They had circle each other for weeks, glances, brushes, silence
that said more than words ever did until 1 fall into the grass,
a kiss they couldn't take back and the late night list that
dared to make the days count. 23 days left.
Not enough to hold forever, but enough to hold now.
This chapter is the sound of crossing things off.
Morning jobs and midnight hearts, shirts swapped, laughter
spilling into the orchard. Small rebellions made sweeter
because time is short. And then the scissors, the
haircut every boy dreads, the one that makes leaving real.
Between jokes and quiet breathes, the truths cut closer
than either of them. Plant.
This is beneath the tangerine trees.
Chapter 6. The list lived.
The list began at first light, before the orchard woke, before
the fruit caught the sun. The path was cool, still went
with last night's rain, and the mist clung long along the rows.
Hun moved easily, shoulders loose, pace certain, like the
ground itself belonged to his steps.
Eugene kept close, not trying to win, not willing to fall away,
each breast marked in the air, each exhale visible before
fading back into silence. Han lengthened his stride.
Eugene followed. Not a race, not quite, but the
kind of push that said, I see you, I'm still here.
They didn't speak. Words would have broken it.
Instead, the orchard carried them, branches arched above, dew
falling from leaves with each shake of wind.
Somewhere a gall called once and was gone.
The ground sloped. Hun leaned forward, breast
steady, shirt clinging to his back.
Eugene matched, jaw sat, a quiet sound caught between effort and
something else. Aloof, maybe, or just the sound
of holding on. By the time they reached the
rise beyond the trees, the sun had pulled itself into view, a
pale circle casting long shadows back into the orchard.
They stopped together, hands braced on knees, breasts rising
hard, then softening. No one said first line done.
No one needed to. The orchard knew the list had
begun. After the run came the wash.
Not the kind with steam, not the kind that lingered.
This one was simpler. A basin on the floor, a dipper,
a body bent forward. Hun said it was quicker this
way, the way recruits did it. Forward wash, no time for
comfort. Eugene leaned in, palms on his
knees, hair falling toward the ground.
Hun tipped the dipper. Water spread across dark
strengths, over the curve of his neck, through fabric already
clinging to skin. He made a small sound, half
spotter, half Lough. Hans smirked, but didn't stop.
The dipper tipped again, faster this time, deliberate, playful.
Eugene flinch, turned his head, but not fast enough.
His sleeves caught the spray, his shoulder darkening in
patches. It was no longer awash.
It was a fight. Eugene's hand shot out, caught
the dipper, sent water spilling in return, unblinked at the
shock of it, then laughed, bright, unguarded, the kind that
filled the whole hot. They went back and forth, basin
to dipper, dipper to air, air to floor.
Each splashed louder, each laughed, breaking softer.
The room was drenched in minutes, wall streaked, floor
shining with puddles, closes heavy on skin.
Then it stopped, the dipper empty, The basin nearly drained,
only the sound of water sliding down walls.
Hun lowered the Dipper, his smile still there but smaller
now, something else resting under it.
Want to just do it? Eugene lifted his head, hair
plastered across his face, drops tracing the line off his jaw.
His eyes met Hans. No words, no refusal, only the
shift of silence, pulling them closer than any splash had.
The game had burned itself out, but remained was something
steadier. Bare shoulders, skin warmed
beneath cold water. 2 figures under the same stream, nothing
hidden, nothing rushed. The wash had changed, not army,
not quick, not forgettable. This one would stay, just
closer. They stayed wrapped in towels,
skin still cooling from the wash.
The room smelt of them, clothes and soap.
The air thick was steamed. That hadn't yet settled.
Eugene reached first, his towel pressed lightly to Han's hair,
rougher than it needed to be, but careful.
All the singing. Han bent forward a little,
letting him. His own towel hung loose across
his shoulders, slipping whenever he moved.
For a moment, the slip revealed more than it covered, skin damp,
the curve of a shoulder. The quiet that came was noticing
Eugene didn't say anything. He just kept drying Han's hair
until the towel in his hand was heavier than when he'd begun.
When he moved to the corner, he lifted their clothes, still
dripping from the splash. Give me your towel.
I'll wash these out, too. Han glanced over, 1 brow raised,
but he loosened it. The towel slid from his waist,
dropped into Eugene's hands. For a second, it left him bare.
Eugene held a bundle against his chest.
He just turned for the door, muttling something about
laundry. The room stayed quite after.
Only the soap dripped from the rafters, the faint creak of
floorboards as Han moved. He crossed to the close's chest,
opened it, pulled out a fresh shirt, then paused.
His hand brushed against one that wasn't his, orange bright
even in the dim light. Han smiled to himself, slipping
into the shirt, then reaching for another piece, orange briefs
folded neatly at the bottom. They fit close, too close, but
he didn't mind. Han was already dressed when
Eugene came back, not in his own closes in orange instead.
Shirts now get the chest briefs too bright to belong to him.
Eugene stopped in the doorway, still bare from the laundry.
For a second, the room held still, 1/2 hidden, the other
exposed, nothing left to cover. The silence hung cracked first.
Eugene followed. The sound caught on itself,
awkward and bright, filling the small cabin more than words ever
could. They weren't laughing at each
other, not really, only at how close they already come and how
little there was left to hide. Han reached back into the chest
this time. He pulled out a folded polo, the
pale beige 1, and a clean pair of his own briefs.
He crossed the room slowly, the boards creaking under his steps,
and held them out. No words, just the offering.
Eugene glanced once at the bundle, then at Han.
In his orange, the corner of his mouse lifted, a quiet excel
breaking through again. The trade was never even, not
his shirt, not his skin. But in the silence that
followed, they both knew closer was enough.
Han didn't answer with words. He only set the bundle of
clothes in Eugene's hands, then turned toward the desk.
The list was still there, edges curled, ink pressed heavy from
the night before. He picked up the pen and without
hesitation crossed 3 lines through jog every morning,
showered together, swapped closes for they.
Eugene stayed by the door, wearing Hans things.
The polo hung loose, Hans and clung faint at the collar,
watching Han and Hiss cut the marks straight through the list.
The list wasn't finished, not even close, but three lines gone
meant something more than paper. It meant the morning was already
theirs. The orchard had ended heavy that
day, basket filled, shoulders sore, hence raw from pulling
fruits down. Most of the trees had already
given themselves over. The rest would follow soon.
The season was almost finished. But here, in the small kitchen,
with one lamp and one bowl, the orchard still lingered.
Chocolate whipped thick, zest folded in the fate sting of
citrus cut sharp through the sweetness.
Scooped a spoonful, held it across the space.
Eugene waited a moment too long, then leaned forward, lips
closing around the cold metal. The moose smelted quick, sweet,
bitter, bright with fruit at the end.
He didn't speak, but the corner of his mouse curved just enough.
Hans smirked back, dipped again, this time for himself.
The moose was too good to stop there, too soft, too sweet.
Eugene reached across, dipped his finger into the moose,
lifted it slow to his own lips. The taste was darker this way,
sweeter. The citrus cut sharper.
At the end. He dipped again.
This time he didn't taste it himself.
He held his hand down, fingers raised toward Han.
Han hesitated, just a breath, just a glance at Eugene's eyes,
then leaned in, his lips close around the finger, soft, slow.
The air shifted, still sweet, still bitter, still citrus,
bright, but closer now. When Eugene lowered his hand,
Hunt didn't move back. The space between them was
already gone. What began as sweetness turned
heavier, a kiss that deepened, slow, unrushed, but certain.
The moose would melt. It wouldn't last, but this, this
would stay. The days had slipped away.
What had been weeks was only days now.
Barely a week left the orchard thinning the list.
Thinning was it. The stool sat in the yard.
Hun held the scissors. Eugene lowered himself hence,
caught too tight in his lap, eyes fixed on the ground.
He had faced the orchard heat. He had carried baskets until his
arms gave out. But this, this felt heavier.
The sound was nothing, just metal closing, but it shook
through him all the same. Another snip, another strand,
each one lighter on his head, heavier in his chest.
Eugene shifted once, as if to rise, but Han's hand came to his
shoulders, steady, grounding. No words, only the quiet weight
of his palm. Eugene swallowed hard, a pulse
of Shane already rising for something not yet finished.
Hair slid down his neck, caught against his collar, fell in
small piles at his feet. When it was done, Eugene raised
a hand, felt a cut short, uneven against his fingers.
Not wrong, not bad, just bare. The shame came quick, hot
against his skin. He turned his face away, eyes
fixed anywhere but at Han. Han stepped around the stool,
close now, close enough that Eugene could feel his Shadow
Fall over him. You look cute, Han said.
Eugene shook his head once, but the flush deepened, the shame
pulled tight in his chest until Han bent, pressed his lips to
his forehead, and let them rest there.
The orchard held its silence. The week ahead still waited
before that moment. The shame eased, not gone, not
yet, Only lighter where Han's lips had been.
The list was never about finishing.
It was about the mornings that began in silence, the laughter
that spilled in water, the sweetness of citrus folded into
chocolate. And now a week left.
Haircut. The orchard held them still, but
the end was already near. This was beneath the tendering
trees. Chapter 6.
The list lived. Next time, the last chapter
where the orchard says his final goodbye.
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