Beneath the tendrin trees Chapter 1 mid November on Jeju Island hovered in a gorgeous in between, autumn's warms hadn't quite faded. Winter's chill hadn't quite arrived. The mornings lingered with golden light and a tender hush. There sat an orchard of tangled tendrin trees, branches heavy with ripe fruit. Sunlight filtered through leaves, turning everything in touch slightly magical, like a fond memory come to life. The only sounds were bird songs. Under the trees, two boys stood,
breathing in unison. Their eyes were closed, 4 heads almost touching. The world seemed to lean closer with them. Without a warning, they kissed. Slow, soft, trembling, like a sunrise breaking through memory. Eugene didn't move. He knew this moment held more than nostalgia. It was alive with possibility. Then Han pressed forward just enough, lips barely brushing. In the blink of an eyelid, it vanished. Eugene opened his eye to not Han, but a tangerine smushed
gently against his lips. Eugene lay on the wooden floor, wrapped in a blanket. Hun stepped inside, crate in hand, towel folded over his arm. His eyes met Eugene's, still holding the tangerine. A moment of perfect stillness passed before Hans said nothing and just waited. Eugene. Eugene jolted awake, instinctively yanking the blanket up his shoulders. The tangerine dragged clumsily across his cheek before dropping with a quiet thought. A few more rolled away under
foot, disturbed by the motion. Somewhere beside him, the crate hit the floor with a soft clatter. Hun stood in the doorway, arms at his sides, watching. His expression remained unreadable, neither amused nor alarmed, just quietly observing as if trying to decide whether to say something or simply leave Eugene to his citrus induced shame. Eugene blinked rapidly, struggling to Orient himself, and then muttered under his breath. I was dreaming.
The silence hung, made heavier by his own awareness. It didn't help that Hun hadn't looked away once. Eugene could fill every second pass. Hun didn't laugh, he didn't tease. He just stood there. Eugene sank a little lower into the blanket. He felt ridiculous, embarrassed, and very much awake now. Hans's lips finally curved just slightly into a lopsided half smile. Damn, didn't know Tangerines were your type.
Eugene froze, clutching the blanket with one hand and the poor innocent tangerine with the other, as though either could shield him from what had just happened. For a second, he stared down at the fruit. It was perfectly round. It really had been a beautiful tangerine. Han gave the softest, shortest chuckle, just enough to break the tension. Not mockery. Something else, something gentler. Eugene, despite himself.
Breeze. The next time Han appeared, he brought a dessert, just placed it on the table with both hands, his expression quietly proud. A soft hollow of light hit the glaze just right, casting a gentle Sheen over the tangerine top tart. Eugene blinked. The gesture said more than words. Hun had made something for him without asking. He didn't know what to say, so he didn't. Instead, he picked up the fork, studied the glossy surface, took a bite. At first there was nothing.
Then a jolt. His eyes flew open, the spoon dropped with a faint clatter. He sat frozen in horror, like his taste buds had just stage of rebellion. A sharp, briny confusion spread across his tongue. Across the table, Hun looked up. A pause. Then he frowned, picked up the small container from the prep tray, turned it in his hand, and visibly paled. He pressed his palm to his forehead with a soft, regretful thud and mistook salt for sugar. Eugene didn't respond, not right
away. Stunned by the chaos on his tongue, Hun quietly slid a glass of orange juice toward him. Eugene accepted the glass like a peace offering. The juice was cold, bright, almost cleansing. Hun watched him cautiously. There was a beat of silence between them, awkward, amused, and a little tender in spite of everything. You OK? Eugene blinked once, then nodded slowly. Han winced again, but he didn't offer excuses, only a quiet promise as he leaned back with a smile.
I'll make it sweeter next time. Later that evening, the desert incident was already half forgotten, buried on the awkward cleanup and Hun's quiet apology. Eugene lay stiffy on their own blanket, determined to sleep. But the tangerine wasn't the only surprise of the day. The room was barely wide enough to hold them. A pair of floor beds, 2 bodies, no space in between, and too much lingering awkwardness from the earlier assault catastrophe to argue about sleeping
arrangements. So there they lay, parallel, close, separate. In theory but not in practice. Then, barely a whisper of movement. Something brushed against Eugene's foot. A toe. Hans. Just a small nudge under the edge of the blankets, no real contact, no weight, but enough. Eugene's breast caught. He stayed still, couldn't help it. The air thickened, not with meaning, but it was accidental tension. Beside him, Han was still probably asleep, breezing slow, unaware of the minor panic now
overtaking the foot he touched. Eugene tried to shift slightly to Createspace, but the bedding wore too close. Every small adjustment risked more contact. Then, without warning, Hun shifted again, half rolling in his sleep, his arm draped across the narrow gap. Not over Eugene, not quite, just resting beside him, a hair breath away. No one spoke of it the next morning, but the silence between them carried new weight. Not heavy, not romantic, just dense.
Something had changed. Not much, just enough to notice and enough to ignore. Eugene stood among the trees, half focused, a tangerine in one hand. Sunlight dappled through the leaves. The orchard smells sweet and earthy, like something alive and ripening. Then something hit his shoulder. He flinched. A curl of Tendrin peal slid down his shirt and lended at his feet. He turned. Hun stood a few pieces away, chewing casually, hands sticky with citrus.
No apology, just a faint smirk, the kind that hovered between teasing and harmless mischief. For a moment, Eugene stared. Then he reacted without thinking, without breath. He grabbed the tangerine from the crate beside him and hurled it straight at Han's chest. Han froze mid shoe juice splattered across his shirt. Bits of pulp clung to his chin. For one perfect second, the orchard felt completely silent. Eugene's arm hung limp at his side.
His face betrayed nothing. His soul had already left his body. Han blinked once, then calmly wiped his face with the back of his hand. A breeze rustled through the leaves. Neither of them laughed, not yet, but Eugene's lips twitched. Then Hans did too. It wasn't just citrus that had broken. Something else has cracked open between them, something warmer. The orchard held its breasts, and from between the trees a single tangerine rolled gently
to a stop near Hans foot. He looked down, then, without breaking eye contact, he bent to pick it out, weighed in his palm, rolled it once between his fingers, and hurled it back. Direct it. Eugene staggered half a step, clutching his shirt in theatrical disbelief. The orchard fell still, as if the trees were watching. Hunt shrugged, And in that ridiculous silence, whatever it was had officially begun. Days passed.
They kept to their routines, sorting crates, sharing shade, pretending neither had ever weaponized the tangerine. Things were civil, which was fine, until Han brought out dessert again with confidence. It was mid afternoon when Han placed a plate on the courtyard table. No dramatic reveal, just quiet confidence. Eugene sat across from him, folk already lifted by a habit. The desert was small, delicate, carefully plated.
A citrus glaze caught the light. Eugene took a bite, then paused, fork still raised, chew frozen in mid motion, eyes narrowing slightly, not in judgment but in dawn and confusion. He swallowed slowly, then reached the off screen and returned, holding Ajeju tangerine. He placed the tangerine beside the desert. Silent accusation, No words, just that Hun blinked, still smiling. Then the silence broke. You used orange, A beet, you dumb fool. And you call yourself a paticier?
He tapped the tangerine lightly against the side of the plate. Not hard, just enough to make a point. Hun, look from the fruit to Eugene and back again, like he'd been caught in some unspoken culinary betrayal. No one laughed that evening. The kitchen was quieter, no desserts, no dramatic notes. But when Eugene walked out of the orchard an hour later, Han was there, pecking crates, and on the step beside him, someone had left the tangerine.
Not just any tangerine. A Jeju tangerine, bright, perfectly round, a tiny heart drone on the peel and pen. Han looked at it for a long time before picking it up, and Han stood with the tangerine in his hand, unsure if he'd just been forgiven or invited to try again. Days blurred again. Then one morning, Eugene found something. It wasn't just dessert. It felt intentional. And a note. No salt, no orange. This was the third attempt, and
maybe the most sincere. He sat down, lifted the cloth, and found the citrus dessert. Glossy, layered, delicate. He picked up the fork and took a bite. The dessert was light, sweet and balanced, and for the first time, perfect. Eugene sat still, fork in hand, smiled, talking at the corner of his mouth. Not because of the desert, but because this time, Hunt had
gotten it right. Two days passed, and then, on a morning warm enough to feel like a spring was cheating its way into late autumn, Eugene found himself holding the base of a wooden ladder. The ladder wasn't stable, not really, but Hunt didn't seem concerned. He was already near the top, reaching confidently toward Tangerine that swayed just out of arm's length. Eugene stood below, gripping the sides of the ladder, more for something to do than for support.
His eyes flicked upwards. They stayed there a beat too long. The light broke through the trees, scattering gold across Hans's shirt, his hair, the fruit above him. Everything about the moment felt too quiet. Then it broke. Hun reached just a bit too far. A branch shifted. The ladder wobbled. He let go to catch the fruit. The ladder tipped. Eugene moved without thinking. There was no time to shout, no time to step back. Just a soft thought. Han landed against him, chest to
chest. The impact was light, but their faces were close, too close. Lips brushed, not on purpose, not even entirely aligned, but enough. Both froze. Eugene's heart stuttered. Han didn't move, didn't laugh, didn't flinch. He simply stayed still. A long second passed, then they tip sideways and collapse into the grass, not speaking, shoulders barely touching. Eugene stared straight up, color rising in his cheeks. Han remained exactly where he landed, like nothing unusual had happened.
Minutes passed in silence, then Hans's hand moved just slightly. Fingers brushed against Eugene's, then curled around them, and Eugene didn't pull away. I know you wanted a perfect moment, Hans said. There was no reply. There didn't need to be. The moment wasn't perfect, but it was theirs. And in the quiet beneath the tendering trees, something shifted. It didn't shout, it didn't shine, but it was there, beneath the tendering trees.
Chapter 2. The gravel crunched beneath Han's shoes as he walked up the orchard path. A month before everything spiraled 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, Han 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. Han slowed 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. Hunt 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 LED 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 high, 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 sleeve 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 Hunt, swallowed hard, and forced his feet to move. By midmorning, 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 lowered, hung 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 pass 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. Tendrance shifted inside a soft chorus of hollow knocks. The crate tipped gravity. One 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. Han 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. Hun stood there, halfway between insulted and rattled. His pulse raced 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. Han 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 hazed 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. Hans'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, Hon 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 Press caught his thumb, hovered 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 tan. 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.
Hunt froze, thumb midair. Eugene stepped closer, head tilting slightly as he looked at the past frame, the perfect caramel glaze glinting in the light. You 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. Han 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. Beneath the tangerine trees. Chapter 3 There's a strange kind of quiet that settles when two people live side by side but don't know what to make of each other in the orchard. Days pass in routine crates, meals, shared space, conversation stay shallow, silence stretch longer than they should and glances they start to
mean more than words. Eugene hadn't expected to care. Han wasn't trying to be noticed, but sometimes noticing isn't a choice. This chapter take place before anything was said out loud. No kiss, no questions, just tension. It was early October on Jeju Island when the morning started, cool but ripened fast under our golden sun. The trees hadn't lost their summer weight yet, and neither had the orchard boys.
Two weeks into harvest and Eugene had already memorized the rhythm of the place, the way the crates felt heavier after lunch, how the sunlight caught the trees just before noon, how the house creeped even when no one moved, and how Hans stared. At first, Eugene thought he was imagining it, The way Hans gaze flicked over, not with worms, not with interest, but something sharp, like Eugene was a word that didn't translate well.
A sound out of two. It happened often enough to register, but not often enough to confront. Once, while brushing a fallen leaf from a crate lid, Eugene glanced up and caught it. That look, Steady, quiet, focused. Hans's expression was unreadable. Not mean, not kind, just something. And then, as if caught doing something indecent, Han looked away. Quick, smooth, like it had never happened. Eugene blinked, a little unsettled. He wasn't doing anything weird, was he?
He tugged at the hem of his shirt, wiped the sweat from his neck, and moved on. But now he noticed more. How Han never stared at anyone else that way, How his eye seems to land just a little too long on Eugene's hand when he peeled fruit. How his silence always arrived one beat too late, like he had to edit something before
speaking. Eugene found himself watching back, unintentionally at first, and one morning, when Hans gaze met his mid sip of orange juice, Eugene looked away first, fast, clumsy. The glass clinked awkwardly against his teeth. Hunt didn't flinch, just tilted his head slightly, like he'd been waiting for something ridiculous to happen. You always drink like you're under surveillance. Eugene wiped his mouse, keeping his tone even. Didn't know I was being watched.
Hun gave the faintest shrug, eyes on the horizon. Wasn't watching. You're just loud. There was no heat in it, just observation. That's time, he thought. Cool, detached, mightily. Irritating. Definitely not interested. I was overthinking it. He reached for another slice of fruit. When he looked back up, Han was already gone. Eugene stayed seated, eyes trailing the rim of his cup. Then a knock at the gate. 3 short taps. Not urgent, just official.
He opened the gate to the mailman's familiar silhouette. A nod, a brown envelope, a quiet goodbye. The seal on the front was easy to recognize, too easy. He didn't open it right away. He walked inside, sat at the table, let it sit in front of him. Eventually, he opened it. One page, clean folds, clear ink. Mandatory Army duty 3 months from now. Report by Midwinter. No surprise, no drama, just facts. Still, it hit harder than expected.
Not because he didn't know it was coming, but because now, here, in this place, it felt suddenly real. The letter sat on the table. His hands sat beside it. He stared down at both. Two years, he thought. Two years of mournings without orchard breeze, without Jeju soil in his nails. He folded the paper once, then again. Outside, the back door slammed. Eugene, what are you doing in there? Building a shrine. We got crates waiting. Eugene didn't answer the sound of approaching Boots.
He slid the letter into his lap. The kitchen door opened. Hun stood in the doorway. If you're hiding from the sun, I'm not dragging your body up that hill. Then Hunt saw the paper and Eugene's face. Something shifted, just slightly. What's that? Eugene didn't look up right away. Call up. Notice mandatory army duty. A pause. Three months is. Hunt didn't speak, didn't move, didn't joke. Then you're going to die out there. Eugene let out a half a breath,
part laugh, part something else. Guess I'll have to toughen up. Hun turned, grabbed a bottle from the counter, didn't look back. Be ready at sunrise. Restart running the door. Creed shut behind him. Eugene said alone, the paper still warm from his hands. Eugene barely stirred when the floor bed beside him shifted. Then wake up. A pause. It's not even laid out, that's the point. Shoes. 10 minutes. Unless you want to collapse on day one and die from humility. Eugene cracked one eye open.
Han was already dressed to run. The man was unknowingly prepared. They met at the edge of the farm pass just as the first light turned the horizon. Soft gold. Jeju's old Stonewall passes stretched her head, lined with black volcanic rock built to guide the wind and break it at once. Khan ran her head with ease, only slowing when Eugene's steps got too racked to ignore, then, to Eugene's surprise, slowed his
pace just a bit. At the top of the hill, a break in the stone revealed the sea, morning light flickering off the tide like someone had scattered silver leaves across the waves. Hun stopped, tossed his water bottle aside, reached for his shirt and peeled it off, No hesitation, just off and over. Eugene caught it in the corner of his vision, and then fully. The light hit Han's back like something intentional. Broad shoulders, tanned skin. Eugene looked away, and then
looked back. Then, almost without thinking, he tucked off his own shirt. By the time he realized what he'd done, Han had already turned halfway toward him. Their eyes didn't quite meet, but something in Han's expression paused. Not smirking, not teasing. Just paused then, like nothing happened. Hun looked back to the sea. Eugene stood there, sweaty, shirtless, unsure why his heart was suddenly louder than his
footsteps. The sea stretched wide and blew, framed by the uneven ridges of Jeju's coast. Neither said anything at first. Eugene bent forward, hands on his knees. Long, spurning. Hun stood beside him. Then Hun pulled out his water bottle. Took a slow drink, turned and wordlessly held it out. Eugene blinked, then took it. Their fingers didn't touch, but the closeness sparked something anyway. He drank too fast and wiped his mouse on the back of his hand. You didn't throw out impressive.
Hans smirked, the kind that never stayed long enough to read fully. Eugene bent again, catching his breath, dust on his legs, sweat on his brow. Then Hunt said. Come on, keep moving, cool down, walk or your legs will lock. You're not mine. Never mind. They started walking again. The orchard was quiet as they re entered, its shade cooler now softer. Hunt tossed him his shirt was out, turning around. Try not to die before breakfast.
Eugene caught it, didn't answer, but when Hunt glanced over his shoulder a moment later, Eugene was still looking at him. Night crept in slowly. The orchard dimmed behind the farmhouse, swallowed by shadow and the hush of insects waking up in the courtyard. String lights buzzed softly overhead. A small grill glowed at its center, small, curling into warm night. Eugene sat cross legged at the table, sleeves rolled. A bottle of soldier opened between them.
Across from him, hand crouched by the grill, tongs in hand, flipping thick slice of juju black pork. The scent was intoxicating. Char, fat, oil. Neither had spoken much, but there was no tension, just anticipation, something too quiet to name. Hunt poured for Eugene first, then himself. They clinked glasses without ceremony. To pain. Hunt said. And protein, Eugene replied. They drank. The pork sizzled. A drop of fat popped onto Hunt's wrist. He hissed, shook it off.
They ate in silence for a while. Meat sauce, garlic, another round port. Then Han was out looking up. You going to talk about it? Eugene paused mid bite, didn't answer. Han didn't push, just reach for the tongues again. Eugene watched the way Han's fingers moved, precise, relaxed, familiar. It was so casual this whole night, it shouldn't have felt loaded, but it did. The third shot hit harder, not enough to blur, just enough to unravel the careful quiet Eugene
carried. Eugene softly said. It's just three months, that's what they all say, Hun replied. The sentence landed flat between them. Eugene laughed, not quite bitter. You sound like a war vet. Mandatory service does that to you a beat. Besides, someone has to teach you to run straight. Eugene rolled his eyes. Consider an emotional prep. Hans smirked. When they finally stood, their plates were empty. The soju bottle was down to its last drops.
Eugene gathered the dishes, hung, grabbed the grill train inside. The kitchen was dim and quiet, just the sound of water and ceramic. Eugene stood at the sink, sponge in hand. They didn't speak, but something in the silence felt more honest than before, like they said everything without really saying anything. The water ran, the sky darkened, and somewhere in that quiet clatter of dishes, Eugene realized he didn't want the night to end. Han set the last dish on the rack, dried, his hands
stretched. Then, as he turned to leave. Tomorrow, 6:00 AM jog. Sleep tight. Eugene stared at the sink. So much for sleeping. Next morning, the Ron had wrecked Eugene's calves. He nearly tripped twice and gasped through half the incline. Han, on the other hand, jogged beside him like it was casual stroll. Now. Stream rolled out of the bathroom.
Han emerged barefoot, tower low around his hips, another draped around his neck like he lived his whole life walking out of showers in front of someone else. Eugene was still toweling sweat off his neck when their eyes met. He looked away instantly. It wasn't about surprise any more. It was about what he noticed now, what he let himself notice. Kitchen's almost empty. I'm going into town. Han said, grabbing his keys. You need anything? Han asked. Eugene didn't answer right away.
I'll be back soon. Then the door clicked shut. Eugene wandered the kitchen with no destination. It was only 10 minutes later that Eugene realized he hadn't touched his coffee. The silence wasn't peaceful. It was wrong. The room felt like it had been passed. He washed a single cup, sat at the table, peel the tangerine, but didn't eat it. His phone buzzed once. He didn't check. He opened the drawer, closed it, and opened it again. Eugene didn't do anything useful, didn't leave the house,
didn't play music. By the time the screen door finally creaked again, Hun stepped in, winding his hair, sleeves rolled up, face slightly flushed from the breeze. Eugene looked up so fast he nearly dropped the fork in his hand. Hunt didn't comment, just reach into one of the bags and held something out, neatly packed. Kim Bop. You didn't ask, but I figured. Eugene took it without speaking, opened it, ate one piece, shoot slowly. He didn't smile, didn't thank
him. Han moved through the kitchen like he'd never left, unpacking groceries, filling the fridge, humming something tuneless under his breath. Eugene didn't speak, he just watched. It was an attraction, exactly. Not just that, it was the ache of missing someone before they are even gone and realizing how much space they take up even in silence. Han straightened, caught him looking then, very lightly. Hun raised an eyebrow. What, Never seen a man put away
tofu? Eugene blinked, looked down, shoved another GIMP up slice in his mouth. Hun smiled, just a flicker, and returned to the fridge. No more was said, but something between them, quiet, curious, kept unfolding. It started with glances, quick, unspoken, too brief to be anything, too often to mean nothing. A tendron flicked across the courtyard, an arm brushed in the dark. They never talked about any of it, but it was there. Then came the fall. No warning followed by a kiss.
Eugene didn't pull away, and Hunt didn't forget. This is the moment after where silence gets louder and questions begin to take shape. This is beneath the tendering trees. Chapter 4. I tried to ask, I did, just not out loud. The light had changed. It was warmer now, low and angled, cutting across the trees and thin lines. The kind of light that softened things, made even the quiet look like it was glowing. Hun stayed still.
One hand was pressed into the grass beneath him, the other hover just above Eugene's chest, not quite touching now, but close enough to feel the heat of it. He hadn't meant to lend that way, hadn't planned any of it, but his mouth, it had found Eugene's, and Eugene hadn't stopped him. They weren't speaking, not yet, just breathing in the same space. Hun sat back slowly, one movement at a time.
His knee caught on a root and he used it as an excuse to look down, to focus on something other than the space between them. Eugene blinked, still not saying anything. His lips were slightly parted. Hun smiled at him, just barely, and then let the smile faint, Not because he was hiding it, but because it had already done its part. The orchard was still, no wind, just a thick weight of air and the smell of fruit hanging ripe
on the trees. For a moment, nothing moved, Then Eugene stood, brushed off his pants, not rushed, just quiet, composed. Hun stayed sitting a little longer, watching, thinking, then got up to, and before he could change his mind, he reached out and hugged Eugene. No warning, no question, just both arms wrapped, chin to shoulder. Eugene made a sound, startled, half laugh, half protest. Hunt didn't let go right away. He spoke into Eugene's ear, voice low.
Bet you didn't see that coming. Eugene pulled back, hens on Hans chest now, not pushing hard, just creating space. Han grinned. What? He said, eyes bright. I thought it was perfect. Eugene squinted at him, one sharp questioning look, eyes narrowing like a dare. Han winked. Then you kiss me next time. Eugene's expression shifted. He tried not to smile, but he failed. They took the same pass back, but nothing about it felt the
same. The trees stood taller somehow, their shadows longer, their branches fuller. Even the air was different, warmer, closer, as if the space between leaves and skin had narrowed. They didn't talk. They didn't need to. Each step felt like it belonged to a moment just before thought, and neither wanted to be the one to break it. Han walked half a pace lower, not falling behind, just matching, adjusting. His eyes flicked to Eugene's hand once, then again. It moved easily at his side,
fingers curling and loosening. Was each step the kind of swing that invited but didn't ask? Han didn't take it. He just let the thought linger between one breath and the next. They passed the stretch of trees where the ground dipped slightly, a familiar bend. Earlier they rushed through it, laughing, pretending to race. Now their steps quieted. Somewhere, a bird called once, then stopped. A few leaves trembled above them.
The crates were gone, only flattened grass remained, and the single tendrin peel half curled like a coma. Eugene didn't look at it. He was looking forward, not far, not fixed, just forward and slowed near the road. The sun had dropped below the canopy now, casting the sky in a cool lavender haze. Not quite twilight, not yet. They reached the open dirt where the trees gave way to the world again. The road ahead was empty, quiet even. The wind had softened.
Hunt turned slightly and asked. You want to go to the beach tomorrow? No answers right away, then? Eugene replied. Sounds good. And a half smile, quick and crooked before it disappeared. Their arms brushed, A subtle press, not firm, not fleeting. No reaction, no pulling away. The silence between them wasn't heavy, it was full, like something had landed and neither of them wanted to set it down just yet. The morning air had shifted warmer, less shy.
The kind of morning that hummed was something unspoken, like even the trees knew where the day was heading and had been out for a while. He checked the sun twice, refilled his water bottle. He lingered outside the bathroom door, leaned against the wall, then tapped lightly. You alive in there, from inside? Eugene's voice still low and half asleep. Just a few more minutes. Hun sighed, but smiled to himself. He peeled a small tangerine from the kitchen bowl, juice sticking
slightly to his fingers. Behind the door, water shutting off a drawer, sliding. Then silence. Finally, Eugene emerged, hair damp, shirt half buttoned. I forgot my swimsuit, he said flatly. Hun blinked. Seriously. Eugene shrugged. It's probably in my laundry bag. I'll find it, just wait. He turned towards the bats. Hun tossed the tangerine peel in the bin. He waited and waited, shifted his weight, patted his pockets, counted to 10 twice. Still no Eugene.
Finally, Hunt crossed the room, stepped close and gently took Eugene's wrist. Let's go. Eugene looked up once. Alkathon and deep in a duffel. You can swim in your shorts, he said, grinning. Or don't, we'll match. Eugene stared at him. What? It's not like I haven't seen yours. Eugene now caught somewhere between tired, surprised, and amused. Then he laughed. OK, just my socks. Promise. Just one minute. After quiet moments and hesitant preparation, they left the cabin
behind. The path toward Jiang NI Beach stretched before them, a gentle invitation to something new. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of salt and pie Between them, unspoken words hovered lightly, carried away by the breeze. The water was muted blue, Gray, gentle waves curling lazily beneath the low sky, heavy with soft clouds. Eugene walked ahead. Hun followed a few steps behind, trying to catch the subtle curve of Eugene's neck beneath tousled hair.
Han's eyes lingered on Eugene's longer than he meant to. Suddenly, Eugene stopped and jabbed Han's arm lightly. You're looking at me too much, he said, scanning the quiet shore. People's eyes are here, you know. Hun blinked, a little caught off guard. The words were teasing, but beneath them lay something softer, something that made Han feel exposed. Eugene's grin softened. You embarrassed? Han forced a smile.
Eugene nudged him gently. They stepped closer to the water's edge, where pebbles glistened damply under the muted light. Han inhaled deeply, steadying himself. Aim at the cool hush and distant waves. Eugene glanced over. Their eyes met. Stillness stretched between them. No words needed. Hun shifted beside Eugene, the damp sand cool beneath their feet. His heart was steady but loud in his chest. He wanted to say the words, the one that might change everything.
He looked at Eugene, eyes searching. The moment hung on the edge of a breath. A bright splash of colour bounced nearby. A beach ball slipped from a child's grasp and rolled toward them. The child shouted, feet pounding on sand as he chased after it. Hun blinked. Eugene smiled, watching the chase. The moment shattered like a wave, pulling back. Hun hesitated, swallowed. The moment broke.
The question remained unspoken. Near the edge of the shore, they slipped into a small beach side eatery, wooden table worn by salt air and countless meals. They sat close to a window, sunlight filtering through fishing Nets and drying squid hung overhead. A steaming bowl of seaweed soup was set before each of them. Rich. Salty. Flecked with tender stripes of seaweed and tofu, Hun stirred his seaweed soup, stealing glances at Eugene. The words were there, just
beneath the surface. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. Before he could try again, the shop's old lady approached Eugene. How's the family farm during these days? She said warmly, hence folded. Eugene smiled politely, shrugging, keeping busy as always. Han smiled awkwardly, words still caught. The lady nodded knowingly, then she left them, leaving a gentle
quiet in her wake. Han tried again, voiced low so about earlier, but Eugene shook his head slightly, a quiet signal to hold off after their quiet lunch. By the sea, the sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows over the sand. Nearby, the farms old pickup truck waited. Hung climbed into the driver's seat, Eugene sliding in beside him. The drive back was calm and steady. The quiet between them wasn't uncomfortable, just familiar and slow, like the afternoon light fading around them.
Hung glanced over, gathering courage. Hey. Before Hung could finish, Eugene reached out, flicked on the radio. This is my favorite. Eugene said softly. The intro of tangerine pop pulsed gently. Han smiled, letting the music speak for him. When they reached the farm, the sun based the tangerine trees in a soft golden glow. Han pushed open the barn door, inhaling the warm earthy scent inside. Eugene followed closely, ready to finish the day's work. The sun had slipped behind the hills.
The orchard softened into shadows. Hung kicked off his shoes by the door. Eugene followed quietly, settling near the bed. The room held the quiet. They hadn't spoken all day, and in that silence, everything waited. They washed up quietly, cool water on their hands, the faint scrape of towels. Han caught Eugene's reflection in the mirror for a moment, No words, just a shared look. The bedroom was dim. Only a silver of moonlight spilled through the window, tracing patterns across wooden
floor. Han and Eugene sat side by side at the edge of the bed, not touching, not speaking, just breathing. The quiet stretched. Han's gaze flicked to Eugene's, catching the way his shoulder rose and fell with each breath. He wanted to reach out, to ask the question that lingered like a whisper in the dark, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, Han shifted closer, just enough for Eugene to notice. Their knees brushed. Eugene's eyes met Hans. A slow smile traced Eugene's lips.
Han returned it. The night held them softly, a moment suspended between what was said and what was waiting to be. Hun took a breath, gathering courage. Are we boyfriends? He asked, voice barely above a whisper. Eugene looked at him. Are you steady and warm? Yeah, but you know, in one months, he said. I know, Han replied. No more words were needed. Han leaned in, their lips meeting in a soft, deliberate kiss. When they parted, Han smiled.
He reached over and flicked off the bedside lamp. Now, let's get to the fun part. In the orchard of Jeju, Eugene and Han circled each other for weeks, teasing, arguing, hiding more than they've said. Until one night, a fall into the grass, a kiss that left no room for doubt. In the quiet confession they both been holding back, they had found each other, and in the hush that followed, the orchard seemed to breeze with them. The Tangerines hung heavy on
their branches. Days unfolded in the rhythms they didn't rush to change, and nights that ended closer than they began. But somewhere beneath the worms, both of them knew this couldn't last forever. This is Beneath the Tangerine Trees, Chapter 5 One Month to sunrise. The orchard didn't look different. Same rows, same trees, same cold breath of morning air rolling in from the sea. But the way they moved in it, that had changed at first. Not unless you are watching closely.
Not unless you've been here before the fall. Before the kiss. Hun was already in the row Eugene had started, sleeves rolled neatly, his shoulder shifting with each lift off a crate. Eugene slowed without meaning to. You're going to wrap your back, lifting them like that. Hung glanced over his shoulder, smirk small but certain. Worried about me? Eugene plucked the tangerine, turning it in his hand before dropping it into his crate.
Worried about having to explain why you're suddenly useless? They work without hurrying. Eugene reaching high. Hun crouching low, crates filling between them. Every so often, their hands brushed when passing fruits across. Neither pulled away. At the end of the row, they stopped to swap out full crates for empties. Footstep crunch on the dirt pass. Eugene's father appeared at the turn of the row. A cat pulled low, gloves tucked in his back pocket. He paused, looking between them.
Not long, but long enough. Getting along better these days. He said it simply, but his. Eyes lingered. On Eugene's subtraction longer before moving past them to the next row. Boots crunching, no more words. Eugene reached for another tangerine. But when he. Glanced up. Han was watching him. Han gave the smallest wink. Eugene shook his head, but the corner of his mouse betrayed him. The silence between them carried more now, and neither of them seemed in a hurry to put it
down. They kept moving down the next row, side by side now, their steps falling into the same rhythm. The orchard already knew, and maybe so did Eugene's father. The orchard rested when the rain moved in, just a house that sounded larger than usual, and the morning that didn't insist on hurry. Hun rolled his sleeves and began setting ingredients on the counter in Negroes, flour, sugar, eggs, butter.
Eugene stood in the doorway, hair still damp from a quick rinse, watching the small, careful odor take shape, Measuring grams. Hun said, not looking up. Eugene stepped closer, the window fogging slightly with kitchen heat. The scent arrived before the cool did, sharp sweet citrus rising through the room, warming the edges of the rain. Han worked by feel and fraction.
Eugene learned by. Watching how the butter disappeared into the flour, how zest lifted the bowl when it should have made it heavy, how quiet made the kitchen larger. He asked, not loudly, why Han kept doing this. Han didn't answer with numbers. He said, almost in passing, that one day he wanted to open a dessert shop, something small, maybe built around tangerine. The words were light, but they stayed, and Eugene found himself picturing it before he could
stop. The air carrying citrus and sugar, the front window glowing in light, Hunt behind the counter, dusted with flour. It wasn't much, just an image, but it felt like it belonged somewhere. Hunt didn't say the rest until the crust went. Into the tin. The tart took the oven like it belonged there. While it baked. The kitchen held there quite easily. Spoons tapped dry, a cup sat down when the timer gave it small permission, Hun cut a slice before the glaze could
decide to shine or settle. The scent rose quick and bright against the rain. You taste first. Eugene said, voice low enough to blur into the kitchen. Hum, I'm not throwing up again. Han's shoulder shook once in a silent laugh. Then he gave a quick overdone, gagging. Eugene's eyes narrowed, but the faintest smile pulled through. Footstep crossed the hall. Eugene's father appeared in the doorway without a word. He picked up the fork, took a bite, and set it back down.
You good? He said simply. Han's eyes found Eugene's, a small, slow mousing off. See, I'm good. Eugene's father didn't leave right away. His eyes moved once between them again, unreadable, before landing on the window where the rain had begun to thin. I've got to head out near Sangsan tomorrow, he said after a moment. If you boys need a ride, I can drop you guys off. Early. The words were casual, but they carried more weight than they needed to.
Then he turned and left, the sound of his boots fading down the hall. Eugene only. Smooths the edge of the plate with one fingertip. Han smile stayed, but his voice softened. Do you think he knows? Eugene didn't look up. He knows the orchard. Outside, the rain softened. Inside, the kitchen kept its warms a little longer than it needed to. Next early morning, the world. Outside was still somewhere. Between night and day, Eugene's father was already behind the wheel, a thermal's balance
against his knee. Hun slid into the backseat. With a quiet morning, Eugene took the passenger side. Eugene's father glanced once in the mirror, then back to the road. By the time they reached the eastern side of the island, the air had changed. They stepped out into the cold, their breasts moving ahead of them. Tourists came for the sunrise. Fishermen came to read the weather from its shadow. This morning, it was just stairs. I'll be back in two hours, Eugene.
'S father said. And drove off without waiting for an answer. They stood for a moment. Watching the tail lights. Fade into the curve of the road, then. Han tilted his head toward the rise. Well, he said, voice low and amused. You wanted a date? Eugene didn't answer, but the corner of his mouse gave him away. The climb began slow, the sea falling in and out of view between the railings. Every turn brought a wider reach of horizon.
Hun moved easily, stopping only when Eugene slowed, nearly saying hurry but somehow setting a pace that kept them together by the time they reached the top. The light had found them. Warm against chilled skin, Hun stood a little head, his hair lifting in the wind, the early sun pulling gold out of his profile. Eugene watched him longer than the view. I only have less than a month now. Hunt didn't turn, but his shoulder shifted, the kind of movement that wasn't from the wind.
I know, he said quietly, then, after a beat that might have been a held breath. 23 days. The number set between them like something placed carefully on the rail. Not heavy enough to break it, not light enough to ignore. Eugene let out a short, dry breath that wasn't quite a laugh. You counted. Hun Finally looked over. I steady in the light. I started counting the day you got the ladder. Neither of them moved to close the space, but the air between
did something different now. Tighter, warmer, The kind that made me even harder to imagine. They stayed there until the sun climbed higher, until the boats below had turned from silhouettes to collar, until the quiet felt like it had said what it needed to. On the way down, they passed a small group just starting their climb. Bright jackets, cameras ready, the kind of early ambition tourist wore. Hun nodded to them, then glanced at Eugene. Funny thing, he said.
Some people come here just once, like it's a box to check. And you? Eugene asked. I think you come here when you wanted to remember something. Eugene looked ahead at the trail, the sunlight pulling gold out of the wet railings. 23 days is a lot of time, Hunt said. We could make a lot of memories. Eugene smiles, curved. Then we. Better start. That night, the house had the kind of. Silence that remembers. The day, but doesn't repeat it.
Eugene sat at the desk, chair angled half toward the bed. A book rested face down across his thigh, spine tilted like it might slip if he forgot about it. A tangerine sat near his elbow, skin dull now but still holding something off. The morning swarms on the floor. Bed Hun lay crosswise, head toward the foot, quilt twisted under his shoulder, one knee bent, his heel hooked lightly
over the mattress. His hand reached for the night stand drawer, sliding it open with the careful sound of not waking anyone from it. He pulled a folded scrap of paper and a pencil. Then he started writing. One word, a pause. We should make a list, Hun said, For all the things we can do before you go. The pencil kept moving, small block letters filling uneven lines. Jog every morning. Kiss before sleep. Bake once more before the season ends. See the lonely rock.
Learn to make each other's favorite. Drink one day without our phones. Get lost on purpose. Eat something neither of us can pronounce. Eugene leaned an arm on the desk. Maybe check out nearby dessert shops? You could study. Them. Hun looked up, a quiet thank you in his eyes, but shook his head. That's for mindless. This he tapped. The paper is for yours. The next lines curved toward mischief showered together. Sleep in until noon at least once.
Make a tart at midnight and eat the whole thing. Dance in the kitchen with no music. Swap shirts for a day by the time hunt. Set the pencil down. The list has. Shifted from tidy columns to little cluster of thoughts, he printed one last line in a thicker strokes Make Love 2 firm underlines. Then in small letters. Just below tonight. He glanced out from the page, the pencil still resting between his fingers.
His gaze met Eugene's, holding just a moment longer than necessary, the kind of look that carried its own there. A faint tilt of his head, And Hans said Every day. Eugene's hand moved without thinking, flicking the nearest pillar across the short distance. It landed against Hans's shoulder with a soft thought. Hunscreen widened. The pencil moved again, adding three quick words under the last line.
Much as we can. Eugene shook his head, but the small crease at the corner of his mouse gave him away. Neither of them reached for the paper again. The list stayed where it was. Hun shifted first, pushing himself upright, the quilt folding in soft ways behind him. He didn't rush, just crossed the short space until Eugene. Had no reason to. Stay seated. When Eugene stood, the chair turned a fraction more toward the desk, as if covering for them.
The list lost its place on the bed, slipping down to the floor. The words waded there, folded in the night. 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 tarts.
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 breath is 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 wet with last night's rain, and the mist clung long along the rows. Han 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. A laugh, 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. Hunt 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. Hunt tipped the dipper. Water spread across dark strands, over the curve of his neck, through fabric already clinging to skin. He made a small sound, half spotter, half Lough. Hunt 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 a wash, it was a fight. Eugene's hand shot out, caught the Dipper, sent water spilling in return, hunblinked 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 stain just closer. They stayed wrapped in towels, skin still.
Cooling from the. Wash the room smelt of them clothes and soaked the air thick was steamed that hadn't yet settled. Eugene reached first, his towel pressed lightly to Hans's hair, rougher than it needed to be, but careful all the same. Hun 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 Hans'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. Hun 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, muddling 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 clothes, in orange instead. Shirts knog at the chest, briefs too bright to belong to him. Eugene stopped at 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. Hun 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. Hun 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, swap clothes for they. Eugene stayed by the door, wearing Hans things. The polo hung loose Hans and clung faint at the collar, watching Han and his 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 zeitress cut sharp through the sweetness, scooped a spoonful, held it across. The space. Eugene waited a moment too low, 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 mouth 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. Hunt 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, hens caught too tight in his lap, ice fixed on the ground. He had faced the orchard teeth, 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 the hand, felt the 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. Hun stepped around the stool. Close now, close enough that Eugene could feel his Shadow Fall over him. You look cute, Hans 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 at silence. The weaker head. Still waited before that moment, the shame E not gone, not yet, only lighter where Hans lips had been. The orchard gave them two months is 60 mornings to wake to the same light, 60 nights to light close. But even the longest harvest has it sent, and now only five days remain. 5 days to finish their list.
Five days to hold on to what they built. Five days before goodbye becomes real. The orchard has watched them from the first awkward touches, to the first kiss, to every moment that became more than they expected. This is where it all gathers. The last fruit, the last kiss beneath the trees. The last night before parting. This is beneath the tangerine trees. Chapter 7 It was more than a kiss. The morning had barely begun.
The lights were still. Faint, too weak to climb the hills, the room holding onto the night's chill. Eugene was asleep, deeper than he had been in days, one hand curled loose against the pillow, his lips parted slightly, a slow, steady breath slipping out with each rise of his chest. The blanket had pulled half down. Han moved carefully. Around the room, every action measured against the stillness. He bent to pick up his shirt from the chair, lifting it without a scrape.
The floor groaned once beneath him, and he froze, eyes flicking back to Eugene. Nothing. The boy didn't stir. Han slipped out into the washroom water. Splashing sharp. Against his skin, cold enough to steal his breath. Most mornings he would have laced his shoes. After. Jumped. The orchard rose until the sun rose, until his legs ached and the day felt lighter. But not this morning. Today, the run could wait. When Han stepped back inside, the room hadn't changed. Eugene hadn't changed.
Blanket. High lashes start against his skin. Han sat at the edge of the floor, bed, towel tossed aside. He leaned back on his palms and let his gaze linger, piece by piece. The faint hollow in his cheek pressed in by sleep. The way his fingers twitched once, then stilled. The steady curve of his breath, unbothered, unaware, and tried to memorize it, as if staring long enough might carpet into
memory. He thought of all the things he would miss, not the sharp teasing, not even the kisses, but this, the quiet, the ordinary, the proof that someone could rest this close to him and trust the morning to come. He thought back to the first night on the floor bed, Eugene stiff beside him, the space between them wide as a wall. Now there was no space at all, only this steady breathing. Eugene stirred, lashes fluttering, his eyes finally
opening heavy was sleep. They found Han watching him. His voice was low, rough at the edges, but touched was quite amusement as he asked. You watching me sleep? Han smirked, sharp and quick, but the weight in his chest stayed. No. He said lightly, tone cutting like a knife. Just making sure you're still breathing. Eugene gave a small laugh, muffled as he turned on to his side and let the smirk fade. But his eyes didn't move away. For a moment, they only looked at each other.
No words, no sound but the orchard outside, as if even the leaves were waiting. The orchard carried its rhythm, as it always had. Brenches swayed, insects hummed in their hidden places, the scent of peal and earth hung warm in the air, but their movements slowed. Not lazy, not distracted, just slower. As if neither of them wanted to work, to end. A crate sat open at Hunt's speed, half filled.
He leaned against it, rolling a tendrin in his hand, thumb pressing against the skin until the oils clung to him. When he grew restless, he tossed it into the air, caught it with a slap of palm. Up again, down again, the rhythm steady, almost careless. Across from him, Eugene stacked fruit into neat rows. He worked slowly with care, wiping dirt from each one, pausing longer than necessary, as if the ACT itself might buy them more time.
When he straightened, his eyes shifted toward the counter at the edge of the house. The list was there, folded, creased edges soften from weeks of being opened and closed. The ink had blurred where their fingers had smudged it, words written in uneven lines, some bold, some faint. They had made it in laughter, scribbling down moments they thought might never happen, daring themselves to fill it.
Now most of it was marked through eating fruit straight from the branch, baking until the kitchen filled with sugar and peel, staying up until dawn, whispering words they couldn't remember in the morning, and the word kiss written more than once, each marked bolder than the last, as though repetition could pin it to memory. Hung caught the fruit again and tossed it higher this time, grinning at his own carelessness. Looks like we're nearly perfect students. He said, his tone sharp, a grin
flickering across his mouth. Almost the whole list done. Eugene brushed his. Palm against his pants, then reached for the paper. He smoothed it open, eyes tracing down each cross outline until they stop at the bottom. Lonely rock. The words set bare, untouched. No mark through them, no memory attached. He stared at it too long, the silence gathering around him. Then he folded the paper slowly, carefully, as though gentleness might soften what it meant. Let's leave this one out, he
said finally, voice steady. I'm not lonely. Hung caught the tender in mid air and didn't throw it again. His lip twitched, the way they always did when he wanted to cut through heaviness with a joke, but nothing came. The orchard seemed to notice a branch shifted through the air was still. Even the crates felt too loud when the wood cracked under Eugene's touch. Eugene set to fold the page back on the crate. Leaving his hand. There, a moment longer than
needed. His fingers pressed flat, as if holding the words in place might change them. When he pulled away, the silence remained. Han leaned back against the crate, fruit still resting in his palm. He watched Eugene from the corner of his eye, and Eugene was the page still warm in his hand, didn't speak either. It wasn't an empty silence. It wasn't heavy. It was full of what they had said already, and of everything they never would.
The orchard had thinned, rose once, bowed with bright fruit now. Stood lighter. Branches half bare. What clung to them were the strays. Sweet, but not for market, good for juice for jam. Desserts, maybe, but desserts needed someone to eat then, and soon. No one would be here for that. Hun sat down 1/2 filled crate and rubbed the back of his neck, the work abandoned before it was finished. He glanced once at the Rose, then at Eugene, and let a crooked smile curve across his
mouth. Don't worry, Hun, said, voice easy, almost careless. I can't manage the rest. Eugene's lips parted as if to argue, but the words caught. The silence between them already carried too much. They left the tools where they stood, crates half packed, fruits still clinging, the orchard unfinished. Their steps fell into rhythm as they drifted down the path. The grass whispered on. Their foot, the breeze tugged at their sleeves. The scent of citrus hung heavy,
sharp and sweet. Neither spoke, Neither needed to. Both knew where the past LED. It brought them to the same place. Here, beneath the tangerine trees, fruit had scattered into the dirt like marbles. Laughter had broken into surprise. A first kiss had come. Now there was no surprise. Hun stepped closer, slow, certain. No joke in his eyes, the space between them dissolved when his lips met Eugene's. The kiss was unhurried, but not soft.
It carried weight, the warmth of mouses pressing closer, breath caught between them, the ache of something ending even as it deepened. Eugene's hand rose to Han's shoulder, then slid up to the back of his neck, holding him there, not pulling harder, not letting go. Their breath is tangled, the orchard pressing close around them. The air itself seemed to still. When they parted, their foreheads stayed close. Eugene's eyes opened slowly, his voice low, almost pleading.
Once more, Hans's breast caught. A faint laugh escaped him, not sharp, not mocking, but warm and unsteady. And then he kissed him again, this time longer, deeper. The orchards stood around them, still as memory already foaming. Branches swayed once, but no fruits fell. The silence wrapped tight, carrying everything they couldn't say. The orchard slipped behind them, branches bowed and rows of green gave.
Way to the open. Road Hun drove, both hands steady on the wheel, though his chest was not beside him. Eugene's father sat silent, eyes fixed on the stretcher head, his breast deep but uneven in the back. Eugene leaned into the window, his mother beside him, whispering small reminders about the bags, about timing. Her voice was gentle, but the words passed like air. The road wound them out of the fields. Greenhill softened into farmland, then into concrete.
The air lost its sweetness, replaced was heat rising from the road. Eugene shifted once, shoulders brushing the glass. His reflection blinked back at him from the window. He glanced forward at Hans profile, then dropped his gaze again. Hunt didn't look back, but his grip on the wheel tightened from the passenger seat. His father cleared his throat, a sound meant to steady the silence, but it faded as quickly as it came. The city gathered around them,
buildings stacked higher. Signs pointed forward. Departures, arrivals. Han excelled. Once long and low, as if trying not to let it sound, They parked. The car fell quiet, engine ticking as it could. Then doors opened. The noise of the airports built in, wheels clattering, voice echoing, announcements calling out. They crossed the concrete through the sliding glass doors into the white mouse of the terminal. The air smelled of coffee, steel, and fuel.
Every sound echoed, too big, too sharp, swallowing anything small. Han walked at Eugene's side. The checkpoint rose ahead, belts and trays, lines of people, officers waving them through. Here, only three could go forward. Han stopped. His hand tightened on the strap of the back, then fell away. Eugene's father moved first into the line. His mother touched Eugene's arm, murmured something only for him. Eugene turned back. Then he stepped forward and
closed the distance. Hun opened his arm without a word. Eugene pressed into him. The Hulk, rougher, longer than either had meant it to be. Hans's chin touched his hair. Eugene's hand fisted in his shirt. Neither moved, neither let go. Finally, Eugene drew back. A half smile flickered at his lips, heavy but sure. Then almost shy. He lifted a hand in a salute. Crooked, awkward, not quite proper, but it carried weight all the same.
I'll return as a man, he said. His voice wavered, but the words held. Hunt's chest tightened, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouse. Eugene lowered his hand, turned, and followed his parents toward the line. He didn't say goodbye, he didn't need to. He turned. Hunt stood rooted, watching every step. At the screen door, Eugene looked back once. Hunt lifted a hand. Not a wave, just a steady hold
in the air. Eugene answered was the same brief certain, and then the door slid shut between them. Hun drove back alone. The passenger seat was empty now. The road out to the. Airport curved past Glaston Steel, past signs pointing to gates. Traffic closed in. Horns sharpened the air. Block by block, the city loosened. Buildings sent into houses, houses sent into fields. Fields been into hills.
Green returned, the land rolling wider, the orchard waiting beyond it. But the drive felt longer this time. Every mile dragged, every turn pressed slower, as if the road itself didn't want to end. Han's hand stayed tight on the wheel. He kept his eyes forward, never to the side, And he thought, In 10 more days he will be on this road again, not returning to the orchard, not to Eugene, but leaving Jeju behind, back to Seoul. The thought pressed in, heavier
than the silence. The orchard would not wait. For either of them. Months is later, Han was back in Seoul, the city. Pressed around him. Glassed and steel stacked High Street, restless wires cutting the sky into lines. It was nothing like Jeju, nothing like the orchard. He stood at the counter of a narrow post office, the smell of ink and dust around him. The envelope was already sealed, the address written clear. His handwriting looked sharper here, almost too neat.
He dropped the letter into the slot, a soft scrape of paper against metal. Outside, the air was thick with rain. On concrete. Hung carried a folder under his arm. Rent papers, cost sheets, list with numbers and names. He walked quickly, ice forward until he reached the narrow door he had claimed. The shop wasn't much, yet at the centre lay one page. Edges curl from being touched too often, a hand drawn sign with four words beneath the
tendering trees. Huntraced the letter with his thumb, not to smudge them, but to. Ground them. To make the idea feel real beneath his skin, he sat down, the city noise muffled into a low hum outside the glass. Opening a notebook, he flipped through pages filled with receipts, supplier contacts, rent calculations. But at the top of the current page, written darker than anything else, one line anchored everything. Fruit from Eugene's orchard.
He closed the notebook, set the pen aside, and leaned back in the chair. The shop was still empty, but it was enough to keep moving forward. Enough to wait. Three months had passed. Training camp was behind Eugene now. He was posted a rhythm of Army life, present to every hour. Drills, orders, shouts cutting through the air. He was still getting used to it, the weight of the uniform, the way the day stacked without pause. But when they ran, he was less breathless than the others.
The Orchard Rose had trained him. The jog was hung, carving strengths into his legs, air into his chest. He had hated them once. Now he carried them like a secret advantage. On his bunk, Eugene unfolded our letter. The handwriting was sharp, familiar. Han's voice seemed to rise from the page as he read, and for a moment the barracks wall fell farther away. A small smile tugged at him. He folded the letter closed. Then Eugene set the letter aside, leaned back, and closed
his eyes. He thought to himself. So did I get to kiss him? The words caught in his chest. Well, it was more than a kiss, it was a promise. Just 15 more months and we'll start again together. This was Beneath the Tangerine Trees, a story of orchard mornings, of lists written in laughter, of kisses that became promises, and of goodbyes that were never really the end. Han found his way back to Seoul, carrying the orchard into his hands, turning memory into something new.
Eugene carried the orchard in his breath. 15 months is marked not by loneliness, but by the hope of what waited after. And though the orchard grew quiet, their story does not. It lingers in every letter, in every fruit that ripens, in every promise not yet broken. Thank you for listening to this journey.