Anakin leaned his shoulder against the tank, clenching and unclenching his fists, his cheek throbbing. That kriffing sleemo. Just because he was a cabin boy—he jerked as something cool and damp touched his face. The shapa-keesay—Obi-Wan, he'd told him, actually told him—pressed against the glass, watching him curious and concerned, his long tail draped out of the tank under the misaligned grate. Oh. Anakin stepped back into reach. Eyes on Obi-Wan, he hesitantly ran his fingers over the end of his tail fin. Obi-Wan curled it towards the touch. It was strange but comforting, more so for the soothing, warm emotions Obi-Wan pushed at him, made all the clearer by the physical contact. Anakin rested his forehead on the tepid glass, eyes closed.
"I hate him. Thinks he has rights to me, that he can—"
Obi-Wan moved his tail away.
"No. You," Anakin opened his eyes, voice almost inaudible, "you can touch me."
Anakin licked his chapped lips and reached up higher, running his hand over the thick coiling strength of his tail. His coloring was more vibrant now, healthier. Anakin liked to think he had some part in the change, that he was just as good for Obi-Wan as the shapa-keesay was for him.
"And I can touch you."
Obi-Wan hummed.
