#World Exposition

[1five1two]

'Arch of the Rising Sun'. At the Panama - Pacific International Exposition. 1915.

[nemfrog]

Palace of Electricity sculpture. L'Exposition Universelle de 1900 : détails de sculpture. 1900.

Internet Archive

[chimary]

A bird’s thought

They don’t have their power yet it this one? Post edited the 14th of January 2023

Elise did not know what to think concerning her current situation. Oh, sure, she had found a place that was both accessible to her need and finances. In the Low City. And the Low City was like... 80% slums, 20% building that could collapse the next day. Well, at least, the corner she was in was not the one that usually burned down. And, yes, the fact that the "poverty corner" of Eddony was literally cut of the other parts of the city-state by the biggest roadway ever? Not nice. Not nice at all. But at least, it was not the worse part of the district! I mean, the government would probably be to busy burning down the west neighborhood to come and burn her habitation down.

Talking about the government, that was a shitty one. No police officer in the poverty corner to protect them since... Well, knowing they would shot at anyone coming to close to them, it was probably for the best. Other way the messed the Low City up? Forbidding any firefighter to come in the zone. Oh, they had one firefighting force, don't get it wrong! It just that... Well, somebody out of Eddony convinces internationnal organisations to finance the fire station.

It was, at least, the story her neighbor Marcus, told her. And, sure, that story was true. If you did not count they were no proof that the government was behind the fires. That would not have surprised her, but Marcus and his colleagues had a conspiracy board in the firestation. Yes, Marcus was one of the firefighters of the Low City. And also a hero-worshipper, counting his biggest theory was "Dragon is mind controlled". Which, no, she probably just snapped like anyone trying to do something good here. The proof? The firefighters' conspiracy board.

Their was one other thing Marcus talked as much as the fires' or Dragon's theory: his goat, Marguerite. Which... How exactly did he get one? It was already hard enough to have her cat accepted and Felix's vaccination (including rabbies) were all in order!

[lurxv]

Sanyo Healthy Capsule at Expo '70 in Osaka, Japan

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type AU.

Soap is the long forgotten god of death.

Ghost is his first follower in a very long time.

part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7

————

At first, Soap had been seen as kind and benevolent. The one to end someone’s suffering and help them along to the afterlife. However, as more wars began to break out, his perception changed into that of a bloodthirsty warmonger. The type that you sacrifice the blood of innocents to for luck in your upcoming battles.

Soap had simply ignored the brutish offerings. But then they spread. Like a plague, soon everyone was murdering their chosen victims in his temples in the hopes that it would bring them even more fortune.

Realizing that his presence was just causing more and more to die, he let himself fade away. He was reduced to nothing more than a comforting feeling people felt before they died. Over time, the so-called offerings stopped. Scared of what would happen should he return, he continued to fade.

A god is only as strong as their followers believe them to be. With no followers, no offerings, they are nothing. While mortal weaponry may hurt a god, may even get them to bleed, it cannot kill them. A god can only truly die when they are no longer remembered.

Soap is waiting for the day that he is truly forgotten and can pass on when he gets a feeling. One he has not had in an age. Though his worshippers have abandoned him, his temples and statues remained, though now significantly worse for wear. And someone just provided an offering of a single slice of bread on one of his statues.

A meager offering, sure, but it’s enough to get his attention. He has almost no power nor any energy left, but he sees a soldier sitting next to the statue as he ate his meal.

Meanwhile, Ghost hadn’t the faintest clue what god he just gave an offering to, but he felt a little better afterwards and so just hoped they weren’t evil. He took note of the statue’s appearance and when his troop was encamped near a town, he snuck away to a local library to see if there were any books he could find about it.

He was not apart of the army willingly, but he owed them a life debt and they had decided that it would only be repaid upon his death. Just a glorified prisoner, he was kept at the general’s side as his favorite weapon. Sneaking away was difficult, but definitely doable. The few times he was caught, he made enough of a disturbance that it was easier for everyone involved to let him do his thing.

They did not need to worry about him running away. If he was able, he’d have run the second he was given the chance. However, he was stuck. As long as he owed a debt, he could not leave.

The statue, at the very least, gave him something to do.

He was intrigued. He did not recognize the features at all, and his research confirmed that it was not a well known deity. It takes a long time of asking the right people and finding the right books to uncover the story of the forgotten god.

Having read everything — from loving poems about the being helping sickly children find comfort in their last moments to angry anecdotes about desperate townspeople sacrificing themselves in the hope that the god would show them mercy — he decides to give the god the benefit of the doubt.

He figures the world is shitty enough, why not find some good that had been tucked away? Ghost himself was seen more as a weapon than a person and couldn’t help but sympathize. He was never one for gods or worship, more likely to curse the heavens than ever sacrifice something of his, but he almost felt bad for the being. So, the next day, from one bloodthirsty monster to another, he gives the forgotten god more offerings.

It’s still not much, just an apple and a ring the general wouldn’t notice missing, but he sets them there anyways. He damn near jumps out of his fucking skin when the feeling of an accepted offering floods through him. He stares at what would have originally been the face of the statue, but nothing happens. The trees behind him continue to sing their song in the faint breeze, with the sounds of a lively woods never fading.

There is no outside sound, no out of place movement, no indication that he hadn’t just imagined the feeling. A leaf falling from one of the branches and landing on the pedestal, where the offerings were now gone, snapped him out of his staring contest. He muttered out a gruff thanks and sat down to eat, ignoring the feeling of being watched.

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Ford Seattle-ite XXI (incl brochure), 1962. Presented at the Century 21 Exposition which formed part of the Seattle World’s Fair (hence the name) a scale model theoretically powered by nuclear fusion. Designed by Alex Tremulis who proposed interchangeable power units so the entire front of the car could be removed. The "compact nuclear propulsion devices" would come in economy form offering perhaps 60hp, up to a high-speed transcontinental unit with in excess of 400hp. It also proposed features that did make it into real cars like computerised navigation and fingertip controls

[hedgerlogs]

If you're still taking requests, can you draw Tsukumo? :D

he won a harrowing ebay battle

[physalian]

“You didn’t do your research!” (No, my character is just ignorant)

I read a book where one character was a vlogger/professional photographer. I’m no professional myself but I do have a couple nice Canons and the equipment and I know my way around them and Lightroom and video editing. This was a major aspect of this character, not just a side hobby mentioned every so often.

This writer, importantly, was not a photographer and as I was reading, I knew immediately that they didn’t do their research.

Now, had this character been written as a novice, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Had this been written as a hobby of theirs and not part of the main plot of the story, even, I would have let it slide. But the book said this character was an expert, and yet showed me a completely different story.

In this case:

Do your research

Or pick a field you are already knowledgeable in

Or put that trait in the background

—

But what if you have a character who really is a novice?

For example, Elias, my protagonist of Eternal Night, grew up incredibly sheltered. He does not know his way around a bow and arrow. I, however, very much do. I own a compound bow and have shot recurve bows. Dorian, my deuteragonist, has had a couple centuries to learn his way around archery, along with everyone else in the cast.

So when I write Elias shooting, or Elias POV talking about it, Elias can get away with doing and naming everything completely wrong because he has no idea what he’s talking about. Dorian can’t. Dorian is how I show my knowledge of the sport—that I did, in fact, do my research.

Do you need an example character? No, I just happen to have one.

The amount of times I have beta’d WIPs where authors are very much out of their depth could be solved in such a simple way: Make your character ignorant, and you solve your plot holes.

Now if I wrote Elias as an archery novice, and also suddenly an expert marksman, then yeah I’d still have a plot hole. But if he doesn’t hold the bow correctly and doesn’t name all the parts of his equipment correctly, or doesn’t properly take care of it… why would he know better?

These are kind of like unreliable narrators, only instead of telling the story with suspect accuracy, they are participating in the plot with suspect accuracy.

If you have to have a set piece with something you definitely aren’t an expert in and have researched all you can but it still doesn’t feel like enough, consider the following:

It does not need as much step-by-step detail as you think, especially if this isn’t a huge part of the narrative, especially if it’s niche. I have Elias learning how to shoot, but I don’t painstakingly describe his lessons, though I could. I tell you the ~vibes~ of how archery works, and I need not say more because none of this is the point of the scene—Elias learning a new thing and branching out is the point.

You can just say “Characters did this thing in the background and now we’re here when it has become important”. In sci-fi and fantasy, the more you give audiences to pick apart, the more they’re going to. You can describe how the artificial gravity on your spaceship works with your fantasy gadgets and fantasy physics, or you can just say “the ship has artificial gravity” and as this is sci-fi, readers will just accept it and move on.

But even in contemporary fiction. Say I’m writing about a high school yearbook class, of which I myself was our senior editor. I would ask myself: Is the book about the actual process of making a yearbook, or the characters who are making the book? I can spend pages upon pages describing the photography and editing and layout process of pages and spreads, or I can just have a character “editing a photo for color correction” while they’re having a more meaningful conversation.

If I wrote the former and this was a book that intimately dove into the yearbook process, then my readers would expect all those fine details. If I didn’t, then yearbook becomes the setting, not the story, and my readers expecting a high school drama might get bored by all the technical prose.

At the end of the day all those details are exposition, if the only purpose they serve is to exposit and not reflect back on the characters or story at large, then why are they here? I can make all the technical details interesting, so long as they matter to the character. If you don't know what you're talking about, then how can you know how they matter to the character?

There is a balance I think you have to strike. If you don't include *any* details about yearbook, then why is it set in a yearbook class?

—

But at the end of the day… if you’re not a photographer, and you decide to write your protagonist who’s passionate about photography, and the whole story is about the photography process so they can enter some competition, and you know absolutely nothing about the photography process…. Why are you setting yourself up for failure?

Instead, consider writing your photography-loving hero’s story about why they love photography (which you should do anyway). Take the focus off the mechanics and instead write about something many more people can understand, which is the emotional connection one has to their favorite hobby.

You might not know all the parts of a professional camera, but you do know what it’s like to spend hours at a time trying to make something perfect and the catharsis you feel when it works out, or the disappointment when it doesn’t.

That story I read above wasn’t laser-focused on vlogging, but the character had brought in all their expensive equipment to a dirty environment to film something and put their equipment in filthy places not the least bit concerned about any of it getting damaged or broken. The writer failed at the technical side, but more importantly, they failed at the emotional side. Halfway through the book and I had no idea how this character felt about their hobby.

Camera equipment is expensive. That shit is painstakingly maintained and cared for. You don’t just throw it around and accept that grease splatters will get in the way, you do the job trying your best to mitigate the potential damage and you worry the whole way that your camera baby took a beating.

Point being, even if the writer had missed the mark on the correct vocabulary, that wasn’t nearly as damning as failing to understand the big picture of why people do this hobby and the complications that come with it. They didn’t do their research.

—

If any of this resonates with you, consider checking out my book Eternal Night of the Northern Sky, out for preorder now, paperback on 8/25/24.

[retropopcult]

The Hostess of the Kaleidoscope at Expo 67.

[syekick-powers]

it's fascinating to me how tumblr users who talk about worldbuilding seem to fall under distinct camps of audiences who don't care about detailed worldbuilding logistics at all, audiences who just want things to make sense and cohere internally even if it's not perfectly realistic, and audiences who seem less interested in stories and more interested in just hearing about the tiniest most irrelevant minutiae of how a fictional world works to the detriment of actually telling a story. and then there are also storytellers on here who also fall under three similar camps of writers who don't really care about detailed worldbuilding and mostly paint their worlds in broad strokes, those who put a fair amount of thought into their worlds but don't really get down into the fine details, and those that plan every tiny little fucking thing out. the variety of humanity is truly fascinating

[twilight-zoned-out]

"Seven years ago we all went through the flames; and the happiness of some of us since then is, we think, well worth the pain we endured."

Although Dracula was published in 1897, some think that it takes place in 1893 because of the way the days and dates used line up. If that's the case, Jonathan Harker's epilogue, seven years later, would have been added around 1900. A new era bubbling with new change and new conventions. The story ends with Jonathan looking ahead to a new century filled with the unknown and being able to look on the past, despite its darkness, "without despair."

[hibanny]

what i love about Dungeon Meshi is how Ryoko Kui slowly eases you into how fucked up its world and story are, she doesn’t throw all the drama and darkness in your face right away, sure it starts with tragedy but she then walks you through, to, and beyond it in a safer and less overwhelming way by focusing on its comedic and lighthearted parts with sprinles of more serious and darker ones thrown in, slowly making the latter parts be of bigger importance the deeper into the dungeon the characters go, which, in my opinion, makes its dramatic and heartwrenching moments much more impactful because you feel a lot more connected to its world and characters once you get to where everything is going, you start to care about them because of their positivity and beauty so you want to stay through their negativity and ugliness.

[stone-cold-groove]

Poster for A Century of Progress International Exposition (the Chicago World’s Fair) - 1933.

[pangur-and-grim]

I’m glad I sat on the book for a bit, because now I’m like 👀 parts of this worldbuilding exist in my head, but are never explicitly stated, and so will seem like massive glaring holes to anyone reading. I’m going full geek now and making a map with all the divided territories etc, so I can go through in one last juicy editing spree and solidify this world.

people like opening a book and immediately seeing a map, right? what kind of half assed fantasy doesnt have a map?

[tennessoui]

For the prompt list, nanny/single parent obikin would be amazing!!

(from this prompt list)

(the first time I answered this prompt two years ago, the nanny anakin au was born)

so to do something different, here's some gffa widowed anakin, nanny (sort of) obi-wan!

(2.5k)

It is hard to find time to grieve. There are too many things to do. Too many appointments to make, too many decisions Anakin isn’t sure he’s qualified for. Some decisions are easier than others. For example, the funeral will be on Naboo. There will be two services: a public one to honor Padmé’s public service, and a private one to honor who she was as a person. The casket will be closed, because his wife died when her cruiser exploded. There isn’t much left to bury anyway.

But some decisions are harder. Which flowers should go on her casket. What songs would she want sung and who should sing them? Would she prefer her grave closer to her ancestral home or the home she created in her adulthood?

If she told anyone the answers to these questions, it wasn’t Anakin. But then, the people who knew her best, who loved her most, died with her. Sabé, Rabé, Saché, Yané, all of her handmaidens—an assassination such broad strokes that it was impossible for it to fail.

So Anakin chooses Yali lilies, because Leia’s eyes linger on them the longest. He chooses a small Nabooian folk band to play after her service because their music is the first thing to make Luke lift his head from his coloring books in days. He formally requests that her body be buried among her ancestors, and the Nabierres agree immediately.

And he keeps telling himself that he will grieve, but there is so much to do. 

And then—then there’s after the funeral. Then there’s the rest of his life, sprawling out before him in a long, hazy road. 

There are more decisions to be made.

There are people who have opinions on them now, people who sat back and let Anakin muddle through flower arrangements and kriffing seating charts, who now step in to peer over his shoulder, monitor his every breath.

Should he really move the children back to Coruscant? Does he truly plan to continue to work as a mechanic in the Mid-Levels? Should he not think of the children, their needs? How can he support them on the thin amount of credits he makes? Would it not be better for the children to live on Naboo in the care of their grandparents and their extended family?

It would be what Padmé would have wanted.

Anakin cannot care about what Padmé would have wanted, because she isn’t here. Not to argue with him, not to make her wants known. She is dead. She doesn’t get to haunt him in the waking world too.

“What do you want?” he asks plainly, sitting down across the table from his two children. The twins blink back at him. Leia has finished her cereal. Luke has barely touched his.

“Bacon,” Luke says.

Anakin hadn’t meant for breakfast, but he figures it’s as good of a start as any. “Alright,” he agrees.

He stands once more and goes to the kitchen. It’s not exactly his domain. It was never Padmé’s either. The way Padmé grew up, food was made once you requested it—by droid, by cooking staff. Not by the hand of a Nabierre.

The way Anakin grew up, food was cobbled together carefully, sparingly no matter how much you requested it. And no matter how you cooked it, it always tasted a little like dust, which took the joy out of experimentation.

But the serving staff have been dismissed for the past two weeks to give the family time and space to grieve in private. 

(Padmé’s parents have been given a schedule for visiting hours for that exact reason.)

Anakin locates the pan; then, he locates the package of bacon strips.

When he glances up, both twins are watching him over the edge of their barstools, tiny faces showing both skepticism and incredulity.

“I want to know what you want to do,” Anakin says, raising his voice as he places the pot over the heating plate, the meat in a moment later. “Do you want to stay here with your grandmother and grandfather? Do you want to go back to Coruscant?”

The twins are quiet. Anakin twists his neck to look at them again, and they’re looking at each other, silently communicating the way only twins can.

“Where will you be?” Leia finally asks, looking at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes, bottom lip already jutting out.

Anakin blinks. “Wherever you are,” he answers.

“You won’t leave too?” Luke asks rather tremulously.

Anakin takes the pan off the heated plate and turns it off with a decisive flick of his wrist. “Of course not,” he says. “Come here.” He crouches down and barely has enough time to open his arms before the twins are there, pressing in as close as they can get to him. He holds them back just as tightly in return.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises into Leia’s hair. “Not without you two.”

—-----------------

It becomes apparent fairly quickly that this is, by necessity, a lie.

The twins don’t want to stay on Naboo, which Anakin is secretly incredibly grateful for. He doesn’t want to either, but he knows he’d just be called selfish should he express the opinion.

But the twins don’t want to go back to Coruscant either. This makes sense as well. It would be incredibly jarring for them to go back to living in the quarters they shared with their mother, her Upper Coruscanti apartments in the nicest district of the planet, without her there.

Anakin wishes it were as simple as sticking a pin on a planet and deciding to uproot the entirety of his family to live there. 

But it’s not.

Perhaps if he were still young, nineteen, newly free and in love with the taste of that freedom, it would be.

But he’s a widower now. He has his children to think about, their futures. Any planet he chooses must have what they need as well. 

And they are four year olds who have just lost their mother. Their needs are numerous.

What makes the decision for him in the end is that his boss knows a man from Stewjon, who is willing to hire him. Who is willing to pay a premium for his expertise with mechanics.

Anakin doesn’t know the first thing about Stewjon, other than that it’s an ocean planet in the Inner Core and his dead wife always said the Senators from Stewjon were so frigid and tight-lipped because they spent the first few days of each visit trying not to be seasick on the Senate floor.

Anakin isn’t sure why this is the very first thing he tells the man—his potential boss—he meets behind the counter in the mech-shop on Stewjon.

He’s left the children with their grandparents for the week—long enough to fly from Naboo to Stewjon, meet with his potential employer, interview, apply his work practically, and fly back out.

He’d explained to both twins why they had to stay on Naboo. He’d explained many times. That hadn’t changed the betrayed look Leia had worn as she saw him off. It hadn’t wiped the tears from Luke’s eyes.

“Ah, well, I can’t say I’ve heard that one before,” the mechanic says. He sounds amused, and Anakin is incredibly shocked to hear a Coruscanti accent. Everyone he’s spoken to since arriving planetside has had such a heavy brogue that he’d honestly struggled to understand their directions to the shop—Kenobi & Sons.

Anakin lets himself look again at the man behind the counter. He’s rather clean for a mechanic, he decides. His beard is red, a common factor around these parts apparently, but his beard is short and neat, trimmed to accentuate the strong lines of his jaw. His eyes are a stormy blue, the kind of blue that matches the Stewjoni ocean.

“Between you and me though,” the man smirks and leans onto the counter with his elbow. His tunic is dark gray, white starchy fabric peeking out beneath the v-necked collar. “I’ve never been a fan of Stewjoni politicians anyway.”

“Oh?” Anakin asks, sidling a step closer to the counter. The man has the beginnings of gray at his temples, and his eyes are lined with wrinkles. They don’t make him look old though, Anakin decides. They make him look…well-lived.

“I’ve not a head for politics much at all,” his future employer shakes his head slightly with a small smile. His eyes flick up and down Anakin’s face, lingering on his lips and then lingering longer on the scar over his brow. Anakin feels rather flushed under the inspection, and he shifts his weight forward until he’s leaning up against the counter too.

There’s something about this man that’s rather…magnetic. It pulls him in. It makes him want to linger.

Good characteristic for a shopkeeper to have, though Anakin privately decides that the man before him has a face that’s wasted on mechanics, buried under some ship’s underbelly in a backroom.

“Me neither,” he admits, a moment too late to sound anything but highly distracted. It makes the man smile again though, a flash of straight white teeth.

“Is there anything you do have a head for then?” he asks. His tone is light, airy, rather teasing.

This is the strangest interview Anakin has ever had.

“Um,” he says. “Well. There’s mechanics.”

“Oh?” The man’s eyebrow lifts at an elegant angle. He props his chin on the palm of his hand and looks up at Anakin through his eyelashes. “Then why come here to us then?”

“Um,” Anakin says, and not because the man looks rather unfairly flattering like this, amber eyelashes in sharp relief against the blue of his eyes.

They’re interrupted by the sounds of clattering in the backroom, stomping and cursing. The man before him straightens with a slight sigh and picks up the closest flimsipad. “And what brings you in here today, sir?” he asks rather loudly, pitching his voice back to the other room of the shop pointedly. “Problem with your speeder? Serving droid? Cruiser? If it’s your astromech droid, I regret to inform you that I’ll have to refuse you service on account of the fact that I don’t particularly care for them.”

Anakin thinks he splutters, but whatever noise he makes is definitely drowned out by the rather irritated shout of Obi-Wan! that comes from the back.

A moment later, a man storms through the door, looking annoyed. "We will service an astomech if that's what's broken, Obi-Wan."

Now this is a man that Anakin can believe is a mechanic. His nails are blackened with oil, and his bare, burly arms carry smudges of the stuff. He’s much broader than the man—Obi-Wan—that Anakin had been talking to. He’s bald with a reddened scalp and a rather large red beard that’s the antithesis of the other man’s in every way. His clothes are dirty, loose, and the color of ash. He looks older too—whereas Obi-Wan could easily be in his thirties, this man must be pushing fifty.

He snaps at Obi-Wan in a language that Anakin doesn’t understand. Obi-Wan shrugs and hands over the flimsi pad without argument.

“Um, actually,” Anakin says, feeling incredibly wrong-footed. “Which one of you is Kenobi?”

“I am,” both of them say. Obi-Wan’s smirking slightly. The other man’s voice is louder, carrying that Stewjoni accent so obviously lacking in Obi-Wan’s speech.

The older man closes his eyes as if he’s praying for patience. “We both are,” he says. “Though if your ship’s malfunctioned, sir, I’m the Kenobi you want to see. This one’s good for naught but magic tricks.”

“I have been told I’m rather good at other things,” Obi-Wan turns his smirk full-force at Anakin, dropping his eyes to Anakin’s lips once more.

“My name is Anakin Skywalker,” he says very quickly in a very normal tone of voice that is most definitely not a squeak. “I’m here to interview for a position. As another mechanic.”

“Oh,” the older Kenobi says.

“Oh,” the younger Kenobi says in a much different tone.

The older Kenobi pinches at his nose for a moment before turning around the counter and offering his hand. “Ben,” he says. “Ben Kenobi.”

Anakin takes his hand and shakes it, eyes traveling back to Obi-Wan. Is he supposed to shake his hand too?

“I’m the Son in the sign,” Ben says gruffly as if that answers his question.

“I’m the reason it’s plural,” Obi-Wan adds, busying himself with the contents of the counter. From what Anakin can tell, the man is just messing up the carefully organized piles of receipts. 

He decides that he would rather not get the job than point this out to Ben.

Ben huffs out something in Stewjoni that sounds downright insulting, but that doesn’t stop Obi-Wan from smiling sunnily up at Anakin. “My brother enjoys bitching and moaning that I came back home when I was seventeen, but he’s awfully quick to foist his children off on me when he’s called to shift at the rig offshore and Marci’s off-planet too.”

Anakin blinks. He feels like that’s the safest answer.

“Only thing good that blasted Jedi Order ever taught you was how to handle younglings,” Ben says, and then spits on the ground as if the words themselves have left a bad taste in his mouth.

Anakin blinks and wonders if he should say something to remind the brothers that he’s here. For an interview. “And my magic tricks,” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes slightly before catching Anakin’s eye and winking. With a wave of his hand, a flimsi-sheet flies over the counter and into Anakin’s chest. He catches it unthinkingly. “Would you like to sign in, sir?” “Get out of here,” Ben barks, snatching the flimsi from Anakin’s hand and pushing it back to the counter. “Like I said, the only one’s impressed with that is the younglings.”

“I don’t know, your man looks impressed,” Obi-Wan says slyly, even as he pushes himself away from the counter and around the edge of it.

Anakin isn’t sure what he looks like. He doesn’t think impressed is the word he’d use though.

When Obi-Wan brushes past him, the static electricity in the air jumps between their shoulders. Anakin feels as if he’s been shocked.

Obi-Wan must feel it too because he stops only a few inches away and looks at Anakin. For the first time, his expression is open. Curious. Considering.

“Get!” His brother insists, and Obi-Wan obeys, throwing one last look over his shoulder at Anakin before he slips out the door.

The shop feels somehow much bigger now that the other man has left. Ben sighs and rubs a hand down his face. He looks older now. More worn. “So that was my brother,” he tells Anakin wearily. “Who you would most likely see frequently if you were to take this job. I would understand completely if you would like to start by talking compensation.”