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It's not like that. He's my brother.
In that moment, everything was solved. Luke had survived. Vader was dead. The empire was defeated. The Alliance had won. And Leia was his.
At the celebration that night, Leia pulled Luke into the warmth, and Han had found his family. Lando to his left, Chewie in front of him, Leia and her brother to his right. All was, finally, right in the galaxy.
If only it could have been so easy.
But as the last embers of light died in the hearths of the Ewok fires, Han heard the echoes of Luke's dream and felt the cold rush in as Leia slipped out of their bed to find him. In the morning he discovered them curled into the same tiny bed, arms and legs intertwined, eyes red from crying.
The Alliance wants a war hero. They want a Jedi master to parade around, a general to show off, a commander to rally the troops. The man the Alliance wants died on the Death Star, or perhaps never existed at all. They have only Luke, who saved his father at the expense of his own soul. The galaxy isn't interested in his pain; wants the war story. They want the details, the play-by-play. They want the make and wear of the Emperor's cloak, but Luke guards his involvement close. He won't--maybe can't--say a word.
Lando takes the brunt of it for them, regaling the galaxy with the daring battle in the Falcon as they took on the Death Star. He gives Han the space to slip into the black with his broken twins and Chewbacca safely ensconced away on the piece of junk that saved the galaxy.
The Falcon isn't designed for a large complement, and Luke sleeps on a narrow cot in the crew quarters. Each night Leia quietly slips out of the bed she shares with Han and ends up curled around her brother, holding each other hoping they can finally find sleep.
Like a piece of ash trying to float away, Luke resists talking, feeling, responding. He's not a shell, but there's something empty about him now. Light seems to hurt his eyes, so they keep the galley dim. Noise seems to hurt his ears, so their voices carry like whispers. On the fifth night in hyperspace, Han puts him to sleep in main cabin with Leia, knowing they'll both sleep better if they're in the larger bed. Together.
He's not jealous.
Not even when he finds them in the morning, clothes forgotten, embracing each other like they may've once done in the womb, or on some unforgotten night that stretched out between Bespin and Tatooine, before inconvenient truths complicated things.
He's not a fool.
He's the glue holding the shattered pieces of the Skywalkers together.
Alderaan is gone. There's nothing on Tatooine. He cannot take them to the circus waiting on Coruscant. So they go to Coronet, on Corellia, because no one is guiding their wandering stars but Han, and Han has nowhere else to call home.
There's a quiet costal town outside of the main city, and Han has a friend who owes him a favor. They land on property that someone else owns, and move into a big summer house that doesn't belong to Han, but it's winter in Coronet and the beaches are cold and empty. The master suite is big and warm, and there is enough space for all four of them to have their own bedroom, but Han makes a decision.
Shattered shards don't mend themselves.
When he puts them to bed the first night in the big empty summer house, he crawls in after them. He loves Leia, there's no doubt of that, but he loves Luke, too. He loves the selfless farmboy that risked his life to save the rebellion. He loves the young man that never let despair cloud his eyes or judgment. He loves the man that gave his life to defeat his father and spare his sister the fate he's suffering now. He loves the Luke that's showed love and compassion and kindness to everyone and everything he's ever met. That Luke was more brilliant and golden than anyone he'd ever met, and Han isn't sure where he's gone.
He holds Luke in his arms that night, while the twins grasp each other, sharing their shattered dreams, and he tries to find the sunshine that once radiated out of him like a beacon. Han presses the pieces back together--sun and moon, wind and sky, love and pain--clinging to them until they begin stick, and slowly start to mend.
Frost covers the beach in the morning, but cocooned in the bed in the summer house is an ember of warmth.