A/N: I have a very long and often complicated headcanon for Obi-Wan's origins, a mishmash of canon and retconned facts. I have headcanons for Qui-Gon too but far less complicated and not especially relevant to this slice of life ficlet, woops.
Checking the latest holo-news, and a few of the gossip rags, Obi-Wan scratched at his cheek, the prickle of facial hair still sometimes strange to him. He considered shaving. There was time for it still before they landed.
"You don't seem affected," Anakin said casually, stretched out on their cabin's single sleep couch, long limbs everywhere.
"Affected by what?" Obi-Wan glanced at him then back at his datapad.
"Going home."
"What?"
"You're Stewjonian aren't you?"
"Oh," Right. "I suppose my name is."
Anakin frowned, "But not you?"
"I might be," Obi-Wan shrugged. "The archive lists three worlds, Stewjon is one of them."
"What about the other two?"
"Coruscant and Tatooine."
Anakin stared at him.
"You are not from Tatooine."
Mouth quirking, Obi-Wan leaned back in the uncomfortable metal chair—ergonomic his rear end—and switched off the datapad.
"No?"
"Definitely no. Tatooine is harsh and ugly and you're…not."
"High praise."
Anakin rolled his eyes. Obi-Wan shifted. Really, this chair. He might have been better off sitting on the cold floor.
"It is unimportant in any case," he said. "I have little to no memory of life before coming to the Temple."
"I could make room on the sleep couch, master."
He considered only a moment then, "Yes please."
Anakin scooted and Obi-Wan nudged him with his hip playfully as he settled into the tight space. Anakin nudged back then tucked his arms behind his head.
"If you are from Tatooine, Master," he stared at the grey ceiling, his eyes dull, "you're lucky not to remember it.