Beneath the Tangerine Trees Chapter 2 The gravel crunched
beneath Han's shoes as he walked up the orchard path a month
before everything spiralled into citrus fueled chaos.
It had started like this. Quiet, simple.
Or so he thought. This was supposed to be a reset.
Tangerines, silence, sleep. No mess, no people, no
complications. The orchard spread out in rows
of tangle trees. Heavy was fruit.
Golden light filtered through the branches, making everything
look softer than it probably deserved.
For a moment, Hun let himself believe it.
Maybe he found a place where he could just be.
Then he saw him. The boy moved through the trees
like he belonged there, crate resting easy against one hip.
His sweater matched the orchard's glow, orange soft,
worn at the edges. The light caught the curve of
his cheek, the loose fall of his hair, the set of his mouse
unslowed. Without meaning to, this is
where it all started. Before Han could think of
anything to say, the boy glanced up, noticed him, and spoke like
they already had a conversation. That's your room.
He said, tipping his head toward the farmhouse.
We'll be sharing. And just like that, he turned
back to his crate. Han blinked after him.
Wait, sharing? He dragged his suitcase the last
few meters to the house. The weight of the situation
suddenly felt heavier than his bag.
Inside, the house smelled like old wood and sunlight.
The floor creaked under hunt steps.
Everything felt too quiet except for the distant clink of the
crate being set down somewhere outside.
He pushed open the door to what was apparently their room.
Two floor beds, rolled blankets, a low table against the far
wall. The window let in a soft,
slanted light, catching the dust that floated lazily in the air.
Hun stood in the doorway, taking it in.
Rustic charm, he thought. More like my spines.
Worse than me. The door creaked again behind
him. The boy, Eugene, apparently
walked in like it was nothing, setting his crate down without a
word. He knelt by one of the floor
beds, folding a blanket with a quick practice tense.
Hope you don't snore. Eugene said, not even glancing
up. Hun stared.
That's it. No hide, no handshake.
Did he even look at me properly? Outside, a tangerine dropped
softly to the ground. As if in agreement.
Hun set down his suitcase more carefully than it deserved.
Quiet escape, he thought. Again, hollow was dread.
The room didn't get better the longer he stared at it.
The bedding looked thin, the floor looked hard.
The low table seemed to exist solely to mock his expectations
of furniture spines. Worst enemy, he thought again,
watching Eugene move efficiently, folding, setting
down, adjusting. When Eugene finally left the
room, probably to put the crate away or finish some other task,
Hun stayed where he was, staring at the floor beds like they
might rearrange themselves if he waited long enough.
A shower might help, or at least by him.
A few minutes to figure out how he was going to survive this
setup. He crossed to the bathroom door
and reaching for the wooden knob and froze at the sound of water
running inside. He hadn't noticed it at first,
soft and steady through the thick wood.
Before he could retreat, Eugene's voice came from behind
the door. It locks for a reason.
Hunt froze, caught mid motion like a guilt intruder.
Oh, shared bathroom? Of course.
He sighed, stepping back like the doorknob had burned him.
What else? One fork?
A single towel? Am I going to have to barter for
a toilet paper? That night he lay stiff on the
floor bed, arms pinned at his sides under the too thin
blanket. The room glowed faintly blue in
the moonlight, the window frame casting a crooked pattern on the
floor beside him. Eugene slapped back turned,
breezing soft, and even the kind of peaceful sleep unsuspected
came easy to people who didn't care.
Day one. I already want to scream into a
tangerine. A soft snore sounded, not
Eugene's, maybe his own catching in his throat, Maybe the houses.
He didn't care. This is going to be a chaos.
He closed his eyes and hoped the floor beds wouldn't ruin his
spine before morning. The morning sun wasn't gentle.
It spilled over the orchard like it had something to prove.
Too bright, too early. The sneeze came loud, sudden,
ridiculous in the quiet. Eugene paused, glanced back over
his shoulder, then kept walking. But that glance was enough.
He looked back. He didn't have to.
Hun swallowed hard and forced his feet to move.
By mid morning they settled into a rhythm, picking, stacking,
carrying. When a tendron thrown over
Eugene's shoulders, Hun barely caught it.
You're slower than my grandma. Eugene said, tone dry but not
unkind. Hun stared at the fruit in his
hand. He's impossible.
And yet, without knowing why, Hun found himself smiling.
The rhythm of the orchard had almost lured on into believing
the morning might pass without incident.
But two hours of hauling crates, bending, lifting, balancing on
uneven ground, it wore him down. His shoulder ached, his palm
felt raw, and sweat clung to the back of his neck.
The sun climbed higher, relentless.
The crate dug into Han's hands. Heavier was each step, the past
dip just enough to throw off his balance.
The dirt felt loose under his boots.
He adjusted his grip and tried to steady his breathing.
Slippery shoes. The hill is out to get me.
The crate tilted. His heart jumped.
Tenderance shifted inside a soft chorus of hollow knocks.
The crate tipped. Gravity won.
Fruit tumbled into the grass, rolling across the slope.
Some settle in the shade, others stop mid hill, as if
reconsidering escape. Hun froze, chest tight, watching
the small disaster on the fault. Footsteps approached.
Eugene came into view, carrying two crates.
Sleeps pushed up, pace easy. Hun felt heat rise in his face.
Eugene slowed, glanced over, and smirked.
Wait, did he just smirk? That's illegal.
Han opened his mouth before his pride could stop him.
OK, but like physics. And Eugene didn't break stride.
You look better when you're not talking.
He sat, dry as dust. Han stood there, halfway between
insulted and rattled, his pulse raised in a way that had nothing
to do with the crate. Eugene set his crates down and
started gathering the scattered Tangerines.
Hun watched, stunned at the shift.
He's helping. No sass, no smirk.
He's probably saving it for later.
Hun crouched beside him, collecting fruit.
The quiet between them felt strangely easy.
When they finished, Eugene stood, grabbed his crates, and
left without a word. The house had gone quiet in the
way only an old farmhouse could. Every creak off the floor, every
shift of wood, felt louder in the stillness of early
afternoon. Hun wiped a hand across his
face. Sweat and orchard dust clung to
his skin. His arms ached, his legs felt
like they'd walked twice the distance they had.
He reached for his towel and froze.
It was damp. Han held it up between two
fingers, like it might confess its betrayal.
This was dry this morning. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
You got to be kidding me. Of course he used my towel.
Why wouldn't he? Boundaries don't exist in this
hell house. He grabbed a towel and headed
down the hall, irritation sharpening his steps.
He pushed the door open and froze.
The room was haste with steam, but what he saw was clear.
Eugene stood near the sink, skin wet, completely bare.
Water traced his spine, glinted along his back and hip.
Han's gaze dropped before he could stop it.
Those Tangerines are damn nice. The words escaped before
thoughts could catch them. Eugene whipped around, eyes
wide, caught between fury and shock.
What? Hans scrambled back, nearly
slipping, and slammed the door shut.
Back against the door. Hans's chest teethed.
The towel felt useless in his hands.
Why did I say that? The words echoed in his head,
louder each time. From behind the door, Eugene's
voice cracked the silence. What the hell?
Hun winced, pressing his forehead to the wood.
You're supposed to lock it, idiot.
He muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
He stayed there, frozen, heart pounding, caught between running
and sinking straight through the floor.
The breeze rustled the orchard leaves.
The memory of the shower incident clung between the
walls. Well, maybe not for hard.
His phone was propped against his knee.
The video played again. A Baker's hand moved slow and
shore smoothing caramel glazed over a citrus tart.
Hans breast caught his thumb hover near the scrub bar, and
then he felt it, the weight of another gaze.
Hunt didn't look up right away, but he knew.
Eugene stood at the doorway, quiet, still watching.
By the time Hunt glanced up, it was too late.
Eugene leaned against the frame, arms crossed, hair dry now.
His eyes flicked from Han's face to the screen.
Han froze, thumb mid air. Eugene stepped closer, head
tilting slightly as he looked at the past frame, the perfect
caramel glaze glinting in the light.
You'll always pause at the caramel part.
Eugene said, voice dry but not unkind.
Eugene straightened and nodded toward the kitchen.
His voice softened. If you want.
The kitchen's free. Hun could only stare.
The phone, Eugene, and then phone again.
His heart pounded. He noticed.
Eugene lingered a breath longer, then walked away, leaving Han
with the glow off the screen and his own thudding pulse.
Dusk settled slow. The crates were stacked, the
tools put away by the time they retreated.
Inside, the house was dark except for moonlight spilling
through the windows. The night felt too quiet, their
floor beds barely fit in the narrow room.
Han lay stiff, eyes on the ceiling, blanket pulled high.
Eugene shifted in his sleep, shoulders brushing Han's arm,
warm skin against warm skin. It undid Han completely.
He's asleep, I'm fine, this is fine, he's moving.
Oh God, shoulder skin, panic. My whole body is liability.
His blanket tinted awkwardly. Bathroom, go outside.
The air was sharp and clean. The tendring trees glowed
softly, fruit glinting like stars above.
The sky was endless and bright was the real ones.
The breeze carried the orchard scent, sweet and alive.
He stared at the trees, at the moon's path across the sky.
I want this, I really want this. His breast fogged in the cool
air. Damn it.
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Thanks for listening. We'll see you beneath the
tangerine trees. Beneath the tangerine trees.