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1. The First Petal
The first time Anakin Skywalker coughed up a flower petal, he thought it was a joke.
He’d been sleeping—dreaming, actually. The good kind of dream for once. Not war or fire or a vision of the future or the endless screaming of dying worlds. Just himself in the Temple gardens with Obi-Wan, sitting on the stone bench beneath the ancient willow, reading something boring and philosophical, his brow furrowed in that way that made Anakin want to reach out and smooth it with his thumb.
In the dream, Obi-Wan looked up and smiled. For him.
And then Anakin had woken up gasping, his chest heaving, his throat on fire.
He barely made it to the bathroom.
He collapsed over the sink, one hand braced against the cold durasteel, the other clutching his chest. The cough ripped out of him. It was violent and ugly. It sounded like something was clawing its way up from his lungs. He coughed again, harder, and his vision went spotty at the edges.
And then he felt it.
Something soft. Wet. Foreign—hitting his tongue, sliding past his lips, landing in the sink with a tiny, damning plink.
Anakin froze.
His heart was pounding. His hands were shaking. Slowly—so—slowly—he forced himself to look down.
It was a petal.
Pink. Small. Delicate, almost. Like something from one of the decorative flowers Padmé kept in her apartment on Naboo. It sat in the sink, glistening under the dim glow of the ‘fresher lights, a single droplet of water—or maybe it wasn’t water—clinging to its edge.
Anakin stared at it.
His brain refused to process it. It was a trick. A hallucination. Some weird food he’d eaten. A—
No.
He knew what it was.
He'd read about it, years ago, and one of the medical texts Obi-Wan had forced him to study. “For your own good, Anakin,” Obi-Wan had said, and Anakin had rolled his eyes and skimmed the pages, mostly ignoring the dense jargon.
But one section had stuck with him.
Hanahaki disease. A rare condition affecting Force-sensitive individuals, characterized by the growth of flora within the respiratory system. Etiology: unresolved romantic attachment. The flowers bloom in response to unrequited love.
He remembered thinking it was romantic. In a tragic, holodrama sort of way. Flowers growing in your lungs because you love someone too much? How poetic.
He didn't think that anymore.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no.”
He reached out with a trembling hand and picked the petal up. It was soft. Warm. It felt alive in his palm, like it had just been plucked from a living stem. He turned it over, hoping—praying—that it was a trick of the light.
It wasn’t.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
His reflection was terrifying. Pale. Sweating. His eyes were too wide, too bright, and there was a smear of red at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it with the back of his hand and stared at the blood.
He was dying.
He was dying, and no one knew. No one could know.
The healers would find out. They'd run tests. They'd see the flowers in his lungs, tangled around his ribs, strangling him from the inside. And they'd ask the question he couldn't answer.
Who do you love?
Anakin's throat tightened. Not from the cough this time, but from the grief.
Obi-Wan.
Of course it was Obi-Wan. It had always been Obi-Wan. From the moment he'd knelt in the sand on Tatooine, looking up at the Jedi with a kind eyes and the gentle voice, Anakin had been lost. He'd been nine years old, and he’d already known—with the unbendable surety of a child—that this man was going to ruin him.
And he had.
Not intentionally. Obi-Wan had never done anything intentionally to hurt him. That was the worst part. Obi-Wan was good. Obi-Wan was kind and patient and selfless, and he loved Anakin in the way he was supposed to—as a teacher, a mentor, a brother.
But Anakin loved him in a way that was going to kill him.
He looked at the petal in his palm. Pink and soft. Blooming.
“You have to be wrong,” he told it. “You have to be. I’m not—I don’t—”
He couldn’t finish the sentence. Because he did. He loved Obi-Wan with every fiber of his being. He loved him so much it hurt—physically, constantly, like a second heart that ached with every beat.
And Obi-Wan didn’t love him back.
He couldn’t. He was a Jedi. He was Obi-Wan. Calm and composed and impossibly, infuriatingly logical. He didn’t feel things like Anakin did. He didn’t burn. He didn’t yearn. He would never look at Anakin the way Anakin looked at him.
Anakin crumpled the petal in his fist. He could feel it crushing, the delicate fibers tearing apart in his grip. He opened his hand and watched the pieces fall into the sink.
Then he turned on the faucet and watched them wash away.
He stood there for a long moment, gripping the edge of the sink, his knuckles white. His throat was still sore. His chest still ached. But the cough had stopped, and for now, that was enough.
He told himself it was a fluke. A one-time thing. A weird, stress-induced, medically improbable accident.
He told himself he wasn’t dying.
He didn’t believe it.
He went back to bed, but he didn’t sleep. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to his own breathing. Every inhale felt wrong, like there was something growing in his lungs, winding around his ribs, taking root.
He thought about Obi-Wan. He thought about the way Obi-Wan looked at him sometimes—soft, almost wistful, like he was seeing something fragile. He thought about the way Obi-Wan said his name, like it meant something. Like he mattered.
He thought about how badly he wanted to tell him.
And he thought about how he couldn’t. He’d lose Obi-Wan’s trust, his respect, everything. He’d be shipped off to some remote outpost, or worse, he’d be stuck here, in the Temple, with Obi-Wan looking at him with pity or disgust instead of pride.
Anakin squeezed his eyes shut.
“I’m fine,” he whispered to the empty room. “It’s fine. It was nothing.”
It was not nothing.
In his chest, somewhere deep and hidden, the roots were already spreading.
***
2. The Second Petal(s)
Three days.
Three days since the petal. Three days of Anakin pretending everything was fine. Three days of smiling through briefings, bantering with Ahsoka, nodding along to Obi-Wan’s mission debriefs like he wasn’t constantly aware of the thing growing in his chest.
He’d convinced himself it was over. A fluke. A stress response. The war was brutal, and his body was just… reacting. That was all.
Liar, a quiet voice whispered in the back of his mind. You know exactly what it is.
He ignored it.
The Negotiator was en route to the Outer Rim—another contested system, another battle, another opportunity for Anakin to throw himself into the fray and forget that his lungs were slowly becoming a garden. He’d spent the last three days training until his muscles screamed, running tactical simulations until his eyes burned, doing anything—anything—to avoid being alone with his thoughts.
It wasn’t working.
Obi-Wan was everywhere. In the way he stood at the holotable, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted as he studied the tactical display. In the way his voice dropped to that low, calming register when he was explaining something important. In the way he breathed—measured and calm and so him.
Anakin couldn’t escape him.
He didn’t want to.
***
The briefing started at 0800 hours.
Anakin was standing at the bridge’s central holotable, shoulder-to-shoulder with Obi-Wan, trying desperately to focus on Admiral Yularen’s droning report about Separatist movements. The holographic display flickered blue and green, showing supply routes and fleet positions, but Anakin’s eyes kept drifting.
Obi-Wan was right there.
So close Anakin could smell his soap. Something clean and subtle—not floral, not spicy. The scent was so familiar it made Anakin’s chest ache. He’d spent the last thirteen years breathing it in, memorizing it, cataloging it like some lovesick historian.
Stop it, he told himself fiercely. Focus.
He forced his eyes back to the holotable. Yularen was still talking. Something about reinforcements. Something about fuel reserves. Anakin nodded along, hoping it looked convincing.
“You’re quiet today, Anakin.”
Obi-Wan’s voice was low, pitched for Anakin’s ears only. It sent a shiver down his spine.
Anakin forced a smirk. “Just letting the Admiral have his moment. He gets testy when I interrupt.”
Across the table, Admiral Yularen shot him a flat look. “I can hear you, General Skywalker.”
“Good,” Anakin said, grinning. “I was hoping you would.”
Obi-Wan made a sound—half-sigh, half-laugh. It was the most beautiful sound Anakin had ever heard.
And then Anakin felt it.
The itch.
It started deep in his throat, a tickle so faint he almost ignored it. But it grew—fast—spreading up his windpipe, scratching at his vocal cords, demanding attention. His eyes widened. His hand flew to his chest.
No. Not now. Not HERE—
He tried to suppress it. He swallowed hard, forced his throat to relax, breathed through his nose in slow, measured inhales. The same technique Obi-Wan had taught him for controlling his temper. Breathe, Anakin. Center yourself. Let it pass.
It didn’t pass.
The itch became a burn. The burn became a clawing, like something was trying to tear its way out of his throat. His eyes watered. His face went pale.
“General Skywalker? Are you listening?”
Anakin opened his mouth to respond, and coughed.
It was violent. Embarrassing. He turned away from the table, one fist pressed to his mouth, the other braced against the console. His whole body convulsed with the force of it. He coughed again, harder, and felt something soft and wet hit his palm.
No. No, no, no—
He coughed a third time, and his vision went blurry at the edges.
Silence fell over the bridge. Everyone was staring.
“Anakin?” Obi-Wan’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”
Anakin couldn’t answer. His throat was raw. His heart was pounding. And in his fist—hidden from view but screaming its existence—were three petals. Pink. Soft. Bloody.
He shoved his hand into his pocket so fast it probably looked suspicious.
“Fine,” he rasped. His voice was wrecked, like he’d been screaming for hours. “I’m fine. Just—dust. In the air.”
Dust. On a starship. With recycled, filtered, impeccably clean air.
Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed. His hand was still on Anakin’s shoulder, and Anakin could feel his thumb moving in slow, soothing circles. It was almost unbearable.
“Dust,” Obi-Wan repeated flatly.
“Must have tracked it in from the last planet,” Anakin said, forcing a grin that felt like it was splitting his face. “You know how it is. Sand gets everywhere.”
Obi-Wan’s expression was indecipherable. His eyes flicked to Anakin’s pocket, and then back to his face.
“Anakin,” he said quietly, “you’re pale. You’ve been coughing for three days. I’ve—”
“You’ve been counting?” Anakin interrupted. His voice came out sharper than he intended. “What, are you keeping a log now? ‘Day 67 of Anakin’s chronic inability to keep himself healthy?’”
The words were meant to deflect. To push Obi-Wan away. It worked—Obi-Wan’s hand dropped from his shoulder, and his face shuttered into that diplomatic mask he wore when he was hurt but didn’t want to show it.
Anakin’s heart twisted.
He knew that mask. He’d spent thirteen years learning to read every micro-expression on Obi-Wan’s face—the slight tightening around his eyes when he was worried, the barely-there quirk of his lips when he was amused, the way his jaw went tight when he was holding something back.
And this—this was the mask Obi-Wan wore when Anakin had cut him deep.
I’m sorry, he wanted to say. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, please don’t look at me like that—
The words were right there, burning on his tongue. He could feel them, desperate to escape. All he had to do was open his mouth. All he had to do was say I’m sorry and Obi-Wan’s face would soften, and everything would be okay.
But he couldn’t. Because if he apologized, Obi-Wan would ask again.
And if Obi-Wan asked again, Anakin would have to lie. And he was so, so tired of lying.
Because he could already see it—the gentle concern in Obi-Wan’s eyes, the way he’d lean in slightly, the way his voice would drop to that low, soothing register he used when he was trying to coax Anakin into opening up.
“Anakin. Please. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
And Anakin would have to look at him—look at the man he loved more than anything in the galaxy—and say, “Nothing. I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
Another lie. Another petal. Another piece of himself withering away.
I’m so tired, he thought. I’m so tired of lying to you.
He was tired of pretending he didn’t notice the way Obi-Wan’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. Tired of pretending his heart didn’t race when Obi-Wan placed a hand on his shoulder. Tired of pretending he didn’t lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering what it would feel like to just—say it.
I love you. I love you. I’ve loved you for so long I don’t remember what it felt like not to.
But he couldn’t.
Because if he said it, Obi-Wan would look at him with pity. He’d say something gentle and kind, something like “Anakin, you’re my Padawan. I care about you, but not like that—”
And Anakin’s world would shatter.
So he said nothing.
He just stood there, watching Obi-Wan’s mask grow tighter, watching the hurt flicker behind his eyes before he buried it. Watching the man he loved shut him out because Anakin had pushed him away.
This is what I wanted, he told himself. This is what I need. Distance. Safety. Him not knowing.
But it didn’t feel like safety.
It felt like dying.
The briefing continued. Anakin said nothing. He nodded when he was supposed to nod, grunted when he was supposed to grunt, and kept his hand firmly in his pocket.
He could feel the warm, sticky, alive petals there.
When the briefing finally ended, Anakin didn’t wait. He turned on his heel and strode off the bridge, his long legs carrying him as fast as he could go without running. He could sense Obi-Wan’s eyes on his back. He didn’t look around.
He made it to his quarters. He locked the door. He collapsed against it, slid down to the floor, and pulled his hand out of his pocket.
Three petals.
Pink, like the first one. But now they were streaked with red. Blood. His blood. He stared at them, and something in his chest cracked.
Not the flowers.
Him.
He was dying. He was dying, and he couldn’t tell anyone, because the only person who could save him was the one person he couldn’t bear to lose.
He thought about Obi-Wan’s face—the way he’d looked at Anakin, confused and worried. The way his hand had felt on Anakin’s shoulder. The way his thumb had moved in those slow, soothing circles.
He doesn’t love you, Anakin told himself savagely. He doesn’t love you, and he never will, and you’re going to die because of it.
His eyes burned. His throat burned. Everything burned.
He pressed his forehead to his knees and cried.
***
A knock came at his door an hour later.
Anakin didn’t answer.
“Anakin?” Obi-Wan’s voice, muffled through the door. “I’ve brought you some tea. You seemed—”
“I’m sleeping,” Anakin called back. His voice was wrecked, but he didn’t care. “Go away.”
Silence.
“You’re not sleeping. You’re lying on the floor. I can feel it through the door.”
Anakin closed his eyes. Of course Obi-Wan could feel it. He could probably feel the flowers too, if he concentrated—the tangle of roots in Anakin’s lungs, the petals blooming in his throat.
“Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s voice was gentle. Too gentle. “Please. Let me in.”
If you come in, Anakin thought, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything. I’ll say ‘I love you’ and you’ll look at me with pity and I’ll lose you forever.
He pressed his palms to his eyes. “I can’t,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
More silence. Then he said, “I’m here when you’re ready. You know that, don’t you?”
Anakin didn’t answer.
He heard Obi-Wan’s footsteps retreating down the corridor. He heard the soft hiss of the automatic doors.
And then he was alone.
He looked at his hand. The petals were still there, crushed and bloody. He couldn’t bring himself to throw them away.
So he kept them.
He kept them in his pocket, pressed against his thigh like a dirty little secret.
Like a promise.
Like a beginning of the end.
***
3. The Third Petal(s)
The training room was too bright.
Anakin stood in the center of the mat, his lightsaber humming in his hand, his eyes fixed on Obi-Wan across the room. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that sterile, clinical glow that made the Temple feel less like home and more like a hospital.
Which was ironic, really. Because Anakin was pretty sure he was going to end up in the Halls of Healing sooner rather than later.
“Ready?” Obi-Wan asked.
Anakin nodded. “Ready.”
He wasn’t ready. He hadn’t been ready for anything since that first petal.
It had been four days since the briefing. Four days of hiding. Four days of coughing into his fist, spitting petals into the ‘fresher, burning evidence in the incinerator. Four days of watching Obi-Wan watch him with those knowing, worried eyes.
The floors were getting worse.
Anakin could feel them now. Not just the cough—the roots. Tangled around his ribs, squeezing his lungs, making every breath that came out nothing short of a miracle of the Force. He’d coughed up a dozen petals this morning alone. Pink and white and red.
Red.
He was bleeding internally now. He knew that. He could taste the copper in the back of his throat, could feel the warmth of it when he coughed into his palm. He’d started carrying a handkerchief—a habit he’d picked up from Obi-Wan—not for politeness or style, but to hide the evidence.
Obi-Wan had noticed the handkerchief. Of course he had.
“You’re using my old handkerchief,” Obi-Wan had said this morning, raising an eyebrow. “I thought I’d lost that.”
Anakin had forced a grin. “Found it. You’re welcome.”
Obi-Wan had looked at him for a long moment. “Anakin. You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”
Anakin had changed the subject so fast it left skid marks.
***
Now, in the training room, Anakin tried to focus. He needed this. He needed the burn of his muscles, the clarity of combat, the simplicity of a fight. When he was fighting, he didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to feel. He just had to move.
But Obi-Wan was right there.
So close. Anakin could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the silver threading through his dark auburn hair, the way his lips curved into that small, fond smile that Anakin wanted to bottle up and drink for the rest of his days.
His throat burned.
“Anakin?” Obi-Wan’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Are you going to attack, or are you going to stand there and brood?”
Anakin blinked. “I don’t brood.”
“You absolutely brood. It’s one of your more endearing qualities.”
Anakin laughed, and the sound surprised him. It felt strange and foreign. As if he had forgotten how to do it.
But the laugh turned into a cough. A small one. He covered his mouth with his fist, felt something soft hit his palm, and shoved his hand behind his back.
Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed. “Anakin—”
“Attack,” Anakin said, and lunged.
Their blades clashed in a shower of blue and blue. The sound was familiar, comfortable—the sound of home. Anakin pushed forward, driving Obi-Wan back, and for a moment, he felt free. No flowers or fear. Just this.
But Obi-Wan was good. Better than good, he was Obi-Wan. He sidestepped, pivoted, and brought his blade up in a sweeping arc that forced Anakin to retreat. Anakin spun, using the momentum to launch another strike, but Obi-Wan caught it easily.
“Your form is sloppy,” Obi-Wan observed. “You’re distracted.”
“I’m not distracted.”
“You’re lying. You’ve been lying for nearly a week.”
Anakin’s jaw tightened. He pushed harder, his blade slamming against Obi-Wan’s with more force than necessary. Obi-Wan absorbed it, his expression unchanged.
“I’m not lying,” Anakin gritted out. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re pale. You’re coughing. You’re—”
“I said I’m fine.”
Anakin’s voice rose, cracking on the last word. His throat spasmed. The itch was back—worse than ever, a burning that clawed its way up his windpipe. He tried to suppress it, but it was too strong.
He doubled over, his lightsaber deactivating in his hand.
The cough ripped out of him. He fell to his knees on the training mat, one hand braced on the floor, the other pressed to his mouth. He coughed again, and again, and again—a cascade of petals pouring from his throat, that same frustrating color pattern of pink and white and red, the blood staining his palm, his sleeve, the floor.
He couldn’t stop.
Make it stop. Please, please make it stop—
Obi-Wan was at his side in an instant. His hand was on Anakin’s back, rubbing in slow, firm circles. His voice was urgent, frantic—nothing like the calm Obi-Wan of moments ago.
“Anakin! Anakin, look at me. Breathe. Breathe.”
Anakin tried. He gasped, choked, coughed again. More petals. More blood. The floor was littered with them in a grotesque garden blooming in the middle of the training room.
And then it stopped.
The cough subsided. The burning faded. Anakin was left gasping, his chest heaving, his whole body trembling.
He looked up.
Obi-Wan was staring at the floor. His eyes were wide. His face was pale—paler than Anakin had ever seen it.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan breathed. “Those are—”
Anakin followed his gaze. The petals were everywhere. Dozens of them. They looked like a flower shop had exploded in the middle of the training room.
Anakin’s blood ran cold.
“Please,” he whispered. His voice was wrecked. “Please, Obi-Wan. Don’t.”
Obi-Wan looked at him, and Anakin saw it. Saw the moment Obi-Wan knew.
“Hanahaki,” Obi-Wan said, the word barely audible. “You have Hanahaki.”
Anakin opened his mouth to deny it. He couldn’t.
Obi-Wan reached out, his fingers trembling, and picked up one of the petals. It was pink, streaked with red. He turned it over in his palm, staring at it like it was a death sentence.
Because it was.
"Who?" Obi-Wan asked. His voice was strange—hoarse, like he was fighting back tears. "Anakin, who is it? Who do you love?"
Anakin shook his head. "I can't—"
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” Obi-Wan’s voice cracked. “Anakin, you’re dying. You’re dying, and you won’t tell me who it is?”
Anakin looked at him. Looked at the man he loved. The man who was panicking, for once—his composure shattered, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
“Because they don’t love me back,” Anakin said, his voice a hair above a whisper. “And if I tell them, I’ll lose them.”
Obi-Wan’s face crumpled. For a moment—just a moment—he looked like he was going to break.
“You wouldn’t lose them,” Obi-Wan said fiercely. “They would understand. They would—”
“Would they?” Anakin interrupted. His voice was bitter now, angry. “Would they understand? Or would they look at me like I’m weak? Like I’m some—some failure who couldn’t control his emotions?”
Obi-Wan stared at Anakin, his expression shifting through a dozen emotions in the span of a heartbeat. Shock. Grief. Understanding. His hand—still holding the petal—began to tremble.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said slowly. His voice was careful now, measured in a way that made Anakin’s stomach drop. “Who do you think would look at you like that?”
Anakin’s breath caught.
“I—” He stopped. Swallowed. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters.”
“No. It doesn’t.” Anakin’s voice was flat. Empty. “Because they don’t love me back. And if I tell them, I’ll lose everything. I’ll lose their friendship. I’ll lose their trust. I’ll lose them.”
Obi-Wan’s face crumpled. “You wouldn’t lose them. Anakin, you wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
Anakin laughed. “Not like this.”
Obi-Wan reached out, his hand hovering over Anakin’s cheek. He didn’t touch; he was asking permission.
Anakin didn’t give it.
“Please,” Anakin whispered. “Please, Obi-Wan. Just leave it.”
Obi-Wan’s hand dropped.
Anakin pushed himself to his feet, swaying. His legs were unsteady, but he forced himself to stand.
“I need—” He stopped, swallowing. “I need to be alone.”
Obi-Wan stood too, his expression that infuriatingly careful mask of composure that Anakin had never mastered himself. But Anakin could see the cracks. The trembling of his hands. The brightness in his eyes.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said. “I’m here when you’re ready. I want you to know that.”
“Just—” He shook his head. “Just give me space.”
He walked to the door. Every step was agony. His chest burned and his throat ached, but he couldn’t stay, couldn’t look at Obi-Wan’s face one more second, couldn’t stomach the lack of feeling he would see in those eyes.
The door slid open.
“Anakin.”
He stopped without turning around.
“Whatever it is,” Obi-Wan said, his voice soft, “whoever it is—you don’t have to hide it from me. You never have to hide anything from me.”
Anakin’s eyes burned.
“Goodbye, Obi-Wan,” he whispered.
He stepped through the door. It slid shut behind him.
And he was alone.
***
4. The Fourth Petal(s)
Another three days passed.
Anakin hadn’t left his quarters. He hadn’t answered his comm. He hadn’t responded to Ahsoka’s worried messages or Rex’s gruff inquiries. He’d just disappeared.
Obi-Wan had given him space. He’d told himself it was the right thing to do—that Anakin needed time to process, to come to terms with his diagnosis, to decide what he wanted to do.
But now, on the third day, Obi-Wan couldn’t wait anymore.
He’d done his research. He’d spent hours in the Archives, poring over texts, reading every scrap of information he could find about Hanahaki Disease. He knew the symptoms. He knew the progression. He knew the timeline.
And he knew that Anakin was running out of time.
***
The door to Anakin’s quarters slid open with a soft hiss. Obi-Wan stepped inside, his heart pounding.
The room was dark. The blinds were drawn, casting everything in an eerie shadow. The air was stale, thick with the scent of… blood. And something else. Something floral. Sweet.
Obi-Wan’s stomach turned.
“Anakin?”
No response.
Obi-Wan moved deeper into the room. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and what he saw froze his blood.
The bed was a mess—sheets tangled, pillows thrown to the floor. And on the floor, everywhere, were petals. Hundreds of them were scattered across the ground like a macabre garden.
And in the middle of it all, curled into a tight ball on the bed, was Anakin.
He was shaking. His whole body was wracked with tremors, and every breath he took was a wet, rattling wheeze. His face was pale, so pale it looked gray, and his lips were stained with blood.
Obi-Wan crossed the room, dropping to his knees beside the bed, his hands reaching for Anakin.
“Anakin. Anakin.”
Anakin’s eyes fluttered open. They were glassy and unfocused, like he was looking at something far away.
“Obi-Wan?” His voice was barely audible. “You’re—you’re here.”
“I’m here.” Obi-Wan’s voice shook. He cupped Anakin’s face, tilting it toward him. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Anakin coughed wetly, weakly, and a cluster of blood-soaked petals fell from his lips.
Obi-Wan’s heart shattered.
“Anakin, you need to go to the medbay. Now.”
“No.” Anakin’s voice was weak but stubborn in a way that Obi-Wan would find endearing if he weren’t actively dying. “No healers. No surgery.”
“Anakin—”
“I mean it.” Anakin’s hand shot out, gripping Obi-Wan’s wrist with surprising strength. “I’d rather die.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.”
“It’s true.” Anakin’s eyes were bright with tears. “If I forget—if I forget them—I’d rather be dead.”
Obi-Wan stared at him. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.
“Anakin,” he said, voice raw. “Please. Please let me help you.”
Anakin shook his head weakly. “You can’t. Not unless—” He stopped and swallowed. “Not unless y—they love me back.”
Obi-Wan closed his mouth.
“Come on,” he said instead, his voice firm. “We’re going to the medbay.”
“I said no—”
“I don’t care what you said. I’ll carry you there if I have to. You’re dying, Anakin. And I am not—I am not—going to let that happen.”
He pulled Anakin’s arm over his shoulder, hauling him to his feet. Anakin gasped, his whole body trembling, but he didn’t have the strength to fight.
“Obi-Wan—”
“Save your breath.” Obi-Wan kept his grip steady, even as his voice trembled. “You’re going to need it.”
***
The Halls of Healing were too bright and sterile and disgustingly clinical.
Anakin lay on a medical cot, his skin pale and clammy. A healer was hovering over him, waving a scanner over his bare chest, her expression growing more and more grave with every pass.
Obi-Wan stood in the corner, his arms crossed, his jaw tight. He’d never felt so useless in his life.
“His lungs are almost completely obstructed,” the healer said. “The roots have wrapped around his ribs and are starting to compress his heart. If we don’t act soon—”
“I know what happens if you don’t act,” Obi-Wan cut in. “What are his options?”
The healer hesitated. “There are two. The surgery—which would remove the flowers and the root system, along with the emotions that caused them—”
“He won’t do the surgery.”
The healer looked at him. “Then there’s only one other option. The person he loves must love him back. And I’m assuming—”
“He won’t tell me who it is.”
Her expression softened. “I’m sorry, Master Kenobi. But without one of those two outcomes—”
“I know,” he replied flatly. “I know.”
He walked to Anakin’s bedside. Anakin’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and labored. His face was so pale it looked downright translucent.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said softly. “Anakin, can you hear me?”
Anakin’s eyes fluttered open. He looked at Obi-Wan, and his expression shifted between flickers of recognition and something akin to longing.
“Obi-Wan,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For—” Anakin coughed. More petals. More blood. “For being weak.”
Obi-Wan’s heart twisted. “You’re not weak.”
“I am.” Anakin’s voice was barely audible. “I loved someone I shouldn’t have. And now I’m—I’m dying because of it.”
Obi-Wan reached out. He took Anakin’s hand in his, holding it tight.
“Who?” he asked. “Anakin, please. Just tell me who it is.”
Anakin looked at him with those same dazed eyes, but now the pupils were widening with desperation.
“I can’t,” he whispered. “If I tell you—I can’t. You—I’ll lose you.”
“You won’t lose me.”
“You don’t know that.”
Obi-Wan’s grip tightened. “I do know that. Anakin, I—”
He stopped. The words were right there, burning on his tongue.
I love you. I love you. I’ve always loved you.
But he couldn’t say them. Not like this. Not when Anakin was delirious and dying, and his thoughts were too wrapped up in whoever he was dying for, not when Anakin might not even remember it in the morning.
He swallowed.
“Please,” he said instead. “Please let them do the surgery.”
Anakin’s eyes widened. “No—”
“Anakin, listen to me.” Obi-Wan leaned closer, his voice urgent. “If you don’t do the surgery, you’re going to die. Do you understand that? You’re going to die.”
“Then let me die.”
“I won’t.”
“It’s my choice—”
“Not when you’re making it from a place of fear!” Obi-Wan’s voice cracked.
Something darkened unpleasantly in Anakin’s eyes. “Is that what you’re so upset about? That I’m not dying the proper Jedi way?”
“What? Anakin, no. I know you. I know you’re terrified. But this isn’t the answer. Forgetting them might feel like the end of the world, but at least you’d be alive.”
Anakin stared at him. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.
“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “You don’t understand what it’s like to love someone so much it hurts. To look at them every day and want—” He stopped. Choked. “To want them so badly it feels like you’re drowning.”
Obi-Wan’s heart was breaking.
“Anakin—”
“I don’t want to forget them.” Anakin’s voice was broken. “I don’t want to forget the way they laugh. The way they say my name. The way they look at me sometimes—like I’m good. Like I’m worthy.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes burned.
“Anakin, please—”
“I would rather die,” Anakin said fiercely, “than forget that.”
Obi-Wan closed his eyes. A tear slipped down his cheek.
“Then you leave me no choice,” he whispered.
Anakin’s eyes widened. “What?”
Obi-Wan opened his eyes. His expression was resolute.
“I’m going to find them,” he said. “Whoever it is. I’m going to find them, and I’m going to tell them.”
“Obi-Wan, no—”
“I don’t care what it costs me. I don’t care if they reject you. I don’t care if you hate me for it. I am not going to watch you die.”
Anakin shook his head frantically. “You can’t—you don’t know who it is—”
“I have my suspicions.”
Anakin froze.
“I’ve had them for a while,” Obi-Wan said softly.
Anakin’s face went pale.
“Obi-Wan—”
But Obi-Wan wasn’t listening. He was already planning.
He would start with Padmé. And if it wasn’t her, then he didn’t know what he’d do.
But it was her. It had to be.
He would find out. He would find out, and he would bring them here, and if they had any heart at all, if they had eyes, quite frankly, they would say yes.
And Obi-Wan wouldn’t think about his own heart breaking from the inside out.
Anakin stared at him. “Please don’t,” he whispered. “Please don’t do this.”
“I have to.”
“Please.”
“Rest now. I’ll be back soon.”
He turned and walked toward the door.
Anakin’s voice came from behind him. “Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan didn’t turn around.
He couldn’t. Because if he turned around, he’d break. He’d fall to his knees and confess everything, and Anakin would know, and—
“I’ll fix this,” he said. “I promise.”
He stepped through the door.
It slid shut behind him.
And he was alone.
***
5. The Fifth Petal(s)
Silence was never something Anakin coveted. His body craved action, noise, utter chaos.
Anakin lay in the cot, his chest rising and falling in shallow, rattling breaths. The monitors beeped in a slow rhythm. Too slow, Anakin knew. His heartbeat was weakening. The flowers were winning.
He’d been alone for hours. He’d tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw Obi-Wan’s face. The way he’d looked at Anakin in the training room, horrified and devastated. The way he’d held Anakin’s hand and promised to find the person Anakin loved.
He’s never coming back, Anakin thought. He went to find them, and he realized it’s him, and he’s never coming back.
He coughed, and a cluster of petals fell onto his chest. And blood.
There was more blood than petals now.
He didn’t care.
The door hissed open.
Anakin’s heart stopped.
Obi-Wan stood in the doorway. He looked destroyed, his robes rumpled, his hair disheveled, and his eyes glassy, like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Obi-Wan?” Anakin whispered. “You came back.”
“I told you I would.” Obi-Wan crossed the room and dropped into the chair beside Anakin’s cost. His hand found Anakin’s. “I told you I’d come back.” Anakin’s eyes burned. “I thought—I thought you wouldn’t.”
Obi-Wan’s grip tightened. “I’ll always come back. You know that.”
Anakin laughed humorlessly. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
Obi-Wan was quiet for a moment, and his thumb moved in slow circles on Anakin’s hand that sent a tickle down his throat as the threat of more blood and petals erupting from his esophagus emerged. “I went to see Padmé.”
Anakin’s blood ran cold.
“What?”
“In her office.” Obi-Wan sounded careful, like he was walking through a minefield. “I thought—I assumed—”
“You thought it was Padmé?”
Obi-Wan flinched at Anakin’s tone. “You called her an angel, Anakin. You loved her. You still love her. It was the logical conclusion—”
“Logical?” Anakin’s voice cracked. “You thought—you went to Padmé—and you told her—”
“I didn’t tell her anything specific.” Obi-Wan’s grip tightened. “I just… asked her some questions. About you. About your relationship."
Anakin’s chest was burning.
“What did she say?”
Obi-Wan hesitated. “She said—she said you love each other. But not in the way I was thinking. That I should look elsewhere.”
Anakin stared at him.
Padmé didn’t say anything. Good. Thank the Force.
“She told me to ask you,” Obi-Wan continued quietly. “She said your heart does belong to someone, but not her. And you’ve loved this person for a long time. And she said—” He stopped. “She said I was a fool for not seeing it.”
The room was spinning.
Never mind. Anakin would have laughed at Padmé’s esotericism, the way she said so much in just a few cryptic words, if he weren’t seconds from writhing in pain. I’ll bicker with her later, he thought. That is, if I survive this.
“Oh, she also said,” Obi-Wan added, his voice almost strangled, “that if you didn’t tell the truth, she’d come here herself and do it for you. With hand gestures. Potentially a blaster.”
Anakin couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t breathe, and it wasn’t the flowers.
“Anakin?” Gentle, concerned, infuriating. “Anakin, are you—”
“It was never Padmé,” Anakin said harshly, the words exploding out of him. Anakin sat up—lunged forward—and then immediately regretted it as a wave of dizziness crashed over him. His vision went spotty. His chest screamed.
“Anakin, lie down—”
“No.” Anakin’s voice broke. He couldn’t stop. The words were pouring out of him like the petals, like the blood, like everything he’d been holding back for years. “It’s not—it was never Padmé. It was always—it’s always been—”
He stopped. His chest was heaving. His lungs were burning. His whole body was screaming at him to stop.
But he couldn’t.
“I love you.”
The words dangled in the air and Anakin wanted to open his fist and snatch them back, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t stop looking at Obi-Wan. At the way his face went pale. At the way his eyes widened. At the way his breath stopped.
“You,” Anakin repeated. “It’s always been you. From the moment you knelt in the sand on Tatooine, from the moment you looked at me like I was—like I was worth saving—”
He choked on a sob.
“I’ve loved you for thirteen years,” he said. “I’ve loved you through every mission, every argument, every moment you stood beside me and I couldn’t tell you because I was terrified. I was terrified you’d look at me like I was broken. Like I was weak. Like I was just—just another Padawan who couldn’t control his emotions.”
A mask of shock swept over Obi-Wan’s face. His mouth was open, but no words came out.
“And now you’re here,” Anakin continued, his voice breaking. “You’re here, and you just told me you went to Padmé. You went to Padmé thinking I loved her, when—” He laughed in a broken, hysterical way. “When I’ve been dying for you.”
“Anakin—”
“I’ve been dying for you.” Anakin’s eyes glistened. “The flowers—they’re for you. They’ve always been for you. And you don’t—you can’t—”
“Anakin, stop—”
“I know you don’t love me.” Anakin’s voice lost its edge, replaced by flatness. Emptiness. “I know you’re just—you’re just my master. Former master. You’re Obi-Wan. You’re perfect and controlled and you don’t feel things like I do. And that’s fine. It’s fine. I’ve made peace with it. But I couldn’t—I couldn’t let you go on thinking it was Padmé. I couldn’t let you—”
“Anakin.”
Obi-Wan’s voice cut through the torrent of words.
Anakin stopped. His chest was heaving, his eyes were wet, and his whole body was trembling.
Obi-Wan reached out, cupping Anakin’s face. His thumb brushed the tears from Anakin’s cheek.
“You absolute idiot,” Obi-Wan whispered.
Anakin blinked. “What?”
“You thought—” His voice cracked. “You thought I didn’t love you?”
Anakin’s breath hitched.
“You thought I was perfect?” Obi-Wan laughed. “Anakin, I am the least perfect person in this galaxy. I’ve been in love with you since you were nineteen years old and you looked at me on Geonosis like I’d hung the stars. I’ve been in love with you every day, every second, every time I’ve had to watch you walk away and pretend it didn’t destroy me.”
Anakin stared at him.
“I thought I was protecting you,” Obi-Wan continued, his voice trembling. “I thought if I pushed you away, you would never know. I guess it worked,” he said sadly. “And I thought if I buried it deep enough, it would die. But it never died. It just… grew.”
Anakin's eyes went wide. “You love me?”
“Of course I do. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I made you think—”
Anakin kissed him.
Desperately and messily and with so, so much relief. He grabbed Obi-Wan's robes, pulled him closer, kissed him like he was drowning and Obi-Wan was air.
Obi-Wan kissed him back. His hands skated through Anakin's hair, gripping, holding, as if some part of him were petrified Anakin would disappear.
They broke apart, gasping.
“I thought you didn't,” Anakin said. “I thought—”
“I know." Obi-Wan pressed his forehead to Anakin's. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
Anakin huffed, his tear-streaked face beginning to dry. “I can't believe you went to Padmé,” he said, his voice warping with laughter.
“You should be grateful. She threatened to shoot me. I could have died,” Obi-Wan said, a weak smile flickering across his face.
"I love you," he said, prayed, promised. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
Obi-Wan kissed him again, softer this time. And slower, like they had all the time in the world.
And as they kissed, Anakin felt it.
The pressure in his chest was finally lifting.
The roots were loosening. The flowers were dying. He coughed—just once, a soft, gentle cough—and a single petal fell from his lips.
White. Clean. Pure.
Obi-Wan pulled back, looking at it. Then at Anakin.
"Is it—"
Anakin nodded. His voice was thick with emotion. "It's stopping. I can feel it. The flowers are—they're dying.”
Obi-Wan collapsed with relief. He pulled Anakin into his arms, held him close, buried his face in his hair.
"Never do that to me again," he whispered. His voice was shaking. "Never again."
Anakin laughed weakly. "I'll try.”
They stayed there for a while, completely wrapped in each other.
And for the first time in years, Anakin's chest didn't hurt.
***
+1. After
Anakin woke up warm.
That was his first thought—warm. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt warm. For weeks, he'd been cold. Cold and sad and trembling and dying.
But now he was warm.
His second thought was, I'm alive.
He opened his eyes.
The medbay was dim, the lights turned low for the night cycle. The monitors beside his bed beeped steadily and reassuringly. Much stronger than they had been yesterday. His chest carried an intermittent ache, but it was a dull, healing ache, not the sharp, clawing pain of the flowers.
And then he felt it.
An arm wrapped around his waist. A warm body pressed against his side. Breath ghosting across the back of his neck.
Anakin turned his head.
Obi-Wan was asleep.
He was curled up on the narrow medbay cot beside Anakin, his face pressed into Anakin's shoulder, one arm draped possessively across Anakin's stomach. His hair was a mess—auburn strands falling across his forehead. His lips were slightly parted. His breathing was slow and even.
He looked young. He looked peaceful. He looked like he'd finally stopped carrying the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders.
Anakin's heart ached again, but it was the good kind of ache, born from loving someone so much it felt like it might burst out of his chest.
Not flowers, he thought, and almost laughed.
He reached up, gently brushing a strand of hair from Obi-Wan's face. Obi-Wan stirred, muttering something unintelligible, and burrowed closer.
Anakin smiled.
It was the first real smile he'd felt in weeks.
***
Obi-Wan woke up an hour later.
Anakin had been watching him sleep, which was, admittedly, a little creepy. But he couldn't help it. He'd spent so long hiding his feelings, so long aching for Obi-Wan, that being able to just look at him felt like a gift.
Obi-Wan's eyes fluttered open. They were hazy with sleep, unfocused for a moment, and then they found Anakin's face.
“Anakin?" His voice was rough, still thick with sleep. "You're awake."
"I'm awake."
"You're—" Obi-Wan's eyes widened. He sat up so fast he nearly fell off the cot. "You're awake. And you're—you're talking. You're—"
"I'm fine, Obi-Wan." Anakin reached out, catching his hand. "I'm fine. Look.”
He pulled Obi-Wan's hand to his chest—right over his heart. Beneath Obi-Wan's palm, Anakin's heartbeat was steady. Strong.
"The flowers are gone," Anakin said softly. "Or—mostly gone. The healer said there's still some debris in my lungs, but the roots are dead. They're just—they're just dying. Like, actually dying. Not killing me."
Obi-Wan stared at him. His eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"You're okay," he whispered.
"I'm okay."
"You're okay."
"I'm okay.”
Obi-Wan collapsed forward, pulling Anakin into a crushing hug. His face was buried in Anakin's neck, and Anakin could feel his shoulders shaking.
"Never again," Obi-Wan said, his voice muffled. "Never again. If you ever—if you ever hide something like this from me again, I'll—"
"You'll what?" Anakin asked, grinning. "Threaten me with paperwork?"
"I'll make you listen to my lectures," Obi-Wan said, pulling back. His eyes were wet, but he was smiling. "All of them. The entire archive. Chronologically."
Anakin scoffed. "That's cruel and unusual punishment."
"You deserve it.”
"I know."
They looked at each other.
And then Anakin coughed. Another petal fell from his lips.
Obi-Wan's breath caught.
"Is that—"
"I think it's the last one." Anakin looked at the petal, turning it over in his fingers. "The healer said there might be one or two left. Just… remnants. But they're not growing anymore. They're leaving."
Obi-Wan reached out. His fingers brushed against Anakin's, gently taking the petal.
"Can I keep it?" he asked softly.
Anakin blinked. "You want to keep it?"
"I want to remember." Obi-Wan's voice was quiet. "I want to remember that you almost died because you loved me. And that I almost let you.”
"Obi-Wan—"
"I was so afraid." Obi-Wan's voice cracked. "I was so afraid of breaking the Code, of disappointing the Council, of—of taking advantage of you. And I almost lost you because of it.”
Anakin squeezed his hand. "You didn't lose me."
"I almost did."
"But you didn't." Anakin lifted Obi-Wan's hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. "You're here. I'm here. We're both here."
Obi-Wan's breath hitched. "You're too forgiving.”
“No, I'm just—I thought you'd never look at me the way I look at you. And now—now I get to have you. I get to touch you. I get to—”
He stopped, his voice thick with emotion.
“I get to love you,” he finished. “And I don't want to waste a single second of it being angry.”
Obi-Wan stared at him. “I don't deserve you, darling.”
“Agree to disagree,” Anakin said pragmatically, taking a cue from Obi-Wan's constant composure. Obi-Wan rolled his eyes and leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Anakin's.
"I love you," he said. "I love you, and I'm never letting you go."
"Promise?"
"Promise.”
***
Later, they sat on Anakin's cot, Obi-Wan with his back against the wall, Anakin leaning against his chest. Anakin's hand was in Obi-Wan's, their fingers intertwined.
Obi-Wan's thumb moved in slow, soothing circles on Anakin's skin.
"Padmé is going to be insufferable," Obi-Wan said, his voice warm with amusement. "She's going to say 'I told you so' for the rest of our lives.”
Anakin laughed. "She deserves to. She's been telling me to talk to you for years."
"Years?”
“She knew. She's always known." Anakin tilted his head back, looking up at Obi-Wan. “She told me I wasn't subtle. And that I look at you like you're the sun.”
Obi-Wan's cheeks flushed. "She said that?"
"She said a lot of things. Most of them were variations of 'just tell him, you absolute disaster.'"
Obi-Wan laughed. "She's not wrong. You are a disaster."
"Your disaster," Anakin said, grinning.
Obi-Wan's expression softened. "Yes," he said quietly. "My disaster."
He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Anakin's hair.
***
Anakin fell asleep again, and when he woke, Obi-Wan was still there.
His hand was still in Anakin's. His thumb was still moving in circular motions. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and deep.
Anakin watched him for a moment.
And then, very softly, he coughed.
A single petal traveled from his lips to his lap. White. Clean. The last one.
Anakin looked at it, then at Obi-Wan.
And he smiled.
He tucked the petal into his pocket—right next to Obi-Wan's, where Obi-Wan had put the one he’d saved.
Together, Anakin thought. Always together.
He leaned back against Obi-Wan's chest, closed his eyes, and let himself sleep.
And for the first time in weeks, there was nothing growing in his lungs but love.