Chapter Text
The first time Caelus noticed it, he tried to laugh it off.
It was small, almost nothing. The sort of thing you could explain away if you wanted to keep the world neat and simple. Dan Heng had stepped in front of him during a routine skirmish, spear angled to intercept a strike that would not have killed Caelus. Not even close. Caelus could have handled it. Caelus always handled it.
Except Dan Heng moved like his body had already decided the outcome. Like the idea of Caelus getting hit was not an option, not even a possibility to consider.
Afterward, Dan Heng’s expression went back to its usual calm, his voice level when he asked, “Are you injured?”
Caelus had grinned and spread his arms. “Do I look injured?”
Dan Heng had looked at him for a long moment, eyes sharp enough to feel like hands searching for cracks. “No,” he’d said, and then he’d turned away as if the conversation was complete.
But Caelus remembered the way Dan Heng’s shoulders had only relaxed after he’d heard that answer, like the tension had been a wire pulled tight inside him.
It happened again a week later, then again. Each time, Dan Heng’s body found the space between Caelus and danger before Caelus even realized there was danger. It was efficient and silent and maddening.
It also felt, in a way Caelus did not know how to admit to himself, like someone choosing him.
Caelus sat on the couch in the Parlor Car and stared at the ceiling like it might provide an instruction manual for feelings. The Astral Express hummed around him, warm and familiar. March was talking to Pom-Pom at the far end of the car, her voice bright and animated. Himeko’s laughter drifted in from the kitchenette. Welt was reading, as always, calm and steady like a lighthouse.
Dan Heng was not here.
That was how Caelus knew he was thinking too hard about Dan Heng.
Because he could always tell when Dan Heng was not here. The air felt different. The train still breathed, but there was a missing kind of vigilance, a missing quiet gravity. It was absurd. Dan Heng was a person, not a stabilizer bolt. And yet.
Caelus rubbed his palm against his thigh and told himself he was being dramatic. He told himself it was normal to notice your teammate’s habits. It was normal to pay attention to the person who had literally kept you alive more than once. It was normal to wonder how someone could be so calm all the time.
It was not normal to miss the way Dan Heng looked at him when he thought Caelus was not paying attention.
Caelus had caught it in reflections. In windows. In the shiny curve of Himeko’s coffee kettle. Dan Heng’s gaze, sliding over him like a quiet check-in. Not possessive. Not suspicious. Just careful. Like Caelus mattered enough to keep track of.
Caelus wanted to pretend he did not want that.
He wanted to pretend he was not starving for it.
“Earth to Caelus,” March called, popping into his line of sight with a grin. “You look like you’re trying to telepathically punch the ceiling.”
Caelus blinked, then offered his best careless smile. “It started it.”
March plopped down across from him and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Okay, no, seriously. You’ve been weird lately.”
“I am always weird.”
“Not this flavor of weird.” March’s eyes narrowed with exaggerated suspicion, then softened. “Is it the nightmares again?”
Caelus’s smile faltered before he could catch it. He shrugged, aiming for light. “Just thinking.”
March’s expression shifted into something gentler. “Thinking about what?”
Caelus could have told her the truth. It would have been easy, in a way. March had a talent for making the heavy things feel carryable. She would have listened, she would have made a joke, she would have said something sincere that made his throat tighten.
But the truth was tangled. The truth was that he had no memories and too many feelings. The truth was that Dan Heng made him feel seen in a way that terrified him, because being seen meant being real, and being real meant being able to be lost.
So Caelus leaned back and shrugged again. “How many snacks is too many snacks.”
March squinted at him like she was weighing whether to let him get away with it. “Liar.”
Caelus spread his hands. “I am a humble man. I would never lie.”
March snorted. “Okay. Sure. If you don’t want to talk, fine. But I’m telling you right now, if you do something stupid again, Himeko is going to make you write a ten-page reflection about ‘the value of teamwork.’”
Caelus laughed, real this time. “Ten pages?”
“Single-spaced,” March said with relish. “With citations.”
Caelus groaned theatrically. “Cruel and unusual punishment.”
March bumped his knee lightly with hers. “Just… take care of yourself, okay?”
For a second, the warmth in her voice made Caelus’s chest ache. He looked away, because if he met her eyes too long, he might actually answer honestly.
“I am taking care of myself,” he said.
March’s eyebrows rose. “By staring at the ceiling?”
“It’s a form of meditation.”
March scoffed. “Dan Heng would say meditation is about focusing your mind.”
Caelus’s breath caught on Dan Heng’s name, just slightly. He tried to mask it with a laugh. “Dan Heng says a lot of things.”
March watched him, head tilted. “You know,” she said slowly, like she was choosing her words on purpose, “Dan Heng also worries about you.”
Caelus froze. “He does not.”
March’s grin turned sharp. “Oh, he totally does.”
Caelus crossed his arms. “He worries about everyone.”
“Not like this.” March leaned back and waved her hands dramatically. “Not in the ‘quietly hovering near you like a sad, handsome bodyguard’ way.”
Caelus choked. “He does not hover.”
March gave him a look that was pure disbelief. “Caelus.”
Caelus’s face warmed. He hated that it warmed. He forced himself to roll his eyes. “You’re imagining things.”
March opened her mouth to argue, then paused. Her expression softened again, the teasing dimming into something kinder. “Okay,” she said, quiet now. “Maybe I am. But… if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”
Caelus’s throat tightened. He nodded once, unable to speak around the sudden pressure in his chest.
March stood, stretching. “Anyway. I have to go help Pom-Pom with something. Also, stop looking like you’re about to confess to a crime. It’s weird.”
Caelus managed a laugh. “No promises.”
March bounced away, leaving the Parlor Car with its gentle hum and lingering warmth.
Caelus sat there for a long moment after she left, staring at his hands.
Dan Heng worries about you.
The thought landed and stayed. It had weight. It made Caelus feel both comforted and exposed. Because if Dan Heng worried, that meant Dan Heng cared.
And if Dan Heng cared, then Caelus could hurt him.
Caelus pressed a hand to his chest, right over the spot where the Stellaron slept like a dangerous secret. He thought about the way he had been brought into existence by other people’s choices, by a plan he did not understand. He thought about the way his life sometimes felt like a borrowed room in someone else’s house.
He thought about Dan Heng stepping in front of him, again and again, as if the universe had to go through Dan Heng first.
Caelus exhaled slowly.
He did not know what to do with that.
Later that night, he found Dan Heng in the Archives.
Of course he did.
The Archives were quiet and dim, lit by soft lamps that made the shelves feel like they were holding onto centuries of hush. Dan Heng sat at a table with a book open in front of him. He looked up the moment Caelus entered, like he had been expecting him.
Caelus’s heart did something stupid. He ignored it.
“You’re up late,” Caelus said, aiming for casual.
“So are you,” Dan Heng replied.
Caelus walked closer, hands in his pockets. He pretended the room was not suddenly too warm. He pretended he did not feel the pressure of Dan Heng’s attention like a physical thing.
“What are you reading?” Caelus asked.
Dan Heng glanced down at the book. “Records of the Xianzhou.”
Caelus hummed, trying to sound interested and not like he was stalling. “Anything good?”
Dan Heng’s eyes flicked to him. “Mostly history.”
“History can be good,” Caelus said, then added, half-joking, “At least for people who have one.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Dan Heng went still. Not dramatically. Just enough that Caelus felt it in the air, like a thread pulled taut.
Caelus regretted it immediately. He forced a grin. “Anyway. March thinks I’m being weird.”
Dan Heng’s gaze stayed on him, steady. “Are you?”
Caelus’s smile wavered. He had come here with no plan. That was how it always happened. He would tell himself he was fine, then find himself drifting toward Dan Heng like gravity had opinions. He would tell himself he could keep it light, keep it casual, keep it safe.
But Dan Heng looked at him like he wanted the truth. And Caelus was tired of being a half-truth.
Caelus leaned his hip against the edge of the table, close enough that he could smell the faint scent of paper and something clean, like rain. “Do you ever feel,” he began, then stopped.
Dan Heng waited.
Caelus swallowed. “Do you ever feel like you don’t know where you belong?”
Dan Heng’s eyes softened slightly. It was subtle, almost invisible. But Caelus had learned to notice the tiny shifts in Dan Heng’s expression, like learning a new language from whispers.
“Yes,” Dan Heng said.
Caelus let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding. “I thought you’d say no.”
Dan Heng’s gaze lowered to the book, then back up. “Why?”
“Because you seem… sure of yourself.” Caelus shrugged, trying to play it off. “Like you always know what you’re doing.”
Dan Heng’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, but it did not quite make it. “That is not the same as being sure of yourself.”
Caelus stared at him, the quiet honesty hitting harder than anything dramatic could have.
Dan Heng shifted his hand on the table, fingers brushing the edge of the book. “You belong here,” he said.
Caelus’s heart lurched. “How do you know?”
Dan Heng looked at him for a long moment. “Because you stay.”
Caelus let out a shaky laugh. “That’s not a very strong reason.”
“It is,” Dan Heng said simply.
Caelus wanted to argue. He wanted to make a joke. He wanted to deflect, because if he took Dan Heng seriously, then he had to accept the terrifying idea that his presence mattered. Instead, he found himself asking, “Do you ever get tired of… watching me?”
Dan Heng’s brows knit slightly. “What do you mean?”
Caelus shrugged, trying to sound careless. “You’re always there when something happens. Like you’re waiting for me to trip over my own feet.”
Dan Heng’s gaze sharpened. “You take unnecessary risks.”
Caelus grinned weakly. “Here it is. The lecture.”
Dan Heng did not smile back. “It is not a lecture.”
Caelus’s grin faded.
Dan Heng’s voice lowered, quiet and controlled. “When you move toward danger without thinking, it forces everyone else to react. It is not only your life at risk.”
Caelus’s chest tightened. “I know.”
Dan Heng’s eyes stayed fixed on him. “Do you?”
Caelus looked away. He did know. Rationally. He knew the crew cared. He knew his choices did not exist in a vacuum. He knew he was not the only person on the train.
But sometimes, when fear crawled up his spine, when the Stellaron hummed under his ribs like a reminder that he was a threat as much as a person, the simplest solution felt like stepping forward and taking the impact. Make himself useful. Make himself necessary. Make himself worth keeping.
It was an ugly thought. A lonely one.
Caelus forced himself to meet Dan Heng’s eyes again. “I’m trying,” he said, voice quiet.
Dan Heng’s expression softened, just a little. “I know.”
The gentleness in his voice made Caelus’s throat tighten again. He hated how easily Dan Heng could do that. How he could be blunt and kind in the same breath. How he could make Caelus feel like a person instead of a problem.
Caelus shifted his weight, suddenly restless. “Do you ever think,” he began, then paused again, the words sticky in his mouth.
Dan Heng waited, patient in that infuriating way he had. Like he could stand in silence forever if that was what Caelus needed.
Caelus swallowed. “Do you ever think people only keep you around because you’re useful?”
Dan Heng’s eyes flickered. For the first time, his calm mask cracked, not into anger but into something older. Something tired.
“Yes,” Dan Heng said.
Caelus stared at him.
Dan Heng’s gaze dropped. “I used to believe that was all I could offer.”
A strange warmth spread through Caelus’s chest, mixed with sadness. “Used to?”
Dan Heng’s eyes lifted again. His gaze landed on Caelus, steady and quiet. “I was proven wrong.”
Caelus’s pulse jumped. “By who?”
Dan Heng did not answer directly. He just kept looking at him, and the silence itself felt like an answer Caelus was too afraid to accept.
Caelus’s hands tightened in his pockets. He forced a laugh. “Well. Congratulations.”
Dan Heng’s mouth twitched again, softer this time. “Thank you.”
Caelus looked down, suddenly overwhelmed by the softness in his own chest. He did not know how to handle it. He did not know how to hold something gentle without fearing it would break.
He pushed off the table and took a small step back. “I should let you get back to your… history.”
Dan Heng’s eyes followed him. “Caelus.”
Caelus paused at the door.
Dan Heng’s voice was quiet. “If you cannot sleep, you can come here.”
Caelus’s heart clenched. “You mean to the Archives?”
Dan Heng’s gaze stayed on him, calm and sure. “Yes.”
Caelus swallowed. “You sure? Because I’m loud.”
Dan Heng’s eyes softened. “I can endure it.”
Caelus snorted, but the sound came out shaky. “That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever received.”
Dan Heng’s mouth curved, finally, into something like a small smile. “Goodnight, Caelus.”
Caelus’s chest warmed. “Goodnight, Dan Heng.”
He left the Archives with the strange sensation of carrying something fragile and bright in his hands.
The next day, the universe reminded them it did not care about fragile and bright.
The mission was supposed to be simple. A small station, a minor disturbance, a request from a local authority to investigate a series of disappearances. Himeko had called it “a good exercise in caution,” which was her polite way of warning them that something smelled wrong.
Caelus had told himself he would be careful. He had told himself he would listen. He had told himself he would not do anything stupid.
Dan Heng had looked at him before they left and said, “Stay close.”
Caelus had grinned. “Always.”
He meant it, too. Or he thought he did.
The station was cold and quiet, the kind of quiet that felt intentional. Lights flickered. Signs glowed weakly in languages Caelus could not read. The air smelled metallic, like old machinery and something sharper underneath.
March stayed near Caelus, her bow ready. Dan Heng moved slightly ahead, spear in hand, scanning the corridors with that steady vigilance. Caelus watched him, trying to mimic his calm. Trying to take comfort in the fact that Dan Heng was here, that Dan Heng would see danger before it reached them.
The first attack came without warning. Shadowy figures spilled from a side corridor, fast and wrong, their movements jittery like broken film.
Caelus reacted on instinct. He swung his bat, stepping forward.
Dan Heng was there instantly, spear intercepting a strike aimed at Caelus’s ribs. The impact rang through the corridor, sharp and bright.
Caelus’s chest tightened.
Not fear. Something else. Something that felt like being held too tightly.
They fought back-to-back, as they always did, their movements fitting together with practiced ease. March’s arrows flashed past, pinning one enemy to the wall. Caelus’s bat cracked against another, sending it tumbling.
But the enemies did not feel like normal creatures. They dissolved when struck, reforming in flickers. Like they were not fully real.
Welt’s voice crackled over the communicator. “They are not physical. They are projections, sustained by an energy source deeper in the station.”
Himeko’s voice followed. “Find the source. Do not engage longer than necessary.”
Caelus exhaled. “You heard her.”
Dan Heng’s eyes flicked to him. “Stay close.”
Caelus nodded. “Yeah.”
They moved deeper, following the pulse of strange energy, the corridor narrowing into maintenance tunnels that felt like the station’s throat. The lights dimmed. The air grew colder. The hum under Caelus’s skin intensified, the Stellaron reacting to something in the environment.
Caelus tried not to let it show.
Dan Heng, of course, noticed anyway.
“Is it affecting you?” Dan Heng asked quietly, without looking back.
Caelus forced a grin. “It’s always affecting me.”
Dan Heng’s voice sharpened slightly. “Answer the question.”
Caelus’s smile slipped. He hated how Dan Heng could do that, how he could peel away the jokes with a few calm words.
“It’s… louder,” Caelus admitted. “But I’m fine.”
Dan Heng’s shoulders tightened. “Define fine.”
Caelus rolled his eyes. “Alive. Upright. Not exploding.”
Dan Heng’s gaze flicked to him, displeased. “Do not joke.”
Caelus’s throat tightened. “I’m not joking.”
The tunnel opened into a larger chamber filled with old machinery. At the center, a device pulsed with sickly light, cables spread like veins. The air vibrated with unnatural energy.
March’s voice went tight. “That is definitely the source.”
Dan Heng did not move immediately. He stood very still, assessing. His eyes narrowed slightly, not at the device but at the space around it. Caelus followed his gaze and felt his stomach drop. There were faint shapes in the shadows, watching. More projections. Waiting.
Caelus’s instinct screamed to charge. If they destroyed the device, the projections would vanish. Mission solved. Easy.
But “easy” was always how the universe tricked him.
Dan Heng reached out and grabbed Caelus’s wrist, stopping him before he could step forward. His grip was firm, not painful, but it anchored Caelus like a tether.
“Wait,” Dan Heng said quietly.
Caelus’s pulse spiked. His skin felt too hot where Dan Heng touched him.
March glanced between them. “What’s wrong?”
Dan Heng’s voice stayed calm. “It’s a trap. The projections are positioned to strike if we approach directly.”
Caelus exhaled sharply. “So we go around.”
Dan Heng nodded. “We disable the side conduits first. Reduce its output. Then we destroy the core.”
Caelus forced himself to nod too. “Okay.”
They moved carefully, splitting their attention between the shadows and the cables. March covered them with her bow. Dan Heng cut into a conduit with precise strikes, each movement controlled.
Caelus tried to mirror that control. Tried to let Dan Heng’s steadiness keep him steady.
Then the projections moved. They surged from the shadows, faster than before, converging on Dan Heng first, as if they recognized the threat he posed. Dan Heng spun, spear flashing. He blocked the first strike, then another, then another. His movements were fluid, efficient, lethal. Caelus stepped in to help, bat swinging. He hit one projection, scattering it, but another slipped past, angling toward Dan Heng’s blind spot.
Caelus’s mind went blank with panic. He lunged without thinking, throwing himself between Dan Heng and the strike. Impact slammed into Caelus’s side, sharp and cold, like being punched by winter. Pain flared. His breath left him in a gasp.