He's falling.
He's falling and all he can think of are those damned words curving around his arm, thin black script pulsing along with the last beats of his heart.
He's falling and all he can think of is how much time he would need to see those words again - and if he has enough of it.
He's falling and all he can think of is how much he had hoped, foolishly, that he might hear those words again - for the last time.
It was always one of those things everyone just knew .
There are twenty five hours to a day, three hundred and twenty-nine days to a year, and the writing that appears on your skin are the last words your soulmate will ever say to you.
He'd never thought much of the system, to be honest. Too many worried looks, too many uncertain proposals, too many tears shed when, if, someone finds out they were wrong.
Stupid, he'd think, as he helped himself to the contents in the pockets of someone with a familiar, blank, empty gaze, s'no right or wrong; just grab on to what makes you happy and don't let go.
And he did a great job in following that, he thinks.
The Falcon, Chewie, being a damned good pilot, and a job that let him keep all of that.
It was only later that he'd learned there were things he'd have no choice about.
Things like Ben.
"We need to send him to Luke."
He hesitates. Leia begins to frown, resolve chilling her gaze, and he knows he's lost the argument before it has even begun.
He is still stubborn enough to try, though.
"Hell, Leia, he's just a kid. He'll grow out of it."
"Ben's not just any child, Han- you've seen Vader, you know that's what he could become!"
"So, what? We ship him off, see him three, four times a year and get him back all grown up and a stranger?"
Leia's eyes flash, and she straightens, unrelenting.
"It's better than the alternative."
Leia.
It's been days, weeks, maybe, since Luke had stood before them, head bowed, apologies spilling from chapped lips.
Han hadn't spoken a word- could only think for a few moments, absurdly, how even through the exhaustion and despair, the Force still hung between them, a suffocating barrier between Luke and the comfort he surely needed.
It was only later, in the Falcon, in the aftermath of his rage; everything Ben had left behind scattered on the floor, that he sat in the cockpit, head in his hands.
"Damn the Skywalkers," he'd cursed, bitterly, "Damn every single one of them to hell."
Now, he stands, watching mechanics and pilots scampering about in the hangar, and turns his gaze to the Millennium Falcon, docked, silent and waiting. Familiar footsteps sound behind him and stop at his side.
He doesn't turn when he speaks, but takes Leia's hand in his.
"When Chewie gets back, I'm going."
There is a pause, and Leia grips his hand tightly, "I know."
He nods, swallowing, then says, "I do love you."
He doesn't know how he means it.
I don't blame you.
I'm not sure we were meant for this.
I never thought I'd lose this.
Leia smiles, small and almost amused, as though she understands.
"I know."
And the one he'd thought he'd let go of years ago.
Luke.
Luke comes to him in the night, a day before Chewie's return, where Han's holed himself up in his cabin on board the Falcon.
He announces himself with a soft knock on Han's door, and enters with barely a rustle of the robes he had taken to wearing.
Han lets the door slide close and settles back into the chair he'd vacated, kicking his legs up onto the small round table in front of him. He gestures lazily to the other chair, and watches as Luke complies; he's strangely pleased when Luke leans back, relaxing slightly.
"Need something, kid?"
"Leia told me of your plans."
Gentle, bland, almost distant; a far cry from the man who'd practically begged for forgiveness two weeks ago, but it was what he'd come to expect from Luke the Jedi.
"Didn't think you'd care," he replies with deliberate casualness.
Luke frowns.
"Of course I'd care, Han. You're my- you're my friend."
Han almost questions the uncharacteristic fumbling of words, but sighs instead and shakes his head.
"If you're going to try and get me to stay..."
"Of course not," Luke says, mild surprise easing the frown, "I'd have no right."
There are too many responses to that, but Han is... tired.
He heaves himself up and opens a cabinet, digging through it, "So what'd you want then, huh?" he asks as he pulls out a bottle of Corellian Brandy he'd thought to save for Ben's return.
He startles as a glass shoots past him, onto the table, and he throws Luke a half-hearted glare that gets ignored.
"I was planning to leave soon, too," he says as Han makes his way back, "So I... wanted to say goodbye."
Han pours the golden-brown liquor into the glass and pushes it at a bemused Luke, choosing instead to drink straight from the bottle.
"Why?" he questions, even as his mind works furiously, churning out various theories.
Guilt. Maybe he was giving up. Or- what? More training?
Luke's fingers curl loosely around the offered glass before he shakes his head.
"Many reasons," he says, "A few that you suspect, some you might not."
Han snorts and chooses to down another mouthful of brandy rather than respond. Just because he'd had to get used to these vague answers the past few years, didn't mean he had to hate them any less.
An almost uncomfortable silence hangs heavy between them, almost enough for him to want to break it, but Han can already feel the warmth of the alcohol settling in his skin, its buzz curling up to his exhaustion. He doesn't realise how much it's affected him until he finds himself holding back a yawn.
"About Ben," Luke begins suddenly, his voice slicing neatly through the fog Han had felt descend upon him, "it was my fault. Not yours, or Leia's. You brought him to me for guidance, and I couldn't provide that. I'm-"
"Far as I can tell, the only person who's at fault here is Ben. He knew the consequences, he chose his path. No point beating yourself up about it," Han shoots Luke a small grin before continuing, "I guess it would have been nice to keep him with us just so he wouldn't have anything to blame his turn to the Dark Side on."
Luke returns a careful, tight smile, bringing the glass to his lips, sipping lightly at the brandy. He sets the glass down, abruptly amused.
"You're about to fall asleep sitting down," he observes, laughter barely concealed.
"I was supposed to be sleepin' hours ago," Han retorts, not bothering to hold back his yawn.
"I haven't been here that long," Luke replies, and suddenly Han feels an arm wrap tightly around his shoulders, tugging him up, "I think you should get to bed."
"S'okay," Han returns, even as Luke nudges him onto his bunk, "I can handle it."
Exhausted though he is, he can still feel the sudden tension in the arm supporting him before it slides away completely, leaving Han to sprawl above the covers of his bed, but he doesn't think to question it.
He must have dozed off, in fact, brought almost to wakefulness when Luke murmurs, "I know you can.", and a few more words Han couldn't yet comprehend.
Until he startles awake some time later - could have been minutes, could have been hours - Luke's words coming into sudden sharp, painful focus.
Words he should have recognized immediately.
He closes his eyes, feels the phantom brush of lips against his forehead, and hears the words on his arm in Luke's voice.
"I'm sorry. For everything. And- I'm sorry it had to be me."
He'd searched, after, but he knew Luke had cleared out long before Han had awoken. He'd asked Leia, asked anyone Luke could possibly have told, but they'd all frowned at him and shaken their heads.
I thought he'd tell you, they'd said.
He didn't, he'd replied, still in shock, He didn't tell me a damned thing.
For years, he'd wondered just how long Luke had known - how long he'd kept it a secret.
He'd hoped to be able to ask Luke himself, but- obviously, he just didn't know when to let things go.
He breathes out. His eyes close. He allows himself one last thought -
Damn it, kid -
He hits the ground.