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There is a shallow pond where white lotuses float. There is a tall tree where yellow leaves drift.
The water there is clear, drooping ginkgo branches hovering just above; the little area is secluded in a corner within a maze of courtyards and walls. Water by itself is not beautiful; but there is a porcelain beauty in the way the sun falls across it in sheets and casts a gentle glow on the surface. It illuminates the pond where white lotuses float, light rippling in the dragon’s pond.
Dan Heng stares up into the sunlight filtering in from golden leaves, the scent of lotuses fresh in the air. He rests a hand on the ground; it hums with life, an immortal yet stagnant heartbeat of the earth. A leaf falls from the tree he rests under. It is still a brilliant yellow, but there is no life within. In a number of heartbeats, it will wither brown.
One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three heartbeats. Four.
Foliage by itself is not beautiful, but there is an organic beauty in the way the sun falls past it in rays and casts gold through translucent petals. It illuminates the ginkgo tree where yellow leaves drift, sunlight dappling over the dragon’s robes as he sits on golden-covered ground.
On these mornings, it feels as if he is half-submerged in water, when the world is too muted yet too loud. The engines of starskiffs are muffled, yet birds sing in as if their voices pierce through the air. There is a calm silence; it feels as if if you listen to it for too long, the serenity will fade into deafening silence, a ringing of the ears. It does not happen — fallen leaves drift to the ground on occasion, breaking the silence with a shimmering sound that feels grounding. Under this shade, it is a world of muted sounds and blurry colour. His bracer tingles with warmth.
There’s a crunching noise from behind him. Dan Heng closes his eyes, and hears the way tiny pebbles crunch against the soles of his approaching friend’s shoes.
One heartbeat. Two heartbeats.
The sound comes to a stop, and a gloved finger flicks his forehead. He hums softly at the pettiness, and relaxes into a small smile. There’s another flick, stronger, and this time he opens his eyes.
Ren stares down from above him, silver hair falling into his warm eyes. Dan Heng tilts his head, and Ren drops into a half-crouch at his eye level. It looks undignified – he sometimes forgets that his companion is simply mortal.
“What are you doing?” Ren’s face is neutral, and his question does not sound much like a question at all. Dan Heng glances up at him.
“Watching the sun,” he responds, and watches Ren’s brows furrow.
“You’ve always preferred the moon,” he says simply.
“The moon isn’t beautiful without the sun.” Dan Heng says.
There’s a lapse of silence, and Ren takes a glance at the sun, too. Then he rises, taking two lazy strides forward only to drop down onto the ground by Dan Heng’s side. “And of the stars?”
“The sun may be a star, too,” Dan Heng says, shrugging lightly, “but I suppose it has to be the one I’m most grateful for. I’ve seen many a dark moon without a sun to be illuminated throughout the course of the Xianzhou.”
Ren grins at him, a single eyebrow raised slightly. “Stars, and more important stars, then.” He gently pushes Dan Heng’s back, a finger running through his long hair lazily as Dan Heng leans forward. “That is what most principles boil down to in the end. For stars, and for people.”
Dan Heng’s bracer tingles gently. There are now fingers carding through his hair, soft brown strands parting and folding how Ren’s fingers wish it. He's braiding it, Danheng thinks, and smiles.
“You would think so. Stars and people,” Dan Heng muses, closing his eyes. “Yingxing.”
“They named me after the stars, after all,” Ren says.
Ren braids his hair gently in a rhythmic part and cross. There are flowers being twined into his hair.
One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three heartbeats.
“Not just a star,” Dan Heng murmurs softly. “My sun.”
One heartbeat. Two heartbeats.
There is a slight pause. Another flower is weaved in Dan Heng’s hair.
There is a slight pause. Another flower is weaved in Ren’s hair.
There are spider lilies tucked into Ren’s hair, and behind his ear. The red is striking against starry silver, and Dan Heng cannot look away: not out of beauty, but out of tragedy.
He crowns him in red spider lilies, to death and to reincarnation. Rests him in red maple leaves, to longevity and love. Dries him of red blood, to the fleeting mortality seeping through his fingertips.
Red, to his sun.
The moon is full tonight; he has no appetite to feast his eyes. Only in the dregs of creeping moonlight can he see his beloved.
Ren looks pale in the moonlight, and Dan Heng gently caresses his face. It is cold, and so is the bracer on Dan Heng’s arm.
The brightest star, the sun – he melted Dan Heng. Now, it burns. At the back of his eyes, the whole of his heart. The bitter tragedy, the roaring injustice. There are too many apologies to say, and only a lifeless body to whisper them to. So he would say them in their next life, and the life after that. Dan Heng cradles Ren’s head gently, leaning down.
For this may be selfish, but Dan Heng never easily let go. Not of the moon, not of the sun. He stays like that, just for a few moments. He does not want to do it, but does not want to let go of him even more. Silently promises all of his lives to pay for this selfish tragedy.
For not even him, as Yinyue Jun, can find solace in astral bodies. It is lonely – he yearns not for it, but for the company beneath it. Selfishly, with the entirety of his being.
“In your next life of eternity, live not as a monster,” he says softly, knowing he won’t be heard, “But as a phoenix, ever ablaze.”
One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three heartbeats. Four heartbeats.
Dan Heng kisses Ren slowly, breathing into him life.
“My moon, my sun, and my stars.”
Six heartbeats. Seven heartbeats. Eight heartbeats. Nine.
"Live."