breath of spring

breath of spring

There are flowers in Han’s hair. Pretty ones.

They’re marigolds, or so the vendor tells him. Marigolds! Even the name sounds beautiful—it’s a rich and warm word, one that feels like sunlight condensed. Each time Han reaches out to probe the orange-gold blooms, a wide smile splits across his face.

His energy is infectious, it seems. Vendors call out to him, all compliments and smiles. Han waves away their offers with an airy laugh, but he does stop to linger in the town square. Vibrant scarlet banners hang from the surrounding buildings’ rafters, a constellation proudly emblazoned upon the fabric with gold thread. The square’s centerpiece, a stone fountain, is practically drowned in flowers.

Han recognizes some. Lilies of the valley. Tulips. A spruce of lavender. Even a couple bunches of daisies. None of the blooms’ colors are coordinated: it’s clear the townspeople place flowers upon the fountain as they pass by. A ritual? A wish? He isn’t sure, but he lingers by the side of the road and watches the festival goers mill about.

There’s something bubbling beneath Han’s skin. Excitement. Delight. But most of all, love.

A group of local girls shout and dance in circles, stumbling over their feet and laughing upon hitting the ground. The sound of a lyre pierces through the noise, delicate and lovely. There’s a group of young singers, surely not older than twenty, who dedicate a melody to the gods; some passersby clap along, horribly out of beat but smiling all the same.

Sometimes, Han forgets what beauty mortals can create.

The ruins he passes through have a mystic, almost haunting beauty. There, Han takes comfort in the breeze, in the sky, in stories unearthed. He loves exploring those remnants of the past, loves finding beauty in the old.

But this? This is beautiful too. It’s chatter and laughter and song. It’s music and merriment and dance. It’s living, in its purest form. In light of that, how can Han not love it?

There’s an extra skip to his step, a brighter glimmer in his eyes. Han’s so very glad they’d chosen to meander into this town.

A little girl approaches him, short enough that she just barely reaches his waist. Her hair’s in braids and she’s got some sort of lisp, but Han gets the gist of what she tries to say. He bows his head; in response, she loops a flower garland over his neck.

“Thank you,” Han says softly.

He’s using his Healer Voice, and it does not fail him. The girl looks at him, round-eyed, then giggles and gives him a little wave goodbye with her pudgy fingers. He watches as she scurries off to one of the booths. An older woman ruffles her hair—Han sends the woman a thankful smile, then moves once more.

Even past the main square, the town’s still quite lively. Most of the booths here hold food. Han lingers at a particular table, its baskets chock-full with pastries. The man at the table motions generously at them; despite Han’s best efforts, his coins are batted away with a guffaw and a hearty clap on the back. The festival must have something to do with practicing generosity.

“Thank you,” Han says again, a little helplessly. 

Two pastries catch his eye. One’s a carefully handcrafted rose of apples and flour and sugar; it fits with the festival’s floral theme. The other is a cookie that—if one were to squint closely enough—vaguely resembles the golems hidden within the ancient ruins. It’s about the size of his palm.

Han can’t help but laugh at that.

Leigh will like it, he decides, and that’s what gets him to pick them up. The man procures a small waxed-paper bag, and off Han goes.

Unsurprisingly, Han finds Leigh surrounded by people. He’s exchanging quips with a group of songmakers, clearly trying to wheedle the festival’s traditions out of them. His laughter and grin draws eyes from across the street.

Leigh calls Han bright, comparing him to lighthouses and stars. But privately, Han’s always thought the description suits Leigh better—daring, magnetic, wondrous Leigh with the charm and the wit to ensnare all who stumble across his path. When Leigh leads, Han follows.

His steps quicken.

Han can pinpoint the exact moment Leigh sees him approach. There’s a hitch to his voice, a brief stumble in its smooth cadence. His gaze grows gentler, his smile less pronounced but all the more real. Leigh locks eyes with Han immediately Han feels like he’s hung the moon and stars, like he could soar across any sky, like he could drink and laugh and love.

“Han,” his beloved calls. Leigh smiles disarmingly at his listeners before making his way through the crowd. They disperse, mostly understanding, though one of the ladies looks a little put-out to be dismissed. Han doesn’t pay too much attention to them leaving; once he and Leigh are face-to-face, it’s like the rest of the world melts away.

“Didn’t know checking the bookstore would take that long,” Han says, tapping the paper bag against Leigh’s shoulder.

This earns him a chuckle. “What can you say? The books were too alluring.”

“And pretty, I’m sure,” slips out Han’s mouth before he can stop himself. “Find anything worthwhile?”

And here, Leigh reaches out to tuck a strand of Han’s hair behind his ear. His hand lingers there longer than it needs to.

“Just you.”

It’s cheesy. Terrible. Leigh must’ve used this line a million times, and yet when Han hears it, he can’t help but feel a surge of affection—the kind of love that’s so strong, it almost knocks him over. If one can die from heartache, then surely there must be people who die from their hearts feeling too full. Leigh is a hazard. A brilliant, beautiful one, but a hazard.

Leigh notices his inattention and hones in on it. Always one for stirring up trouble, perhaps it comes to no surprise he puts his quick tongue to work when around his loved one.

“What,” he jokes. “Not going to say it back?”

Han laughs, and before he can stop himself, he tugs one of the marigolds from his hair and sets it upon Leigh’s—weaves it between his ponytail and his hairtie once Leigh understands what he’s doing and cooperates.

“You’re pretty,” Han says, with the same confidence and sincerity he used when once telling Leigh ‘you deserve to Want too.’  “The prettiest, Leigh.”

It’s a departure from their usual script. Han is told about how good he is, how talented he is, how beautiful he is. Leigh is told how understanding he is, how kind he is, how clever he is. It dawns on Han that he hasn’t stressed his love for his partner enough.

“I mean it,” Han insists, and he takes Leigh’s hand. Their fingers intertwine. Leigh’s hand is smooth, warm.

You’re everything I love, Han thinks. Everything beautiful I find in the world, in one person.

“Well,” Leigh says slowly. “You can’t be right all the time, I suppose.”

Han huffs and lightly tugs at hand. “Leigh!”

“You can’t go around saying things like that while looking like—” and here, Leigh gestures at Han’s entire ensemble, though his gaze rests at the flowers woven into Han’s hair. “—that.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

Leigh forges on with admirable brazenness. “What have you got there anyways?”

Han lets this one go, if only because he knows Leigh’s a little flustered. Advance and retreat. Return with full force later. “Baked goods, for you and me.”

"Shooting straight for my—is this a golem?"

"Mmhm."

"It's lopsided."

"Mmhm."

"Its proportions are terrible."

"Mmhm."

"It's perfect," Leigh declares, and with that, he squeezes Han's hand. "We should sit down somewhere to have them. I know a place. Wanna come?"

Han could follow Leigh to metaphorical hell blindfolded and still not begrudge him. Trust is something that has always come easy to Han, but trusting Leigh is only natural—it comes to him as easily as breathing.

"Show me."

The place Leigh brings him too is lovely. They scale a spindly metal staircase resting against an orange-clay building; it leads to a rooftop terrace, decked out with tables and chairs. There are a couple of other patrons, nursing drinks as they chat and enjoy the music coming from down below on the streets.

"What a crowd," Han breathes, peering over the rooftops ledge. "What a celebration."

The sound of a flute, of a tambourine. A new dance starts, this time to a tune Han knows. It thanks the sun for its warmth, calls upon the light for new growth.

"It's about giving, or so I've been told," Leigh says. His gaze actually isn't trained on the people below; rather, he's facing Han head-on. "The festival."

"And they just do it? Just…give?"

"Well, technically, whatever good you do is multiplied during the festival," Leigh amends. "But it's a net good, and people really do get into the spirit."

Han hums thoughtfully under his breath. There's a shimmer of light, a flicker of fire, before he remembers he's sitting upon wood and stops.

"You can keep going," Leigh says, perceptive as ever. "I'll support you."

So Han does hum. He does more than humming, actually. He sings along to the band below, and even when they switch songs, he keeps going. A solo concert for one. Leigh must've scribbled something atop their table, because the sound never reaches their fellow rooftop goers. This is Han's song, for Leigh and Leigh alone.

Stay, Han sings. Be.

For as long as the sun remains tall in the sky, the flowers upon the earth can flourish. Han sings, and sings, and sings. And at the very end, Leigh claps. 

The noise breaks Han out of his reverie.

"Amazing," Leigh says, and he doesn't need to go into detail. The way he's looking at Han is more than enough. Again: "You're amazing."

There are a number of things Han can say to that. Refute it with facts, with the many flaws he's hyperspace of. Laugh it off. Kiss him. (That last one is tempting.)

Instead, Han lets his hands rest upon Leigh's. Feels their knees brush against each other under the table. 

Ah. He really loves Leigh. He really, truly does.

"I learn from the best," Han says.