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They say that on the planet Saffor, there are more flowers in the fields than stars in the galaxy.
The bloom begins when the planet arcs into perihelion with its star, closer than any other time of the year, and it sends a wash of crimson like wildfire across the summer-warmed southern continents, long since cleared of all settlements. Ruby-red petals soak up the sunlight and grow sweet, and many centuries ago, they might have been plucked and soaked down into delicate teas for the native Saffor Nel nobility. Before Saffor opened to the rest of the galaxy. Before the thin threads that gathered pollen in the heart of each flower, a minor food spice for the Saffor Nel, were shown to have a far, far different effect on other species. Before the process of Safforbloom refinement pushed civilization northward, crowded around the bright beacon of its capital spaceport city, and sacrificed nearly half of the planet to growing its most prized export.
Han gives zero shits—maybe even less —about any of that.
With a groan he slumps back into the pilot’s seat of the Falcon, eyes closed, heart still racing with the adrenaline of their close call. It was supposed to be a simple jump to Dantooine. They were just dropping Luke off at some old Jedi ruin on their way to an Alliance job, but he couldn’t have anticipated the sudden and violent exit from hyperspace that had left them spiraling out of control. It was a miracle, honestly, that he and Chewie had managed to pull her up from the nosedive and into an unsteady landing on Saffor below.
Saffor. Han’s scarcely able to believe it, and as he opens his eyes again, he half expects the sight outside the viewport to have changed to something more mundane. But the endless field of crimson flowers, nearly too bright to look at, still covers every inch of land visible. It’s a wholly surreal image, something he’d expect to see after a little too much spice—fitting, he supposes, for a continent-sized farm of it.
“It’s beautiful,” the familiar voice behind his says, and Han tilts his head back to see Luke, his dark robe draping over Han’s seat as the boy’s gloved hand grips the ceiling of the cockpit. There’s a rare allowance of wonder shining through his usual calm as his eyes sweep over the sight. “Is all the red we saw coming in really just these flowers? The whole continent must be covered in them.”
“Sure is, kid. We just crashed into a spice farm.” Han sighs as he thumbs off the switches and levers around him, shifting to rise from his chair at last. “Just about the most expensive damn spice you can buy, too. Can’t wait to see how many credits we took out with that landing.”
Expensive, he knows, for a reason: Safforbloom is a true aphrodisiac, and the most potent among them. It’s the sort of cargo smugglers dream of carting—or stealing. He can count the number of times he’s seen the real deal on one hand, dried little threads of gold libido. He doesn’t want to think about how many threads lay crushed beneath them now. How many credits . As if he’s read Han’s mind, Chewie growls from the copilot seat, lamenting the impending fine.
“Yeah, I know they ain’t gonna be happy about it,” Han snaps in reply as he stands, moving to slip past Luke on his way to the hyperdrive. But something catches his eye and he stops, brow knitting as he scrutinizes Luke’s face.
“You get beat up in the hold during landing, kid? Guess there’s no belts back there, huh.” He cocks his head, eying the cut across Luke’s face that hadn’t been there when he’d boarded.
“It’s nothing,” Luke says, laughing it off with a small smile, but Han frowns, raising his hand to examine it.
“Don’t look like nothing—hold still .” Before Luke can protest further, Han’s snatched his chin to tilt the wound into view, thumb running lightly just beyond its edge. Luke tenses noticeably at the touch, but Han’s eyes are focused on the beaded line of red that trails from his cheek to his jaw. It’s a jagged cut, likely from the hard corner of some piece of machinery, but not deep enough for concern. Han’s posture eases slightly. “Well, alright, so it ain’t life-threatening. Can’t blame me for being concerned after that wild ride.”
He grins, glancing up from the cut to meet Luke’s eyes—and oh, there’s where he goes wrong, because Luke has been staring at him the whole time. And there’s something there , in that tiny moment before Luke blinks his gaze away. Like a ripple in still water, something stirs under Luke’s calm exterior, and for a moment too long Han is silent in contemplating it. Then—his hand releases Luke’s face, and he steps back awkwardly, clearing his throat.
“Got some first aid in the storage,” he offers, already taking a few strides towards the hall.
“I’ll be fine, Han,” Luke finally says, and he’s smiling when Han turns back to look. But the glimmer is gone, the falter, and his tone is as placid as ever. It’s almost irritating.
“You at least gotta cover it up, kid. I’ll grab a bandage.” Han waves vaguely as he turns to leave, as if to shoo away any remaining doubt on the matter.
The journey to the storage is quick, quicker for Han’s sudden urgency. Because, of course, he needs Luke patched up so he can focus on other things. Because the last thing they need is an infection by some alien bacteria as a souvenir.
Because he’s seen that look, that fluttering silent secret, in those eyes before.
Han’s jaw tightens as he throws open the medical cabinet, extracting a wrinkled packet of adhesive bandages. He’s told himself, over and over, that he’s imagining it. That the lingering tension when they’re together is something brewed up in his own mind, some pathetic search for validation.
Lookin’ for Leia is what it is , he thinks before he can stop himself, and almost immediately the uncomfortable weight settles into his stomach like it’s never left. It’s been months since their breakup, but it’s never gotten easier to swallow. Han wonders, sometimes, if it ever will—no matter how hard they had fought in those waning days of the relationship, no matter how much better off they will no doubt be without all the complications of being lovers... they had loved, truly and fully. Too much, he thinks.
Too much to risk again. But too much to live without. All the more complicated when Luke looks at him like that, blue eyes searching his as deep as he’s searching them, looking for… for what? Han can’t begin to guess. As he follows the curve of the hallway back toward the main hold, thoughts brewing like an uneasy storm, there’s a sudden noise of distress from the cockpit. Chewie.
For a moment he’s freed from his brooding, bounding into the main hold to find Luke peering into the cockpit with a troubled expression, one he turns onto Han the moment he enters. Han raises an eyebrow by way of asking about the commotion, but Luke can only shrug; sighing, Han tosses the package of bandages at him as he passes by on the way to Chewie, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Luke catch it with the uncanny accuracy of the Force.
“ What , you big carpet?” he demands as he peeks in, but he doesn’t even need the frantic trilling from the Wookie to see what the problem is: dark smoke, billowing past the viewport, from some unseen part of the Falcon’s exterior.
“Ah, hell.” The last thing, the very last thing he needs is the ship sparking a fire out here, where the winds can pick it up and spread it across the whole damn continent. A string of curses follows him as he runs out of the cockpit, passing Luke in a blur on his way back to storage. Han throws open a different closet, extracting a well- worn bag and beginning to rummage through the assortment of drawers above. His mind races through the hundreds of things that could possibly be smoking out there: an overloaded circuit, a ruptured coolant filter… his hands grab the tools for every problem he can think of, tossing together a hasty repair kit. There’s no pause in his frantic assembly, even when he hears Luke enter the room behind him.
“Han? What’s wrong?”
“Smoke outside,” Han says through clenched teeth, fastening the bag and throwing it over his shoulder as he rises. “Gonna make sure we ain’t burning through more credits than we already have.”
Luke follows him out as he hustles down to the boarding zone, arms crossed in a troubled quiet. A few switches later and the ramp lowers slowly into the crimson flowers below, bright light and swirling pollen coating the metal as it settles down to rest.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” Luke wonders worriedly, meeting Han’s gaze when glances back.
“Air read as breathable, kid, it’s fine,” Han assures impatiently, already a few steps down the ramp. “Go help Chewie test the internal stuff, I got the outside.”
Luke opens his mouth like he’s about to protest, but Han doesn’t stick around long enough to hear it, making a quick leap off the side and into a patch of crushed flowers that already looks beyond saving.
He squints against the brightness of landscape, almost too vivid to behold, as he hurries down the ramp. The first thing to hit him, besides the striking image of a billion flowers stretching out to the horizon, is the smell . The air is thick with a sweet and heavy scent, carried on the warm breeze that sweeps under the Falcon’s hull, and it jogs loose old memories as it passes him. Sugar-dusted bread, fresh from the fryer, cooling on racks as a street vender calls out from a stand painted in wide stripes, the same color as the flowers all around.
Han smiles wryly despite himself, treading carefully through the plants beneath his feet as he makes his way around the Falcon’s hull with a hand up to feel for oddities. It had been a dangerous game as a child, snatching treats from the stands in Coronet, risking city security for one small and fleeting moment of enjoyment. Not much, he supposes, had changed. Not with the way he’d trailed the curve of Luke’s cheek, not the way he’d searched too long in those bright blue eyes for some kind of—
Feelin’ real sorry for yourself today, aren’t ya?
He breathes in deep, wanting to sigh it all away into the fresh breeze sweeping past—but instead he’s coughing suddenly, hands on his knees as he staggers back with the sudden gust of pollen that’s swirled up on the wind just in time to catch in his throat. It’s bittersweet grit on his tongue as he spits what he can out, cursing and coughing and cursing some more. Goddamn Saffor Nel, plowing down a whole continent for spice flowers, no trees to break the wind. No wonder they’d all moved up north.
The annoyance is enough to pull him out of his brooding thoughts, at least. Han’s brow furrows as he shakes off what he can of the pollen—the stuff’s in his hair now, in every wrinkle on his shirt—and steps out from under the Falcon’s shadow and into the light of the sun. Bearing down through the cloudless sky, it seems little further than it did when they were barreling towards it in space. The heat clings to him like the pollen does, hotter than it has any right to be, and with a renewed desire to be anywhere else he quickens his pace around the Falcon’s perimeter, scanning for the source of the smoke.
He finds it shortly—an overloaded circuit fizzling dangerously from underneath a dented panel, like he’d suspected. A few cuts into the exposed wire, a quick splice, and some Corellian luck solve the issue quickly enough. And not a moment too soon, the way the heat of the sun beats down, seeming to seep into his very pores until he’s hotter than he can ever remember being, even in his days working off of Tatooine. The perihelion must take Saffor very close to its star indeed.
But something doesn’t sit right with him about it. His eyes flicker, not for the first time, down to the flowers that rise shin-high all around him, to the golden threads that grow in threes from the heart of each one. He knows it takes a thousand threads to make an ounce of dried spice. He knows an ounce runs up to three thousand credits. And he knows that it’s one of the few true aphrodisiacs in the galaxy, and without a doubt the strongest among them. That’s all, really, that a smuggler needs to know: how much he can get for a product, who’s looking to buy it, how risky of a job it’s going to be. But it strikes him, rather too late, that none of it speaks to the potency of the flowers themselves—or, more concerning, to the pollen that still drifts lightly on the winds around him.
Allergies , some part of him offers, and he decides he likes that. ‘Course you’re gettin’ bothered out here with all the pollen in the air.
Hazel eyes make one final survey of the Falcon’s perimeter. And then too quickly he cuts underneath the Falcon’s shade and beelines for the ramp, trying to ignore the fact that, even shielded from the sun’s unyielding rays, an uncanny heat still simmers underneath his skin. The grooves of the boarding ramp gather pollen as Han steps up onto the metal, shaking out his hair, his vest, his holster of all that he can before retreating back into the ship fully, all too eager to flip the switch that begins the mechanism’s closure. He can clean out the area later; right now, all he wants is a shower. Something to wash away the pollen, the allergic reaction that flushes like a low-grade fever over his face and down his neck.
But before he can even begin his beeline for the crew quarters, Chewie’s roaring for him from the main hold, in exactly the tone of someone who is completely out of patience. Han breaths a long sigh of irritation and hopes against all odds that Chewie can hear it as he begrudgingly makes his way around the curved hallway, preparing himself for whatever terrible sight may await him.
There’s no immediate disaster, at least, when he rounds the corner. Chewie stands near the doorway, arms crossed, grumbling in irritation as Han enters. A call, apparently, from the Saffor Nel spaceport officials. Great. Just what he needs. Luke’s just off to his left, leaned over the communication panel at the engineering station, one leg crossed idly behind the other as he speaks calmly to the white noise of an open frequency.
And in that first glance over, that single heartbeat before Luke reacts to his arrival… something changes. Like a blooming flower, something opens wide inside Han’s chest, a rush of feeling so unexpected it makes his fingers dig into the unyielding metal of the doorframe unconsciously.
He’s beautiful.
It’s not the first time Han’s let the thought cross his mind.
But it’s different this time. A new tension hangs there in the curve of Luke’s back as he rests his palms on the engineering chair, free for once of his all-consuming cloak. A lithe and lovely frame cut out with dark fabric, blue eyes clear like the cloudless sky outside. They startle him when they flick over to meet his gaze, a curious jump in his heart that keeps Han hovering unconsciously distant despite Luke rising to make room for him by the panel.
“It’s the planet’s spaceport staff,” Luke says, as calm and casual as if he’s not the suddenly the most interesting thing in the room to Han. “They’ve been asking for the captain.”
“Is he there now?” A strange voice calls over the frequency sharply, and Han has no choice but to brave the close distance to Luke as he steps up to reply. “The owner of this vessel?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” Han says impatiently, too hot and too tense for any of this. “There a problem?”
“Are you at all aware of the fact,” the alien voice says, with a tenor of barely-restrained annoyance, “That you have landed in a highly restricted area of our planet? Without any clearance call, or even a distress signal, to indicate that you are here under anything but suspicious circumstances?”
“Yeah, okay, look—it’s not my fault,” Han replies quickly, with a far less subtle irritation, leaning forward against the console. “My ship’s hyperdrive had a little malfunction and we just about got smashed to pieces trying to steer the thing into a landing. We didn’t have a choice. That good enough for ya?”
“No.” There’s an irritated clicking from the other end of the line—some sort of mouthpiece grinding in irritation, probably. “But our recovery team can assess the validity of your claims when they arrive. Moreoever, they will assess the damage to our fields, and determine what legal actions are necessary for your trespassing.”
“ Trespassing ? I just told you we didn’t have a choice—”
“Saffor is closed to all offworld travelers during its perihelion, regardless of circumstance,” The voice replies cooly. “Our spice is in the peak of its bloom, and until its harvest, we have no choice but to assume illicit intentions in landing on that side of our planet.”
“You listen here—” Han starts, anger flaring up quickly in the cold, feverish sweat that he feels beading all over his body, but he doesn’t get the chance to finish. Luke steps up beside him, arms crossed as he leans in towards the panel, and the dark fabric of his shirt brushes Han’s sleeve where he moves close. It’s like a static shock, unexpectedly vivid, and Han jerks away quickly by a step and a half.
If Luke notices, he doesn’t react, a trained calm in his voice as he speaks.
“We were on our way to Dantooine. We’re with the Alliance. If we can get there, we will be happy to pay for any damages—but we need our hyperdrive repaired.”
The Saffor Nel chitters out a response, and goes back and forth with Luke, but the words are lost to Han, who is quickly finding it harder and harder to focus on anything that isn’t the heat of Luke’s body hovering next to his. The uncomfortable warmth that lingers on his skin prickles like gooseflesh, like the anticipation of a coming storm, and Han tries to swallow down the bad feeling that rises up when he realizes how aware he’s becoming of every movement Luke makes, every shift of weight or tilt of his head while he negotiates. He’s so close, mere inches away, and if Han were to reach out he could easily brush along the fringe of his hair, or trace a line down the fascinating arch of his back, or—
This isn’t allergies.
With a jolt of panic, Han clenches his hands into fists and takes a few steps back, then a few more, and then Chewie gives him away with a confused trill. Luke glances up and Han immediately wishes he hadn’t, the way his bangs sweep over his curious eyes, the way his lips part slightly for the words he’s just left hanging. That strange, blooming feeling reaches out through him again, wider and stronger, moving down to pool with tingling curiosity in the deep pit of his abdomen.
“Han, where are you—”
“Shower,” Han grits out, darting for the doorway much quicker than necessary. “Wash all this damn pollen off, makin’ me sick—”
“ Pollen ?” The voice on the comm speaks up sharply, but the irritation has given way to something different, something worse, something too close to fear for Han to hear right now. “You—you went outside ?”
Han doesn’t answer. Can’t. Can’t stay a moment longer in that room, not with Luke moving like he might come towards him, not with the growing, burning fever seeping down into muscle and bone. In one motion he’s gone, bounding down the hall and towards the crew quarters, ignoring the calls of Luke and Chewie and the alien after him. The door to the quarters slides open with the push of a button, and with the push of a few more it’s shut behind him, clicking and whirring as the locking mechanism seals him in.
He leans heavily back against the door for a moment, breathing far harder than he should need to. His heart is racing like he’s run for his life, and he can’t stay still for long; with a grunt he pushes off, hastily throwing off his jacket and tugging up the white shirt underneath. A shower. A cold shower. Boots and belt and pants and underwear find their way into the crumple of fabric on the floor, kicked off into the corner to deal with later.
The open air sends goosebumps rising down his arms and legs, but there’s no chill behind them, just the growing, tingling fever underneath his skin. In one motion he’s stepped up into the shower and closed the sliding door behind him, and within seconds the water is on, icy cold, drenching him thoroughly as he leans his head directly under its cascade. Some measure of relief there, at least. Han can feel the heat around his eyes when he closes them, still, but the shock of cold water brings back his senses from the murky haze they’d slipped into.
Hell, he’s in deep here, isn’t he? Set a trap for himself and walked right into it. He tries to focus on the sound of water as it drums against the tiny compartment, but his mind is fuzzy, thoughts drifting out into dangerous territory without the utmost concentration. It’s a sensation he’s familiar with, one he should have recognized far sooner. In all the varieties of spice he’s tried in his life, there seemed to be shared amongst them the same sense of disorientation, the same gradual slipping away into someplace strange and different. Colors bright, textures vivid. Han feels the phantom brush of Luke’s tunic against his arm like he’s just drawn close again, warmed by the body it covers…
The heat in his core rises up like a kindling fire despite the cold water that runs over it. Where his hands brush to wipe away the rolling drops, a new, electric feeling sparks out, like every nerve is rising to the touch. It’s too much—and at the same time, it’s not enough. Han swallows, running a hand down his abdomen experimentally; sensation follows, hot and raw, and threads down through his muscles to pool between his legs. So this is Safforbloom. Every touch, every floating thought, every passing second seems to run like a live wire straight down to his loins, stoking the flames of his desire in a way he’s never felt before. With a slow breath out, his fingers trace down to weave in amongst the wiry hairs around his growing erection, hard and aching in defiance of the chilly shower.
Well… it’s too late to stop it now, isn’t it? Locked away in the safety of the ‘fresher stall, there’s surely no harm in riding out the drug’s effects. Han leans back again and chances a bolder touch.
Prickly hot pleasure echoes out across his skin when he grabs his cock, and Han can’t help the arch in his back when it races up his spine. Teeth bite down firmly on his lower lip as his eyes slip closed again—a mistake, he knows in some part of his mind, but a mistake that drowns under the surface of dizzy-drunk sensation along with the rest of his intelligent thought. In the darkness of his mind, he sees the bright flashes of arousal that travel like lightening up his nerves with every slow stroke he makes along his erection, and he hears the gradual loss of rhythm in his breathing like it’s someone else panting softly in his ear—he gives it a source, a name, and soon it’s Luke sharing the small shower with him.
Don’t , he tries to tell himself, but the spice is louder, humming like the rush of blood through his ears. It’s Luke’s hand at his cock, stroking slowly, and Han maps out the subtle smirk on his face, the relinquishment of mutual desire. A brush of lips against his own, sweet like sugar-dusted frybread, a stolen indulgence in a timeless moment—
The image shatters violently at the sudden sound of pounding against the crew quarters door, and it thrusts Han so suddenly out of the fantasy that he jumps with an instinctual scramble away from the wall, his heart thoroughly embedded somewhere in his throat. There’s a muffled voice from beyond the noise of the shower, and with a curious twisting in his stomach, Han realizes that it’s Luke. The real Luke. With a stubborn swallow he scrambles for the shower dial, feeling as disoriented as if he’d just woken from a deep dream.
Once the water shuts off he can hear the words Luke is saying—and the clear tone of upset in his voice.
“ Han! Han, I know you can hear me. We need to talk, now .”
We can’t , Han thinks dizzily, I don’t know what I’ll do to you if we do . There’s a terrible danger in the pooling heat of his groin, nearly painful in its protest of his withdrawn touch, and in the desperate hunger that cuts through the haze when he hears Luke’s voice and knows he’s just a few inches away, nothing but a couple doors and a lock between them.
“Luke, I’m, uh—I’m a little busy in here,” Han manages through gritted teeth, in a voice that’s far less assured than he’d have liked. He hopes beyond hope that Luke can glean the suggestion in his answer, because he’s really in no state to be attempting coherent conversation.
But he would not be so lucky. Luke’s voice is tinged with an uncommon tremor of emotion when he responds, one that takes Han by surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me what those flowers did?”
Han blinks in confusion and falls into a few seconds of silence, trying to sort out in his addled mind what Luke could mean. It must have been the Saffor Nel that told him, sometime after Han left. Or Chewie, maybe. But what difference does it make? Does Luke think that Han wanted to go out there, wanted to get drugged up? The thought, for some reason, strikes him funny, and the dazed grin on his face creeps into his voice when he responds. “What’s it matter? You all hopped up to go roll around in ‘em, now that you know?”
“Don’t joke about this, Han,” Luke snaps sharply, and the anger in his voice is enough to pull Han to greater attention. It’s not like Luke to be so emotional, and the strangeness of it spreads a subtle unease through Han’s stomach. “Why would you go out there without any protection? Why would you go out there, knowing it could kill you—”
“Kill me?” Han does laugh at that, incredulity and confusion blurring into each other, wrestling with the ill feeling that threatens to poison the heat inside him. Kill him? Hell, he’s always joked about Luke’s naivety, but… “Kid, I dunno what they teach you about sex—or sex drugs—on Tatooine, but a hit of Safforbloom ain’t gonna kill me.”
Luke falls silent at that, and even though it’s only for a few moments, it leaves a hollow in Han’s heart that fills quickly with apprehension. A part of Han can’t shake off that emotion as some intensely misinformed notion of aphrodisiacs—and a larger part, a louder part, can’t shake off the sexual tension that’s pulling him taut in every muscle. Before he can stop himself, Han slides the shower door open, stepping down to face the door that Luke must be standing right behind. He swallows as the air ghosts along his damp skin, too sensitive, and in the quiet he fights with himself. Don’t open the door. Don’t open the door. Don’t—
“Han,” Luke says, his voice tight in a forced calm, “Open the door, please.”
And like a spell cast over him, the words draw Han helplessly to the lock, unable to think even a moment further into the future.
“If you insist,” he says, a lightness to his tone that’s at complete odds with the heavy, heavy anticipation in his stomach.
Whatever Luke had expected to face when Han slid open the door, it was apparently anything but the smuggler’s naked, wet body, the way his tightly controlled expression slipped so quickly into one of absolute shock. Han wishes he could capture that moment and hold it in his head forever, the way Luke’s eyes widen and flicker—so quickly he might deny it—down across the expanse of Han’s chest, and lower still , unmistakably lingering, and then back up to Han’s face like they’ve been there the whole time. Shadows move along his neck where he swallows thickly, and the gloved hands at his sides tighten minutely.
“Han,” he tries, but it’s too late and too weak, faltering in the face of a clear distraction. He’s unguarded in that moment, and that familiar something moves behind those bright blue eyes again, a ripple on a starscape ready to flare.
It’s more beautiful, Han thinks, than anything else in the galaxy. A perfect moment of clarity in a hazy fog of desire, a knowing so simple he almost laughs at how obvious it is. All along, huh, Luke?
“’N never said anything,” he says aloud softly, and like a dream he watches his hand rise to brush the curve of Luke’s jaw where it had traced earlier, where the faded red line of a fast-closing cut still lingers, never covered. The softness of his skin is like lightning through Han’s nerves, a crack of electricity through the clouds over his mind. Luke’s brow furrows, but it’s not the confusion it should be—it’s subtler, more troubled, a fear dredged up from the places buried deepest inside him. Like he knows exactly what Han means without any more words.
“What?” he breathes regardless, a little quiver running down his neck when Han’s fingers spread to curl around it, and against the warmth of what little skin peeks out from under his high collar Han can feel the racing blood in Luke’s vein. The other man swallows again, and a gloved hand comes up to wrap unsteadily around Han’s wrist—and yet he doesn’t move to pull Han away, only watches him intensely, eyes wide and vulnerable in a way that Han isn’t sure he’s seen since before his rescue from Jabba.
And they’re right where they always end up again, passing each other in orbit, and Han’s closer than ever to the heat, to the light, to the power of Luke. His heart hammers like he’s spiraling into a collision course again, but there’s no white-knuckled grip on the steering, just the gentle push of his thumb against Luke’s chin that tilts him closer. Eminent peril coils with a deep jolt in his abdomen as he leans in, ever closer, near enough to feel the soft breaths that come quick and unsteady from where Luke’s lips part slightly, one final surge of uncertainty in his reckless flight and then—
Impact.
It all comes apart the moment his lips press into Luke’s, silencing the small noise of surprise that rises up from the contact. The tension snaps like a frayed wire, unraveling, bringing his whole body to life with the rush of it all. Luke’s hand tightens around his wrist, but Han is undeterred, his other hand coming to cradle the other side of Luke’s face as he kisses him, lost in the raw sensation of skin against skin. Tingling trails of pleasure chase across his body and down to his aching arousal like a lightning rod, and with a muffled grunt he slips his hands down to Luke’s shoulders to tug him nearer. Luke breaks away, briefly, to draw a gasping breath.
“Han—”
But Han doesn’t give Luke the chance to continue, pulling him in again, chest against chest and heat pooling where there’s contact. Luke hesitates, tense in his arms, his lips molding to Han’s but nothing more. But then… the hand on Han’s wrist loosens, and Luke gradually relaxes into the embrace.
He can feel Luke meld to him, slowly, hesitantly, his arms slipping around Han’s neck to rest gently there as their lips move against each other. Everything is so vivid: the leather of Luke’s glove where it brushes shyly along the fringe of his hair, the taste of his mouth in the fleeting moments Han can coax it open, the quick breaths they steal when parted—and then suddenly Luke’s weight is against him and Han stumbles backwards, the cool metal of the wall sending a shiver down his bare back. The strength surprises and thrills him; underneath all those robes and layers of tunic, Luke is well-honed weapon , and Han can feel the danger and the wonder of it in the hands that curl tight around his shoulders as Luke pushes him further against the paneling.
And then, just as Han thinks he might lose himself completely in the moment, the warmth of Luke’s body lifts, and his lips pull away, and suddenly the heat, the ache in every nerve of Han’s body is lit up with need like he couldn’t have imagined. Chasing shallow breaths, Han’s eyes snap open to find Luke before him, blue eyes wide and brighter than ever against the deep flush on his cheeks. Luke, Jedi Master Luke, stumbles back before him to catch his breath, blonde hair a mess where Han’s fingers have run through it, a perfect picture of dishevelment.
And Han wants more . Wants to see that practiced, calm façade come completely apart. Wants to see Luke break down into the same urgent, desperate lust that spreads like fire in Han’s veins. Wants it more, he thinks, than he’s wanted anything else in his life. Or so the Safforbloom whispers through his blood. A drunken smirk spreads across his face and he steps forward to pull Luke close again—or tries to, anyway.
It’s only then that he notices the weight still pressed down upon him, pinning him there against the wall, despite Luke taking several steps back. For a moment, the feverish haze of the spice in his brain makes it impossible to fathom the situation, and he blinks down at his body in confusion—and then his eyes snap back up to Luke as the realization slowly trickles in. Sure enough, Luke’s hand is open at his side, fingers tilting minutely as if tugging at invisible threads.
“Luke, you son of a —”
“It’s the only way to get you to listen.”
Listening is the last thing Han wants to do at the moment, not when words are getting rather hard to come by in his addled mind to begin with. But Luke gives him little choice, and little time to protest, before he’s talking again.
“Han, those flowers—the official told me about the spice they make with them. She told me about it’s… that it’s a powerful aphrodisiac.”
“Yeah, you think ?” Han raises an eyebrow, wondering if anything could be less obvious at this point.
Luke’s jaw tightens noticeably, his unused hand curling into an anxious fist. “It’s not just that, though. The pollen out there is completely unrefined, Han. And you’ve been exposed to a lot of it. It’s not like they process it to make it stronger—they process it to make it safe .”
That gives Han pause for consideration, eyes narrowed at Luke as he tries to sort out what that means. Slowly, sluggishly, the realization dawns on him. “So I’m… poisoned, is what you’re saying.”
“Yes,” Luke confirms, and his voice wavers slightly. “It’s going to keep building up in your bloodstream, until your body can’t handle it and shuts down. Unless—well, she said there’s a way to neutralize some of the effects if you… if you have sex.”
“You didn’t think that’s what I was in here takin’ care of?” Han asks, and a smirk crawls back onto his face again as he continues, “Or were you just chompin’ at the bit to get in here and help me?”
“No,” Luke says too quickly, and then he hurries to add, “I mean—there’s no choice here, Han, it—it can’t just be on your own. It has to be sex with another person. It won’t work otherwise.”
“Why?”
“There’s pheromones, and…” Luke huffs, rolling his eyes in exasperation, a slip out of his composure. “Would you even listen if I explained why?”
“Nah.” It’s true. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t , not in his current state.
Luke sighs and shakes his head at the blithe response, but he can’t seem to help the smile that tugs at his lips. His voice is a little softer when he responds, at odds with the intensity in his eyes. “In any case… that’s, ah, why I’m here. I won’t let you die, Han.”
“Real noble of you, kid. You sure that’s the only reason?” Han stares at him hard, searching for what he’s sure is there, what must be. It had seemed so clear earlier, so easy. Why is Luke trying to hide it? “Coulda sent Chewie in, you know. Ain’t like he hasn’t seen me in worse shape. But you didn’t, huh?”
“I didn’t think it would work if Chewie—or he wouldn’t want to see his friend like—” Luke’s brow furrows in frustration, his whole posture winding up with tension and irritation and maybe something more. “Why are you making this so complicated? It’s what’s necessary, Han, it—it doesn’t have to be anything more than that—”
“But you want it to be.” Han says plainly, relishing the shock of the statement that freezes Luke in place. “ You’re the one makin’ it complicated, Luke. You think I don’t know you got feelings for me?”
Luke’s breath catches at that, frozen in time for a moment, nothing on his body moving but his wide, clear eyes flickering over Han’s, searching for… a lie? A long-kept secret? A shared feeling? Whatever he finds there, in that long moment of silence, it deflates him. His shoulders fall with his eyes, his tongue running slowly across his lips as he takes a deep breath and looks back up.
“… How long have you known?”
And that’s what Han has been fishing for, searching for, needing to hear. His smile broadens triumphantly as he answers, completely assured in his tone. “I didn’t, for sure. Made a lucky guess. Looks like it was right.”
There’s a beat where Luke’s expression is entirely blank, staring at Han with nothing but unabashed shock. And then… his hands clench into fists again, his eyes turning sharp, and his voice is rising with emotion when he speaks again, making Han’s smile falter slightly with its intensity. “I can’t believe —you’re just—you’re such a —”
Han can feel Luke’s anger when he gets close, the Force that’s holding him down rippling with a new strength, and it’s almost painful. But Luke is hovering so near now, scrambling for the words he wants, face flushed with more than embarrassment as he glares at Han. His control is slipping and Han basks in the raw emotion, however aggravated it is, because for once it’s genuine and untempered, a true feeling that slips through the cracks of that Jedi mask.
It’s the dazed smirk the display pulls across Han’s face that seems, at last, to completely shatter the other man’s composure.
Luke’s lips crash rough and defiant against Han’s, mouth parting to demand entry, and Han is all too happy to comply. The slide of Luke’s tongue against his is a new shock of sensation down his spine and Han moans into the kiss, pushing forward with his whole body against Luke’s frame—and succeeding, breaking through the Force hold that evaporates like his inhibitions in the heat pooling between their bodies. They stumble back from the wall and waver unsteadily, greedy in their roaming hands, before it’s Han that’s pinned Luke to the wall, grinding his hips in desperation against the rough fabric of his black pants.
Luke makes a noise into his lips that turns into a rough gasp when Han pulls away to trail his lips to the little slit of skin above his collar, tasting the sweat-salted heat of pounding blood underneath. Something hard nudges up next to Han’s erection and he smirks against Luke’s neck, a hand moving down to trace the edge of Luke’s belt, slipping under his tunic to fan out across the other man’s abdomen. He’s hot, damp with sweat under the dark fabric, and every fluttering breath he takes moves underneath Han’s touch like the roiling flares of a star’s surface. And Han wants more , needs more , pushes up the fabric as he roams to Luke’s chest so that his own bare stomach meets Luke’s. The sudden contact makes Luke moan, threading his fingers through Han’s hair to grip tightly.
“Soft,” Han murmurs over Luke’s lips before they meet again, holding him in a long kiss, feeling the warmth of it tingle down to where his cock rubs against the new and straining bulge in Luke’s pants. He breaks off only when he’s dizzy from lost breath, panting, leaning heavy against Luke’s forehead as his hand runs through the sparse hair of Luke’s chest. “Bet you drive the whole fleet crazy, kid. Way you feel. Way you sound.”
Luke laughs breathlessly, the leather of his glove tracing the curve of Han’s back, lighting every nerve he touches on fire. “Wouldn’t know. They—they’ve never felt it. Or heard it.”
“None of ‘em?” Han wonders, moving to whisper hot and low against Luke’s ear. The shiver of it trembles under Han’s fingers. “Y’can’t tell me I’m the first.”
“You are,” Luke confirms, voice distant with distraction, but there’s a small thread of emotion that runs through his words. “There’s… codes, for the Jedi, restrictions. We’re—we’re not supposed to do this. With anyone.”
“Damn shame,” is all Han can say, a flutter of small kisses along Luke’s jaw leading him back to the other man’s lips. Any guilt he ought to have felt is burned to ashes by the fire in his blood, and there’s room for nothing but the heady lust that settles heavier and heavier into his brain. “You’re beautiful, you know it? Can’t keep my hands off.”
Luke smiles into their latest kiss and his hands draw up to rest against Han’s chest. With a little push he’s severed the contact between their skin, and Han’s protest is immediate, but Luke is strong; within seconds he’s switched their places again, Han’s back pressed close against the metal wall. In the moment of dazed confusion at the swap, Han blinks dizzily to watch Luke undo the fastenings on his tunic, slipping the simple garment off in a single fluid motion and tossing it aside on the floor. All at once he’s lit up the dim room with his bare skin, glowing with a sunkissed tan from decades in the desert, and Han can’t wait for him to close the distance between them again and pushes off the wall to do it himself.
They’re tangled, stumbling, arms wrapped tight and desperate around each other as they dance to the fire that flares up between them. Words fall apart into gasping breaths and low moans of desire, and Luke cries out unrestrained when Han’s lips part against his bare neck, grazing with his teeth. The Safforbloom is thick in Han’s blood and he can feel it, a fever that threatens to cloud his thoughts entirely, too hot and too desperate and too much to handle. He clings to Luke as much for the sensation as the for the anchor, something real to hold him steady against the raging rapids of wanting that threaten to sweep him away.
“ Need you,” he manages to slur at some point, and at a point unknowable moments later, “ Now .”
The room is spinning—or maybe they are, Han can’t tell. He closes his eyes against the impending nausea and is vaguely aware of being urged backwards, of Luke’s voice murmuring something against his neck, but he can’t hear it over the flash of feeling it fills his mind with. For a moment he’s carried away on it, something calling him out to a smothering darkness, the promise of release in a far away place—
“ Han! ”
With a start he’s back in the crew quarters, head spinning, and he slowly realizes that he’s looking up at Luke’s face where it hovers above him, eyes wide and fearful. When he shifts, the sweat-drenched fabric under his back tells him that they’ve made it, somehow, to one of the beds.
“You were gone, for a moment,” Luke says with a waver, and Han feels a hand—a bare hand, no glove this time—stroke softly along the edge of his face. The touch is cool against the smoldering heat under his skin. “It’s getting worse, Han. We should really—”
As good an answer as any, Han reaches up to pull him down, fingers tangling in that soft blonde hair as Luke’s cry of surprise gets muffled against his lips. Han feels Luke’s legs shift around his, straddling, and his hands slide down the other man’s front to find the dip of his hips, to follow them to his belt. Luke’s hand has wrapped firm around his head, holding Han in a long kiss, and it’s the most curious challenge trying to get that damn belt off without breaking away to look. But he needs it, he needs every taste of Luke he can get, every breath he can steal into his own lungs like it’s the last thing keeping him from drowning.
He loosens the belt at last, enough to pull it to clatter on the floor, and his fingers hook greedily into the hem of Luke’s pants, tugging downward. Luke moans into his mouth, hips wriggling slightly as Han slides the dark fabric down around them, and it’s too long, far too long, until Han finally feels the thatch of hair against his fingers and yanks down to free Luke’s cock to the open air. Their kiss breaks at last when Luke pulls back to meet Han’s eyes, his own blown dark with desire. And then… he smiles, a small mischief dancing across his kiss-swollen lips. With one motion he’s pressed flush against Han, bare skin sticky where it meets his, and Han arches his back with a strangled cry as the hard flesh of Luke’s dick nudges rough against his.
“ Luke …” he moans reverently, fingers splaying to dig into the soft flesh of Luke’s ass. Prickles of pleasure bloom across his skin like a spreading fire and his hips buck up to rub at Luke’s cock, thick and solid against his own aching erection, and precum leaks from one or the other onto his stomach like a cool drop of water against his fever-hot skin. Above him Luke’s eyes have fluttered shut, his breath hitching with every shallow thrust up.
Han is slipping, unwinding, each wave of sensation threatening to carry him off in its current. But Luke holds him there, a shining beacon, a guiding light, so close and so real. And Han needs it closer still. He runs his tongue across his lips and moves underneath Luke, spreading his legs wider, and Luke’s eyes blink open again at the shift.
“Inside,” Han manages, wishing he could capture all the fleeting words he wants to share. Burn me up, Luke. Pin me down, run me through, inside and out. Fill me, feel me…
“Inside?” Luke swallows and leans in to brush a gentle kiss across Han’s mouth, light and fleeting. “You’re sure that’s what—”
He yelps in surprise as Han suddenly splays his legs beneath him, tangling both of them up momentarily until Luke finds purchase between Han’s thighs. Before Luke can react Han’s pulled him close again, stretching up across the bed so that the head of Luke’s cock pushes up against the damp, smothering skin of Han’s balls, drawing out a breathless moan from the other man. Sure enough for you, junior? Han smirks as he pushes up against the flat of his feet, angling, feeling the drag of Luke’s dick against the sensitive skin that trails down to his entrance. It’s all he wants, all he’s ever wanted, the slick trail of precum and the stretching, the filling—
“Wait,” Luke gasps out unsteadily, “Han, wait, we should—”
“Tired of waitin’, kid,” Han grits out through clenched teeth, nails digging into Luke’s hips where he tries to urge him down, urge him in . There’s no time to wait. “You’re a damn tease —”
“ Han .” Luke’s hands are on Han’s shoulders, then, as infuriatingly firm as his voice. The cold metal of his bionic hand sends a shiver down Han’s spine. “We can’t just… I know we need something to, ah—”
“Hell, Luke, just—” He’s right. Han knows he’s right, in some distant and throttled place of his mind. And he hates it, because all he wants right now is Luke’s cock inside him, logistics and eminent regrets and injury be damned. “Storage. Under the bed.”
“Thank you.” Another light kiss, maddeningly teasing, and then a cold weight is upon him again as Luke slips off, stumbling slightly for the pants around his thighs. Han groans loudly, hoping his displeasure at being held needy and naked with the Force again is evident enough to hurry to process along.
He watches Luke from under eyelids heavy with sweat and lust as the other man slips off his boots and pants entirely, nudging them off to the side of the room before kneeling down to rummage through the bin of Han’s personal effects. The chill of his absence settles down over Han like a biting snowstorm, painting ache across his body, threatening to smother him. His eyes strain against closing by following the curve of Luke’s back, the fanning of his ribs where he breaths, the lovely blonde hair that dusts his legs.
“Don’t mind me dying over here,” he says, after what must have been a full eternity of staring. “Just take your sweet-ass time pullin’ that lube out.”
“It’s a disaster down here,” Luke defends, brow knitting in renewed concentration as he digs around in years’ worth of collected garbage. “I’m glad being poisoned and pinned to a bed doesn’t change your attitude any. I’d really be worried if it did.”
“You like it, don’t you?” Han asks, unable to help the smirk on his face at the idea. “Knowing you got me stuck here. Knowing I can’t do a damn thing about it.”
Luke smiles, small and hilariously bashful considering his current state of undress. “Maybe a little.”
“Under all that Jedi quiet’s a real man in charge, huh?”
“You have always brought out the worst in me.” Luke straightens up at last, a small bottle of clear liquid in his hand that Han recognizes immediately. “This is it, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, great, we’re all set.” Han tugs futilely against the invisible hold, ready to pull the other man back forcefully if it’s what it takes to reunite them. But he can’t, so he whines instead. “Come on , Luke.”
Luke chuckles softly, standing, and at long, long last he’s climbing back onto the bed, back bent under the low ceiling of the bunk. “If this weren’t so dire, I might like to hear you say please.”
“Good thing it is, then.” Han huffs back, watching with desperate intensity as Luke turns the bottle over a couple times before finally popping the cap, and slippery shine pours over his fingers where he holds them underneath. He runs them over his length to coat it, breath hitching at the cool touch, and Han catches the little bite on his lower lip. He’s beautiful, flushed and thick and glistening, and Han needs him more than air. “Should get poisoned more often, huh?”
“You really shouldn’t,” Luke scolds, eyes focused down on where he moves between Han’s legs, spreading them with his damp hand on one side and the bionic on the other, infuriatingly easy despite the hold that still keeps Han from writhing underneath him the way he wants to.
The head of his cock pushes up suddenly against the tight flesh of Han’s entrance and Han can’t stop the groan that rumbles low and primal in his throat, heart jumping with the anticipant twitch in his own dick. It’s nothing but the Force holding Han back from yanking Luke forward, taking him in all at once, and perhaps that’s precisely why Luke maintains it, even if Han can feel it falter with every slick slide against him.
Han isn’t sure what’s lovelier: the sound Luke makes as he leans over and pushes in, loud and rough against Han’s ear, or the sudden, piercing wanting that cuts straight through the haze, that lights up Han’s body and mind with sudden, vibrant clarity. The hold on him dissipates when Luke’s focus moves quite suddenly to the slick friction of entry and Han wastes no time in adjusting. His hips shift as his legs spread wider, moving around the intrusion, coaxing Luke in as he slides forward and fills him with glorious, glowing heat.
His head falls back against the pillow with a shuddering breath, heat clouding his vision in the hazy half-eternity it takes Luke to enter him fully. Luke’s looking down between them and Han follows him with blinking unfocus, over the sweat-beaded expanse of Luke’s chest, down through the dusted trail of tawny hair and over the shadows cut hard from muscle and bone. Cast in the vivid light of spice-sweet intoxication, he’s more beautiful than Han could ever imagine.
Luke pushes flush against him, finally, a sigh escaping him like a long-held breath, and the air around him seems to sigh as well, raising gooseflesh across Han’s arms. His eyes meet Han’s as he looks back up, heavy-lidded with desire, and Han wonder if it’s the Force itself that radiates off of him so strongly, so warmly, an aura of lust unshackled after years of being held too long.
“ Fuck me .” He intends it as a demand, but his voice is slurred and weak, strung high from the unbearable tension that Luke’s cock has pulled taut inside him. “Hard as you can, kid.”
A small smile dances across Luke’s face and he whispers something too quiet, too calm. It’s maddening how easily this kid can string together some semblance of control when Han is close to coming undone beneath him, and Han mouths like he wants to toss out an impatient quip, but all that comes out are peculiar, low sounds when Luke suddenly shifts his hips and finds new places inside him, searching for some position between Han’s legs that will let him do what he does next. Arms snake around Han’s shoulders as Luke slides to cover him, thighs pushing out against Han’s, and his hips roll forward tentatively just as his mouth covers Han’s again.
He’s too damn slow , too damn careful . Unsure in the way they always are the first time, unsteady and shallow, but even those small thrusts are enough to make Han quiver underneath him, squirming pathetically. There’s no room in Han’s mind for swagger or control, because every thought that manages to form out of the roiling clouds of Safforbloom is about Luke . Han’s eyes squeeze shut and the darkness swoops in again, ready to carry him off, but like a sunbeam Luke cuts through him, opens him up and stretches him out and pins him, keeps him real . As real as the ragged breaths that Luke takes as his lips ghost along the curve of Han’s face, brushing stubble and bone, tongue chancing a small and searing taste of his neck. As real as the nails and warming metal digging into his shoulder blades like it’s the last thing keeping Luke from falling as his pace quickens, growing steadier.
For a perfect, timeless moment, there’s no drug. No dire necessity. No strange new feelings brought to light. No friendships to be complicated. There’s nothing but him, and Luke, and the aching want that impales him over and over, that rubs hard and slick against Luke’s stomach over and over. Maybe they’ve always been like this. Maybe they’ll always be like this. Maybe he’ll die like this. His legs spread wide and high, almost folded to his chest, hands roaming over every damp, sticky inch of Luke’s body like he might forget it if he doesn’t.
Perihelion. The word drifts up at some point from a murky sea of undone thoughts. Been in this kid’s orbit since you met him, haven’t you? ‘N now you’ve gone and flown in too damn close.
He’s burning up in the white-hot heat of Luke’s body, of Luke’s breath, of Luke’s tongue like wet fire where it slides across his skin. He doesn’t know which will kill him first: the feverish haze of the drug that threatens to blot out the edges of his consciousness every second, or the unbearable tension that pulls every muscle taut when Luke touches him, tastes him, murmurs wordless sounds over his body. But with all the certainty of the Safforbloom in his veins, Han cannot imagine surviving this moment.
They could have been fucking for hours or for seconds, and he wouldn’t know the difference. The wet friction of Luke’s cock pumping into his body is the only measure of time, so constant and consuming that it may have had no beginning nor end, but Han is still aware of the building pressure that every thrust pushes higher. He spills out secret words to Luke above, who returns them in a low, hoarse murmur, a mantra of each other’s names amidst a string of sounds that would mean nothing to the world beyond, but which hold them together here and now. Han cries out every time Luke hits someplace swollen and special deep inside, wanting it to stop, wanting it to go on forever.
And soon, too soon, the tingling in his abdomen spreads down along his thighs, coils tight between his loins, sends a shiver of anticipation through his cock that leaks a trail of liquid into the hollow of his stomach when he arches his back against Luke’s body above. He’s being pulled apart, holding out stubbornly against the swelling, mounting release, not wanting to end it—but every push away from resolution leads him closer to the nothing at the corners of his mind, to the spice that says release is far away, somewhere dark and all-consuming, somewhere eternal. But it’s cold there, distant, and Luke’s light is so very close, warm and enveloping, and Han finally embraces it, embraces Luke , arms wrapped so tight around the poor kid that he calls out Han’s name in surprise even as his face is muffled in the crook of Han’s neck.
And then he’s snapped, broken apart into shattering pieces, blind for the stars in his eyes, deaf for the shout he makes, every pore of his body prickling like the spice is boiling over in his blood. Luke’s cock is buried hilt-deep and Han’s legs wrap around to hold him there, perfectly overwhelming where it meets the sweetest spot inside. A pulse of the rawest sensation jerks his dick up against the warm skin of Luke’s abdomen, and then another, hot like plasma, waves of pleasure rolling in to crash across Han’s entire body and out in white, thick lines that paint him and Luke both, cum pooling and running in the dips of his muscles where they tighten and quiver. From far away he can hear Luke gasp, feel his legs tense, and against the tight-clenched muscles of his ass Luke’s cock twitches. He’s filling Han up after he’s hollowed him out, and Han relishes the moment, riding the ebbing tides of pleasure.
For a while, it seems all either man can do is stay wrapped up in each other, limbs tangled and bodies close. Han opens his eyes again, slowly, to blink up at the metal paneling. Luke is panting against him, face buried in his shoulder, and Han traces a light, soothing path along the bumps of Luke’s back ribs. The motion seems to stir the other man out of his daze, and Luke lifts himself up on trembling arms to meet Han’s gaze. He says nothing, at first; his blue eyes flicker over Han’s face, then settle earnestly and intensely into Han’s eyes, until Han feels like he must be trying to enter him there, too. To know him in every way possible.
“Han…” he says finally, as much a question as a statement, and Han watches as his brows knit together in renewed concern. Did it work? Was it enough? The questions flash across his face before he even parts his lips to ask them. Shakily, Han raises a hand to brush clumsily at Luke’s cheek, like he might dust off the fear in that motion.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, sliding down Luke’s neck to urge him gently forward. Don’t think. Don’t worry. Don’t leave. “Not yet.”
It’s enough. Luke’s whole body loosens as he lays back down against Han, and with a long breath out his head comes to rest against Han’s chest, where his heart still races with the echoes of climax. Han is warm, still, warmer than he should be, but already it seems to be fading, the unnatural tide of desire ebbing back out as good old fashioned exhaustion takes its place. His fingers thread up through Luke’s hair, still damp with sweat, and he closes his eyes, savoring the slowing breaths of Luke where he rests atop him and the lingering fullness of the cock inside him. They can worry over what it means, what all of it means, later.
At some point he drifts off, cradled by warmth and afterglow, into sleep.
-o-O-O-o-
Luke watches the Saffor Nel at work, no protection save the carapace that covers them naturally. A few have braved Chewie’s company by the hyperdrive, worrying away at its components for some kind of solution, while others comb the boarding ramp with strange little droids, vacuuming up every tiny particle of pollen that remains. He knows that still more are milling around outside the Falcon, their six stilt-tall legs weaving harmlessly through their prized flowers as they assess the damage and calculate the impending fine. Han, he’s sure, will be thrilled with their results.
Han. Luke turns his gaze down the hallway that curves, out of sight, to the crew quarters, and his heart speeds up just a little with a heavy, complex anxiety. He wonders how much of it Han even remembers. If he remembers Luke dragging him into the shower to clean off before the Saffor Nel arrived, or being wrapped up in clean sheets while he mumbled incoherent half-thoughts, or being watched for hours after, every breath measured, every shifting movement noticed.
Or if he remembers anything before that. Anything they did. Anything he said.
“You’re beautiful, you know it?”
Luke swallows down the hard lump of emotion the memory stirs, shaking his head like it will shake out the thought. It was the spice that said it, exactly like the official on the comm had warned. He’ll be desperate. He’ll do anything, say anything, to get his release. Luke has to remember that.
Even if, for years, it’s been the only thing he’s ever wanted to hear. That he’s ever wanted to feel. Wanting, true wanting, from Han.
It’s cruel and bitter fate that he gets his selfish wish in the worst of circumstances.
The click-clicking of insectoid feet on the floor draws him out of his thoughts, and a Saffor Nel rounds the corner, mouthpiece grinding absently in contemplation. Luke recognizes her; she was one of the two doctors that had made a beeline for Han’s bed, quickly shooing Luke out despite his protests so they could check his condition in peace. She turns eight eyes up to him as the draws close, and with a tilt of her head she gestures down the hall from which she’s come.
“He wants to see you.” She whirrs, moving to pass by him with no further comment.
“Han does?” Luke blinks in surprise, as much at the news as at his own fluttering stomach.
But she shakes her head, sparing him a quick glance backwards. “No, my coworker. He will discuss with you recovery protocols.”
“Ah,” is all Luke can manage, the nervous warmth inside him snuffed out and replaced with ill unease. “Of course. Thank you.”
Luke tries stubbornly the quell the churning dread that builds up with every step towards the crew quarters, reaching out in vain to find a balanced place in the Force. But his mind is racing too much too focus, jumping from one infuriatingly jarring thought to the next. How much does Han remember? How much has he told the doctors? Is he even back, yet, enough to think clearly?
Will he even want to see Luke again, after what happened between them?
Too soon he’s standing outside the closed door, hands balled into fists so tight his nails would dig deep were it not for the gloves that cover them. Friends—they had been friends, and it had been good enough. But now… what were they? Could friends share a moment like that, however necessary, and still be friends? Could Luke even look at Han again? He can barely look at Chewie anymore, knowing full well that he must have heard all of it. Luke swallows, breathing in deep to steady himself, and then slides the door open.
Han is awake, and their eyes meet the moment Luke steps in the door, sending a jolt of nerves straight through him that he has to actively restrain, lest they ripple out into the Force around him. The other man looks, for whatever comfort it offers, much better. There’s no unnatural flush to his skin anymore, no heavy-lidded distant gloss in his eyes. Luke hovers uncertain for a moment, trying despite himself to read what emotion might lie behind that hazel gaze, but before he can begin to wonder… Han grins, warm and genuine despite the clear exhaustion in his face, and Luke feels like his heart might stop at the sight.
“Ah, you’re here.” The Saffor Nel cuts into the moment with a busy clicking, looking up from the datapad in his spindly digits. “Good. Am I to understand that you were the patient’s primary caretaker during the ordeal?”
“I—” Before Luke can even answer, Han speaks up, and there’s far, far too much pleasure in his voice when he corrects the doctor.
“Primary care giver , more like.”
Luke gawks unabashed at Han, unable to comprehend that after everything that’s just happened, everything between them , Han can still quip out a comment like that. He should really be angry, he thinks, but the only heat rising to his cheeks is the sheer embarrassment of Han’s obvious implication.
If the Saffor Nel catches it, he is mercifully plain in his response. “Well, regardless. His body has processed the worst of it. He will recover fully with rest and time, but as you were the care… giver , as he’s indicated, it may interest you to know that continued caregiving will expedite the recovery process.”
Luke’s throat goes dry at the suggestion and it takes him a moment to find the words to respond, even as the doctor is rising to gather his instruments.
“I… I understand, doctor. Thank you for all your help.”
“Yes,” the Saffor Nel replies simply, hooking his bag along one carapace piece as he clatters towards the door. “For your convenience we will add the medical bill to the final field damage fine.”
“ Real convenient, thanks,” Han mutters, rolling his eyes as he settles back against the pillows that have been propped up for him. His sarcasm receives no response, the doctor tapping the door closed behind him.
They’re alone, then, Luke and Han, a tense silence settling over them. Luks shifts uncomfortably under its weight, unsure of how to begin broaching the subject that’s on both of their minds, and for once Han seems adamant in not being the one to do it. So Luke takes a deep breath, eventually, and crosses over the kneel down beside Han’s bed.
“How are you feeling?”
“Sore,” Han responds with a wry grin, seeming to relax a little at Luke’s proximity. It does curious things to his heart, that thought. Han’s smile fades a little as his eyes search Luke’s, and Luke can’t bring himself to look away even if it feels like he might wither under that hard, searching gaze. Finally, Han speaks again, an uncommon softness to his voice. “Kid… Luke. I gotta know somethin’. How long have you had feelings for me?”
The question drops in Luke’s stomach like a heavy stone—so Han does remember. At least that, he remembers.
Lie, a part of him insists, but he feels too exposed in Han’s intense expression, too open and vulnerable to not tell the truth. And so he does.
“Since Yavin,” he says, like confessing to a crime, eyes falling down to stare at the bedsheet where his hand twists loose fabric nervously. “Maybe earlier.”
“You never said anything.” It’s not an accusation, not in its tone, but Luke bristles under it regardless.
“There was Leia. And there are Jedi codes, rules about love. It’s—it was never an option. Not for me.” He says it like a finality, like if he says it enough he’ll finally believe it. It was never worth the risk of losing Han, of losing Leia, of losing his own heart. But when Han slips his hand from under the covers to wrap around Luke’s, stilling its movements where it balls around the sheets, his stumbling heart betrays him.
“Luke—you know I care about you. More’n I damn well should, with the trouble the manage to get in.” Luke risks a look up to find the lopsided grin on Han’s face, as roguish and stunning as it always is. But it falls, a little, as Han’s gaze turns down to where their hands rest together, and Luke wonders if, just maybe, Han feels the same intensity when he looks into Luke’s eyes as Luke does looking into his. “And hell, it ain’t the first time I’ve wondered if… if I ain’t lying to myself about just how much I care. If I didn’t wanna admit you got me caught up as much as you do.”
He looks back up, then, and his grip tightens on Luke’s hand. There’s a rare shade of feeling on his face, a sort of troubled, emotional gratitude that’s normally too unbecoming for a smuggler to show. But he’s showing Luke, here and now, and Luke feels it like a blade in his chest. “I know it wasn’t easy for you, doing what you did. With all the Jedi rules and knowin’ that… that things probably wouldn’t be the same after. For you and me. But you still did it, just to save me.”
For a moment, Luke is silent, his mind racing as it tries to work through what Han is saying. Whatever he was expecting from this conversation, it was not for Han to be so open, so honest in his own thankfulness. It’s almost disconcerting, and Luke tries hesitantly to relieve some of the tension pulled taut between Han’s brows.
“Is having sex with you much harder to believe than taking down a Hutt crime lord?” he asks, chancing a small and teasing smile. It works; Han can’t help but crack a grin again, and his hand rises suddenly to Luke’s neck, stopping the breath in his throat where he touches softly.
“Didn’t say I couldn’t blame you for it, kid,” he shoots back teasingly, but his fingers curl gently along the curve of Luke’s neck, and Luke can’t stop himself from leaning forward when he’s pulled towards the other man. Han’s voice lowers to a murmur as he holds Luke close, mere inches away. “Just wonder if we can maybe stop lyin’ to ourselves now, huh? Both of us.”
Luke wishes he could put the blooming warmth in his chest into words, wishes terribly that he could tell Han just how long he’s wanted exactly that, or how wonderful, how beautiful it is to be this close. But there aren’t words enough for his feelings, so he tries the next best thing: lips brush lips, tingling sweetly just like the first time, and then the distance closes between them with all the tenderness neither could manage in the heady exchange before. Luke feels him, learns him, maps out every movement on his skin and in the Force, slow and soft. Han’s tongue slides teasingly along his teeth and he opens instinctively for it, but only for a few savored seconds; he forces himself to pull away, to meet Han’s gaze again even as it frowns indignantly at him.
“You need to rest ,” Luke insists, his smile as light as his fresh mood.
“Nah, you heard the doc,” Han replies, with a mischievous cock of his head. “You gonna withhold my treatment, junior? I know you’re not that cruel.”
“What’s cruel,” Luke says, shaking his head as he pushes up to rise, “Is making poor Chewie listen to any more than he already has. Stay with me when we get to Dantooine, Han. We’ll have plenty of time together there.”
Han grumbles out an indistinct string of complaints, but it dies out when Luke leans down to kiss him again, a firm promise of more, of so much more, to come.