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Battle-torn lands ravaged by war, despair, disgust, hopelessness. Blood-curdling screams, battle-ships soaring across the sky filled with hatred and desperation. Shame seeps into his bones, dirtying his frame and collecting in his chest. Fumes coil around his lungs, constricting and twisting, barring access to oxygen, his chest heaves, desperately trying to cleanse his being with new air, yet it escapes him. Responsibility lays on his shoulders as they tremble under its weight, the fire of panic lights, ravaging his body, the trembling spreads to his hands. He is shameful, untrustworthy, incompetent, stupid-
“Dan Heng?”
Reality slaps him in the face. Panicked green eyes watched as his hands shook, clattering the fork and knife he held against the plate, the racket he had caused at the party car bar, the attention he had drawn toward himself. His waking dream had infected him with a burning sensation called shame, it spread quickly, alighting every nerve in his body as his throat tightened. Everyone’s eyes were boring into him, they could see his hate, his inability, his fear. Panic gripped his chest, quickening his breath as the attention wore him down, chipping at his walls with a steady beat, as if they were trying to chisel his being into something he wasn’t. It was all too familiar.
“Excuse me.”
His barstool scraped across the party car, hurried footsteps carried him out, quickening only when he left their line of sight. His elbows hit the archives desk, his head held up by his palms as he feebly took a breath, listlessly trying to dispel the settled weight on his chest. His wrists felt shackled, his blood ran cold, his head was pounding. Bygone scars throbbed as painful memories stole his breath, invading his corner of the universe.
His state was familiar, the anxiety was common and the panic was welcome, he knew how to handle flashbacks. However, the attention he had garnered, the sympathetic looks he had accrued… it was too much. Dan Heng was the Guardian of the Astral Express, that is his title and it is pride-filled. His ability being doubted, his resolve being questioned, it has happened too frequently. What did they think of him now? Would they change his title, strip him of his identity? Without his title who was he? Did he have a choice? Would Stelle ever speak with him again?
Her marked silence had perturbed Dan Heng unlike anything else. He wanted her to be curious, that was her nature, to constantly explore and inquire, March 7th certainly wasted no time in doing so which relieved him. But… Stelle had stayed silent, she moved around him, like oil with water. He didn’t want to be water.
A soft knock echoed throughout the archives. He caught his breath, anticipating Himeko or Welt’s voice, of course he concerned them and made them worry, he should have thought about his actions, he shouldn’t have behaved so rashly, or at least he could’ve texted them to let-
“It’s me.”
The velvet-like voice sliced through his thoughts, a heartbeat could be detected in his temples, his hands began to tremble as he pushed a shaky breath out of his chest. The sliding door ripped open, revealing silver hair that dressed her frame, her off-shoulder white shirt displayed unobstructed, and her black mini-skirt with the absence of her missing wedges, rather donning plain socks. Amber eyes shone with concern, eyebrows angled upwards distorting her usually confident visage, hands knotted in stress: he did this to her.
Instinctually, his hands squeezed into fists, shame burned bright once more. “I’m fine,” his eyes were trained on his shoes, his face sizzled as self-hatred invaded his thoughts. “I’m sure you are, entertain me anyway?” Her playful nature slowed his racing mind, her welcome presence quieted his troubled state, and he stepped aside, allowing her to meander in.
Taking his place at the computer, Stelle mounted herself on the chair next to him staying quiet, gifting Dan Heng the lead in this dance. Rough hands scrubbed his face, hoping to wash away the lingering nervousness.
“Why… haven’t you asked questions?” He tangoed.
“Are you saying I can’t be quiet?” Teasing, joking, deflective. When had she started to avoid questions like these?
“I just needed some time, that’s all! It’s not everyday when someone transforms into a dragon,” she waltzed as a disingenuous smile plastered across her face, he hated it. Dan Heng knew her answer wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the full truth either, but he was grasping at the straws of her presence. He would take it.
“Dinner seemed a little rough,” Hesitant and quiet, she didn’t want to push him. Her hands were exploring each other, wringing and tension-filled. “You looked… scared. Was it linked to the Xianzhou?”
She had read him to filth, her perception drilled a hole through his wall, a peephole into his soul and she was trying not to peer. Stelle rewarded him with a veil of privacy, her kindness was unbound, all he could do was reciprocate.
“Dan Feng’s emotions and memories sometimes leak into mine. I- I get nightmares sometimes, and flashbacks too.” Vulnerability was not an emotion that Dan Heng donned, he felt akin to three trotters in a trench coat. His nightmares were only known by Himeko and Pom-Pom, his weaknesses were not to be broadcasted, his shortcomings were not to be known by the passengers. Yet, his chest felt lighter, breathing came easier, his headache started to abate.
“I understand nightmares.” Stelle looked solemn, quiet, serious. His soul was dirtied with shame and guilt… was her soul caked in filth as well?
“I spoke with Kafka a little bit ago,” Dan Heng’s eyes snapped to the sagging figure of the Stellaron, her silver hair swallowed her whole, her skirt wrinkled under her coiled hands, timidity settled itself on her back as she caved under the weight of it, “she implied that I traveled with the Stellaron Hunters, that they were my first family. I- I know that Kafka was lying about some of it, but Blade… Blade said that I was Kafka’s sidekick, that I was really close to her,” a sniffle punctuated the sentence. A crystalline drop exploded as it met with Stelle’s gloved hand, a rough scrub with her fist left her golden jewels bleary and bloodshot as she futilely suffocated her vulnerability, suppressing and pushing it.
“I just sometimes have nightmares about it.” A final sniffle. Her crumbling walls were being patched, the blanket of vulnerability is being pushed back into its hole, her crooked mask was being straightened.
“Sometimes?” He tangoed.
“Ok, maybe more than sometimes!” She tangoed back.
A cacophony of giggling filled the archives, a radiant smile, cheeks tinted a rosy pink, Dan Heng’s heart fluttered as his stomach clenched. His chest tightened, as Stelle’s genuine smile was all he could see, he loved it.
Shame and guilt may drape over Dan Heng’s soul, however, it no longer dirties him, rather it is a cloak that he and Stelle share, tangoing together.