Work Text:
“There’s an unopened package of ice cream cake in the freezer,” Dan Heng says from the doorway. “Strawberry shortcake flavor. You can help yourself to it if you like.”
Sunday jumps, his headwings puffing up in shock alongside his full body reaction. He turns around, a nervous laugh on his lips.
“That is a very kind offer, Mr. Dan Heng. Thank you. Perhaps tomorrow.”
It is a kind offer and I appreciate the thought and that won’t be necessary all translate to I don’t deserve to burden you like this.
Sunday is a ghost aboard the Express. It would be easy to forget he exists, even, since he so desperately aims to quieten his steps and avoid the line of sight of every other passenger.
Dan Heng doesn’t forget.
“Hm,” he says. “That’s a shame. It is customary on the Express to share a slice on Friday evenings. A longstanding tradition.”
And perhaps there is a sliver of guilt in lying so brazenly as the color drains from Sunday’s face. Caught in a trap, between shame and the threat of seeming impolite.
“Ah, I… did not know it was such an important occasion,” Sunday says, straightening his posture. “I apologize.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
Sunday isn’t stupid. There is a crease in his brow, doubt and suspicion, but he still folds and settles down at the table with a tiny slice of cake. It’s a start. Dan Heng does not prod for more, not for now.
“I can’t help but wonder where the rest of your companions are,” Sunday comments before he has ever taken his first bite, sitting prim and proper as though this was a job interview. “Is this ritual not to their taste?”
The cake is too sweet, as all desserts tend to be in his eyes, but Dan Heng finishes his slice anyway. He tilts his head, studies Sunday closely.
“They’re asleep, I believe.”
“Ah, yes, it is quite late.”
“That it is.”
“Mr. Dan Heng, I-“
Sunday starts his sentence but doesn’t finish it. Something stops him, as it so often does, and ripping out a hook never brings relief. It would tear him up, rend the tender flesh. Dan Heng waits, until too much time has passed.
“Yes? What is it?”
“It’s quite alright,” Sunday says, practiced. “Only a stray thought.”
He doesn’t eat the cake. He excuses himself, eventually, when Dan Heng goes to sleep. Back to hiding away, to refusing to take up space.
Welt is the one who realizes that Sunday sleeps in one of the armchairs in the Party Car. It keeps Dan Heng up, as well, walking aimlessly around the train because nothing sits well about letting their newest passenger punish himself for nothing. It is always brief stay and temporary with Sunday- always guest or hitchhiker.
“I don’t possess the spirit of the Trailblaze,” he would say. “This is an opportunity I am immensely grateful for, however brief, and one I promise not to take for granted.”
The echoes of the past are too loud to ignore. Seeking refuge on the Express, hurting and distrustful, eyes of red forever haunting his dreams-
Dan Heng remembers too much. It is all embedded in Permanence, the good and the bad, and while time erodes even the hardiest scales it does not soften Remembrance’s bite. He took a first step, too, all those months ago, a first unsteady step onto this train and amidst people he didn’t feel worthy of.
Sunday already has a visitor when Dan Heng seeks him out. March, bright and loud as she always is, talks animatedly of their next destination and how the immersias have depicted it.
“You’re a big fan of music, right?” she asks. “You’ll love it. I heard they have instruments that translate notes into fireworks. A friend of ours from the Luofu has been dying to get her hands on one for ages but there’s apparently a secret rite of passage before you can-“
Dan Heng leans against the dresser and listens.
There was a day when March 7th was an acquaintance, a passing annoyance even- when the sound of her voice had dread gather in his heart. It took a while, a long while, for Dan Heng to know himself well enough to understand the issue never lay with her. Nothing but fear, nothing but an unease not yet processed.
Sunday listens, patient and attentive. There is confusion in it, always, because once you have decided there is no worth to speaking to you every piece of evidence to the contrary is disruption. It is uncanny; it is unwanted.
“March,” Dan Heng says and has to hide a smile as she jumps, complaining immediately about how he sneaks up on people. “Don’t you agree it’s about time we get Mr. Sunday a place to stay that isn’t a chair in the middle of the Express?”
It’s perhaps a little unfair. March’s eyes go wide and she looks between her two companions.
“Wait, you sleep here? You have been sleeping here? Sunday, why didn’t you say anything! We have a couple spare rooms! We have so much space, actually, you can pick your favorite! I probably have Robin merch to spare, too, if you ask nicely~”
Sunday’s expression is caught somewhere between mortified and genuinely afraid and for the first time Dan Heng wonders if this is the right approach. They are still out here, out in the open and exposed. No corners to press one’s back into, no curtains to hide behind.
Sunday settles into the next room, thanks them, and then does not emerge. Dan Heng passes his door once, twice, another many more times until he loses count.
He brings white chocolate macadamia cake with him when he returns, knocking on the door tentatively.
Sunday says what he always says, endlessly polite, overly grateful, the guilt and shame and desperate desire to convey his thanks brimming in him like a restless engine.
“I’m sorry for putting you on the spot,” Dan Heng says, eventually. “And… also for lying to you about the cake before.”
The reaction he gets is expected surprise and much less expected dismay. Sunday’s wings flare out, feathers puffy.
“No, please, there is no need to apologize. I- I appreciate your efforts.”
“I know you do. But it isn’t others who should decide what pace you adjust at. I admit that I saw myself in you, perhaps a bit too much, and decided rashly that what helped me would best suit you, too.”
It comes out a bit too stiff, a bit too rushed, but Dan Heng knows that if someone out there understands the value of rehearsing an important thought many a times it is the man looking back at him right now.
“So I would like to propose something else,” Dan Heng continues in the face of Sunday’s anxiety. “You are welcome here and we would all like to continue showing you that you are, on your own terms. The one thing I ask is that you try and allow yourself to accept what you wish to.”
He exhales a long breath. It is all said and done. The cake rests securely on a pretty plate and the plate is balanced perfectly on Sunday’s lap. Sunday fixes his sleeves. Then again.
“I can try,” he says softly.
The data bank gains another contributor.
“May I help you with your tasks here, Mr. Dan Heng?” Sunday asks and clears his throat. “Not as a form of penance but rather…”
To be helpful, in any sense of the word. Dan Heng nods. There’ll be another day to talk once more about not having to earn one’s keep and belonging for belonging’s sake alone. Gears rust and the mind does, too, if left idle for too long.
“You may,” Dan Heng says. “Would you like to have some tea as well? Archiving always comes easier in high spirits.”
Sunday settles onto a chair the first time. The fifth time he visits he sits down on the futon. Within a few weeks, the routine grows roots, steady and secure. Dan Heng finds himself looking forward to it, every small chat and evening spent arranging data.
“Lushaka?” Sunday asks, as he does many a time. “What would a Trailblaze expedition on such a vast ocean look like, I wonder?”
They discuss it, over tea and cookies and by now several blankets wrapped around them. Sunday listens, as he always listens, but with every week that passes he grows more confident to add his thoughts to the mix.
“You didn’t invite me?” March complains as she peeks into the data bank one evening. “You two have had secret meetings without me?!”
Dan Heng can’t fully suppress his smile.
“These meetings have been conducted to work on the data bank. Would you like to be in charge of analytics or-“
“On second thought,” March says, “maybe they can be secret.”
She does, however, stay for the cookies.
The pain sets in abruptly. One moment there is tranquil calm and the next his scales burn and itch and bleed from below the skin, pressing up and out and clawing at his body aching to break free.
Dan Heng writhes in his dreams, serpentine, begging Dan Feng to relent and let him shed his skin, leave behind all that remains from a distant past. You cannot rid yourself of me, he imagined Dan Feng would hiss, flaying him, punishing him for being alive.
Then he met him, for a while, that shed skin, that horrid cruel baggage.
Now, writhing, serpentine, it is worse to know Dan Feng wanted his suffering no more than anyone else. Companions, dear and close, and the wish to keep them safe. To bring them back. The certainty of hindsight only ever granted grace to one of them.
Dan Heng gasps awake at a touch to his shoulder. He scrambles up, away, under a desk to keep himself small. The scales still itch.
“Apologies,” the man in front of him says and kneels down on the ground, hands on his lap. “I would not have usually disturbed you but you seemed to be in a night terror. I hope it was alright to wake you.”
Dan Heng nods slowly. Half of his vision is shimmering scales, the other half the depths of Scalegorge Waterscape. Neither is home. Neither is safe.
“I believe you are having a panic attack,” the man says. “You are not in danger. Can you breathe with me?”
The instructions are simple. Take a breath for seven seconds, hold it for seven. Exhale it, seven. Hold it, seven again. Why seven, Dan Heng wonders. Not three or five. Three or-
He breathes, as requested. The man has wings on his neck, he notices. If his hands were not lead he would reach for them. If his fingers were not claws, perhaps he could touch them.
“Can you tell me seven things you see?” the man suggests when Dan Heng begins to take even breaths. “Take your time. We are in no rush.”
If Dan Heng had eyes he would see the world. If he had eyes. If he had-
“I see your wings,” he says. “I see… photos on the wall. A plant on a shelf. A book with a green cover. A sculpting knife. The conductor’s favorite mug. I see…”
The data bank comes into view. His futon, the monitors, the files. Then, fonder, all the trinkets collected over recent years. A trace of every smidgen of love bestowed upon him, mapped and catalogued as any other fact.
“Home,” Dan Heng says quietly. “I see home.”
Sunday joins them for dinner now. He still doesn’t eat enough but it has become routine for one of them to offer him extra dessert. March, talented as ever, manages to coax Sunday into sharing some of his favorite recipes, some of those fond childhood memories.
“We could make some for Robin if she comes to visit,” March says. “That could be fun. Right Dan Heng?”
The kitchen table groans under plain ingredients and an elaborate spread of decorations. Food coloring and glitter and then tins and boxes laden with knick-knacks Dan Heng did not know the Express ever stocked. A jar of candied cherries sits next to one that seems to harbor galaxies in powdered form.
“It could be,” he says and when he turns to Sunday he wonders.
We could use the assistance.
We would like the company.
You have a place here, as long as you want it.
“Would you like to bake with us?” Dan Heng asks, open-ended, open-hearted.
Sunday blinks, so surprised by the offer still.
“If it’s no trouble.”
“If you think you would be trouble,” March proclaims, “you haven’t seen what our other helpers will get up to.”
It gets a laugh out of Sunday. And another two soon follow as the Trailblazer whirls through the kitchen wanting to try everything, as Himeko suggests grinding up rare minerals from Belobog’s mines to add depth of flavor.
When the Harmony’s gentle tune fades, Dan Heng is left between Swarm remains. The blood isn’t his and the chitin scraps are not scales and the lifeless body in his arms is-
“You truly are the guard of the Express,” Sunday says and coughs. “Guard and guardian both.”
Welt kneels down next to the two of them. A few scrapes line his face but nothing deep enough to bleed. They weathered the storm, the Swarm, and every other twist of fate.
“Are you alright?” Welt asks. “We only caught a glimpse of the creatures coming your way before we were also overwhelmed.”
“We are alright,” Sunday replies, exhausted. “I admit, however, that I may have used all my strength for the excursion. I won’t be making it to the exhibition as we planned, I apologize.”
Dan Heng snorts.
“That is the least of our concerns, Sunday.”
“Ah, yes, that is- that is fair.”
“Can you walk?”
The answer is a certain no. Sunday is so tired he doesn’t even seem embarrassed as Dan Heng slips an arm beneath his legs and spine and lifts him up. Within a few steps he goes limp, asleep, worn out.
“As reckless as any other Nameless,” Welt comments, a fondness softening his concern.
It echoes in Dan Heng’s mind until they make it back. He is the guard of the Express- he guards the Nameless and their journey.
“We can’t make that choice for him,” Himeko says as he brings it up to her, smiling at him with a knowing look. “But I remember a certain passenger who also started out unsure about his place with us.”
It doesn’t strike Dan Heng out of nowhere. This is a well-trodden thought. But no matter how often he walks this path, it doesn’t prepare him for this look of affection and the corresponding warmth in his own heart. To belong, to be home, to be right where he should be.
Himeko ruffles his hair.
“We still have a long journey ahead of us,” she says with the weight of another long journey already weighing on her, the many farewells, the miles alone. “With many companions.”
Dan Heng nods slowly.
“Then should we not make sure the companions we want to stay with us know as much?”
The mirth in her eyes never fades but it softens. Himeko’s marks are all over this train, every blemish polished and every fastened screw. The Express lives and breathes with her. She smiles, head slightly tilted.
“Mhm, I think we already have. But it can’t hurt to make an extra effort.”
Dan Heng finds March perched on the Party Car’s bar, idly swinging her legs. Next to her Sunday sits on a chair but any air of propriety is undercut by how he has draped himself onto the counter, fast asleep.
“Dan Heng!” March whisper-shouts. “You’re okay! I can’t believe- wait, you are okay, right?”
She hurries over, patting his arms as though checking id they are still securely attached.
“I am okay,” Dan Heng confirms. “Officially.”
The hug doesn’t surprise him anymore. Belonging here means this, too, and he squeezes March in turn. They both made it back. Out there, in the vast galaxy, neither of them have had roots to nurture. Only here, on this starbound rail, home remained.
Dan Heng gives a glance to Sunday over March’s shoulder.
“Were you watching his sleep?”
His mirthful tone does not immediately spark the reaction he expected and as the moment goes on, Dan Heng slowly pulls back to study March’s contemplative face.
“Do you remember when I got knocked out on the way back to the Express? Years ago?”
Dan Heng does. A stray shot from the Antimatter Legion and March’s bright bubbly loud presence faded into devastating stillness. His ears still ring with it, sometimes, in nightmares. His hands tremble with the memory of stitching her up, helplessly waiting. Dan Heng only nods, lump in his throat.
“I remember waking up scared I’d lose all those memories again,” March says, grave and calm. “That I’d have no idea what I left behind, again, and abandoned life after life with no regard for anyone.”
“March-“
“No, no, I’m not blaming myself. Not a lot, anyway. I’m bringing this up because the reason I didn’t freak out was because I woke up surrounded by you all. You were right there to remind me, to celebrate when I woke up and rejoined you all.”
Dan Heng’s gaze is drawn to Sunday. The cuts all over his sleeping face have been treated but the memory of his collapsing body stays.
“I think he will appreciate it, too,” Dan Heng says. “However, we should transport him to his room.”
March nods.
“Yeah, good call. You can tell me what even happened on the way. I thought you were just fine after we split up and then you two and Mr. Yang show up looking all cut up.”
He relays to her their side of their trip- the swarm that descended and the Harmony’s fierce outburst to not only halt their movement but have the many insects turn on each other viciously.
“They were easy prey for Mr. Yang and I,” Dan Heng explains as Sunday is securely deposited onto his bed. “But keeping all those creatures chained and mindlessly hostile towards each other-“
March plops down onto the mattress.
“Oof, yeah. No wonder Sunday looked dead on his feet as you returned. We just ran into a malfunctioning IPC robot and used one of Topaz’ codes to deactivate it. Kind of anticlimactic honestly. I was all ready to complain when we got back.”
“You chose to go through the door labelled ‘safe route’, if I’m not mistaken.”
“It was clearly meant to be a trap!”
“Mhmm.”
“It was courageous of you, Miss March,” Sunday mumbles beside them. “Next time may it be matched by peril to match your bravery.”
His feathers rustle against the bedding as he shifts. March snorts, placing her hand on Sunday’s shoulder.
“Are you saying you want me to be in danger?”
“Ah, no, it was meant-“
“I’m just teasing you,” she says and pats him. “I know it was a joke. Don’t sweat it.”
Dan Heng sighs.
“Perhaps the teasing can wait until Mr. Sunday is not in danger of losing consciousness.”
Predictably, the man in question makes a valiant attempt at sitting up properly, thwarted by his extended yawn and shaky feathers.
“I am doing quite alright. It was merely some tiredness, I am certain rest will fix it.”
“Then let us rest together,” Dan Heng says with a twitch of his lips. “If only to ensure you do not try to weasel out of it. Is that alright?”
The flutter of Sunday’s wings is only partially indignant. There is space to disagree now, space to maneuver, but just as Dan Heng ached with loneliness when he first boarded, Sunday gravitates towards them when offered. Slowly, slowly.
The Trailblazer finds them soon, snacks in hand and mischief in their heart. It quiets down as it tends to when worry tampers it. Dan Heng remembers finding them abrasive, always trivializing things requiring care. It took time to learn that for some, humor is distance. That dismissing what haunts you keeps it gone for a moment, at least.
This, however, is carefree.
“We can go somewhere else if you mind,” they tell Sunday. “I’ll try not to get popcorn everywhere, though. Unless someone deserves some chucked at them. It’s a case by case basis.”
Sunday shifts, watching them all curiously.
“I don’t mind.”
“Are you sure, Sunny?”
“Yes,” Sunday chuckles. “It… the silence is harder to fall asleep to.”
A plea for company. It won’t go unheard, Dan Heng knows. He is the guard of the Express, after all, and he will guard this one until he knows that his place is here with them. Belonging takes many a shape, after all. Some days it is this, friends curled up together making sure that they all rest easy.
“You’ll get wrinkles from worrying so much, Dan Heng,” March says and nudges him to lay down. “You always pretend like you were not also in the middle of danger.”
Dan Heng considers protesting, if only on principle. However, Sunday adjusts his position, tentatively, so that they are all a bit closer together.
“I can confirm that Mr. Dan Heng was the most eager to throw himself into the fray to protect Mr. Yang and I,” he says and smiles innocently. “Without a second glance or regard to his safety, he launched into a sea of insects-“
“Alright, alright,” Dan Heng interrupts. “Yes, perhaps I am also in need of rest.”
There is a moment when Sunday seems hesitant to nestle with them into what the Trailblazer calls a cuddle pile but his wings twitch in a joyful way. Nesting habits, perhaps, similar to how Dan Heng’s tail curves around them all. It’s safe and sheltered.
I understand your wish to do this for others, Dan Heng might have said on a different day. That dream itself is not an evil.
They will face that imperfect tomorrow together, he thinks later as he drifts into slumber, March’s elbow digging into his side and the Trailblazer’s snores having outperformed the movie for a while.
Sunday shifts when he is certain they are all asleep. Not to leave, to Dan Heng’s relief, but to regard them for a while, a silent gratitude. He smiles in his pretend-sleep as Sunday rejoins them, settling in, settling down.
“Sunny!” the Trailblazer calls out over a sea of records spread out on the carpet. “We need your musical expertise, get over here!”
Their energy is infectious. Arms akimbo and grin wide they tower over their creation. Pom-Pom watches them with fond exasperation from atop the jukebox.
Sunday pauses in the middle of his sentence, a tentative assessment of Himeko’s newest coffee. He looks between her and Dan Heng, already apologetic.
“I do have some relevant knowledge, I should be able to assist them.”
“You can say no,” Himeko says, cheerful as much as it is casual. “In fact, in my humble opinion you should, Sunday.”
Dan Heng watches the obligations tug on Sunday in real time. The threat of seeming impolite, ungrateful, useless. A restless tune thrumming through him.
“It seems to be something I could offer insight about as well,” Dan Heng says and gets up. “It won’t be long, please excuse me.”
A small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things. Getting to see Sunday relax, however defeated, and return to the game of chess he and Himeko were immersed in. A bit of time taken aside.
The Trailblazer looks pensive as Dan Heng arrives by their side.
“An unlikely assistant,” they say. “But acceptable. Join me in this quest?”
Dan Heng sighs, performance rather than venting frustration. Every little idiosyncrasy- Himeko’s coffee, Welt’s cartoons, March’s photographs, and now this- all of them collectively paint the Express in the shades it needs be to be home.
“What categories are you sorting them by?” Dan Heng asks.
“Taste,” the Trailblazer replies. “Maybe smell.”
It is soothing, repetitive work. Arranging the records in a mosaic on soft carpet. A long symphony of songs collected on the journey. Belobog to the Xianzhou, Herta Space Station to Penacony. As Dan Heng arranges one by one the nostalgia sinks in fully. One glance at the Trailblazer tells him a story of care well-hidden in brashness.
“Once you have finished your match,” he tells Sunday with what he hopes is ample fondness to signal there is more than obligation awaiting, “we could use your expertise after all.”
The newest records are Robin’s songs, of course, and they are added with shaky fingers to the Nameless’ collection.
“You were so quick to forgive me,” Sunday says. His hand does not tremble in March’s but his wings always do. She applies nail polish with professional precision, an iridescent grey.
Dan Heng hums, his own nails already done. A new shade, golden. It used to be humoring someone else- now it is a sweet routine, relaxing, rewarding. Now it can be this, for its own sake, for themselves, alone.
“Mr. Yang vouched for you,” he says and follows the motion of the brush with his eyes. “And your sincerity was not difficult to discern.”
“I… am glad to hear that.”
“Your plan wasn’t good and we had to stop you,” March adds, tongue sticking out as she focuses on applying an even coating. “But even if you were being smug and the puppets were weird you weren’t exactly killing people left and right. I don’t think the irredeemable villain type usually spends hours trying to explain himself to his enemies to avoid conflict. Dan Heng, did you know he put us in his own head to show he isn’t lying?”
Sunday flushes but holds impressively still even through the wild fluttering of his wings.
“It was- it was the easiest way to convey myself, I thought.”
“Yeah, uh, Phantylia didn’t do that.”
“I’m- I’m glad to hear it?”
“What March is saying,” Dan Heng chuckles, “is that it isn’t so much that our forgiveness is so easily earned, it is that you simply earned it. Your mistakes were not trivial, no, but neither is your resolve to do better.”
It is enough to make Sunday squirm, finally, until March scolds him to hold still again. Doubts shared are so easily quelled. Dan Heng remembers, as well, when-
“When Dan Heng first got here he didn’t talk to most of us and I always thought he was a stuck up ass,” March says. “And everyone probably thought I was just ditzy and stupid. So, yeah. First impressions can be changed, too. Now everyone knows I’m smart and cool.”
Sunday laughs, a fond sound.
“As they should.”
“Hey, you know it’s true! You also underestimated me, you put me into a dream full of ice cream and cake!”
“Did you not insist on a detour on our current Trailblaze to try more cosmic ice cream just earlier today?” Dan Heng asks.
March’s gasp of outrage is almost enough to spill nail polish all over the couch.
“You’re lucky I care about the conductor too much to chuck this at you!”
Sunday inclines his head.
“I appreciate your attempt to defend me, Dan Heng, but I believe Miss March’s assessment is more than fair. I have made a lot of bad judgments based on first impression, including hers.”
“Including mine,” March repeats and smirks. “Ohh, there’s a story there, I can tell. Spill!”
And this is no interrogation or public trial. They settle down to dry their nails once Dan Heng has dutifully done March’s. Red, glittering.
“Several instances come to mind,” Sunday tells them hesitantly. “For you all, of course, but my very first thought will always be… a confrontation I had with one of the IPC executives.”
There is shame in it, a deep discomfort, but the viciously Dan Heng’s instinct rear to protect he knows that there are things that can’t be reversed or undone by excuses. Sunday gets lost in it, that spiral of taking responsibility, but no one needs to save him before it ever started.
“Over Penacony’s future, I imagine,” Dan Heng nudges. “They did get their wish, in the end.”
Sunday hums, leaning back. A melancholy settles over him, thrumming in his halo. The past clings as cobwebs, as layers of dust upon a soul.
“They did. This one came to my office with a grand scheme, preying on my paranoia and using Robin’s death. I interrogated him via the Harmony and made him believe he was to die, as well. Shackled him, for a time. I thought it so just. I don’t like how good it felt, in retrospect, to let my grief take that shape. It was cruel of me.”
“And this was a wrong first impression?”
“It was part of his plan, yes. By using a shallow façade and giving me a brief sense of victory he tricked me. It was impressive. I have great respect for it, now, the scheme and the man behind it, as little as I believe that would be appreciated.”
Dan Heng stays quiet. It isn’t difficult to connect the dots, to think of the stories he has heard of the Planet of Festivities.
“I’ve told Mr. Yang and Miss Himeko of this incident when I first boarded in case it becomes troublesome for the Express later,” Sunday adds. “It’s… well, now you know.”
“Thank you for sharing that with us.”
“It’s the least I can do. I hope he is faring well now after his, ah, grand defeat at your hands.”
“Oh, wait, this is about Aventurine?” March asks and sits up. “He mentioned you the other day when we were checking out the IPC’s new training… something.”
The somber air evaporates immediately. Sunday blinks at her, owlish, and then at Dan Heng.
“What- what did he say?”
“He didn’t seem mad, if that’s what you’re wondering. He called you a friend, too.”
“That must have been facetious. We did not-“
“Oh, you’re as bad as Dan Heng,” March sighs and waves him off. “Next time we come across the IPC I’ll better see you try and talk things out. It’ll be fine. All business and all that. And if he tries to give you a hard time, we can always beat him up again.”
“Please don’t do that, Miss March-“
“You may decide not to answer, of course,” Sunday says, “but I am quite curious what March was referring to. Or who, I suppose.”
They have moved to the Express’ kitchen to prepare dinner. Sunday offered to help but admitted defeat as Dan Heng handed him a plate with biscuit cheesecake.
“Help me with your company,” he requested of Sunday. “And tell me if you like this flavor.”
Now the vegetables are in the pan and the sauce is thickening and Dan Heng falters faced with the question of what or who it is he is running from.
“I believe March was referring to Blade of the Stellaron Hunters,” he says slowly, spatula still in hand as though his grip still demanded a weapon. “He is someone connected to my past self and has made it his mission to chase me down.”
But that’s not entirely true anymore, is it?
Sunday nods.
“And March believes this isn’t true? That you should talk things out?”
“Apparently.”
“You had no idea she felt that way.”
“No.”
“Do you disagree with her?”
Red eyes, chasing, haunting, grieving. Dan Feng’s soul crying out in response. Dan Heng shakes his head, focuses on the bubbling liquid in the pan. Blood would not boil like this. Blood would not smell like this.
“I’m not certain.”
“And what-“
“Sunday,” Dan Heng says and can’t keep a tinge of frustration from his voice. “I would prefer not to talk about it.”
The regret is immediate. Sunday’s reaction, out of the corner of his eye, is not particularly concerning but this is a man trained to compose himself and not let any sign of pain show.
“Ah, my apologies,” Sunday says.
Dan Heng focuses on the vegetables. The stir fry. It all meshes together, as much as his memories do. Pay the price. Pay the price. Pay the price.
A hand gently settles on his shoulder.
“Dan Heng,” Sunday calls out quietly. “I’ll take care of the rest, alright?”
He leads Dan Heng to the chair he occupied before but halfway there Dan Heng lets the fight drain from him. He leans on Sunday. The Astral Express is home. The Astral Express is safe and familiar.
“I’m sorry, I should not have snapped at you.”
“I should not have badgered you with questions, however well-meaning, if you were obviously not feeling well,” Sunday answers smoothly. “I… you have made it clear often enough my presence here is not unwanted. It is beginning to settle in. So no need to apologize.”
They finish cooking dinner with the help of Pom-Pom who arrives with worries in their heart but no shortage of care to alleviate them. Family, it chimes in Dan Heng’s thoughts. You guard them. You keep them.
Red eyes still chase him at night. He wakes in a cold sweat, thoughts falling apart, his horns curving from his skull to shred through his pillow. Ruined, desecrated. He stares at the remains through rasping breaths and thinks Baiheng? Baiheng? You can’t be gone. You can’t be. You mustn’t be.
“It was a long time ago,” he whispers to himself and the ghost of Dan Feng still lurking within him. “I know it hurts. But we are safe here.”
The others can’t be gone.
The others, pieces of his heart. Another home to guard, scattered and distant and dead.
The Express is silent at this hour. Welt and Himeko are the ones most likely to be chasing away sleepless nights with the sight of the stars but the cosmos seems lenient today. They are getting rest. So is the Trailblazer, so is-
March snores into Sunday’s shoulder in the Party Car. A scrapbook lays on the table in front of them, surrounded by a plethora of small shimmering stones and an opened container of glue.
“Hello,” Sunday greets Dan Heng, barely a whisper. “Is everything alright?”
“I could ask you the same.”
“Miss March requested help assembling this mosaic and figured my… meticulous nature would enjoy the process. She was right, as she is so often.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Dan Heng,” Sunday says, not unkind. “You’re shaking. Would you like to join us? Sit down?”
The couch dips under their shared weight. Dan Heng accepts the offering, accepts warmth and shared space. The Shackling Prison and Dewlight Pavilion both worshipped distance. Removing oneself from all that is present.
Dan Heng rests his head on Sunday’s free shoulder. There is a purr in his throat and he lets it, tail lashing restlessly until the presence of his friends truly sinks in.
“I was informed we would get hot drinks delivered soon,” Sunday says. “March does not look like she is going to want hers so I hope it can lift your spirits instead.”
“Delivered?”
“Via Trailblazer.”
“Ah.”
“Did you have another nightmare? Is it something you wish to talk about?”
And Dan Heng does want to, even if the words never quite feel right. The me that isn’t me and the friends he had and lost and brought back wrong. The self he was forced into, removed from everything. The self that was punished in his stead that finally found the Trailblaze.
He does tell a story, one closest to the truth. Of the past and how it clings to the present, scared to be forgotten, scared to forget.
“I used to blame him,” Dan Heng admits. “But now, seeing this, knowing this, realizing that it is not too different from what he so foolishly tried to conserve…”
The Trailblazer joined them quietly, promised drinks at the ready. March, too, woke up and poorly pretends to still be asleep. It rests warm in Dan Heng’s heart. It can’t not rest warm.
“And similarly,” he says, red eyes in his dreams, red eyes haunting his waking thoughts, “I see only a man sick with grief in what I believed to be a monster chasing me.”
Belobog’s icy winds pick up and Dan Heng watches in real time as Sunday’s wings begin to freeze over. They have barely stepped out of the Express. Within an instant, Dan Heng pulls Sunday back inside through the doors and into warmth.
“Are Halovians not good at handling low temperatures?”
“I- I am not entirely sure,” Sunday responds and rubs his feathers. “That hurt immediately, however, so regardless of whether or not Halovians as a species are affected, I definitely am. To what extent-“
He goes quiet as Himeko steps up from behind to wrap a fluffy blue scarf around his neck.
“Good thing we always come prepared,” she says in a joyful sing-song tone. “You can tuck your wings into the scarf and they should stay nice and toasty.”
“Ah, thank you, Miss Himeko.”
“Dan Heng’s antlers also froze over the last time we went, it’s no trouble at all. We have more gloves, too, and extra coats and heated blankets for the nights-“
By the time Himeko has decided Sunday is prepared enough for the weather he is truly bundled up. He went quiet a while ago and Dan Heng doesn’t miss the distant look on his face, lingering neat the doors long after Himeko has journeyed out into the city.
“Something on your mind?” Dan Heng asks.
A few months ago Sunday would have fled into gratitude and nervous smiles. Now he hums, contemplative, and fixes his sleeves.
“Care given with such certainty,” he says, “still feels wasted on me as much as I can’t help but fear what it means you see me as.”
Dan Heng huffs.
“Not weak or helpless, I assure you.”
“Ah. Is it that obvious, then? I’m sorry.”
“No need,” Dan Heng says, light and calm. “I understand it for what it is.”
Sunday shifts. Awaits an answer.
“Oh?”
“You don’t feel superior to us, you merely stake your self-worth on your usefulness to others. You said fear and that’s what it is, right? You fear being a burden and it comes with guilt, always.”
Sunday does not look spooked this time. He watches, wings safely buried in the scarf, and sighs after a moment.
“It is a difficult habit to shake.”
“It is.”
“One you are familiar with, as well,” Sunday says and tilts his head. “Right?”
Dan Heng smiles.
“Perhaps.”
“It is a conundrum,” Sunday says. “Who guards the guard?”
There is no demand for a reply. Dan Heng is left to ponder only for a second before he is enveloped in an especially warm hug.
“You’re not cold,” March said to him years ago now. “You’re scared.”
Dan Heng wraps his arms around Sunday in turn. No demand for a reply but this call is easily returned. There’s a whole cosmos out there yet to be explored- understand, establish, connect. A train as their home and Dan Heng knows, knows, knows that Sunday does not want to leave them.
“Are you ready for some particularly snowy Trailblazing?” Dan Heng asks into the side of the fluffy scarf.
Sunday hums.
“I owe Miss Himeko a proper thanks.”
“And I owe the Trailblazer a snowball fight.”
“It seems we both have our work cut out for us.”
The freezing cold does not get through the many layers of their clothes. An impenetrable defense. The walk is calm and invigorating. Dan Heng explains this and that, filling the gaps in Sunday’s mind. They part ways briefly in the city’s square to find the rest of their companions.
Belobog celebrates another year unfrozen and the IPC pays their regards. The blue in its sky remains Jarilo-VI’s very own. Dan Heng catches a glimpse of March discussing trotters with Topaz before he comes across another familiar face.
“Ah, one of my esteemed Nameless friends,” Aventurine says and tips his hat. “Your last minute confirmation was quite the surprise. Here I thought you would pass up our invitation.”
Curiosity mixes effortlessly with accusation. A bit of needling, jovial enough, and Dan Heng inclines his head.
“And yet we arrived on time.”
Aventurine laughs.
“So you did, so you did.”
He sticks close to one of the geomarrow heaters, a cup of mulled wine in hand. The chill reaches even the heart of the city. Aventurine’s eyes never leave the crowd.
“Are you waiting for something?” Dan Heng asks.
He gets an enigmatic smile in reply. Mellowed and eager by choice. A hand exposed. It is more than a mistake, less than a scheme. Aventurine wishes for this to be seen.
“A promising investment, you could say.”
“One that accepted an invitation late.”
“Perhaps.”
“The Nameless always protect their own, Mr. Aventurine,” Dan Heng says without letting anger seep into it, only statement, only fact. “But that won’t be necessary here, yes?”
Aventurine raises his eyebrows.
“No,” he replies after a while, strangely simple. “Consider it a more personal interest.”
“It is quite cold out. I hear the best place to weather Belobog’s harsh winters are the cafés around the plaza.”
“Is that so?”
“The Express itself also welcomes friends whenever they wish to visit.”
Friends can be a bargaining chip, can be leverage, can be nothing but friends. Dan Heng can’t read the look on Aventurine’s face well enough to know which option he hears. Perhaps, in the end, Aventurine isn’t any surer of it. He isn’t mingling with the crowd this time, after all, sticking to the sidelines watching people go by.
I didn’t feel real when I was around people either, Dan Heng chooses to keep to himself for today. Not at first. Not with the feeling of shackles still on my wrists. I still feel them sometimes.
It is a guess, only a guess, after all. A somber distance to all things. Dan Heng wonders if Aventurine knows that his personal investment shares this inclination.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Aventurine says. “Now, Mr. Dan Heng, do you have any wondrous stories to tell of the Trailblaze’s recent ventures?”
Even casually he commands a conversation with ease. Listening well, questions that guide along the speaker. Dan Heng lets himself be led by it for a while, it is sincere enough. He can pinpoint the moment Aventurine’s attention shifts, however. A bright gleam in his eyes, a minute change in posture. When they wish each other a good rest of the day the festival around them has picked up the pace. Serval’s electric guitar screeches louder than their goodbyes, a fierce tune cutting through the cold.
Himeko waves at him from across the plaza. The snow crunches under his boots as he crosses the street, mindful of the crowd cheering and hollering at the top of their lungs.
“There you are,” Himeko laughs. “The other kids split up to look for you.”
Dan Heng can’t help the smile. A familiar vision, March and the Trailblazer, chasing around the busy streets calling for him.
“I was having a chat with Mr. Aventurine.”
“Ah, Miss Topaz did mention they arrived here together. And, if I recall correctly, that he has a plan involving us that we ‘do not need to be concerned about’.”
“It remains to be seen whether that is true.”
“After today’s outing I’m sure we will have new insights,” Himeko says. “Sunday is a good judge of character.”
Dan Heng turns to follow her gaze and sure enough the blue scarf stands out near the grey buildings and dim light of the geomarrow heaters. Aventurine’s green coat is another beacon, close by. There is no telling from this distance if things are going well.
“No need to interfere, I think,” Himeko chuckles as though reading his mind.
Dan Heng sighs.
“It… is not my place, I know that.”
“We like to keep our own safe, especially if we know how much strife lays behind them. A warm wish to ease their burden.”
Dan Heng smiles despite himself.
“Will you ever tire of easing mine?”
“No,” Himeko laughs. “And I don’t believe in keeping score.”
“Me neither.”
The music surrounds them for a moment. Sonorous, calling out to the worlds beyond the sky that they may stand in awe of Belobog’s resolve. Himeko hums along until a flash of pink approaches them from the crowd.
“Ah, there is March. I wonder if she managed to get the flowers she wanted.”
Petals, pressed and conserved between book pages. A form of Remembrance. March’s photos remain memory, her camera lens the eyes that will never fail. Dan Heng sees her sprinting towards them and can’t find a flaw in Himeko’s words.
“I found Mr. Yang but not Sunday,” March reports as she arrives, out of breath. “Hey, why are you two smiling so much? Did I do something embarrassing?”
Dan Heng forces down a bout of laughter. Something joyful and unrestrained but not here, not now.
“Of course not.”
“Well, you better not be! I was-“
And she was worried, of course she was, because who wouldn’t be? Dan Heng hugs her. It is easier than saying we won’t leave you behind, we will find you when you get lost.
March tries to laugh it off, half-hearted. The other half fears grief, fears blank spaces where all those pictures used to be. They keep moving, the Nameless- many people leave so what’s one more?
Two more, he thinks as the Trailblazer returns hours later dragging Sunday by the hand. The journey may end, long in the future, as all journeys do. Until then, every Nameless returns to their home.
It rains over the battlefield.
They meet here because nowhere else ever is for them, because they can only end in bloodshed.
Blade does not spare him a glance, those red eyes always averted now. Focused on the mission, focused on passing the days one by one until his sword could finally sever three more threads of fate. This, this brief moment of shared enemies, never lasts. The Swarm demands attention, it always does, but as its shadow fades so does the remnant of that long-gone alliance.
Dan Heng watches, hair soaked and clothes drenched. His companions await and so do Blade’s, two different vessels and two different facsimiles of home. A cruel thought, another that only persists in this threshold of a moment. When the red fades the present will be in its proper place.
Dan Heng’s chest hurts with an ancient sorrow.
“Can we talk?” he asks over the rain.
Blade pauses. His movements bely the restraint it takes to keep himself in one piece. It must be exhausting, to gather oneself constantly, all brittle little things. The cracks are showing. He isn’t beyond the world.
“What makes you think I would want to talk to you?”
“Do you?” Dan Heng asks and allows the sorrow to shine through in full. “Don’t you?”
Blade’s shoulders drop. Resignation, of all things. You fall for the same sentimentality every time, Yingxing. You can’t help it, can you?
“It changes nothing.”
“You don’t know that,” Dan Heng tells him, softer even than he intended. “This time, it might.”
The rain does not magically stop and the earth it soaked does not dry within an instant. He gets used to the downpour, however, finds the stillness in it.
No longer shackled by the past, can mean two things.
A letting go, a willful abandon. A burden eased by removal alone. Necessary sometimes. Dan Heng watches Blade stand amidst their shared carnage and rubble. One of them, surely, must be buried beneath when all is said and done.
Dan Heng takes a step closer.
“Come,” he says, determined. “Let’s speak a while.”
Blade meets his eyes again, finally. The resignation stays. Dragged around on a leash this or that way for so long. By death, by the mara, by Dan Feng or his ghost.
“You will regret this,” Blade says.
Dan Heng laughs.
“Are you afraid you might not?”
When all is said and done Dan Heng returns to the Astral Express.
“How’d it go?” the Trailblazer asks, already barreling into him the moment he steps over that threshold. “Did you die?”
Dan Heng can’t help but snort.
“Not quite.”
“Good! Because we’d a) miss you very much and cry for a week and b) went on an epic baking quest to surprise you upon your return.”
Sincerity so flimsily concealed by humor. Dan Heng lets them keep their spiel, smiling faintly as they pull him along. The train cars are all devoid of people. In their stead there are mementos- an abandoned tea set, an open book, a board game, beads about to be arranged into a mosaic.
The crew is gathered in the kitchen. Pom-Pom has been lifted onto the counter to swing their legs while surveying the rest. Himeko hums along to the cheerful tune playing on the phonograph. Welt’s music, Dan Heng guesses, another memento from a different world and time. Welt himself is covered partially in flour, telling a very apologetic Sunday that it was no one’s fault the bag slipped like it did. March is giggling to herself too much to keep the food coloring tube steady.
“He’s back!” the Trailblazer exclaims. “Everyone, how’s the situation?”
The replies vary but through it all, through chattering and laughter and sneezing on account of the flour, Dan Heng can only smile and smile more until the corners of his mouth work, neither cold nor scared.
The data bank’s door slides open late in the evening.
“Did things go well?” Sunday asks. There is no hesitation- he slips into the room, sits down on the futon beside Dan Heng. He carries two bowls of cookie dough ice cream.
Dan Heng watches Sunday for a long while without saying a word.
How to say-
What a surprise it is to no longer be surprised,
You nested here, settled, found a place and accepted it,
Neither of us wears our past as shackles anymore-
“It did,” Dan Heng says and accepts his bowl. “Thank you.”
Sunday’s wings flutter faintly. Happiness. It crept in as light would through barricaded windows. Beam by beam, board by board, until the sun reaches inside.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“You are curious, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am,” Sunday chuckles. “But I understand it’s a delicate subject.”
Dan Heng adjusts his position, gets comfortable.
“Perhaps a trade would be in order.”
“Oh?”
“Your encounter in Belobog in exchange for mine today.”
“I would not dare deprive March of the fodder for gossip. At least in my case.”
“That is fair,” Dan Heng agrees. “Those two will show up within a few minutes, however.”
“I give them five.”
“Generous.”
“Thank you, too,” Sunday says. “For everything.”
He dozes off with his head on Dan Heng’s shoulder.
“Aw, can’t believe Sunday would try and get out of getting grilled for info like this,” the Trailblazer laments as they arrive five minutes later with March in the. “Strategic genius the likes of which have never been witnessed.”
Dan Heng makes space for them all.
“It’s alright,” he says because brief never was brief and temporary is much less certain now than home. “You can ask him tomorrow.”