Work Text:
“What’s got you smiling? Huh?” Han is immediately suspicious anytime Lando Calrissian shoots him a poodoo-eating grin like that, especially when he’s sitting back like a damn emperor in his chair, feet propped up on the sticky table.
“No reason at all, old friend,” Lando says, but he’s still grinning, twirling his moustache like some sort of outlaw Han used to idolize on stolen holovids as a kid. “What, a man can’t smile now that he’s out from under the Imperial thumb? You wound me, Solo.”
“We’ve been in the clear for weeks,” Han grumbles, relaxing into his chair. Of course, they’re never really in the clear, with Leia micromanaging half the galaxy and Luke making waves as a Jedi and Han being, well, Han, but at the moment, life was good. Life was calm. And no better way to celebrate than with some good Corellian brandy at a brightly-lit gaming house in Cloud City. “Hey, where’s the kid, anyways?”
Lando bites his lip, like he’s trying hard to quell his smile. “Said something about taking a nap. I guess the tour today wiped him out.”
“Maybe I’ll go check on him. You know, some of Hutt’s old cronies have an eye out for him, and didn’t you just make a deal with one of Jabba’s sons?” Han moves to stand, mind a little fuzzy from the drink but his feet still sure.
“It was one of his cousins,” Lando says sourly, “and he’s a respectable businessman. At least, as respectable as a Hutt can be.” He stands as well, motioning for Han to stay. “Let me go check on him. Stay a while, get another drink.” Then his smile turns into a Calrissian classic—wry, charming, just a little sleazy. “You’re my guest, Han. Enjoy yourself.”
Han frowns, but sits. “Sure,” he says, playing with the rim of his glass. “And tell the kid to comm me if he’s in trouble.”
“Will do,” Lando says, throwing Han a salute before whisking his purple silk cape back over his shoulders. “And by the way, he’s not really a kid anymore. Hasn’t been for a while now.” Han knows that—it’s just a force of habit, really.
As Lando walks off, Han notices that he turns towards his own room at the resort rather than Luke’s—the special guest suite reserved for the Baron Administrator himself. He really does go all-out for us, he thinks, polishing off his brandy.
*
“Have a fine night, Mr. Solo,” the Twi’Lek girl giggles, waving cheerfully to Han as he wanders down the hallway. She’s still wrapped in the arms of her handsome human boyfriend, and if Han wasn’t so drunk off ale and a sizeable gambling win, he’d invite the both of them into his bed. They’d spent the evening on his arm, all cute and sweet—his good luck charms.
But he still missed Leia, so he’d sleep alone. For now.
Before he went to bed, he needed to clear his mind, so he stumbles along the wide corridor of special guest rooms, feeling his way across the wall to Lando’s suite. “Calrissian,” he whisper-yells, even though the resort isn’t really the place for guests to find a good night’s rest. “Where the hell are you?”
He finally finds a door marked Guest of Honor and knocks twice, supporting his weight in the door frame. A hand of sabacc for old times’ sake will put me right out, he thinks, mind foggy, and then notices the light on the door handle is green, meaning it is unlocked. They’d spent years together sleeping in the same bed, taking turns using a ‘fresher the size of a footlocker, practically living on top of each other as they got in and out of scrapes—there was little privacy left in their friendship. He turns the handle, tripping into the room as the door swings open.
“How’re you feeling about trying to get back the Falcon, pal?” Right as the words come out of Han’s mouth, there’s a muffled shout and a light flicks on in the dark room, revealing a very naked Lando on top of a very naked Luke in the luxurious resort bed.
Now, the thing is, he’s seen Lando naked. Like, a lot. They both have been chased out of more beds and rooms with their clothes in a bundle in their arms too many times to count, and when certain alien species hold you for smuggling, they seem to think clothing isn’t necessary. He’s used to seeing Lando in the buff.
But Luke? Luke’s different. He might not be a kid, but he’s still young, he’s young in the ways a person who spent most of their life on one plot on one planet will always be. He’s just figuring out who he is. And Han has definitely never seen this much of the little nerf-herder before—Luke’s always wrapped up in robes and high collars, eyes shy, lightsaber burning a burdening hole in his hip.
Han’s especially never seen Luke with his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, or with his fingers pressing bruises into a broad back, or with his skinny legs wrapped around a man’s waist.
“Okay,” he finally manages, voice low and constricted. He scrubs a palm down his face. “I’ll leave you to it. Sorry.” He’s back out in the hallway before he can see either man’s face or hear their responses. Suddenly, his own bed sounds like it’s calling to him, and he turns dizzily on his heel.
*
Han doesn’t think he’s ever eaten this well. When Lando said Cloud City was a place of luxury, he sure as hell wasn’t kidding, and that luxury extended to the breakfast feast set out for all guests once the morning hour dawned. He piled up a plate with bread and meat and fruits from Yavin IV, ready to smuggle a little bit more into his pockets for the trip out of the star system.
A trip that would be coming a day or two earlier than originally anticipated.
Of course, he couldn’t just nab Chewie from the game tables and set off in the Falcon without a hitch in the plan.
“Why are you eating alone? I’ve called your name twice.” Luke slides into the chair across from Han, his own plate already clean. He looks comfortable and rested, his eyes clear, and is that…
“Nice shirt,” Han says, nodding towards Luke. It’s a light blue silk shirt buttoned to the throat, nothing too flashy, but unmistakably Lando’s. “I’m sure you could borrow the cape, too, if you asked nice.”
Luke frowns, hands folded in his lap. “You don’t have to be mean about it. What’s it to you, anyways? You’re the one who told me I needed to get out and see the galaxy more.”
“Yeah, the galaxy, not Lando Calrissian’s bed,” Han says sourly, and instantly feels bad. He likes Lando, and he likes Luke—they’re both close enough to consider more family than friend. But Lando belonged to Han’s life before, and Luke is his life now. Luke, Leia, the Rebel Alliance, a whole new world of possibilities. And the twins were the ones leading it. “Look, kid. You’re gonna do what you want to do. But I know this swirl of rocks a lot better than you do. I know men like Lando, and they all want one thing.”
“Sex?” Luke says it bluntly, but his face flushes a little.
“Jeez, no. They all want freedom. Right now, Lando’s the Baron Admin of Cloud City and livin’ the dream. But he doesn’t stay put for long, and—“
“Neither do I,” Luke says. “Neither do we.” He swipes a berry off Han’s plate. “What’s really got you bugged right now? You’re acting like…” he pauses, eyes downcast. His finger traces patterns on the ornate table mat. “Like a father.”
“I’m not your pa,” Han says, not unkindly. “I just want you to be happy.” And he does. “Luke, I’ve known you longer than I’ve known a lot of friends. We’ve been all over this place together. And I’ve never…I’ve never seen you with anyone before. Not even a kiss, or a look. Why now?”
Luke shrugs. His mouth twists a little, like he’s looking for the right words. Then he glances up, eyes playful. “Maybe he seduced me. Just swept me right into his bed on charm and looks alone.”
Han throws a piece of bread at him, then picks it up, because it’s a real nice place. “Or maybe you’re just a punk who’s having a good time for once in your short little life.”
“Maybe,” Luke says, and smiles a little, the sort of smile Han can accept more than any words in the world.
*
Lando’s just getting out of the ‘fresher, the room filled with sweet-smelling steam, when Han gets him on his front with one smooth twist of the arm, his boot heel digging into the small of Lando’s back.
“Should’ve locked the door,” Han says cheerfully. “Amateur.”
“It was locked,” Lando squawks.
“Oh, yeah,” Han says, holding up a handful of chips and wires. “It was.” He drops the machinery onto the carpet and lets up a little, still not allowing Lando to stand. “So, are you planning on staying on this ball of gas much longer, old friend?”
“I was, unless you kill me in a damn gaming resort, that I, by the way, own,” Lando says, craning his neck to look at Han. “This is about Skywalker, isn’t it?”
“He’s a good man,” Han blurts out. He rolls his eyes—delivery was never his strongest suit. “And you’re a good man, in a different way.”
“Thanks,” Lando says drily. “And I know. He’s too good for me. But I’m not planning on going anywhere, and if I do, I’m taking him with me. If he’d have me, of course.”
At that, Han takes his foot off Lando’s back. Lando rolls over, adjusting his robe as he lies on his back. He just stays there, looking up at Han, smiling that stupid smile of his. “I knew you had a soft spot for the Jedi. Han Solo has a heart, who knew?”
This time, the scuffle ends with Lando sitting on Han’s chest and Han trying to stuff his pocket comb in Lando’s pants while they yell insults at each other, but nobody has to know that. Han shut the door when he came in—he’s not an amateur.