, slowly. It was just as well, Obi-Wan thought. A terrible part of him felt deep shame at the idea of what people might think upon seeing his once pupil, as he was now. He pushed the door to the hotel, kept it open long enough for Anakin to catch it, then asked for the keys at the reception in broken Italian, attempting to explain that Anakin was his brother, mi fratello, as he said. The receptionist threw one critical glance at the second man who had just walked in, Anakin waved awkwardly, and she turned away, to fetch the key.

“Mio fratello,” Anakin whispered to him as they walked up the wooden stairs which groaned beneath their feet.

“That’s exactly what I said.”

“That’s not—okay, whatever.”

“So you speak Italian, now?” Obi-Wan asked, conversationally.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Anakin.  

They turned into a narrow corridor with horrible mustard wallpaper and terracotta flooring, and Obi-Wan unlocked the door to their room. It was small and cramped, the only thing he had found this last minute for a still reasonable price. The wallpaper was cheap and gaudy as sin, with a sort of hideous abstract gouache painting hanging over the one queen sized bed—he had only found out about this specific sleeping arrangement upon arrival; the receptionist had sworn to him that he had agreed to it over the phone during a conversation that had taken place entirely in Italian. There was one brown leather armchair in the corner of the room, directly facing the bed. No bible in the bedside table. The once white ceiling was grey, a large mirror affixed to it and overlooking the bed. The air smelled of damp and cold tobacco.

“I’m sorry about the room,” Obi-Wan said, allowing Anakin in. He was about to explain all the hassle he had been through during the booking, but gave up immediately upon seeing the look on Anakin’s face.

The younger man removed the hat, passed his hand over his head, gave one look at the bedroom, checked the bathroom with its yellowed toilet seat, nodded his head in assent, and pressed himself against the wall, arms behind his back.

“If you want to shower,” Obi-Wan said after a few, long seconds of silence, “there’s a clean towel under the bathroom sink. You can use my soap; I don’t mind… God knows you need it!”

Obi-Wan immediately regretted his words. But Anakin simply nodded his head, pushed himself away from the wall and locked himself up in the bathroom. The click was loud. Obi-Wan allowed himself to breathe out. He opened the balcony door, but the air outside was just as hot as indoors and offered no reprieve. The sound of motorised vehicles, roadworks, sirens and loud chatter below was, nevertheless, a blessed distraction from the sound of the rushing water in the bathroom. Inexplicably, the opening scene of La Notte came back to him as the staccato sound of the jackhammer struck his ear; that slow and descending view of the industrial Milan, destroyed and rebuilt in the face of a new, post-war modern age.

Anakin only had the clothes on his back, and mentally, while absently watching the effervescent activity in the street, Obi-Wan started listing what they would need to do. Shopping, for one. Secondly, he needed to see with Anakin the steps they would be taking from here. They could not stay in this hotel room indefinitely either, and besides, Obi-Wan had taken a three-week break from work, after which he needed to return to England. Another part of him also painfully understood that the boy he had once known was changed, to put it mildly, by his time in prison, certainly, but even by the circumstances of life that had led him to this point. It was a wholly miserable story, truly. When Obi-Wan had received the telegram, he could not believe his eyes. He had contacted Padmé, who had informed him she would not be making the trip to pick him up herself. She had returned to the United States with the children soon after Anakin’s condemnation, as she was, at the time, entirely dependent on her parent’s wealth to support them financially. Hence Anakin’s foolish actions. It was a wretched, wretched affair.

 The water stopped running in the shower, and Obi-Wan heard Anakin moving around.

The door eventually opened, and the young man walked out, shirtless, his trousers hanging low on his hips despite the buckle being pulled tight. Obi-Wan’s eyes stopped only momentarily on the prosthetic arm; on the soft, milky skin, dotted with vast constellations of beauty marks. It was impossible to not stare at the expanse of his ribcage. 

Anakin ignored his gaze, and went to sit on the bed with a sigh that seemed to escape from the very depths of his soul.

“You should rest,” said Obi-Wan. “I can clear the room for a little bit, if privacy is what you need.”

“I don’t mind your presence,” said Anakin as he fell backwards on the mattress. He stared, amusedly, at his reflection in the mirror over the bed. “M’just tired.”

“I’ll let you sleep.”

As he said this, Obi-Wan stepped off the balcony and slid the door shut. Anakin tore his gaze away from the mysterious mirror, and turned on his side, facing his old mentor. Obi-Wan felt suddenly uncomfortable looking into those familiar blue eyes, and he turned away, pretending to occupy himself with the silky burgundy curtains—reflective of the hotel manager’s criminal lack of taste—, plunging the room in a red semi-darkness.

“Where are you going?” asked Anakin.

“Out, I haven’t had much of a chance to discover Milan yet. You know, the last time I was in Italy, it was in 1960. I was travelling with Qui-Gon and an old friend of his, who owned a sublime villa in Positano. We had stayed on the Amalfi Coast for an entire month before heading north, to Rome; living off what fresh catches the fishermen brought back in the early morning and the ripe fruit we cheekily snatched from the orchards; visiting Pompei, Herculaneum (the modern city, Ercolaneo, is sadly no match for its divine yet decadent ancestor), Capri and its picturesque sister, Procida, which the authoress Elsa Morante, the wife of Moravia, wrote such a gorgeous book about... Milan is awfully different to those southern cities, you know. Napoli was a universe of its own…”

Anakin shrugged his shoulders.

“Padmé took me to Naples, when we first arrived here.”

“And what did you think of the city?”

“Nothing much. I liked the beach better.”

“I see,” said Obi-Wan, “perhaps we should look for a beach soon, in that case. Regardless, I won’t bother you any longer. Get some sleep, my friend. I’ll be back shortly.”

“D’you think you could bring me back some cigarettes? My pack’s almost empty.”

“MS?”

“Luckies, if you find any. Otherwise MS will do.”

“Alright, then.”

Obi-Wan had already made his way across the room, and was about to open the door.

“Oh, and Obi-Wan?” Anakin’s voice spoke from the darkness.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Obi-Wan stood there, for a few seconds, silent.

“There is nothing to thank me for, Anakin.”

Notes:

thanks for reading! despite this fic being anonymous, i do appreciate kudos and/or feedback too :)

Chapter 2: larvatus prodeo

Summary:

"He found he could not summon the will to feel guilt over any of his actions, and in fact, found them rather justified. If he had wanted to spend time alone, was that such a terrible crime? Anakin had not once implied he had wanted to come along; on the contrary, he had made it very clear he did not want to talk and wanted instead to be left to sulk on his own in that sordid hotel room. Obi-Wan had nothing to blame himself for."

Notes:

i am sorry for taking so long to update... i do not have a schedule and life got in the way. chapter title is a descartes quote meaning "i advance masked".

obi-wan is mean in this.

Obi-Wan returned to the room around eleven o’clock that night. The air was hot and stale, and as he turned the brutal light on, he saw that Anakin was still lying in bed, white sheets kicked to the floor. The younger man shifted and sat up, momentarily shielding his eyes with his elbow before looking up at Obi-Wan.

“Catch,” he said, throwing him a pack of cigarettes, which he caught.

“Thanks,” Anakin muttered, placing it on the bedside table before reclining back on the bed.

“I also brought you something to eat,” Obi-Wan continued, stepping towards the bed and extending his arm out to present a panino.

Anakin stood up. He was still wearing nothing but his jeans. He took the sandwich from his hand.

“I didn’t know you’d be gone so long,” said Anakin. “You didn’t tell me anything. I couldn’t even leave the room, not knowing when you’d be back.”

“Well,” said Obi-Wan, sitting down in the armchair, its brown leather creaking beneath his weight; “I told you I was going out to visit the city. You were tired, and not very talkative for that matter. I thought I’d better stay out of your hair for a little while.”

Anakin frowned and sat down on the bed. He looked like he wanted to say something but thought better of it, holding back his tongue instead. Despite his visible frustration, he took a bite from the sandwich.

“Where were you anyways?” he asked.

“In the city centre. Went to see the Duomo, then strolled through the Galeria Vittorio-Emanuele II, where I stopped to take a coffee. Then I went to lose myself in the streets of the Brera, watching only the buildings and not my feet. When it came time to sup, I entered a trattoria, enjoyed fine risotto with a glass of sauvignon blanc. I was offered a grappa on the house as a digestive. Then I walked home, enjoying the much-appreciated evening breeze after this day of relentless heat, and stopped on my way to find you something to eat, believing you would probably not have found anything to feed yourself with.”

Anakin’s face did something complicated again, twisting into an ugly scowl before he made an effort to calm himself down.

The truth was that Obi-Wan had not visited the Brera or the Duomo; those were things he had done on his first day in the city. Instead, he had ventured entirely by accident far beyond the train station, had seen, with his own eyes, the razing and construction of modern architecture, plains of brutalist concrete structures resembling skeletal trees that would soon become new habitations. He had understood, then, how much a country could change in only a decade. And perhaps, too, how much a man could change in that same lapse of time.  

“I could have found my own food,” said Anakin, “if you had only told me…”

Obi-Wan repressed the uncharitable thoughts surging in his head—with what money?—knowing full well that this was no question to ask his already fragile friend. He did not want to trigger a crisis when it was clear Anakin was already upset about this entire ordeal.

“I’m sorry,” he said diplomatically; “next time, we’ll talk it out beforehand.”

Anakin did not answer and simply continued eating the sandwich, sitting at the foot of the bed, facing Obi-Wan. Brooding.

After half a minute of tense silence, Obi-Wan said: “Christ on the cross, how can you stand this heat? It smells like an all-boys’ classroom after P.E. in here.” He stood up from his seat. “I’m opening the window.”

“Wait until we’ve gone to bed,” said Anakin. “You’ll only attract mosquitos this way.”

Obi-Wan nodded his head and sighed deeply. He lit himself a cigarette. Began pacing the room, feeling Anakin’s gaze on him as it curiously tracked his every move. He could feel the sweat sliding down his back in ticklish rivulets, racing like drops of rain against a window. Eventually Anakin finished his panino and threw the wrapping paper into the small bin across the room with an expert flick of the wrist. It bothered Obi-Wan how at ease Anakin seemed to be, despite it all. Bothered him that he wouldn’t even put his shirt back on, despite being in another person’s company.

Annoyed, he went to the bathroom, all while trying to convince himself he was not escaping the situation. He found he could not summon the will to feel guilt over any of his actions, and in fact, found them rather justified. If he had wanted to spend time alone, was that truly such a terrible crime? Anakin had not once implied he had wanted to come along; on the contrary, he had made it very clear he did not want to talk and wanted instead to be left to sulk on his own in that sordid hotel room. Obi-Wan had nothing to blame himself for.

The shower which he had hoped would function as a benediction to his exhausted body, sharp and merciless against his skin, a punishing and reinvigorating sentence that would have whipped his senses back in order, brought in fact no reprieve. His mind was running hot and fast, and as he grabbed his soap with his washcloth, he suddenly remembered that Anakin had used it, certainly with his bare hands, and before he could stop himself, he pictured the boy rubbing it the most intimate of places, knowing Obi-Wan would have to do the same eventually. It stopped him short. He forced himself to think of total blankness, immaculate white light, all while focusing on the feeling of the cold water against his skin, feeling utterly miserable.

He returned in his pyjamas. Anakin had removed his jeans and was lying in bed, on his stomach, wearing nothing but his underwear. Obi-Wan tore his eyes away from the view and went to turn the lights off, before sitting down in the armchair.

“What are you doing?” said Anakin from the darkness.

“Making myself comfortable for the night.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I am being very serious.”

He heard Anakin sigh in annoyance. The bed creaked menacingly beneath the young man’s weight, and he supposed Anakin was gesticulating, as he was prone to do when things did not go his way.

“I’m not letting you spend the night in the cuck chair, Obi-Wan.”

“Don’t call it that,” he said, and Anakin answered with genuine laughter. He heard him move around, and soon enough, the curtains were pulled open and the balcony window was letting in a light, pleasant breeze that drifted through the room. The streetlight penetrated the room and painted the walls an artificial, orange tone, against which Anakin’s naked body cut a dark and strange silhouette. Despite the late hour, the chatter and the roar of motorised vehicles down in the streets had not ceased and inundated this stale and claustrophobic room with their energy.

He watched from the chair as Anakin walked towards him. He could not see his face, and only the outline of his body was delimitated by the light; a lean, muscular shadow.

“Come on, old man,” he said, offering him his hand. Obi-Wan had a feeling this was more than a simple offer to share a bed—an olive branch, perhaps. Forgiveness and gratefulness for actions that far transcended that day’s events. “It wouldn’t be the first time, now. And besides, your poor back wouldn’t stand spending the night in that position at your age.”

Obi-Wan watched him for a moment, then took his left hand in his own, getting up to his feet.

Anakin quickly let go and turned away from him, letting himself fall inelegantly on the bed with a groan of exhaustion that was completely beyond Obi-Wan’s comprehension, as the young man had already spent all afternoon sleeping. Had already spent years before that doing not much else, the cruel little voice at the back of his mind whispered. Obi-Wan stopped himself from spiralling into those uncharitable thoughts, and walked towards the other side of the bed, lying down over the bedsheets—which he could feel were already infused with Anakin’s body heat, with some odorous concoction bearing the smell of sweat, soap and tobacco. It was disgusting. Obi-Wan turned so his back would be facing Anakin, and he understood, by the creaking of the bedframe, that his friend was doing the same. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of the distant chatter outside, the feeling of the pillowcase on his cheek, his mental and physical fatigue brought by the heat and events of the day.

Behind him, Anakin’s breathing slowly became deeper. Obi-Wan closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.  

Notes:

obi-wan juggling between moments of extreme repression and impromptu religious ecstasy in this apparently

thank you so much to everyone who has left feedback and kind comments on chapter 1, i deeply appreciate it! this was going to be about 1K longer but i felt there was already enough information in here and this last line felt like a good way to end this scene. the extra 1K will feature in the next episode... feedback is always welcome :)

Chapter 3: il cielo in una stanza

Summary:

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Anakin bit back. Then, “how can you sleep in this heat?”

“I cannot. Especially when sharing a bed with someone as agitated as you.”

There had been a time, long ago, before Padmé, after Satine, when their relationship had not been so strained. In fact, Obi-Wan would have gone as far as to call their shared bond intimate, for the briefest time, for perhaps they had understood each other in that strange yet unequivocal way only brothers could. But then Anakin had received his draft papers, shortly after his eighteenth birthday, and Obi-Wan had said goodbye to him for the last time.

“Oh, for fuck's—”

Anakin pushed away the last sweat-soaked bedsheet to the floor with an unnecessarily violent kick, offering little to no reprieve from the thick, sticky heat. The night had gone stale and heavy hours ago. Obi-Wan had waited all he possibly could before removing his own pyjama top, throwing it unceremoniously somewhere in a half-daze he wouldn’t remember the next morning. The entire bed, sheets, pillows, were ruined; one hot wet mess of transpiration that had penetrated deep into the fabric, that stuck to their skin like a sickness. Anakin next to him kept on shifting in abrupt movements, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in, and each time, the entire bed creaked and trembled all while the young man muttered and swore to himself. Their proximity only aggravated their current situation. It was as if their body heat mutually inundated each other’s space, and all Obi-Wan could focus on was the smell of Anakin’s sweat, the feeling of his hot skin against his like a fever, feeling almost the gross wetness of his body against his in a way that was entirely unpleasant. The young man’s body smell had become his own.

“Will you stop gesticulating, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, exasperated.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Anakin bit back. Then, “how can you sleep in this heat?”

“I cannot. Especially when sharing a bed with someone as agitated as you.”

His former pupil grumbled something but then turned around again, so that he was lying flat on his back, legs folded before him. The streetlight strangely lit up his curling leg hair, Obi-Wan noted distractedly.

“At this stage, I’m seriously considering just sleeping on the floor. That ought to be cooler.”

“Be my guest,” Obi-Wan answered with a tired sigh. He didn’t have to look at his protégé to know he was being glared at, again.

Seconds later, he heard the sound of fiddling, then the familiar click-click-click of Anakin’s useless lighter.

“Oh my god,” said Obi-Wan.

“Will you stop being so judgemental for once in your goddamn life?” asked Anakin, cigarette hanging from his lips. A small flame suddenly kissed his face with light. The chiaroscuro exacerbated the bags beneath his eyes, the lines around his mouth as he pulled.

“I didn’t say anything. And I believe it is least of courtesies to ask your partner whether they mind you smoking in bed.”

“Are we partners, Obi-Wan?”

“You know perfectly well what I meant.”

Anakin gave him a side glance, but sat up and got out of bed, and went to smoke on the balcony, leaning against the chassis, in his underwear. Obi-Wan turned away so he would not have to look at him.

“Listen,” said Anakin. “I know I’ve been on edge. I can’t help it. I’m sorry, but I just can’t. You don’t… I just… I’ll make an effort from now on. I will. But you gotta try as well. I know how you work, Obi-Wan. There’s nobody I know better than you in this world—aside perhaps from my wife. Sometimes I think… it’s like, we’re a part of each other, you know? Some of you lives in me, and me in you. So please, let’s get over with this. I know this was perhaps the last place you wanted to be. But you came. You’re the only one who came for me. You know, when I first arrived in prison, I kept on thinking one day Padmé would come to see me. I would imagine her, with that huge belly of hers, carrying our children, walking into San Vittore. But then I found out that her parents had bought her a plane ticket back to New Hampshire; that she had left me there. I kept on hoping it was temporary, and that she would come back soon. Maybe the time for her to give birth, then come back for me, to Italy. I got on the phone with her several times over the years, though, and it became clear she would not, could not come back. But at least the children are cared for, I guess. She is looked after by her family. They don’t want her to have any contact with me. And that's what fucks me up the most, but what can I do? They never even liked me in the first place. I was never good enough, not to them, not to... to....”

Mystifying as it may have sounded, Obi-Wan could not imagine Padmé pregnant. As if by some strange trick of the mind her life had been obfuscated. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The bed was slightly cooler now that Anakin had left it. He found that for many years his mind had not been able to picture Anakin behind bars either, almost as if the very thought of it was an impossibility in itself. How could one come to sink so low? What had possessed him, at that moment in time, to act so recklessly, to throw away everything he loved, for something as foolish and hazardous as this so-called plan, that had inevitably landed him in that horrible place, that had left that indelible stain on his life?

“Are you asleep, old man?” Anakin asked. Obi-Wan did not answer. “Okay, well…”

-

The next morning, he found Anakin asleep on the floor, wrapped in the damp bedsheets in a position his own back would have not been able to endure at his age. He felt terrible to have let him do that, and he watched him, for a moment, bathed in the white morning light, looking like some strange and broken imitation of Christ, the sound of roaring motorbikes echoing in the distance.

When he returned from his shower, Anakin was awake and sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out the window.

“Is there anything you want to do today?” he asked.

Anakin shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s up to you.”

“Would you like to see the Lake Como?”

“Padmé took me there, before my arrest.”

“Oh, alright then.”

“I wouldn’t mind you lending me a clean shirt, though,” he said.

Obi-Wan raised his arms as if to say something—of course, maybe—and moved into action, digging through the one wardrobe integrated in a wall, and which he had filled with the contents of his suitcase upon arrival. Anakin walked over and stood next to him, inspecting the items.

“I never knew you to wear colourful outfits,” he remarked, lifting an eyebrow. A hint of amusement hid in his tone of voice.

“Times have changed, I suppose,” Obi-Wan replied. Back in the sixties, Obi-Wan’s wardrobe had been comprised almost exclusively of dress shirts and blazers. He pulled out a cream-coloured silk shirt with a wide collar, and Anakin grimaced. “Okay, not that one.”

His friend settled on a burnt orange shirt that didn’t suit him any better, but which had the merit of fitting him snuggly. It was slightly too short and would reveal about half an inch of skin between his trousers and the shirt, but it did not truly matter, as this was only a temporary situation, until they found him proper clothes. It was short sleeved, revealing the place where Anakin’s right arm had been amputated, right beneath the elbow. Anakin went to take a shower, and returned in the orange shirt, looking visibly self-conscious.

“You look fine,” Obi-Wan said, waving a dismissive hand.

“Okay.”

“I was looking at a map of the region, and thought we could go to Pavia today. Have you been there?”

“I don’t think I have.”

Obi-Wan did not know if Anakin was lying for the sake of accommodating him or if he was being genuine behind a layer of absolute nonchalance. Such things, he supposed, no longer mattered, not truly. He rose from the leather armchair he had been sitting in and folded the map up. Anakin was kicking at the bedsheets that were still piled up on the floor. They had found the room resembling a warzone after this eternal night, and Obi-Wan had made peace sometime throughout the hours spent so close to his brother’s restless form with the fact that the hotel staff would have opinions regardless of what they did or did not do between these four walls. They were bound to leave soon, anyways.

His ex-wife, who had always been more educated than him in literary matters, and whose taste in novels was sometimes as questionable as it was eclectic, had once read him a passage, years ago, from some yellowed paperback she had been reading directly in french—some story about a naval lieutenant lechering after a handsome sailor; a young man whose delicate features could only be of a barely disguised violence which the boy had relied on entirely to make his place in the world. This had been around the end of their marriage, he seemed to recall, though the timeline had begun to blur over the years. What he could remember, was how that fragment, strange as this might have sounded, had reminded him of Anakin.

“Wonderful. We’ll have breakfast first, then go shopping, and afterwards we can head off for the day. How does that sound?”

“Wonderful.”

Notes:

chapter title is an iconic italian romantic song, i thought it was funny given the content of this chapter. this is atrocious but i felt like if i didn't post this right now this second i would lose my mind.
the book obi-wan mentions at the end is "querelle de brest" by jean genet. satine reading this is also something i personally find funny, for reasons i won't explain. you guys should totally watch the movie too

Chapter 4: forse sono brividi, brividi d'amor!

Summary:

“Don’t act so wounded, old man,” he said. “Your lessons were not much kinder, from what I recall.”

Obi-Wan raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Was I not kind to you?”

Notes:

CW: uncomfortable implications and ambiguity concerning the past nature of anakin and obi-wan's relationship "ten years ago" (obi-wan was his mentor and had authority over him, and took advantage of that despite acting like anakin was the one "taking initiatives".)

PCI: italian communist party
DCI: italian christian democracy

The galleria Vittorio Emanuele II was relatively quiet on a Thursday morning, haunted only by those fortunate enough to enjoy a quiet morning and the many stragglers on their way to work. Obi-Wan fancied the idea of coming here for coffee, of mingling with the locals in the most natural way imaginable. He enjoyed the gigantism and elegance of the architecture so typical of the second half of the nineteenth century, the luminous glass ceiling that so reminded him of the galleria Umberto I in Naples, and, strangely, despite its obvious differences, of Covent Garden.

Anakin was seated opposite him, his finger tracing the marble cover of the small, round table, an empty cup of espresso abandoned before him. His eyes followed the imaginary patterns his finger drew, and Obi-Wan watched him for a long moment. The Corriere della Sera was folded between them, on a page discussing the bombings of Texaco Oil offices in Florence and various attacks in FIAT factories, by communist groupuscules Obi-Wan had never heard of before. The Christian Democrats, in the context of the upcoming elections, were calling for “law and order”. He was trying to make his coffee last, to savour the moment.

Anakin opposite him sighed and lay back in his chair.

“What’s the matter, my friend?” asked Obi-Wan.

“Nothing, I’m just tired.”

“You’ve been tired a lot, lately.”

“Hm.”

“You know you can always talk to me, don’t you?”

Anakin looked him in the eye with an unreadable expression.

“I said it was nothing.”

“Alright,” replied Obi-Wan; “I was just trying to be helpful.”

Anakin did not grace this with an answer, and instead pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. Obi-Wan wanted to believe that a long time ago they would have been able to discuss these matters, regardless of how difficult and strenuous their bond occasionally proved to be. Perhaps Anakin had been more open back then, even when he had clung to his secrets, his fears, as if afraid that sharing such vulnerabilities would have caused a loss of esteem from his peers, and especially from Obi-Wan. Fearing constantly the judgement and the admonishment of his elders, like an insecure child.

“I’m so sick of this fucking place,” he finally said.

“What? This gallery is marvellous!”

“I’m not talking about the gallery,” said Anakin. Already he seemed to regret having spoken, and he leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out under the table. “This whole place makes me sick. I want out. We’re wasting our time here like a bunch of jackasses while Padmé…”

 Obi-Wan waited for him to finish his sentence, but the younger man left it as it was. His eyes wandered elsewhere, fleeing Obi-Wan’s gaze, and redness bloomed in his cheeks. He tried to light his cigarette, but his lighter would not allow it. Obi-Wan pulled his own matchbox out of his pocket and produced a flame. Anakin, with a trembling exhale, leaned over the table and allowed his old tutor to help him out.

“Everything will work out for the best, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, at last. “Tomorrow, we can leave Milan, if that is what you want.”

“Okay.”

“We should go to Rome, get a change of air. I know this is not to your preference, my friend. But given the current circumstances, perhaps this is for the best. It will certainly distract you from what is clearly upsetting you, don’t you agree?”

Anakin made a face that suggested indifference. But still he said: “Sure.”

Obi-Wan finished his coffee, put the tazzina down, and immediately a cameriere came over.

Obi-Wan asked for the bill. Opposite him, Anakin was already putting his jacket back on. He paid, and they left the gallery in silence. They walked back to the hotel, side by side.

Milan the industrial was in a permanent state of metamorphosis, or so it appeared—razed buildings, turned into deep sinister holes of overturned dirt lined the sides of the roads like battlefields within the city; tall cranes dominated over the skyline; modernity erected itself from the ground in the shape of social housing facilities and chemical manufacturing plants outside the confines of the old city—and within those confines, skyscrapers. In their street, someone had disfigured the wall of a fine palazzo over several metres by tagging the words LA LOTTA CONTINUA.  

“It would be a disaster,” said Obi-Wan, “if the communist party were to win these elections.”

“It won’t happen,” answered Anakin.

“Have you seen the predictions?”

“I have. The die is cast. Obviously, the DCI are going to win, regardless of how well the PCI is said to be doing. The West will never allow it to happen. Besides, the left has been successfully undermined and divided by years of collaborative effort among its ranks, and most Italians are suspicious of anything bearing the name of socialism or communism for that matter. And how couldn’t they be? There are terror attacks all the time, all over the country. Fucking maniacs bombing trains and shit.”

“But the people do seem to favour that Berlinguer man—he is very charismatic.”

“So what? Berlinguer is inoffensive. Even if he does get elected, what is he going to do? He’s never going to break ties with the US, or NATO for that matter—he said so himself. He’s no threat. He’ll collaborate with the Christian Democrats, because he won’t have a choice, and that’ll be it.”

They stopped in front of the hotel.

“I pray you are right,” said Obi-Wan.

The temperatures had gone down in the past week, and Milan had even been blessed with one night of thunderstorms that had broken that thick and tense heat. The bedroom was still stifling, but was altogether more pleasant than in those first, ugly days. Anakin, despite his melancholy, seemed to be doing slightly better as well. He was talking, at least. His skin was slowly losing that dreadful pallor, giving him a livelier, healthier tone.

They pushed the hotel door, and Obi-Wan made his way to the reception, Anakin trailing behind as always. He tried to explain to the young man (who really was more boy than man) behind the counter that they would be leaving the following day, and that he would be interested in receiving information on good hotels in Rome; but before he could really get very far, Anakin came to stand next to him and explained, in a fluency that genuinely impressed his partner, what they required. The older man was reminded then, as he spoke, that his friend had been living in this country for almost a decade. His inflection, although impeccable to Obi-Wan’s inexperienced ear, had preserved an American hint that was not completely unattractive. The boy, suddenly much more amenable, complied and handed over a book. Obi-Wan decided they should stay near Piazza Navona, evoking the legendary tartuffi one could find there, and they rapidly picked a hotel based on those preferences—one that did not have mirrors on the ceiling.

Anakin was grinning as they walked up the stairs and amicably nudged his shoulder with his own when they reached their floor.

“You’re so useless,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Come on, Obi-Wan,” said Anakin. He leaned against the wall next to their door, waiting for his old friend to fish out the keys. He was still smiling. “Dove sono gli hotels in Roma? Seriously?”

“Well, at least I tried!”

“Sure you did.”

“We haven’t all spent years in this country, need I remind you.”

Obi-Wan pushed open the door, and they entered the horrible, cramped room.

“Well, that doesn’t stop you from reminding me only about ten times a day of your stay in Capri, in the days of your bygone youth.”

Anakin was a charming young man, when he wanted to be. His smile was contagious, and Obi-Wan found himself unable to stay serious in his present company.

“You’re barely exaggerating,” Obi-Wan replied, rolling his eyes.

“Really, I’m not. It might be twelve times a day, actually.”

Obi-Wan marched over to him, maintaining eye contact until he had to look up, and Anakin down. He turned quiet, but the amused smile remained on his features.

“You’re a dreadful bully,” he said.

“Don’t act so wounded, old man,” he said. “Your lessons were not much kinder, from what I recall.”

Obi-Wan raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Was I not kind to you?”

“Were you ever?”

Anakin stepped back and went to sit on the bed. His words seemed unjustly cruel to Obi-Wan’s ears. The former tutor remained standing, staring down at his once pupil, while the pupil leaned back on his left arm, returning an ardent gaze with just as much intensity. Obi-Wan understood that this was a provocation, of sorts.

“I believe you are being rather unfair in your judgement.”

“Does that hurt your feelings?”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to answer, then paused.

“I don’t believe there was ever a time when I was cruel to you, though far be it from me to accuse you of ungratefulness, Anakin.”

“I didn’t say you were cruel.” Anakin’s brow furrowed. “You were always the one to accuse me of these things—ungratefulness, cruelty. Violence. You, and everyone else, have always treated me like there was something wrong with me, like I was destined to do evil, or something. And ever since we’ve got here, you’ve been treating me like some… like some reprobate. Like some criminal. I can see you judging me all the fucking time. I can see your guilt every time you look at me, as if I was your failure. I’m not your failure, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan remained standing, hesitant, unease creeping under his skin.

“Well, how else am I supposed to treat you, Anakin?”

Anakin jumped off the bed. In a second, he was in Obi-Wan’s space again, tense, a live wire waiting to go off. His face twisted in an ugly mask of anger as he leaned over him again, pointing a menacing finger.

“Don’t you fucking go there. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Why are you getting so upset?” asked Obi-Wan, refusing to be intimidated. “There’s no reason to get aggressive, now—”

“Oh, for Christ’s… go fuck yourself, Obi-Wan! Is that what’s been bothering you? That I’ve technically committed a crime? That I’ve served time?”

Anakin’s abrupt change of mood was confounding. Obi-Wan rapidly felt the situation slip out of his control. He was rendered mute before this display of emotion for a mere second, before he found his words again, and replied, appalled:

“Well, quite frankly Anakin, yes! I’ve been scratching my head for years, wondering why you’d ever do something so bloody stupid! Bank robbery is a crime! Not to mention assault! Why would you throw away your life so recklessly, when you had everything?”

Anakin let out a sad, sardonic laugh.

“I didn’t even rob that bank. I didn’t steal a penny from it. They arrested me before I even got that far.”

“That doesn’t make a difference. The fact that you attempted to do it, that you thought you could get away with it is what is most shocking—not to mention your lack of remorse!”

“My wife was seven months pregnant with twins! We had no money, because her fucking parents wouldn’t support us financially. Because I wasn’t good enough to their taste. What choice did I have?”

“You could have found a job, like everyone else!”

“I lost my right arm in Vietnam; in case you hadn’t noticed!” he shouted. Then, he stepped back from Obi-Wan, who allowed himself to breathe. Anakin paced in circles, pressing his hand to his face.

Obi-Wan remained still, unmoving. Anakin turned towards the window and opened it wide, then stepped on the balcony. Obi-Wan pulled out his cigarette case and went to sit in the leather armchair to smoke. They sat in silence like this, for a couple of minutes. There were many things Obi-Wan wanted to say; some prettier than others.

“Listen,” he eventually spoke, “I didn’t mean to upset you. It was foolish of me to bring up this topic in the first place, and I apologise for it. What is done, is done. There’s no point dwelling on the past.”

Anakin leaned against the balcony railing and looked away.

“I just… Why are we still here, Obi-Wan?”

“We’re leaving for Rome tomorrow.”

His companion hit the railing with his fist as he said: “Stop your fucking games! You know very well what I mean! Why are you keeping me here, with you? Why haven’t you sent me back on a plane to America? Why are we wasting our time here, when I have two six-year-old kids who’ve never even seen their deadbeat dad because the whole world seems to be against me seeing them! Ah!”

He stepped back into the room, his anger renewed. He marched towards Obi-Wan who rapidly placed his smoke in the ashtray. Anakin grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him up.

“Anakin, let go!”

“What is wrong with you!” he shouted. Obi-Wan could feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest. There was a fraction of an instant where he was convinced that the younger man would strike him or commit some rash act of violence in his rage. This was perhaps exactly the reason why they were still here. Anakin shook him, once, twice. Before Obi-Wan could offer a coherent answer, something changed in the other man’s eyes; something akin to recognition, or enlightenment. “Is it because you want to keep me for yourself, then? You want me to fuck you, like in the good old days?”

“Anakin—what?”

“Why else would you keep me here with you, when I’m the most miserable company you could have?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “If I’m still here with you, Anakin, it’s because I care about your wellbeing. Look at the state you’re in. Would you treat Padmé this way? Your children?”

“But you’re not Padmé,” responded Anakin, and, unprompted, brought his hand to Obi-Wan’s crotch, which he squeezed. Obi-Wan instantly felt his heart sink into his guts at the pressure, followed by a violent rush of pleasure. He could not bear to see what satisfaction lay on Anakin’s features, refused to give him that sweet mercy. He felt the other man’s breath on his face, on his neck, as he said: “you’ve wanted this since the day you picked me up from San Vittore.”

Anakin squeezed again, and Obi-Wan felt himself harden in his hold. He opened his eyes, and predictably, Anakin’s face was mere inches away from his own. Obi-Wan took his face in his hands to force him closer and in an act which he hoped would pass as audacity rather than desperation, kissed him on the mouth. Anakin in anticipation welcomed him, pushing his tongue inside his mouth. He shifted, and Obi-Wan adjusted his hold so that only one of his hands was holding the back of his head, the other resting on his shoulder, and Anakin made a faint noise, before breaking the kiss and moving towards Obi-Wan’s neck, kissing and licking and biting in a way that was both punitive and painful. He could feel Anakin’s hand crawl under his shirt, hold onto his side, then creep up to his chest. His prosthetic hand was pressed against his hip. He removed his own shirt, which prompted Anakin to pull him by the belt of his trousers. Obi-Wan grinded his hips against Anakin’s, before the younger man unbuckled his belt in record timing and pulled Obi-Wan’s trousers down. Obi-Wan helped him, by kicking them off alongside his underwear, and Anakin began palming him again.

“Let me help you out of these,” Obi-Wan said, pulling on the beltloops of Anakin’s jeans.

There was a familiarity in the scene that threw Obi-Wan years back; back when he was still working in the States and Anakin had been under his tutelage. However, what had felt like a violation that had overwrought Obi-Wan with guilt ten years earlier had morphed into something entirely different and inexpressible in its nature. Anakin had always been the one to initiate as he did now, had always been provocative even in his youth. Satine had remarked on it herself, maybe as a warning Obi-Wan had never heeded.

He rapidly pulled down Anakin’s trousers. Anakin didn’t bother kicking them off, and simply grabbed Obi-Wan’s cock in his hand again, stroking him for a few seconds before manhandling him and pushing him on the bed, face down. Obi-Wan gasped in surprise as Anakin climbed over him and began pumping him almost brutally, making him press his face in the bedsheets.

“Anakin, wait!” he gasped as violent waves of pleasure washed over him. Already his legs were trembling. Anakin pulled his hand away, and Obi-Wan turned his head around as much as he could, to see what the other man was doing. Already he knew what he was planning on next; he had always been fascinated by the thick quality of his spit, heavy in his hand. “Wait,” he said again.

“You got something better?”

“In the bathroom… there’s castor oil.”

He felt Anakin’s breath on the back of his neck as the young man huffed in laughter.  The sudden absence of Anakin's body as he lifted himself off of him to go to the bathroom was jarring. He waited for what felt like an eternity but what could not have been more than a minute. Rubbed himself against the mattress in his cruel absence.

“Alright, you dirty old man,” he heard Anakin’s voice say. He turned his head around to better see him; admired him. He had removed his shirt as well as his trousers, and resembled, in this pose, Michelangelo’s David—only harder.

Anakin was quick in his preparations, inserting one, two, three fingers while Obi-Wan concentrated on not coming all over the bed just yet. Then Anakin wrapped an arm around his waist to hoist him up, aligned himself with his hole, penetrated him, and then grabbed his cock, which he stroked all while fucking him into the bed, hard. Obi-Wan came after barely a couple minutes, crying out for Anakin to slow down, and ejaculated all over himself. Anakin came not long after him, taking his smooth time once he had brought his old mentor where he wanted him to be, a satisfied smile on his face.

“When was the last time you fucked anybody?” he asked him as he pulled out, and fell on the bed next to him. Obi-Wan could still feel his heart pounding in his ears, and his body was shivering in cold sweat.

“It’s been too long.”

“Clearly.”

He lit himself a cigarette. Obi-Wan stole it from him, and Anakin only watched him with surprise and mild annoyance, before pulling another one out for himself.

“What about you?” asked Obi-Wan in a tone he hoped was nonchalant. “Did you have any adventures in prison?”

Anakin shrugged, breathed out smoke through his nose. “Sometimes.”

Obi-Wan wanted to ask about that. Wanted to ask about Padmé, too. He knew better, though, and instead continued smoking in silence, watching his still fresh come glistening like milky tears on his stomach. He could feel Anakin dripping out of him. Maybe they would take a shower together, after this.

Next to him, Anakin suddenly sighed and pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead, still holding his smoke.

He said: “Padmé cannot know about this.”

“Why would she ever find out?”

“I’m serious, Obi-Wan.”

“Okay.”

Notes:

these guys suck so bad... the events mentioned in the newspaper really did happen. the DCI really did call for law and order. i read it in a digitalised version of a NYT article from april 1976. anakin is unintentionally mixing up attacks led by neofascists with attacks led by communists which is pretty bad. by 1976 he could have known that the people who were bombing trains and who hid behind the piazza fontana bombing were in fact neofascists. he could not have known that those neofascists were collaborating with NATO, the CIA and the SISMI (as part of the strategy of tension), though.