#also i haven't decided if padmé is sleeping with sabé (the friend)

[ragnarlothcat]

1/2 1/2 Pls talk more about your love triangle au! I’m so in love! Imagine Obi-wan, who has been in love with anakin for years, having to silently suffer as anakin regales him with more reasons why he & padme are perfect for one another. Anakin: “so turns out we have nothing in common, but! 1. Pads has curls! Like me! 2. She does her laundry on Tuesdays! Also like me!! 3. & she doesn’t /hate/ podracing & I love podracing!! SO!! (Or whatever the French 17th equivalent of podracing is).

2/2 Meanwhile Obi-wan: “I’ll keep all my emotions right here (in my poems), and then one day I’ll day 🙂”

Gladly, thank you!!! I'm so glad you're liking it because it's suddenly got a hold of me. I still don't know if I'll write it in its entirety because a) I have so many WIPs and b) it's not a time period I'm super familiar with. I know the broad strokes of 17th century France but I'm struggling with some of the details.

However, I did just write a little snippet from it. The backstory: Celebrated poet Obi-Wan used to be Anakin's tutor but now they are close friends. I toyed with making them the same age but the simple truth is that I'm really into older bearded Obi-Wan. So sue me! Here is the scene where Anakin devises his objectively terrible plan to win Padmé's heart.

Love triangle au (or whatever I'm calling it)

The doors to Obi-Wan’s study bang open in Anakin’s haste and he sighs at the sight that greets him. It’s a beautiful day outside: bright sunlight, flowers in bloom, birdsong whistling among the bustle of the streets.

And yet here is Obi-Wan, as always, hunched over his writing desk in nothing but trousers and a loose linen shirt with his windows shuttered and his eyes fixed on the paper before him.

This cannot stand, not when Anakin needs him so desperately. “Obi-Wan,” Anakin says reproachfully. “I have to talk you.”

“Can it wait?” Obi-Wan asks, scratching at his paper. “I’m nearly done this verse.”

“It cannot,” Anakin declares. “Obi-Wan: I’m in love.”

That has Obi-Wan glancing up from his manuscript. “What?”

Obi-Wan looks shocked, Anakin thinks, or maybe confused. His eyes are wide and very blue and he seems not to notice a bead of ink dripping off the end of his quill to spatter on the paper beneath it.

Anakin can understand the confusion. He’s never shown any particular interest in anyone before. He can acknowledge Aayla’s famous beauty or Rex’s rugged handsomeness but he’s never felt that spark, that warmth and longing and adulation that the poets say comes with romance.

Until now.

“With Padmé Amidala,” Anakin continues, and Obi-Wan rolls his eyes and turns back to his now messy page.

“Yes, Anakin, I remember. You were nine years old. She gave you a blanket and smiled prettily and you thought that was the same thing as—”

“But that’s just it,” Anakin interrupts, perhaps rudely. He cannot find it in himself to mind, not while he’s bursting with love and needs Obi-Wan, his dearest, most beloved friend, to share in it. “She’s back in town!”

Obi-Wan’s quill twitches between his fingers. “Oh?”

“Yes! Her sister is getting married and so the whole Amidala family came to celebrate. I had been training in the yard—”

“That does rather explain the smell.”

“—when I saw her. She looks exactly as I remembered when I was a boy. Like a princess, Obi-Wan, or an angel.” Anakin sighs wistfully and drops down to the soft red rug by Obi-Wan’s feet. “I even got to talk to her.”

Obi-Wan shifts so that his knee is no longer brushing Anakin’s shoulder. “Oh yes? What did you say?”

Anakin twists until he can lean his head against Obi-Wan thigh and peers up at him, upside down. “Well, I introduced myself, again, because she didn’t recognize me at first because of how much I’ve grown.”

Obi-Wan hums and Anakin feels it against his skull. “You are a great deal taller than you were at nine.”

Anakin laughs and smiles up at Obi-Wan. “Thankfully, or else my only sparring partner would be old Master Yoda.”

“You could do worse,” Obi-Wan replies, a smile in his voice.

“But after she realized who I was she very kindly asked about my studies and my training and so I asked her how she had spent the last eleven years and she told me about her family’s travels and how they’d been to the sea and I said I hoped she didn’t get any sand in her belongings because it’s impossible to get rid of, and I should know, and then—”

“And then?”

“Well, she was with her friend who said they really did have to hurry to make their next engagement. So she said her goodbyes and said she hoped we’d see each other again.”

Obi-Wan stares down at him and his eyebrows draw together, causing a funny little crease between the auburn hair. “That’s it?”

Something in Obi-Wan incredulous tone has Anakin huffing, suddenly defensive. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You had a two minute conversation with a woman you knew for a few hours over a decade ago, and on that basis you believe yourself to be in love?”

“Believe? I am in love!”

Obi-Wan scoffs. “I’m sure she’s beautiful. I’m sure she’s elegant. But what about her mind? Her soul? What does she do for fun, Anakin? Do you know her favourite songs? Her favourite poems?”

 “You know I don’t care much for poetry,” Anakin says, bristling. Other than Obi-Wan’s, of course. As a rule he finds the medium too opaque, too layered in hidden meanings that Anakin cannot dream of parsing. “And anyway, what does that matter? I’ll have plenty of time to learn her favourite songs once we’re married.”

“Once you’re—Anakin, you cannot be serious. You’re only a boy.”

“A boy?” Anakin draws away from the warmth of Obi-Wan’s legs to kneel up and face him, outraged. “A boy? I’m twenty years old, Obi-Wan. I’ve seen combat. I’ve seen death. I know what I want, and I want her.”

Obi-Wan swipes a hard across his face and a lock of hair flops down to meet it. “I know, of course you do. I apologize. But Anakin, you can learn these important things during courting, perhaps. Why don’t you arrange to meet Lady Amidala and get to know her. Discover the woman beyond the soothing angel of your childhood.”

Anakin wants to bite back that he doesn’t need to know more about Padmé because she’s already perfect, already the most beautiful, kindest person who has ever lived.

But maybe Obi-Wan has a point. Padmé deserves to be wooed, doesn’t she? If Anakin is going to be her husband he needs to first demonstrate his suitability. They’re soulmates, surely, but there’s propriety to keep in mind, and Padmé is a lady.

“Fine,” Anakin agrees, slumping down. “How do I do that?”

Obi-Wan settles back in his chair. “How do you declare your intention to court her?”

“No, well, yes, but how do I actually woo her? What kinds of things do women like?” Obi-Wan is older and Anakin knows he’s had dalliances before. He knows what it meant when Obi-Wan showed up to their lessons slightly rumpled and smelling of perfume.

He hasn’t noticed that recently but then, Obi-Wan has been rather busy of late, throwing himself into his work. His most recent poem is still the talk of the town, a story of two tragic lovers kept apart by fate.

“How—Anakin, I know I was your tutor for a decade,” Obi-Wan says, frowning down at him. “But this really goes beyond what Master Qui-Gon wanted me to teach you.”

“Please? You’re well-liked,” Anakin says, biting his lip even as he says it. Obi-Wan is universally adored. He’s popular at court, with the other knights, with the servants, even with his rivals. “I just want her to like me.”

Obi-Wan’s gaze softens, just slightly. “I’m sure she does,” he says, and then stares up at the ceiling. “Just…talk to her about your interests. Your beliefs. Ask her about hers. Try to compliment her dress, Lady Amidala is well-known for her bold fashions.”

Anakin tries and fails to remember what she was wearing in the courtyard. He thinks it was blue, maybe? “I can do that.”

“Be personal, but not too personal. Compliment her wit, her beauty, but be sincere. Tell her—I don’t know, tell her why you like her, specifically. Anything you tell her will be fine, as long as it’s honest.”

Anakin cocks his head. “She reminds me of my mother.”

Obi-Wan blinks, once, and then heaves a sigh. “I stand corrected. You absolutely cannot tell her that.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Anakin whines, falling forward and burying his face in the rough fabric of Obi-Wan’s breeches. “My mother was sick and I was so scared, so alone, and then Padmé was there and she was so beautiful, so shining—”

“Yes, I know, like an angel.” Obi-Wan’s hand tentatively drops down to Anakin’s damp, tangled curls. “Tell her that, then. Without comparing her to your mother.”

Anakin’s brow creases and he pushes back into the gentle pressure of Obi-Wan’s touch. “But I’m not well-spoken like she is,” Anakin complains, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Or like you. I can’t—”

Hang on.

Anakin looks up at Obi-Wan, who is saying something, and thinks. That's an idea, isn't it?

“—romance is about more than pretty words," Obi-Wan is saying, when Anakin bothers to listen again. "It’s about fundamental compatibility, about waking up every morning and looking forward to nothing more than your beloved’s company and their smile, about knowing that you’ve found—” Obi-Wan stops and purses his lips. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Padmé is clever and well-read,” Anakin says slowly. “She has an eye for beauty.”

“Yes, Anakin, but yours cannot be the—”

“—and an ear for it, I’d wager.” Anakin looks up at Obi-Wan, his mind racing. Obi-Wan is one of the most celebrated poets in the land. His verses win prizes, are quoted amongst the court, are passed around by the other knights who pretend they aren't moved, even as their eyes stream with tears. “She would love a poem dedicated to her,” Anakin finishes, eyeing Obi-Wan’s manuscript meaningfully.

Obi-Wan fails to hide a grimace. “Maybe, but you really have other strengths. Why not…sing to her? You have a lovely voice.”

“No,” Anakin says, shaking his head. “I need your help.”

“I spent ten years trying to teach you how to write, Anakin, I don’t know what you think I could possibly—”

“Not teach me,” Anakin corrects, pressing into Obi-Wan’s space fully now. “Help me. You know I have no talent for pretty words, Obi-Wan, you’ve read my compositions. But if you were to write something, on my behalf, mind, and I could present it to her…” Anakin pauses, lets Obi-Wan process—

Obi-Wan exhales heavily. “I’m not going to help you trick her, Anakin.”

“It wouldn’t be tricking!” Anakin objects. “The sentiment would be true, the compliments, the feeling behind it. Just the actual words would be yours. She’d never need to know but she’d be so impressed, she’d finally see me as the man I am now, as her equal.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says again. “I just don’t think it’s a very good idea.”

It’s the best idea Anakin has ever had. Why can’t Obi-Wan see that? Anakin’s words aren’t clever enough for an angel like Padmé, but Obi-Wan’s? Padmé would have no choice but to be swept off her feet. “Please?” Anakin begs, “haven’t you ever been in love?”

Obi-Wan’s cheeks colour delicately and he averts his eyes. “That isn’t the point.”

“But it is,” Anakin insists, pushing closer until Obi-Wan’s thighs dig into his shoulders and the rug bunches up under his knees. “Remember how you felt then? How you’d do anything for her, how her happiness was the only thing that mattered. That’s how I feel now, that’s why I need you, Obi-Wan.”

“You don’t need me—”

“I do,” Anakin says, solemnly, and then tilts his chin so he’s looking up at Obi-Wan through his eyelashes, begging with his eyes like he did when he was a boy and he wanted Obi-Wan to let him do his lessons outside.

Maybe Obi-Wan’s thinking of those days too because his eyes go soft and hazy. “Anakin,” he says, like the repetition of his name alone will convince him of his folly. “It’s unwise.”

“Just one or two poems,” Anakin pleads, letting his eyes go big and sad, letting his lips settle into a pout. “Just to break the ice with her. I promise that’s it, just a few. You’d make me incomparably happy, Obi-Wan, if you’d lend me your gifts. I’d be forever in your debt, if you were the cause of my everlasting bliss.”

“Anakin—”

“Please,” Anakin says once more, desperately. “For me.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter shut and his hand drifts to Anakin’s forearm. “Fine,” he breathes. “Fine. But just a couple. Just until you—”

But Anakin doesn’t wait to hear the end of that sentence. He scrambles up from the floor and throws himself into Obi-Wan’s chair, which rocks back on two legs for a moment before settling down with a creak under their combined weight.

“Thank you,” Anakin says, nuzzling against Obi-Wan’s scratchy beard. “Thank you so much, Obi-Wan. You’re such a good friend, such a good man. I just know this is going to go perfectly.”

Obi-Wan’s hands settle against Anakin’s waist and he sighs into Anakin’s messy hair. “I’m glad you think so,” he says, resignation in his voice. “I, for one, have a bad feeling about this.”