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It’s late when they arrive.
So late, so spontaneous, so deep in the night that everything is as still as the rail in-between, shrouded in violet-tinged blue and the sparkle of stars. The Sky-Faring Commission agent lets them dock with a crystal-clear professionalism that runs in contrast to the sleepiness settled over the port; starskiffs come and go with a quiet rumble of engines, but at much sparser intervals than usual.
It’s a short stop. They’d found that the Xianzhou Luofu’s path would take her briefly alongside the silver rail, and all five of his companions had promptly looked to him with varying levels of expectation. Dan Heng didn’t know why they bothered; their shore excursions were always by majority vote, and Stelle and March were very clearly starry-eyed at the thought of having mung bean soda and Immortal's Delight (respectively) once again. They are moving ever forward. There is no reason not to visit old friends.
(His own heart, too, pulls him forward.)
He waits until the Express trails to a full stop. The cursor on the terminal blinks at him like a little flashing strobe. He hesitates over it. Their recent foray into Forge-III has produced at least a hundred new data entries and a mission report that Dan Heng still needs to sort, amend, and revise. Even after all this time—much to Pom-Pom’s dismay—Stelle has never bothered to pin down the finer points of report writing.
Finally, he saves his work. When he allows himself into the parlor car, he finds Stelle pressed up against the window. Himeko sits nearby, a cup of coffee balanced delicately in her hands despite the late hour.
“You’re still up,” says Stelle. “We’ve docked.” She looks again out the window. “It’s been awhile, huh?”
“A few months is hardly any time at all.”
“To you, maybe.” Stelle presses a hand to her stomach. “Do you think anything in Aurum Alley is open this late? I have a serious craving for tuskpir wraps… Oh, are you leaving?”
Dan Heng pauses at the door. He keeps his eyes on the latch. “Don’t wait up for me.”
He can hear the smile in Himeko’s voice. “Keep in touch.”
“You’ve graduated from sneaking out,” says Stelle. “I’m proud of you.”
Dan Heng hadn’t meant to do that. Not the first, nor the second time. It’s not his fault nobody had been in the parlor car, and in his defense, he’d been a bit too preoccupied afterward to check his messages. Both times. “Good night,” he says, and steps out onto the platform.
“Have fun,” he hears after him, before the door slides blissfully shut.
He breathes in the Luofu’s atmosphere: faint wisps of smoke, incense, fallen leaves. Stelle is right. It’s been a long time.
His destination comes into view between the rustling bamboo, its high walls pale gold in the glow of the lanterns. Cloud Knights patrol the walk. Dan Heng has been here often enough to be recognized, but still he avoids them, keeping to the shadows and the paths less traversed up until he reaches the gate. The two sentries glance at him. Then, without comment, they glance at each other, before turning round to push open the great alloyed doors.
(The first time, Dan Heng had stood there, face hot, carefully expressionless. He hadn't needed to say anything. The guards hadn’t spoken then, either.)
The ginkgo within sheds its leaves as it’s always done. He catches one on reflex; its gilded fan shape flutters helplessly between his fingers, before he lets it go. The doors close behind him.
Jing Yuan’s quarters sit in the far back, beyond the courtyard and the main hall. He should be back by now, though Dan Heng doesn’t know for sure—he’d sent a message without response. Jing Yuan’s jade abacus is not often on his person, even during the daytime. They’re both a little bad at this, Dan Heng thinks, as he toes off his boots. Except Jing Yuan does it on purpose.
He’s exactly where Dan Heng hoped he would be. The window shutter is still half open, reflecting cool starlight. The low desk beneath it bears a small pile of scrolls and an incense pot, intricately wrought, the feathery remnants of ash still settled within. Beside it, a clay teapot and matching cup sits unattended. The room smells like tea leaves.
He sheds his coat, folds it as best he can. Places it on the floor beside the desk, beside the bed. His heart thuds insistently in his chest, but he ignores it. Continues undressing: his belt, the layers around his waist, his gauntlet.
Jing Yuan only stirs when Dan Heng finally crawls under the covers. He worms his way into the cradle of one arm and Jing Yuan yawns, lazy and slow, so much like the lions that adorn his personal effects. “Dan Heng?”
“It’s me,” says Dan Heng. He presses his face into Jing Yuan’s robes. Jing Yuan runs hot. His warmth seeps through the thin, soft fabric, settling deep in Dan Heng’s bones. “You’re too unguarded.”
“So you’ve said,” murmurs Jing Yuan.
Dan Heng wriggles his cold, bare feet between Jing Yuan’s calves and is rewarded with a flinch. Then he’s rewarded with Jing Yuan’s patience for absolutely everything as Jing Yuan shifts, and, clearly braced for the cold now, draws him closer, both arms curling around him, and Dan Heng shuffles in, too, tucking his head beneath Jing Yuan’s chin. He breathes in the comforting scent of clean linen and herbal soap.
“I didn’t realize the Express would visit.” Jing Yuan sounds more awake. “I would have greeted you and your friends.”
“You can greet them in the morning,” says Dan Heng, his voice muffled. “Greet me now.”
He feels Jing Yuan press a kiss to the crown of his head. Suddenly bereft, he unglues his face from Jing Yuan’s collarbones to look up. Jing Yuan smiles at him, his eyes glimmering in the dark. It’s a dear smile, a guileless smile, one that Dan Heng sees straight through. His fingers dig into Jing Yuan’s back as he raises himself up.
For all Jing Yuan fakes obliviousness, he meets Dan Heng halfway. It’s a brush of lips, chaste, gentle, and Dan Heng’s heart hurts.
“It’s good to see you,” says Jing Yuan softly. Dan Heng kisses him again.
You too, he wants to say. I missed you.
Sometimes the ache is intolerable. Sometimes Dan Heng lies on his futon with the glow of his phone screen stinging his eyes, the animated ellipses next to Jing Yuan’s name burned into his retinas. Sometimes a mere screen isn’t good enough.
Dan Heng isn’t prone to loneliness. He was born into it and for many years knew nothing else—but that was before he boarded the Astral Express. Before he discovered things that mattered to him; before he reunited with Jing Yuan, got to know him for real. Before he first clambered into Jing Yuan’s bed, unsure of himself but sure as anything of what he wanted.
Jing Yuan breathes in, then out. His larger body curves around Dan Heng like a stroke of calligraphy. He’s tired. Dan Heng sees it in the weary lines of his face, feels it in the sluggish caress over his spine.
“You brought your work back with you.”
“Mm.”
“Jing Yuan,” says Dan Heng, but Jing Yuan only nuzzles into Dan Heng’s hair. Dan Heng sighs. He settles in, lets the tension bleed from his shoulders. Jing Yuan’s embrace remains secure and solid around him, the cornerstone to Dan Heng’s wanderlust. It’s almost too tight.
“How long are you visiting?”
Dan Heng closes his eyes. “You’re not asleep yet?”
“Depends on your answer.”
“Three days,” says Dan Heng. “The silver rail diverts from here.”
“That’s right,” says Jing Yuan. Every unhurried pass of his hand rucks up the back of Dan Heng’s shirt. He is so, so warm. Up high on Forge-III’s wet, frigid mountain peaks, buffeted by wind and rain and the deafening crack of ice around them, Dan Heng had dreamt of this. “Lady Fu mentioned something of the sort. And your most recent stop?”
“Cold,” says Dan Heng. “Wet. Stelle pocketed a holy relic and half the planet came after us. Welt is still recovering. Mentally and physically.”
Jing Yuan laughs quietly. Dan Heng feels it more than he hears it, the way it rumbles beneath his cheek. “Your adventures continue.”
“That’s one way to put it,” says Dan Heng. “I’ll send you the mission report after I finish rewriting it. If you're interested.” Jing Yuan always seems to appreciate that.
True to form, Jing Yuan gives a pleased hum. His hand slows to a stop. Dan Heng tracks his breathing. In, out. Calm as snowfall.
It’s so quiet that he can hear the trees rustle. Jing Yuan likes to sleep with the window open, no matter Dan Heng’s protests. In the morning, his finches will flutter onto the sill, onto his head, and bury their downy feathers into his hair. They don’t seem to mind the slumbering dragon next to him, anymore.
“Go back to sleep,” whispers Dan Heng.
He receives a squeeze in response. “The hours are short when you’re here.”
Dan Heng swallows a sudden lump in his throat. “I’ll still be here in the morning.”
Jing Yuan rarely brings it up. And always, he’ll offer Dan Heng that same quiet, untroubled smile. So unbelievably serene, a pillar even in this. Go see the universe, he’ll say. I’ll wait for you. Always, always. Dan Heng is grateful. Dan Heng aches. Dan Heng doesn’t know what to do with him.
Jing Yuan seems to take him at his word. Dan Heng counts the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing evens out.
One day, he thinks. Their lives stretch long before them. One day.
In the morning, the finches will dance fearlessly across Dan Heng’s cheek, cheep in his ear. He’ll wake with a start to the amused tilt of Jing Yuan’s mouth, the mess of his hair, his golden eyes and golden skin illuminated in the golden dawn, beautiful. Dan Heng’s breath will catch; his yearning will balloon outward, too large to fathom, too large to contain, and he’ll abruptly sit up and send all the little birds aflight, will fall upon Jing Yuan like the dragon he is and Jing Yuan will laugh and indulge him, as he always has: his yearning, selfishness, covetousness, and all.