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The acidic stench of blood mixes with the sickly sweet smell of peaches. The latter of which is so prolific that it nearly makes Sunday gag when he inhales a sharp, biting breath as he dumps an entire bottle of what is, no doubt, March’s shampoo into the boiling hot water of the bathtub.
The pair mixes together in a way that is distinctly unpleasant. They overwhelm his lungs and nostrils until he can barely tell copper from bubbly soap. Which suits him just fine, the odor of blood has always made his skin crawl.
Truthfully, he feels like he’s drowning beneath a mountain of nonexistent fruit. He imagines that would actually be a more pleasant experience than sitting on the bathroom floor surrounded by a collection of mis-matched buckets and towels he’s pulled out of every single closet in the Astral Express.
Beside him, the tub he had just poured two months’ worth of shampoo into is gurgling from the fresh flood of bubbles amassing within it. It sounds as if the drain is choking. It helps for nothing that it’s never really worked quite right in the first place. Every little wheeze brings with it a spray of hot water as the suds leak over the porcelain edge of the tub, dripping haphazardly onto the tile flooring.
In the far corner of the room, the shower is turned on full blast–pelting the glass doors that Sunday finds incredibly impractical. All of the steam wafting up from the nozzle is enough to make the air feel tepid and moist.
He sincerely hopes the Astral Express’s next water bill isn’t exponentially higher because of him.
As irrational as all of this must appear, he has no choice but to try to subdue the stench of his blood and muffle the sound of his pained hisses and whimpers. It’s a precautionary measure in the event the remainder of the Astral Express’s crew returns before he’s finished dealing with the wound that’s still sending agonizing flashes of pain through his unsteady body.
He can’t and won’t let Dan Heng see him like this.
Dan Heng’s love for him is just as deep as it is fiercely protective. He cares so much about him that Sunday often finds it overwhelming. Though Sunday loves him equally, his love is a far gentler thing–a home for Dan Heng to find peace in. But that’s simply the nature of their relationship, and Sunday doesn’t want to see the heartbreak in Dan Heng’s eyes if he discovers he’s been wounded.
However, hiding himself from the other is a near herculean task given that he’s trying to compete with the sharp senses of a Vidyadhara. Even if he can’t smell anything but March’s unfortunate shampoo, nor hear anything from outside of the bathroom walls–that hardly means Dan Heng wouldn’t be able to.
Clenching his jaw, Sunday tries to swallow his shallow grunts and sharp hisses –just in case . Then he slowly and carefully begins to peel his soiled clothing off piece by piece. Every single one is damp to the touch–wet with blood and sticky from ichor and he doesn’t even want to know what else.
He has to fight through his strong urge to recoil as he tugs his jacket off–the sound it makes as it hits the floor is something akin to waterlogged sand squishing beneath one’s toes. He shudders at the unpleasant sensation that noise brings with it as he feels all of the steam and uncomfortable heat of the room against his bare skin when he finally manages to strip off his last remaining piece of clothing. The pile of which he tries not to stare at for too long knowing that the bright pools of crimson and the yellow puss left behind by insect guts would leave him gagging all over again.
Perhaps it’s ironic given all of the suffering he had inadvertently caused in pursuit of a dream that was every bit as selfish as it was selfless, but he’s always abhorred violence. The sight and odor of blood has made him squeamish since childhood.
His hands are still shaking uselessly at the memory of the Truesting whose life he had cut short with his own hands.
Bile creeps up from the back of his throat, and he nearly vomits when visions of its demise make his ears ring with the creature’s dying scream.
Fighting off his increasing nausea, Sunday grabs one of the countless towels and bottles of disinfectant around him and thoroughly scrubs his hands until they’re cracked and raw and the fibers actually hurt when the towel passes over his knuckles one last time.
When he tosses them aside, he becomes distinctly aware of the dreadful plip-plop that echoes through the room.
A trickle of warm blood drips down his back and splashes against the cold, gray floor.
There’s little order to his makeshift first-aid station, and it irritates him, but he simply can’t afford to spare a few minutes to organize all of it when he’s already fighting, what is likely a losing battle, against time.
There’s only so long the stench of the soap will linger in the air, and there’s also only so long that he can run the shower without someone ( Dan Heng) coming to check on him.
Dan Heng hasn’t even returned yet, but Sunday is already on edge and imagining the very worst possibility.
Shaking his head, he feels strands of his silky hair stick to his sweat-slicked skin. He forces himself to move forward despite the knot in his gut and the dreadful weight in the back of his throat.
Carefully, he unfurls the lone, dark wing that sprouts from his back–the one he so often keeps hidden and tightly tucked around his body in shame and disgust. It’s stiff and sore and its now tattered feathers stick to the gash beside it because he had been using it as a temporary tourniquet. A handful of plumes tear off and flutter to the ground around his hips as he pries them away from his skin.
It hurts.
Pain surges rapidly through his entire spine, and he can hear another round of plip-plops as a fresh stream of blood pours out onto the floor now that his wing is no longer wrapped around it . But the hiss of pain he makes is low and soft, let out through gritted teeth as he remains stationary for a long moment to let the fiery ache run its course.
Inhaling the still thick, saccharine air around him until his lungs burn and his chest constricts, Sunday finally looks over his shoulder and into the mirror he’s painstakingly positioned behind himself.
He feels his stomach churn at the sight that greets him.
The wound is deeper than he had assumed–and he had already assumed it to be fairly bad. Thankfully, it’s no longer gushing, but it’s still leaking which is, arguably, just as awful in Sunday’s opinion. But not quite as awful as the splattering traces of viscera that had seeped through his clothes and stuck to his shimmery skin.
He has to choke down another clump of bile and spit.
Tearing his gaze away from the spotless surface of the mirror, Sunday dunks one of the towels in far too much disinfectant for his (or anyone else’s) own good. He knows he’s rushing–every second that slips through his fingers brings him closer and closer to the return of the crew.
On top of it all, he’s also being careless. When he reaches behind himself, he does so far too quickly, and the sharp motion tugs violently at his tender muscles and torn flesh.
It sends a white hot flash of pain through his entire body. Curling into himself in an attempt to dull the agony rushing through him, Sunday drops the alcohol-drenched towel into a goopy puddle of his own blood. Choking down a thick whimper, his wing collapses, exhausted and sore, against the filthy and cluttered floor.
With his chest heaving, he finds it almost impossible to catch his breath. His lungs feel tight and overworked from his labored pants and all he can taste is an awful mixture of blood and soap.
He has to bite his own lip to stop himself from choking.
He’s wasting too much time. He has to clean himself up before the others return. Before Dan Heng returns.
Steeling himself, he gathers up a fresh towel from one of the hefty piles around him and is mere seconds away from dousing it in enough disinfectant to drown a ship when there’s a soft knock on the door.
“Sunday?”
Sunday, for what remains of his dignity, only nearly leaps out his own skin as the bottle clatters to the floor and the second towel escapes his fingers, joining the first.
There’s no mistaking the low and familiar hum of Dan Heng’s voice as it struggles to penetrate the rumble of the shower and the dying sobs of the bathtub’s drain. It’s one Sunday would know in his sleep–even if the world were falling down around him and all of the stars in the sky were plunging towards him, he would still be able to hear Dan Heng’s calm voice above all of the dazzling explosions and shattering ground.
Ordinarily, that sound brings him comfort. It has swiftly become one of his favorites–alongside the melody of his sister’s singing, and he could listen to him speak about anything or everything without pause or complaint. Right now; however, it does nothing but make his heart lurch into his throat. And, as if in response to his growing dread, fear and guilt, the pain he feels somehow becomes so much worse.
Exhaling, he slowly lifts his head to stare at the back of the door. Trying to will himself to relax only proves fruitless, so he takes solace, instead, in the fact that Dan Heng’s generally steady voice had sounded a tad bit hoarse. Likely, the reason he hasn’t simply opened the door yet, is because the stench of the shampoo is thick enough to mask the lingering odor of insect innards and blood.
He makes a mental note to buy March an entire year’s worth of shampoo when he’s made it through the day–as a thank you for her unintentional contribution to slightly delaying his worst nightmare coming to fruition.
Sunday knows the point is moot, but he tries anyway.
“A moment, Dan Heng–I fear I miscalculated how long your trip would be and am not yet in a presentable state.” He’s roughly as far from presentable as he possibly can be, so it’s not a lie, but his voice does break every so slightly as the words leave his dry lips.
It’s also, in hindsight, an incredibly worthless excuse. Dan Heng has seen him in a state of undress several times now (even if the thought still makes the tips of the fluffy wings on Sunday’s head curl inwards while his ears turn a bright shade of red). So, he’s little to hide from the other. It’s just a miserable attempt to prolong a fate he’s very certain he’s just managed to seal instead.
It helps for nothing that Dan Heng is both observant and keen–Sunday knows he heard his voice crack.
“I’m coming in.”
It’s not a question. It’s not a request. It’s a warning.
One that Sunday has no time to process or prepare for as he hears the bathroom door creak open–the nails still loose and bent awkwardly from when the trailblazer had slammed it open the very day this spacious place had finished construction.
Slowly, Sunday lifts his eyes to meet Dan Heng’s frantic and nearly feral gaze. The dull blue irises he’s grown accustomed to staring into have become a bright and piercing blue that glows in the low light of the bathroom. Even with all of the heat kicked up the steam, Sunday feels a chill creep up his spine at the sight.
Old habits die hard–or not at all–because Sunday immediately wants to pacify his lover’s worry.
“Dan Heng–”
“What happened?”
Dan Heng closes the gap between them so quickly that he’s close enough to Sunday that he can see the tips of the other’s canines beginning to elongate before the door even clicks shut. A frigid hand comes to rest on his jaw–formerly dull nails become long and sharp (though they never dare pierce him, even by mistake), and tickle against his cheek as Dan Heng begins to inspect him.
Sunday instinctively lifts his hand to wrap his slender fingers around Dan Heng’s wrist–the thick edges of scales scratching at his soft palm. “This is merely…” Sunday’s voice stops dead in his throat when he sees the expression that clouds Dan Heng’s typically stoic features. Those vivid eyes have become akin to a storm at sea, and Sunday finds himself swept beneath their violent waves.
“No, it isn’t. What happened? How were you injured? Who injured you?” Dan Heng’s voice morphs into a low growl by the end of his onslaught of questions. If Sunday were not mortified by how much distress he’s caused the other man he would, admittedly, find that deep timbre attractive.
Instead, he’s focused on the fact that the more Dan Heng seems to lose control of his emotions–even as tempered as he's trying to force himself to be–the more the man before him begins to change.
His normally short and messy hair now spills past his shoulders and cascades down his back. Upon his sharp jaw, a handful of scales speckle his face–shimmering beneath the off-white glow of the overhead lights. Upon his scalp, a beautiful and translucent set of horns sprouts. Behind him, the faint silhouette of a tail has begun to take shape. It’s not quite solid, but it’s still very much visible.
Sunday finds himself grateful for the fact that he had managed to gut the insect with what little combat prowess he possesses. The fate it would have met at the end of Dan Heng’s claws would have surely been one he would have wished upon no one–not even a raging beast.
Dan Heng’s fingers easily move out of Sunday’s grasp to trail down his neck, and trace over his shoulders as the other moves to get a better look at the wound on his back.
Sunday can see the moment where Dan Heng’s tail goes from transparent to totally solid–complete with fur standing on edge.
He knows the injury is an ugly sight. So raw and exposed.
It suits him, Sunday thinks.
It’s much like the gangly scar that marks where his missing wing had once been. It’s aged, but a white and lumpy and tender line remains where it had been. Twisted and mangled because he hadn’t been able to care for the wound properly while bound in chains.
This one will likely become another permanent mark upon his body. He supposes now, at least, he’ll have a pair of somewhat matching scars. Perhaps the first will look less lonely now.
What an asinine thought.
A sense of self-conscious dread wells up within him as he becomes keenly aware of how intensely Dan Heng is staring at his back.
“Sunday.” Dan Heng calls his name out, softer this time.
Sunday clears his throat. He’d like to respond with something along the lines of, You needn’t worry. I am fine, but he is most certainly not fine. He also suspects that simply dismissing Dan Heng’s concern will get them nowhere very quickly. The Vidyadhara is quite stubborn when he needs to be. Not that Sunday isn’t, but he doesn’t have the energy to go toe-to-toe with Dan Heng at the moment.
That, and well, Sunday does not lie. Even if he were willing to, he would never have the heart to lie to Dan Heng of all people.
So, he chokes down the instinct he has to reassure the other (to put everyone before himself), and tries to relax.
“It was my own error, Dan Heng,” Sunday begins, feeling his heart sink deeper and deeper into his stomach as he shudders beneath Dan Heng’s gaze.
He’s never much liked anyone being near his back–even more so right now. It makes him feel vulnerable and exposed in a way that nudity can’t ever hope to replicate. He wants to draw his remaining wing inward, to shield what he can of his back, but it’s stiff with all of the tension coiled up inside of his body, leaving it limp beside his hips.
So he shifts uncomfortably on his knees instead.
It’s not as if he believes Dan Heng would harm him. That thought is so outrageous that Sunday would be more willing to bet that the Trailblazer would put their dumpster diving days to rest before Dan Heng would ever lift a finger against him.
It’s not fear he feels, but shame. A Halovian with a missing wing, he imagines, must be quite like a Vidyadhara who has been stripped of their horns or tail. It was the price he had paid for his sins, and, while he accepts his fate, those feelings can’t erase how bare and cold he feels with only half of his back covered by the shadows of familiar, blue feathers.
He tries to focus on speaking instead.
“I left a window open to air out the party car after I cleaned it.” Aeons knows it had been in dire need of a cleanse after the Trailblazer and March had gotten drunk the other night. “I made the incorrect assumption that there was little need to remain alert on a planet such as this. Unfortunately, my judgement proved incorrect, and a truesting slipped inside.” He considers himself lucky that it was the only thing that managed to get in–he also considers it incredibly lucky that Pom Pom had been in an entirely different part of the train at the time.
“I have…already dealt with it.” His fingers curl slightly against his plush thighs at the admission. He can still feel sticky residue clinging to his body.
It was nothing more than a monster, and, yet, he still finds it difficult to stomach the memory of its screams and the stench of its blood as it splattered across the seats of the bar–seats he still needs to clean.
Dan Heng has moved fully behind him–his pointed nails resting on his back beside the wound. It’s mostly stopped bleeding by now, but it’s difficult to see it through all of the ichor that’s caked onto Sunday’s delicate body and soft feathers.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
What had Dan Heng expected him to do, hide in a closet with the Conductor while the insect terrorized the Astral Express? Actually, that’s probably what Dan Heng would have preferred he had done.
Dan Heng likely knows that his question is an irrational one–how far away had he been at the time, how long would it have taken him to return–Sunday doubts he could have kept Pom Pom safe without using himself as a physical shield. In other words, he would have walked away wounded one way or the other.
“There was no time. I did what I had to in order to protect the Conductor and the Astral Express, as was my duty for choosing to remain behind.”
He looks back at Dan Heng–the other’s expression remains dark as he examines the wound. There’s a mixture of emotions held within the depths of his eyes that Sunday has become accustomed to reading: grief, remorse, anger, frustration, worry.
“I should not have allowed you to be put in that situation to begin with,” Dan Heng insists.
Violence doesn’t suit Sunday. He had fought with them in a dream, yes, but that’s all it was. Ultimately, he’s someone benevolent and kind. If he weren’t, the weight of his mistakes wouldn’t drag him down so heavily.
And that selfless heart, for better or worse, is something Dan Heng wants to protect.
Subconsciously or otherwise, Dan Heng’s tail slithers into Sunday’s lap to wrap loosely around his waist.
“There is nothing to be done about it now. It’s over with.” Sunday’s hand lowers, gingerly running his fingers through the fur on the ridge of Dan Heng’s tail. He could calm the other by force if he so wished, he still possesses the power, but it’s not one he would ever use on Dan Heng. At least not in such a manner.
“You can't protect me forever, Dan Heng, nor do you need to.” While Sunday prefers things this way–he doesn’t want the other to purposefully place himself in harm’s way for his sake nor does he wish to become a burden to him.
The fur beneath Sunday’s hand becomes rigid once again, and Dan Heng’s tail tightens its hold on him.
Ah–that had been the wrong thing to say.
“I can and will.” Dan Heng’s response is short and firm but not without compassion.
Leaning forward, Dan Heng’s smooth lips press a kiss against Sunday’s shoulder–the one that shares the same side as his missing wing. “I’ll tend to your wounds. That much can still be done.”
When Dan Heng lifts his head, Sunday feels a faint warmth against his back as the scent of salt water begins to filter into the air all around them. It battles with the lingering aroma of March’s shampoo and the coppery stench of his blood.
For a fleeting moment, he can feel the gentle touch of Cloudhymn flowing into his body as the wound nearly begins to close. But, that’s all it is, a mere moment. That tender warmth morphs onto a chill that makes a shiver race down Sunday’s spine while that distant trace of magic twists into frigid water that trickles down his hips.
“Forgive me…” Dan Heng’s tail uncoils from around him just to land in an unceremonious heap in Sunday’s lap. His cold hand lingers on Sunday’s back, and Sunday can feel the heaviness of his gaze where it’s pinned to his wound–occasionally flickering to his ruffled and tattered feathers.
Sunday exhales, trying to ease the anxiety gnawing at his heart as he adjusts to the temperature of Dan Heng’s touch.
Cloudhymn, or rather this part of it, has been a sore subject for Dan Heng for as long as Sunday has known the man.
Mindful of his raw and still spitting wound, Sunday slowly turns to reach back and cup Dan Heng’s jaw within a trembling palm.
“There is nothing you have done that requires forgiveness. Regardless, if there were, I would give it to you always.”
Dan Heng’s free hand moves to cover Sunday’s–feeling the warmth of the other’s skin against the frigid flesh of his own calloused hand. The contrast is so extreme that Dan Heng feels as if he’s holding a hatchling within his palm.
Compared to Dan Heng, Sunday’s body is soft and devoid of blemishes. The only scars upon it being the one where his left wing had been violently torn from his back and the faint lines upon his chest from a time long past. Meanwhile, Dan Heng has so many at this point that he’s lost count. These days, he can barely tell the scars he had acquired in the Shackling Prison from the scars he had obtained after his release. At one point, he had known both well.
“I wish, deeply, that I could mend your wound,” Dan Heng admits. Like Bailu–like Dan Feng, the shadowy figure of his past whose powers still feel so far out of reach despite how much he tries to grasp it. He’s imperfect down to his very core. It’s frustrating. It’s maddening.
It feels like he’s failed–like he’s constantly failing.
He’s grown so tired of seeing the people he loves hurt and feeling helpless to do anything about it.
“It isn’t necessary for you to do so. It will heal with time.” Dan Heng’s palm feels like sandpaper against Sunday’s knuckles–like it’s grinding them down to the bone with every careful caress, but he’s never minded the sensation.
Sunday’s other hand returns to petting Dan Heng’s tail, attempting to smoother some of the agitation he can see pulling the other’s muscles taut.
“All the while you suffer.” Dan Heng truly is stubborn.
It’s not as if Sunday is unaware of how important mastering Cloudhymn is to Dan Heng.
He’s watched him, late at night, digging through the archives for everything and anything about healing and medicine. Dan Heng has read every entry about the Vidyadhara to death despite having been the one to write every last one of them. He visits the Luofu often, searching for answers that aren’t there. He’s caught him conjuring up his Cloudhymn for the smallest of things in an attempt to gain better control over it–to hone it to a point where, maybe, he can find the power that he knows must exist somewhere inside of himself.
Dan Heng’s distress is almost palpable.
If Sunday had never become a passenger aboard the Express, he would have never realized the depths of Dan Heng’s quiet kindness that’s woven into everything he does. It had taken Sunday some time to grow used to it, but slowly it had slithered its way into his heart–coiling around it until it held it entirely within its grasp.
“I am well, Dan Heng, I can barely feel it anymore.” It’s the truth, much of the pain had dissipated upon Dan Heng’s arrival. Even if it were still at its peak. Sunday believes himself deserving of such suffering.
He still harbors a dream of peace and security. That wish, of course, extends to everyone, but even more so to Dan Heng. The only person Sunday believes unworthy of such comforts is none other than himself.
Dan Heng removes their joined hands from his jaw, bringing Sunday’s knuckles to his lips to place a kiss upon each of his fingers.
“I’ll dress your wound and clean you up.” Remorse remains in Dan Heng’s voice as he lets go of Sunday’s hand.
Sunday is, quite frankly, more than eager to give that job to Dan Heng. He could barely look at himself in the mirror, and the entire time Dan Heng has been in the bathroom with him he’s adamantly avoided glancing into it.
Thinking about it too much is enough to make his skin crawl all over again.
“You have my gratitude.” Sunday turns forward once more as Dan Heng lets go of his hand, giving the other easier access to his back.
Sunday would be lying if he said the tender way in which Dan Heng carefully cleans and dresses his wound is unpleasant. Though it also makes his chest ache and his heart throb.
Dan Heng cares for him in a way that Sunday has never allowed anyone to do so before. At times, it still shocks him how willing he is to expose his weaknesses to Dan Heng. The other’s presence is soothing–it puts him at ease. It offers him solace that he’s never even allowed himself to dream about.
Even now, at his most vulnerable, he finds the anxieties and dread that had been building up within him have completely fizzled out.
He doesn’t want Dan Heng to see the ugliest parts of himself–from his missing wing to his deepest insecurities, but he allows him to regardless.
Because here he feels safe. Here he feels loved.
So lost he is in Dan Heng’s almost methodical approach to washing the remains of the insect off of his skin and bandaging wound, Sunday doesn’t realize the other’s finished until he feels Dan Heng’s hand slide away from his body. Those long fingers brushing through his lone wing–gently smoothing down the gangly and sticky feathers upon it.
Had anyone else so much as tapped his wing, Sunday would have frozen or jolted away, but because it’s Dan Heng, he melts into the touch instead. Leaning back further and further until his head is resting against the other man’s chest.
Dan Heng finally begins to relax bit by bit, though the guilt never quite leaves his eyes as he continues to run his hand along Sunday’s wing. “Are you in pain?”
“I’m not.” Though he is in an awkward position, half propped up by Dan Heng’s body to avoid laying directly on his back, his knees crossed in an attempt to preserve some of his modesty. Dan Heng has seen him naked before, yes, but Sunday is still rather prude in that matter despite the fact that he’s become intimately familiar with Dan Heng—to say the least.
Dan Heng makes a small sound of acknowledgement, and tucks his tail beneath Sunday’s lower back to support him before wrapping it around the other’s hips to cover him. As he continues to massage that worn wing, he reaches out with his free hand to hold Sunday’s palm within his own again.
“I’m glad you’re safe.” Dan Heng’s voice is quiet to the point where it’s almost difficult for Sunday to hear over the sound of the water slamming against the wall from the shower that’s still running in the far corner of the room. “I won’t fail you again.”
This entire situation is a far cry from being Dan Heng’s fault, but Sunday finally caves and chooses to appease the other instead of trying to argue with him or reassure him.
“I apologize,” Sunday begins, turning his head so he’s no longer looking directly at Dan Heng. “I should not have tried to deceive you. It seems my desire not to make you worry only resulted in causing you distress.”
Dan Heng’s hand pulls away from Sunday’s to come to rest upon his cheek so he can tilt the other’s head towards him once more.
“I would worry for you regardless–as I am aware you worry for me when I’m away. However; I accept your apology, just don’t attempt to hide from me again.” Dan Heng pauses, his thumb slowly caressing Sunday’s cheek. “You are…not alone. You don’t need to do everything on your own.”
That’s something Dan Heng is still trying to learn as well. But the Astral Express crew has made it nearly impossible for him to take on more than his fair share of tasks, try as he might. The same applies to Sunday. Though, much like when Dan Heng had first joined, he still tries to take on the others’ burdens behind their backs.
“Let me protect you. Allow me this, if nothing else,” Dan Heng adds.
Sunday sighs faintly in a mixture of defeat and heartache. Dan Heng has been hellbent on hovering around him since he joined. At first, it had been out of an obligation the other had felt to ensure Sunday truly harbored no ill will towards the crew. But, after a while, the reason had become a far simpler one–he began to enjoy Sunday’s company. Then, after a bit longer, that simple one had become complex again–he had fallen in love, as had Sunday.
That was when Dan Heng’s hovering had turned into this unrelenting desire to protect him.
When Sunday had questioned him about it before, Dan Heng had claimed it to be a Vidyadhara thing. Even now, though, Sunday still thinks it’s more of a Dan Heng thing than anything else. But he also indulges Dan Heng in this desire often.
And he’ll indulge him yet again today.
“You have my solemn vow that I won’t hide things from you again, and I’ll seek you out when I need aid.” Sunday already does and, truthfully, outside of cleaning the archives and organizing them every so often when he notices Dan Heng is tired, Sunday has never hidden anything from the other before either.
Lifting his hand, Sunday brushes his fingers along Dan Heng’s jaw to rest it upon the other’s neck.
As Sunday cranes his head back to meet him, Dan Heng leans down to capture his lips in a gentle kiss that contains all of the sweetness of March’s shampoo and the all-consuming nature of the sea.
Sunday knows Dan Heng could kiss him for hours if he allowed it. He knows the depths of his waves and the strength of his conviction. He knows, too, Dan Heng’s unyielding affections for him.
So, he pulls away first, but doesn’t allow Dan Heng to put more than a meager inch between them.
“Very well, my dear,” Sunday caves. “In return, know my love is everlasting, and that It belongs to you alone. I will endure your any and every storm with you.”