Han's Room: A Short Story

A mere few steps to Han’s bedroom successfully rids Luke of what solace he’s managed to gather. Luke assumes the role of a moving statue, every stomp over Han’s wooden floors rattle his very foundation, quaking the core of he is and what he’s becoming. A lonelier man. A heartbroken man. A bastard—right, that he is. Because Han isn’t the only one at fault here. Notwithstanding the fact Luke hadn’t known, it doesn’t change the fact that Luke has spent more time in Han’s bed, in Han’s arms, than he’s been in his own apartment for the past two, three months or so. Luke hits a full stop in the middle of Han’s bedroom, wide-eyed and panting as he stares down at his own two feet. Has it really been so long since they’ve been together now? Naturally, they’ve never been labeled as anything
F-ck— f-ck! How did this get this bad? Now, he has to face his sister, confess all that he’s done behind her back—with the man that she loves, no less! Adding more and more pressure, Luke continues to rub along the nape of his neck, losing himself in his thoughts up to the pungent taste of copper flooding his mouth. Guided back to reality by his slight startle, Luke pulls his hand from his mouth to study a cracked and raised now. Luke swipes a single finger over the nail, the glassy pad of his index runs along slick, smooth flesh, trailing lower. Luke removes his finger and studies the running bead of red, amazed at the simple, split-second loss of control, and what was the result of it. Fright seizes hold of his stomach, folding, and tossing and seemingly fixed to induce him into vomiting— Long overdue, Luke inhales sharply when he realizes that Han has taken a hold of his wrist. As though branded by Han's bare touch, Luke instinctively jerks his wrist back, regardless of whether or not he could feel anything in his prosthetic