Chapter Text
“Obi-Wan, can I kill the radio?”
A hand reached for the dash, fiddling with the switch before Obi-Wan even had a chance to answer. The background noise died instantly, leaving the car filled only with the distant hum of traffic and the frantic, nervous rhythm of Korkie’s heel drumming against the floorboards.
“I thought you liked this show,” Obi-Wan exhaled. His eyes remained trained on the road, yet he was acutely conscious of the ball of anxiety in the passenger seat beside him.“By the way… since when do we use my first name?”
“Whatever,” the boy huffed, pulled out his phone and typed a rapid-fire message before leaning his body against the car door, as if trying to put even more distance between them. “Since I started calling Mom ‘Satine’. Why? You never liked ‘Dad’ anyway.”
Delightful.
Oh to be sixteen…
Obi-Wan wanted to permit himself a dissatisfied huff of his own, but he knew better than to provoke his son; Korkie was at this age when everything was an annoyance. Instead, he opted for a non-committal hum, his fingers tapping a restless beat against the steering wheel.
“No reason at all. Just very… progressive of you.”
Obi-Wan felt his son’s gaze burn into the side of his face. A long second stretched before the boy muttered: “I guess,” and returned to his phone.
One forest fire avoided.
The GPS chirped, a soft light blinking on the dash to indicate a lane change. Obi-Wan welcomed the distraction. One step at a time, he coached himself, he can’t maintain this level of intensity forever.
Right?
There were days when they didn’t have to navigate these heavy silences or sudden, sharp outbursts.
In fact, immediately after the divorce, Korkie had been almost jarringly cheerful. Whenever he moved into Obi-Wan’s place for his two-week stint, he was beaming – talkative and eager to share stories about Satine as if she were a distant, eccentric relative.
Obi-Wan remained intensely conscious of his boundaries; he made a point not to discuss his ex-wife with his son the same way he might with Quinlan or Asajj. Simply refraining from calling her ‘the witch’ – following his best friend’s wife’s lead – felt like a solid step toward success. Obi-Wan could be a petty, petty man with a glass of scotch in his hand and a friend's ear to cry into, but he refused to bring that version of himself home to their son. He refused to vilify Satine, no matter how much of an orchestrated performance their final year together had been.
Instead, they had bonded over the sheer culture shock of their new life. Obi-Wan leaned into the role of the "disheveled bachelor," joking about his sudden lack of a butler and the tragic shortage of professional dog groomers in his modest living room. He’d make Korkie laugh by exaggeratedly "struggling" with the takeout menus, lamenting that they had to choose or, God forbid, cook their own dinner instead of having it presented on a silver tray.
It was a shared, lighthearted rebellion – a way to acknowledge that while Satine’s world was grand and glittering, their world was small, greasy, and entirely theirs.
Yet, Obi-Wan always made sure his son knew he belonged in both. He spoke with genuine pride about how well Korkie navigated the galas, garden parties and afternoon teas with the society’s finest, genuinely impressed by the way his boy could network and charm. Korkie had a grace that Obi-Wan himself had never quite mastered, a foot in both worlds that his father watched with quiet awe. A true Kryze Obi-Wan never became.
Obi-Wan’s own world was one of sterile whites and microscopic margins. As a neurosurgeon, his life was measured in millimeters and heartbeats; he spent his days navigating the delicate electrical storms of the human brain, where a single slip of the hand could erase a lifetime of memories. It was a career of quiet, heavy responsibility, exhausting flights to consult on rare tumors and long hours under the glare of surgical LEDs. After a week of staring into the very architecture of thought and soul, the simplicity of a quiet apartment and a son who still wanted to talk to him was the only thing that kept him tethered.
Back then, they’d spend their evenings together on the couch, surrounded by empty cardboard boxes and debating which movie to watch until they both fell asleep. It was the kind of comfortable chaos that didn't require a gala invitation to attend.
But lately, that performative happiness had curdled into something else…
Korkie had begun retreating into himself – growing thoughtful, distant, and quiet. To Satine’s vocal disappointment, he’d dropped his extracurriculars one by one, trading the debate club and rowing for the isolation of his bedroom. Now, even when staying with his dad, he’d lay in his bed up until the early hours, huddled over the blue light of his laptop and talking to people Obi-Wan didn’t know.
Being sixteen was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, of that Obi-Wan was certain. He had spent his own teenage years in a frenetic cycle of quiet and loud rebellions: finishing his homework on a rattling train bound for some out-of-town house party, and later navigating his undergrad years while trying to figure out who he was beneath the ambition. Back then, even trivial questions about his preferences or his future felt grand and overwhelming. The world had seemed terrifyingly large. Age hadn't made it any less daunting, but he had learned the value of that fear; it was better to be decently scared than to lose one’s sense of caution.
Obi-Wan was hesitant to push Korkie; the divorce was still a raw, open wound, even if they had spent the last year pretending it was just a fresh start. The man just couldn’t stop spiraling – he wanted to fix it. He needed to.
Fixing brains was his job, after all, but he was realizing that while he could map a neural pathway, he had no idea how to find his way back into his son's head.
Paused at a crossroad, Obi-Wan watched his son and wondered if the surgical precision he was so often praised for translated at all to human emotion.
There were so many things he couldn't fix. He’d certainly tried. A half a year before they settled on the divorce, Satine’s famous couples therapist had suggested they "integrate each other’s passions." Obi-Wan had dutifully joined a monthly book club, white-knuckling his way through dry historical biographies just to have something to talk to Satine about over dinner. It had been pure torture, but that was what his wife liked, so Obi-Wan hoped he’d learn to like it too...
Satine, in turn, apparently misunderstanding the assignment, had decided to take an interest in his field by sleeping with a fellow neurosurgeon. Obi-Wan guessed it counted as 'professional curiosity,' but he hadn't stayed around to discuss the results.
He was well aware that his relationship with Korkie was an entirely different landscape, yet his mind returned to that failure all the same. And sixteen... it wasn’t far-fetched to assume the boy was dealing with his first real heartaches.
Oh, to be sixteen.
Obi-Wan suppressed a shudder, remembering their "talk" a year ago…
The typical, awkward birds-and-the-bees pitch.
In the silence that stretched over containers of lukewarm Chinese takeaway, his son had simply stared at him before bursting into laughter. Korkie had informed him, quite bluntly, that he was bisexual and that "they have condom machines all over school, Dad." Obi-Wan hadn’t been humbled like that in years; he’d been so blindsided he hadn’t even found the courage to finish his initial thought: that he was queer, too. It was simply too awkward, especially with Korkie immediately flipping the script to interrogate him about his own youth. The boy had started double-checking whether his father had actually learned about sex through a "birds-and-the-bees" lecture, or if there had been a textbook involved, and then exactly how graphic the diagrams had been.
No sex talk, Obi-Wan decided, today…
The anxious drumming of Korkie’s heel against the floorboards caught Obi-Wan’s attention yet again. The boy had been fidgeting a lot lately. Avoiding the tempting opportunity to spiral into the multitude of difficult conversations they had yet to have, Obi-Wan opted for a lighter touch. He didn't want to perform surgery on his son's psyche right now; he just wanted to be present.
“So… have you given more thought to the placement? The scale? The palette?”
Korkie squinted, chewing on his lip as he eyed his father cautiously. “I thought you said it could be whatever I wanted.”
Obi-Wan smiled, recognizing the unnecessary defensive crouch in his son’s voice. He had never been a tyrannical father, but he wasn’t lax either; in their house, his word usually carried the weight of a final diagnosis.
“Of course it can be,” he reassured him. “I’m simply suggesting that if you want it to look organic… or if you plan to expand the design later, you might want to consider the flow. Patchwork sleeves are quite popular now; it pays to think a few moves ahead.”
Korkie relaxed an inch, his shoulders dropping. “I mean… a full sleeve would be cool. Are you saying you actually don’t mind if I’ll have one? It’s a lot of ink.”
The second question was just as guarded as the first. Obi-Wan felt a pang of self-consciousness. He supposed that at forty-one, dressed in his professional charcoal overcoat, he didn’t look like a man who understood the subculture of ink. But looks were deceiving; he had a thing or two to say about a rebellion.
He shot his son a quick, steady glance. “It’s your body, Korkie. Of course I don't mind. But it is high time you started taking responsibility for it. Think about the future, even if that future is just the longevity of your skin. For example... are you certain about the red ink? The composition matters. I’ve noticed a lot of shops in this district use high-nickel reds, which carry a significant risk of contact dermatitis. And since you’ve inherited your mother’s sensitive skin...”
“Obi-Wan, please,” Korkie groaned, thumping his head rhythmically against the cold window glass as the neon-lit storefronts began to slide by. “I sent you the Instagram link. You said it was fine. Don't start doing the 'Doctor' thing now.”
“I’m not doing the 'Doctor' thing,” Obi-Wan lied smoothly.
Of course, he omitted the fact that he’d spent three consecutive lunch breaks at the clinic stalking the studio’s page, zooming in on photos of their workstations to check for cross-contamination risks and verifying their health department permits. The place was run by youngsters who looked like they’d never seen the inside of a university, but their records were spotless and their linework was medically precise.
Not to mention, the designs were genuinely beautiful.
During his marriage to Satine, it had been impossible to avoid a thorough education in the arts, from the avant-garde to the high classics. While ink on skin might not be the sort of thing displayed in the Kryze galleries, Obi-Wan could recognize mastery when he saw it. There was a distinct charm in the way these artists played with negative space, compositions of deep black fading seamlessly into the natural tone of the skin. He found himself admiring how the shapes accounted for the body’s underlying geometry, wrapping around limbs in a way that highlighted the natural musculature rather than drawing attention to flaws.
Despite himself, Obi-Wan was impressed. He could appreciate the precision of a needle as much as the precision of a scalpel.
“I’m just being ‘progressive,’” Obi-Wan quoted himself with a dry smile. “Though I suspect your mother only agreed to this because she was certain I’d pull the ‘Doctor’ thing and be the one to say no.”
She’s remarkably good at making me the villain of the week, he added silently, and I’m remarkably stubborn about refusing the role.
Obi-Wan’s mind drifted back a few weeks to a late-night FaceTime call. He’d been a few states away for a conference, leaning against a hotel headboard at the end of another excruciating day, when his screen had lit up with their faces. Satine and Korkie were perched on the sofa, Satine occupying the space like a lioness, while the boy, who had already grown taller than her, looked like an unruly cub trying to disappear into the soft padding.
From the tense way they held themselves, Obi-Wan knew immediately this wasn’t a casual catch-up. Besides, Satine had always detested video calls; she preferred the controlled distance of a voice-only line. She started with the usual pleasantries, but quickly spiraled down to the true grievance: "his son" wanted to permanently spoil his body with "goddamn ink" simply because it was the modern trend.
When she finally finished taking Korkie apart, Obi-Wan hadn’t taken the bait. He’d simply sighed, suggesting it wasn't such a terrible idea if they gave it proper thought. He pointed out that sixteen wasn’t too young for a parent-sanctioned milestone, and that tattoo culture had evolved significantly since their own youth. He’d even tried to appeal to Satine’s softer side – the warmth he knew existed beneath the pompous pretense, but she had only snapped, "Fine, then you be the parent approval," and hung up.
It hadn’t been their best conversation, but it had won him one more afternoon with his son outside of their two-week agreement.
To Satine, it likely looked like a cheap power play with Obi-Wan trying to win their son over by being the "fun" parent. But as he sat in the car, reflecting on that FaceTime ambush, he realized there had been no clean way out of the setup.
If he had taken Satine’s side, he would have been the one delivering the final blow to Korkie’s autonomy. Bad strict dad. If he didn't, he was the manipulator, undermining her authority from three states away. Bad manipulative dad. Satine had always been masterful at setting those kinds of traps, the sort you only realize you’ve stepped into once you feel the cold metal closing around your ankle.
Well, Obi-Wan did not mind bleeding a little for his son. Or a lot.
He was going to fix it.
When they finally reached their destination, the tires crunching over cracked, run-down asphalt, Obi-Wan turned to Korkie with a quiet, “Ready?”. But the boy was already out of the car, drawn like a moth to the glow of the storefront.
The studio was housed in a narrow building tucked between a cluster of cafes, hairdressers and florist shops. Above the door, a neon sign buzzed in a blinding white-blue, spelling out the name Obi-Wan had memorized from a dozen review sites and health department databases: The Sharp End. He felt a twinge of his usual analytical anxiety, but he pushed it down; there was no harm in a father verifying that a "legit" place was actually legitimate.
The bell chimed as Korkie hurried inside, with Obi-Wan following close behind. Indoors he was immediately struck by the lighting. It was the same high-intensity, shadowless glare he navigated every day in the OR. The shop’s aesthetic was clearly a deliberate choice; the palette was a moody spectrum of deep purples and crimsons set against stark monochrome. Lush green plants were perched on every available surface, providing a vibrant contrast to the posters and meticulously curated ornaments.
Obi-Wan couldn’t quite put a name to the style, but he recognized the effort. It was a space designed by people who obsessed over details, where a gaze could travel for hours and still come back amazed with this or that little item on the shelf.
Before they could reach the heavy counter, which featured a skull-shaped tip jar labeled “TIP your Master (they’re gonna love it)” a voice bypassed them from the left.
“Here for the pain or the ink?”
A young man hopped down from a wide windowsill, a watering can in hand. He was tall, with jet-black hair showing lighter roots, dressed simply in a tank top and dark jeans. His skin was a canvas of dark shadows and smoke, birds, flowers, lightning, and fire; there was so much imagery that Obi-Wan’s brain instinctively tried to categorize the patterns. In contrast to the dark ink, the man’s face seemed to catch the light from every angle, glittery with piercings in his nose, lip, and brow.
“It means, ‘do you have an appointment?’” the young man clarified, his smile flashing a silver glint from a tongue piercing.
Obi-Wan recognized the face immediately from the studio’s Instagram reels. He’d watched a series titled “Truth or Myth about Ink,” featuring this same young man sitting cross-legged in front of a camera, debunking urban legends with an addictive gorgeous smile. In the videos, he’d explained the nuances between hand-poke and machine work, the thinning effect of alcohol on the blood during a session, and why UV rays were the natural enemy of fresh pigment.
Delivered in such a friendly, accessible format, the harsh truths and handy advice felt natural, ideal for someone like Korkie, who was only half-sure about the logistics of the process. Obi-Wan had genuinely enjoyed the reels; he’d actually been late returning from a lunch break once, distracted by the young man’s surprisingly technical pitch on laser hair removal. The artist had explained that it was a luxury one had to wave goodbye to the moment the ink was settled, as the laser couldn't distinguish between a hair follicle and a tattoo pigment.
All the reels were medically sound but delivered with a self-deprecating wit that was a pleasant combination of “useful” and “fun”; the artist was undeniably charming, his bright blue eyes offering a soothing, professional calm as he closed every clip, a wide smile on his lips, with: “Don’t be afraid to drop ‘The Sharp End’ a DM if you have any questions. I’ll be happy to answer.” He’d usually follow that up with something lighthearted, like: “Unless you’re asking me out on a date, I’m a terrible texter,” or, “Or.. do text if you want to debate the finale of Stranger Things. My heart can’t take it.”
Usually quite horrible with names, Obi-Wan remembered this one; it was repeated at the start of each reel –Anakin.
“Yep, three p.m,” Korkie stepped forward, pulling his phone out to double-check the DMs. “We just.. got here a little early.”
20 minutes, to be precise. Obi-Wan didn’t like taking chances with the traffic.
Anakin set the watering can aside and moved behind the heavy counter. He leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest, his tattooed skin rippling as he smiled at them both.
“I remember, don't worry. Korkie, right?” He then shot a quick, playful glance at Obi-Wan. “And the random guy you paid to come play your guardian. Got it.”
Before anyone could protest, with Obi-Wan’s brows furrowing in confusion and Korkie opening his mouth uncomfortably, searching for words to prove the artist wrong, Anakin snickered a quick laugh.
“Don’t worry, the family resemblance is obvious,” Anakin said, waving off their concern. “But I’m still going to need to see both of your IDs. I’m a fan of my license, and I’d like to keep it.”
Obi-Wan permitted himself a soft, relieved smile. Watching the tension bleed out of Korkie’s shoulders after a single, well-timed joke was a reminder that he wasn't the only one trying to manage the boy’s nerves.
Having passed over his ID, and nearly handing over his hospital badge along with it before offering a soft apology and tucking it back, Obi-Wan settled in next to his son. He found himself staring as Anakin began typing on his laptop, the artist's movements efficient and rhythmic. Anakin held the documents in his free hand, his thumb brushing over the top of Obi-Wan’s driver's license with a slow, unconscious familiarity before finally handing it back. He didn't look up when he spoke. “Don’t worry, Doctor. I’d probably flex my badge left and right too, if I was a surgeon.”
He handed the license back with a smug, knowing wink. Obi-Wan lingered, meticulously sliding the card back into its slot to hide his sudden self-consciousness.
“Man, and I thought my job was high-pressure,” Anakin quipped, his smirk widening as he looked back at the screen. “At least if I slip, my canvas just gets a cool scar.”
Obi-Wan’s fingers stilled on his wallet. The word slip hit him with the weight of a medical malpractice suit. In his world, a slip wasn't a word used in jest, and certainly not by a professional to whom he was currently entrusting his son’s safety. He felt a sudden, sharp prickle of irritation.
Instead of flaring up, however, Obi-Wan settled himself with a polite, albeit frigid, dry cough. “I’m sure you find the comparison amusing, but I’ve spent my career ensuring that 'slips' are statistically impossible. Precision is a standard, not a preference.”
Allright, he did get worked up…
It was Korkie’s safety after all.
For a professional capable of leaving permanent damage on someone’s body like himself, the joke didn’t resonate that well.
Obi-Wan drummed his fingers on the heavy desk, his medical brain now in full defensive-pivot mode. “Since we’re discussing standards… What brand of surface disinfectant are you utilizing in the procedure area? And are your needles single-use EO gas sterilized?”
A long, pained groan erupted from behind him. Korkie abandoned his phone to bury his face in his hands, his voice escaping in a desperate hiss: “Obi-Wan, please. You’re embarrassing me…”
Obi-Wan, for once, did not feel like he was embarrassing his son, maybe he did sound a bit judgemental, but that was nothing the artist hadn't heard before. Surely.
Indeed, Anakin didn't seem offended; if anything, he looked amused, not raising his eyes from the laptop screen for even a moment, still busy with something.
Then, he tapped Korkie’s ID against the counter and tilted his head, a bright blue gaze lingering on Obi-Wan’s face a second longer than necessary.
“You can familiarize yourself with my medical credentials on the wall, Dr. Kenobi. I promise the shop is up to code. And I’m... overqualified, if anything.”
He winked again. And that was it. Obi-Wan didn’t even get to feel a tang of guilt from lashing out.
The man moved with a restless, high-energy grace that felt less like professional stiffness and more like a choreographed performance, while he shuffled things around the desk and closed the laptop, finally shining another smile at the man in front of himself. As Anakin handed back Korkie’s ID, Obi-Wan reached for it, his fingers brushing against the artist’s long, warm digits.
“I promise you will be satisfied with what you find.”
For a split second, an electric jolt shot up his arm, a phantom flicker of a memory he couldn't quite place. He found himself staring at the silver stud in Anakin’s tongue as the younger man spoke, an unexplainable, uncomfortable heat rising in his chest.
Why was that?
It wasn't that Obi-Wan has ever had such a visceral reaction to tongue piercings or was so terribly against piercings in general. He’d seen them on patients, on colleagues, and certainly on the high-fashion crowds Satine used to run with. He wasn't a prude, and he didn't have any specific, conscious memories attached to a piece of surgical steel. Yet he let his gaze linger…
“So, Korkie! First one, right? Let’s take a seat and chat,” Anakin beamed, pivoting away from the table and from Obi-Wan’s heavy gaze with a dancer’s fluidity. He moved to the sofa and patted the cushion beside him, waiting for the boy to join him. “You tell me what you're thinking and ask any questions you have. And your guardian can have a look at my certificates and sanitary papers. They’re right on that wall, Doctor.”
Despite the clever bite of Anakin's "directions," Obi-Wan found himself following them. He turned toward the frames, expecting the usual generic certificates. Instead, he found an impressive collection. The studio had won several awards for "Fine Line Mastery," and there was a framed thank-you note from a local children's charity they’d funded over the summer.
Then, his eyes landed on a frame that didn't fit the "alternative" aesthetic at all.
It was a gold-framed university diploma.
Anakin Skywalker. Bachelor of Science in Nursing. Cum Laude.
Obi-Wan blinked.
Anakin was a certified nurse.
As if sensing Obi-Wan’s internal gears grinding to a halt, the artist called out without looking up from the iPad sketch he was showing Korkie:
“Oh, and if you want to see my current stock and supplies, check the batch numbers and expiration dates and all this stuff, just let me know, Doctor.”
Anakin sounded entirely serious for a heartbeat before returning to a casual explanation of how muscle groups would wrap around a circular design, if they chose one. Korkie giggled, clearly delighted to see his father so masterfully handled. It wasn't often someone managed to humble Dr. Kenobi’s professional edge, but the man with the silver tongue piercing was doing it with ease.
The piercing. Why did Obi-Wan keep fixating on it?
Examining the framed diplomas and certificates offered Obi-Wan a welcome refuge; it meant he wasn't expected to react to the growing rapport on the sofa behind him. He’d hummed in confirmation when Anakin first asked if anyone wanted a round of coffee or tea, followed by a shouted direction to someone nicknamed “Snips,” which had echoed back with a loud “On it!” from the depths of the shop.
Asking for any further information about disinfectants and sanitary procedures now felt like performing a redundant inspection. Obi-Wan could be petty, certainly, but he wasn’t about to interrogate a man with a Cum Laude diploma on the wall, especially since his own Bachelor’s degree had been a far cry from Cum Laude. Besides, it felt wrong to remain patronizing when he was here for his son, trying to be present for this new milestone.
Obi-Wan remained lost in thought, only half-attending to the youngsters behind him, until he heard three distinct voices ringing out in laughter.
“And here she is! You’re late with the caffeine, Snips.”
“And you’re late with the watering, Skyguy. I told you that ficus at the entrance isn't a desert plant, didn't I? It needs W-A-T-E-R. H-2-O. Honestly, you’re hopeless.”
A moment later, a young woman emerged beside Obi-Wan. She had bright, intelligent eyes and a cascade of interlocking blue and white locks woven into her dark hair. She held a tray with one remaining coffee cup and looked like she’d been born in a tattoo shop – confident, vibrant, and sharp. Her tattoos were more colorful than the dark shadows running down Anakin’s body, but were beautiful in their own way.
“The BSN really helps with the bedside manner,” she chimed, her voice knowing. Apparently, Obi-Wan wasn't the first person to stand paralyzed in front of that university diploma. “Though some days I think he just likes the joke of being a nurse who gives people wounds for a living.”
“They’re pretty wounds!” Anakin shouted from the sofa. “C'mere, Snips! I need your one good eye.”
“Lucky for you, I have two,” she replied, gesturing for Obi-Wan to take the tray's final cup.
He smiled, nodding as he relieved her of the coffee.
Once the girl joined Anakin and Korkie on the sofa, they returned to the same cheerful banter of amused voices ringing together. The exchange between them was weirdly relaxing; they were clearly comfortable goofing around. However, Obi-Wan couldn’t shake the feeling that he was intruding on a shared world into which Korkie was fitting far too effortlessly. Eavesdropping on the banter, he picked up useful bits, like the fact that Korkie and the girl (Ahsoka, or "Snips") were already acquainted, while his eyes roamed from the certificates to the posters on the wall. The entire "honor board" was a contradiction in terms, with that Cum Laude degree sitting like the cherry on top of a very chaotic cake.
Obi-Wan reflected that his own experience of a first tattoo had been entirely different. There had been no funky music, no high-end coffee, and no cute conversations about line thickness. He felt a phantom sting on his right hip where his little sun tattoo lived, the skin there suddenly burning with the memory of a thick needle. His nostrils flared, recalling the smell of a damp basement and cheap cigarettes, the voices of his teenage friends, and a tattoo artist who had probably been as old as Obi-Wan was now, telling him to "sit the hell still."
Yes, it was a very different experience indeed.
The pleasant warmth around Obi-Wan’s fingers reminded him he was still holding the cup. He took a careful sip, pleased to find the coffee hadn’t grown cold. It was a good brand – nutty and silky with a hint of cardamom. It was far better than the sludge served in the surgical lounge, and for a moment, the warmth in his palms made him feel almost at peace.
This peace was short-lived.
Anakin stood up, a movement fluid yet sudden that drew every eye in the room. Obi-Wan turned, suddenly conscious of just how much space the artist occupied in his own studio. The young man cracked his neck and patted his back pocket, smirking at the youngsters on the sofa.
“I’m going out for a smoke, kids. Don’t burn the shop to the ground while I’m gone; I’d hate the paperwork.” He waved a quick goodbye, grabbed his own mug, and headed for the entrance. On his way past, he caught Obi-Wan’s eye.
“People of legal age are welcome to join.”
The words were a direct challenge, and the man winked again, the silver of his piercing purposefully held between his teeth for a heartbeat before disappearing. The door chimed shut. Obi-Wan blinked once, twice...
Why not? he thought. He could ask Anakin a thing or two, and truthfully, it had been a long time since he’d allowed himself a cigarette.
“I’ll be right back, Korkie,” he excused himself. His son barely spared him a nod, already giggling at something Ahsoka was showing him on the screen.
The gray, damp chill of the afternoon was a sharp contrast to the light of The Sharp End. Obi-Wan was immediately drawn to the smoke emerging from a narrow alleyway just around the corner. He found Anakin leaning against the brick wall, extending an open pack with a lighter peeking out from the corner. The artist shook it slightly when Obi-Wan hesitated.
“I hope I didn’t come across as too disrespectful to your craft or… doubt your credentials,” Obi-Wan said, after holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment. “I apologize if I was offensive. It’s hard to switch off the ‘Doctor’ sometimes.”
“’s fine. I don’t think it’s the ‘Doctor’, though. You’re not the first or the last parent in my shop. I think it’s nice,” Anakin shrugged, mirroring Obi-Wan’s crooked smile through the haze. “Better than parents who make tattoos such a forbidden fruit that their kids end up getting hideous lines in a disgusting basement.”
“I suppose so,” Obi-Wan murmured.
“You suppose?” Anakin turned, leaning a bare shoulder against the brick wall. It was November, and the stone had to be freezing, yet the young man didn't flinch. Before Obi-Wan could offer a coat, Anakin continued: “Yours is as hideous as they come, Obi-Wan.”
Obi-Wan felt the cold air hit the back of his throat. He gasped, coughing on the inhale. “I’m sorry?”
It was an impossibly accurate assumption.
Anakin exhaled a long plume of smoke that drifted toward him. “I mean your tattoo,” he said clearly, chewing out each word. “The little Sun.”
Obi-Wan’s breath hitched. He could count on one hand the people who knew about that ink: himself, his mother, Quinlan, Asajj, and Satine. It wasn't information someone stumbled upon without actively looking inside his underwear. He frowned, his mind racing while his face was slowly knitting in confusion.
“Really?” Anakin stubbed his cigarette out against the wall, leaving the bud among a dozen others and picking up his coffee mug. “I mean, you were drunk, but I like to think I’m pretty memorable.”
He smiled, leaving Obi-Wan in a personal hell of racing thoughts. Then, he took a sip.
Clang.
The silver stud struck the ceramic rim with a sharp, metallic ring.
The sound vibrated through the air and hit Obi-Wan like a physical blow. He froze, the cigarette halfway to his lips. In an instant, the cold afternoon faded, the sunlight grew dull. He was back in the dark, the air thick with the scent of summer rain and expensive bourbon, feeling a very specific, rhythmic vibration against his own teeth. The cold slide of metal against heat.
Bloody hell.
That was why he kept looking at the piercing.
Anakin’s smile told him the understanding was written all over his face.
“There you go,” the artist murmured, stepping closer until his body heat cut through the damp air. “I thought spending three hours that night trying to trace the ink on my ribs with your tongue was... haunting. It was for me.”
At his approach, Obi-Wan extinguished his cigarette but clung to the filter as if it were a lifeline. He couldn’t tear his eyes off Anakin's lips, the way they stretched into a mischievous, knowing smile.
“Oh, right! I think for you, my mouth on your cock was slightly more memorable,” Anakin said, his voice dropping to a quiet, lethal purr. “You were so curious about the feel of the metal back then. How could I have refused a sad, divorced man whose wife wasn’t really into blowjobs? You told me you saw stars.”
Obi-Wan’s world tilted.
“You were so good drunk, sad, and jetlagged,” Anakin continued, looking him up and down with predatory appreciation. “I’ve been wondering if you’re even better with a clear head. But of course, you’d never come to a shady bar in a shady neighborhood like that. I’d never have guessed you were a neurosurgeon.”
Obi-Wan’s heart was threatening to jump right through his ribs. He was not taking the revelation well.
“We are not... we are not discussing this,” he managed, voice cracking under the weight of a sudden, suffocating panic. He glanced around the corner, toward the shop window leaking bright light onto the street, terrified that Korkie might for some reason come out and see him and the artist.. Like that. He felt like the heat between their bodies was as much visible from the outside, as it was on the inside.. “My son is in that building, Anakin.”
Anakin didn’t flinch. He just watched Obi-Wan with those attentive, sapphire eyes – eyes that seemed to be taking him apart, layer by layer, until the expensive coat and the medical degree were stripped away. Like that hot summer night.
“I know,” Anakin said, his voice a low, steady thrum. “And I’m going to give him a piece of art he’ll love forever, not the basement garbage.” He leaned in, his shadow falling over Obi-Wan. “The question is, Doctor... what are you going to give me to keep me quiet?”
Another murmur, sending Obi-Wan’s heart into a frantic pace.
He was a weak man, a petty man pinned down by a pretty face in a damp alleyway. He should have felt disgusted; instead, he just felt a mounting, traitorous heat.
When the words finally reached his head, Obi-Wan felt a cold spike of adrenaline. “Are you blackmailing me?”
Anakin let out a sharp, genuine laugh, the silver in his mouth glinting. “Blackmail? Oh, no. Why would I need to do that? I’m not a villain in this story.”
He stepped back just an inch, though the intensity didn't fade. “I’m just saying... I live upstairs. This is my shop, and that’s my window. And if you have your phone on you, I’d give you my number.”
Obi-Wan stood paralyzed, caught in a crossfire of conflicting emotions. The memories were hitting him now, no longer flickers but full, high-definition surges. He wasn't a man of one-night stands; he could count his trysts on one hand. Maybe it wasn’t something to be proud of, but that was the way Obi-Wan was since he met his wife. He had been fiercely loyal to Satine for years, and since the divorce, he hadn’t been looking for a replacement.
But he remembered that day with agonizing clarity now... His plans with friends had fallen through, leaving him stranded in a strange part of the city he never frequented. His phone had cruelly pinged him with a notification for a wedding anniversary that no longer existed. He’d been exhausted, jetlagged after consulting across the ocean, and drowning in the grief of a failed life.
And then there were those eyes.
Obi-Wan remembered the intelligent, curious way Anakin had looked at him across the bar. He remembered the hours they spent talking, truly talking, about things that didn't involve surgery or politics, or his social networking skills. And then, he remembered the moments when the talking stopped. The heat, the salt of the skin, the soft sounds… His? Or Anakin’s? That he couldn’t remember, but he’s been sore for almost a week and arrived home at 6 a.m.
Afterwards, he had promised himself he wouldn't do this anymore. He shouldn't be "picking people up" like a reckless youth; he should be investing in a stable relationship to give his son an example, or at least maintaining his dignity. There had been a brief, awkward encounter with a colleague that left him feeling hollow, but the memory of Anakin was different. It was the memory of pretty, inked skin under his tongue and the cold, thrilling slide of metal. A memory he had been trying to purge for four months, only to find the source of it smiling at his son today.
“I don’t... I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Obi-Wan whispered, though his hand was already moving toward his pocket, searching for his phone with a will of its own.
“You didn’t lie particularly well back then either,” Anakin murmured, watching the movement of his hand, struggling to get ahold of the phone. “You told me that night you were tired of doing the ‘right thing.’ So, don’t start now. Just take the number.”
Obi-Wan’s fingers finally closed around his phone. With a heavy, resigned exhale, he fished the device out of his trousers. He didn’t look at Anakin’s face as he handed it over; instead, his gaze became transfixed, yet again, on the artist's hands. He watched those long, dexterous fingers – the fingers of a nurse, the fingers of an artist, the fingers he remembered tangled in his own hair – as they deftly tapped into the screen.
“It’s for emergencies,” Obi-Wan managed, his voice a low, fragile warning. “Only.”
Anakin didn’t look up as he finished typing his name and number. A slow, private smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Sure, sure. Emergencies only,” he repeated, his tone suggested he knew exactly how flexible that definition could be. He handed the phone back, his warm skin brushing Obi-Wan’s palm. “Maybe you’ll have one. Or maybe you’ll just feel like calling me. Or picking up when I call. Who knows? If you have an ‘emergency’ tonight... I’m free.”
Obi-Wan took the phone back, staring at the name on the screen: Anakin (Sharp End). He felt consumed by his own thoughts, the weight of the secret pressing down on him. He looked around the corner again, where behind the glass door of the shop, he saw the blurred shapes of the two youngsters inside.
“And you... you won’t mention anything to my son?” Obi-Wan asked, the plea finally breaking through his composure. “About that night. About any of this.”
In the silence of the alleyway Obi-Wan felt like a pathetic idiot. Maybe he was one..
Anakin let out a soft, melodic giggle, leaning his head back against the brick. “Of course not, Obi-Wan. Give me some credit.” He nodded toward the window, where Korkie was currently leaning close to Ahsoka, hanging on her every word as she pointed at a sketch. “Besides, he’s currently way too preoccupied with Snips to care about what his dad does when he’s off work.”
Obi-Wan followed his gaze, watching the way Korkie’s face flushed when Ahsoka laughed. “He... he seems very comfortable with her.”
If you think of it, he had noticed something before.. They were talking like they knew each other, but Obi-Wan didn’t want to overthink it.
“He’s got it bad,” Anakin remarked, his voice surprisingly fond. “I can see the heart-eyes from here. And honestly? As a guy who fell for a girl five years older than me back in the day… I can only feel sorry for him. He’s in for a rough ride. Ahsoka’s a spitfire; she’ll eat him alive if he’s not careful.”
Obi-Wan felt a sudden, strange surge of relatability. For a moment, they weren’t a doctor and a tattoo artist, or even two former lovers, they were just two men standing in the cold, watching a boy fall into his first real crush.
“Five years?” Obi-Wan asked quietly.
“Yeah. She was recruiting for a summerlong charity campaign. I was... well, I was a mess,” Anakin shrugged, flicking the last of his cigarette away. “Point is, I know the look. And your secret is safe with me. I’m not about to tell the kid that I know just how good a kisser his dad is.”
Obi-Wan felt the heat rise in his cheeks again, but this time it was edged with a sharp, defensive curiosity. He looked Anakin up and down, really looking at the confidence in his stance. The man was somehow so confident all the time, it was charming… Yet, he needed to ask.
“You know how old I am, right?”
Anakin let out a low, melodic laugh that seemed to vibrate in the narrow space of the alley. “I saw your ID, Obi-Wan. They say the whisky was good that year.” He winked, a gesture so casual it should have been nothing, but it felt like a compliment and also like another teasing. Obi-Wan fell silent, his mind involuntarily performing the mental calculations, comparing birth years and dates, trying to find a logical reason why this felt so... inappropriate, yet so inevitable. Anakin watched the gears turn, his head tilted. “You want to ask how old I am?”
Obi-Wan hesitated, he did know the artist was of legal age, but this fact didn’t make the situation much better. Somehow the understanding was hitting him right into his gut, mind racing in three different directions whether he actually had sex with someone possibly twice less than his age. But he needed to know now, so he gave a stiff, reluctant nod.
Anakin, on the other hand, was clearly enjoying this, the way he was teasing out every bit of Obi-Wan's discomfort.
“Ask,” Anakin prompted, his voice a low dare.
Little shit… he thought.
Of course he wouldn’t make it that easy. Obi-Wan cleared his throat, his tone settling into a dry, professional rasp. “Anakin... how old are you?”
“Old enough,” Anakin answered instantly, his grin widening. He stepped into Obi-Wan’s personal space, the scent of smoke and spice returning in a wave. “Do you want that in comparison to your age? Or your son’s?”
Bingo. Of course he knew what the man was spiraling about. Obi-Wan almost winced. The artist was a menace, pushing exactly the correct buttons with surgical precision. He felt a sudden, violent urge to grab Anakin by the front of his shirt and pin him against the brick wall to properly "cool him down" or perhaps to see if he could finally wipe that smug smirk off his face. But he remained rooted to the spot, terrified of exactly what would happen the moment he made contact. He already knew that his body ran hot like a furnace, no need to even touch to feel the heat radiating from it. He couldn’t afford to be on fire himself. Not now…
“I’m thirty,” Anakin finally relented, though the teasing didn't stop. “Turning thirty-one this year. I guess that makes me closer to your age, then.”
He let the silence hang there for a moment, letting Obi-Wan realize that the "youngster" he’d been patronizing was actually a grown man and that their age gap was an acceptable even if it was concerning to a brain like Obi-Wan’s, which had been anchored to a single relationship for nearly half his life. Now he looked at the man in front of him with different eyes. Thirty... thirty was alright.
They stood in that heavy silence until Anakin finally broke it, exclaiming that it was time to head back in.
The bell chimed a bright, cheerful note as they re-entered the shop, a sound entirely at odds with the conversation they’d just had in the shadows. The bright light hit Obi-Wan’s eyes, and for a moment, he felt exposed, as if the secret of that night was written in the flush of his cheeks. The November chill was a plausible explanation, of course, but his mind kept drifting back to the alleyway talk without his permission.
Anakin didn't miss a beat. He dropped onto the sofa right next to Korkie, reclaiming his space with effortless grace.
“That looks good,” he remarked, smirking at the sketch Ahsoka was refining on the iPad. The colors vibrated from the screen, bold and impossibly bright. “New School.”
“I like it...” Korkie said carefully. He was tracking the movement of the stylus, and Obi-Wan was tracking him. The "hearts-in-the-eyes" thing Anakin had mentioned wasn't obvious to the naked eye, but God... it was so clear if you knew where to look. Usually confident in his insight, Obi-Wan felt incredibly foolish that his one-night stand’s guess had struck so close to the truth.
Should I actually be worried? Obi-Wan wondered, watching his son’s rapt attention.
“New School is Ahsoka’s specialty, so I think my tiny, little, baby apprentice – it’s your day to shine,” Anakin drum-rolled on his knees and smiled, winking at Ahsoka and then at Korkie, who were huddled close together as they exchanged a glance between them before Anakin’s expression softened, becoming surprisingly grounded.
“Look, I want you to love this for the next sixty years, not just the next six days. The style you like is what Snips is crazy about; all the best New School pics on our Insta are hers, so she’s going to do an amazing job. Just perfect the idea today. Let’s call it a consultation. Then, Korkie, you text us as much as you want, come back for another talk if you need to – before we ever touch a needle to you. I want that design to feel like it’s already part of you. Alright?”
He reached out and patted the boy's shoulder, a reassuring, elder-brotherly gesture. It looked like he had a lot of practice… Maybe he was just good with the touch.
Obi-Wan watched his son, seeing the statement strike a chord and Korkie’s finger freezing over the screen as he began chewing his lip, his "Kryze" cautiousness finally catching up with his "Kenobi" excitement.
“Oh... does that mean it’s another three hundred for the session?” came as a surprise.
Obi-Wan opened his mouth to pitch in, to tell his son that money wasn’t the issue (on several different levels), and that he agreed with the artist’s wisdom (yet again), but Ahsoka beat him to it. She ruffled Korkie’s hair with an affectionate laugh, a gesture that sent Obi-Wan into a quiet spiral. How had Anakin seen it so easily? How much of this world was he only just discovering?
“Nah, don’t worry about the cash,” Ahsoka chirped. “Skyguy here apparently hates money, so all first consultations are on the house.”
Anakin chuckled, a soft, rich sound that rang out over the funky bassline playing in the shop. “I love money just fine! If you’re secretly a billionaire, Korkie, feel free to share a million or two. I just hate it when people don’t say what they want. That’s how you end up with a tattoo you regret.” He paused, his eyes flicking to Obi-Wan for a fraction of a second. “Actually, that’s good relationship advice, too. Put that on a T-shirt! I’m on a roll! Okay, kids, have fun!”
With that, he jumped to his feet, waved to the youngsters, and turned his full attention back to the neurosurgeon. He winked – a slow, deliberate movement that felt like a physical touch. He was good with this distant, invisible touch as wel… Of course he was.
“I’m going upstairs to take a beauty nap,” Anakin announced. His voice dropped into that private, lethal register, though it was masked by a big stretch and a yawn. “Hit me up if you’re having an emergency, you guys.”
As the two young voices rang out in a chorus of giggles and a quick, “Okay!”, Obi-Wan stood frozen. He could hear the double meaning behind every word; a masterful piece of craft intended only for his ears. Anakin wasn't just talking about the shop; he was talking about the night, the phone number, and the invitation waiting in the apartment above.
Without another word, Anakin cracked his neck one last time and turned away.
Obi-Wan watched the artist disappear through the back door, leaving him in the bright, busy shop with a son who had a crush, a girl who his son had a crush on, and a phone that felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket.
Apparently, being forty-one was just as difficult as being sixteen.