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March picks up on a few more things about Acheron ever since their stumble through the rain. Like how her bangs are less of a style choice and more just that she doesn't care to deal with them, often annoyed with how they fall over her eyes, or that she somehow always has an umbrella in arms reach whenever it rains. When March asked about it, all she got was an “It’s vital to always be prepared.” Most endearingly, though, was that Acheron is always so stiff when she’s awkward, unsure what to do with herself, like she was now, standing in the main cabin of the Astral Express.
March holds back a laugh as she walks to her, but a giggle slips. “Hey! I didn’t think I’d see you here.”
Acheron is gentler under the static incandescent light pouring from the Astral Express’ lights, not like the loneliness of the dull lighting that torrential dreamscape framed her in or the flashy illumination from Penacony’s casinos and bars that sharpened her expression to a stern one. Here, there’s something earnest in the way she straightens her posture and clears her throat. “I said I’d come per your invitation, didn’t I? I’m not one to turn on my word so easily.”
“‘Per your invitation?’ Wow, you make it sound so special. All I did was tell you to stop by the Astral Express if you had the time,” she says, smiling. Despite her bluntness, Acheron always made March feel like what she was saying was important, too. She may not have Mr. Yang’s experience or Dan Heng’s archival knowledge, but wasn’t she still worth listening to?
(Maybe, maybe not, she thinks. The knowledge that she’s nothing, really, aboard the Express stings. Himeko sets the train on its course; Mr. Yang pushes it in its direction; Dan Heng keeps its shelves full of the data gleaned from their travels; and Stelle is the hero in it all, the face of their efforts to leave each world as better than it was when they first landed.
And March? What is she supposed to be?)
Acheron pivots to stare at the stars dotting the expanse draped outside the windows. “The Astral Express crew and the Galaxy Rangers tread similar paths, making twin marks upon the universe. To step onto this vessel in my lifetime is not one I’d forgo,” Acheron muses, turning back to March. “It makes a lovely place to stay.”
“Well, I could show you around. To my room and the rest of the train, if you want.” March takes her gloved hand in hers and pulls her towards the next door, Acheron wordlessly obliging her.
When they reach her room, March nudges the door open with her hip as she steps in with Acheron in tow. She turns to face her. “Well? What do you think?”
Acheron blinks. “Very… pink.”
“Oh, I’ll say,” March huffs. “I swear, that’s what everyone says. I mean, is it that surprising? I mean, look at my hair.” She gestures at it. “Is this not telling enough?”
Instead of responding, Acheron’s gaze draws all over the room, from her plushies to the mirror to the collage of photos pinned to her wall, scattered moments of their travels suspended in printed film. And hey, she looked pretty cute in some of those. It’s only fair to put up some of her best shots.
Acheron moves to stand in front of the collage, gazing intently at it. March joins her. She points at a photo. “That one is the time Stelle got her tongue stuck to a fence in Belobog.” Then, at another. “And that one is when Dan Heng’s tail started swinging when he had mooncakes for the first time on the Luofu, which, trust me, are delicious.” And another. “Ooh! And that one is when Mr. Yang was teaching these kids to draw after they saw him doodling in his sketchbook. When it was time for us to leave, they all drew him and gave him the drawings. It was pretty sweet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mr. Yang on the verge of tears like that before.”
“And what of this one?” Acheron taps one of the higher photos with her metal-clad hand, its pieces sharpened like claws—despite it, they’ve been nothing but gentle to her.
It’s the photo of her in the special dress she’d had for a while, pastel and snowflake-themed, that she wore to the Solwarm festival in Belobog before Topaz’s debt collection had crashed the party and sent Bronya’s sanity spiralling down the drain. What a waste of a good outfit on a terrible day. “Oh, it was for a festival that didn’t even end up happening. Pretty lame, if you ask me.”
“Like a princess,” she murmurs, tapping the photo. “It suits you.”
Suddenly, March feels like she’s the Astral Express heater when it’s in overdrive because of how fast she can feel the heat rise to her cheeks. “Um, thank you,” she says lamely, then she tries, “I think you’re pretty, too.” ‘ Too ’. March feels like smacking herself the second she utters the word. ‘ Too’ implies that Acheron thought she was pretty in the first place, something she never outwardly said.
Acheron blinks her surprise before murmuring her thanks. Then, they both look away and simmer in the silence that ensues. Finally, March breaks it. “Do you want to see my photo album?”
The other woman nods, to which March heads to her desk to grab the album and her camera. “You can just sit on the bed,” she says while rummaging through a drawer to find film. Soon after, she sits next to Acheron, flipping through the thick sheets without looking, focused on her. “So, this is where I keep all the smaller photos, and—” she glances down at the album— “whoops, wrong section, these are my album photo cards.”
March points at her beloved sour candy Chaewon photo card, signed by Chaewon herself and still in perfect condition, which Stelle gave her after one of her dumpster escapades on a random planet long after she lost all hope of getting it with how astronomical the prices are. “This is one of my favourites, though. You wouldn't believe how absurd the prices were for it. I mean, forty thousand credits?!” She flips to another sheet. “Oh, and this is my glitter tears Seulgi card. I got it from a Red Velvet album I stole while I was on the run with Dan Heng on this planet after desperately trying to find it anywhere for years.”
She flips to an entire sheet full of Chuu photo cards. “I think you can tell who my bias in Loona is.” Finally, she goes to the intended section. “Anyway, as I was talking about, here are all the photos I’ve taken with all the people I’ve met along the way.”
Rows and rows of faces sporting all sorts of features and expressions grin back at her, backdropped by the circumstances of various planets. She’s kept this album for years, and with every addition, the thicker it becomes with memories, back when she swore she’d never forget anyone as she’d forgotten herself. March finds herself retracing old steps as she explains what she remembers through every journey, Acheron listening intently. When she gets to the last page, there’s one slot left at the bottom. “Can I take a photo of you?”
“Of me?” Acheron pauses, considering. “That’s not a request I receive often.” Then, she murmurs her assent.
March grins, adjusting the knobs of her camera for a closer shot. She always imagined that she’d take something that was more cinematic for Acheron, veiled in dark shadows with harsh contrast, juxtaposed by a dreamy background; something of such grandeur was fitting for the Galaxy Ranger, one infitismel in her knowledge and her grief. Her lip wobbles as she struggles to heave back a small laugh with how primly Acheron sits in the company of her stuffed animals, like a council of her own Galaxy Rangers.
Acheron’s placid expression slips. “Is something the matter?”
“No, no, it’s just,” March takes a breath to settle her voice, “you’re just so serious all the time. And I mean, it can be really cool in some photos, especially if they have more dramatic compositions, but here, it’s almost…” she pauses to think, “silly?”
“Silly?” the other woman parrots as though it was a word from another language altogether.
“Bet you’ve never heard someone call you that before, huh?” March says, smiling as she holds up her camera for another shot. “This time, relax. You don’t need to be the fierce, intimidating Galaxy Ranger with a sword that can cut down whatever gets in her path. You can just be whoever you want to be here. Just Acheron, if you want.”
Acheron’s brow furrows at her words, but she nods in agreement. Her shoulders drop from their tense position, and she attempts to smooth out her features. Not as a smile, but she looks less guarded. March smiles for her as she prompts her, suggesting what to do with her hands and how to position herself. In the end, when the camera spits out the final image after the shutter, Acheron looks less like March clipped her off an edgy video game cover and photoshopped her into a picture of her room, so she takes it as a win.
She holds up the photo for her. “How do you like it?”
“It’s serviceable,” Acheron says, not particularly pleased or displeased, like most people of her temperament. March can work with that. No matter what, she’s sure that one day she’ll be able to take a photo of everyone she comes across that makes them truly happy with the version they see of themselves. Acheron is another name on that long list, but with how shyly she stares at her, she might just be bumped up to the top ten.
“I guess I can work with that for now,” March huffs, slipping it into the empty slot left in the plastic sheet. “But look! This sheet is full now, and with the rate that I’m meeting new people at, I’ll need another one of these photo books, not to mention all of my other photo books for bigger photos.” When she closes the book, it struggles to remain flat with how full it is.
“Well, your memory is forever stuck with me now, whether you like it or not.” She nudges Acheron’s shoulder. “How do you feel about that?”
And Acheron, so fitfully out of place amongst the soft pastels of her room, just sighs, “I think I’d let you have me for forever now, regardless of it. Human memory may be achingly fickle, as you know, but,” she starts, placing a hand atop March’s, just as she did in that rain,” the heart endures.”
She closes her eyes, and March watches the steady rise and fall that comes with her breath, feeling the roar of her heartbeat that soars when Acheron leans into her, pressing against her shoulder. “You’re warm.”
It’s hard not to be when she’s around, always finding a way to fluster the pink-haired girl. “Yeah, the Astral Express has some pretty good heaters in the winter.”
“I’ve seen many lives pass me by as no more than mere flickers in the night, as ordained by the life I’ve chosen, always uprooting the soul to search for a chance to better the tides of the galaxy,” she says, unmoving, cheek against the crook of a neck. “Many spend lifetimes searching for the tenderness you so easily offer of yourself. Never forgo that, March 7th.”
Wow. March 7th. It’s not often that people say her full name, much less like that . “I… thank you.”
Acheron says nothing to that, which leaves March to stew in the silence between them. She’s come to realize that the quiet with her is pretty nice, actually. To just linger with her thoughts like a companion instead of shovelling them away to keep herself from processing them, so stuck on the now and here to keep from falling back on her lack of a past. Not when she knows Acheron will always listen, even if she doesn’t know how to respond.
March squeezes her hand, a hand around her shoulder to pull her closer. “I’m glad we met, too. Even if my shoes were soggy when we got out.”
Acheron says nothing to that, too, but a twitch of a smile plays at her lips, and really, isn’t that enough?
“Thank you for being here,” she whispers, then embraces the silence.