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Dan Heng isn't one to advertise what he likes, nor was he an open book for everyone to read—closeness and that hint of adoration was so important to him and the fibers making up his mind. Not the type to casually say “I love this” unless it slips out or someone is paying very close attention—tangled into each of his actions.
And no one had noticed him so profoundly, so silently like Blade. The Stellaron hunter the Express least expected to be around someone with a past complicated like Dan Heng, let alone be with him.
It does not happen in a way the swordsman can point to—there's no exact moment where Dan Heng said it outright, deliberately letting Blade know his preference. But rather, the clearest declaration was laid in the mundane things he did—quietly, repeatedly, until the pattern became impossible to ignore, attached to his figure as if shape and shadow.
A match—quite aligned with how Blade observes everything around him. From his mere presence changing the smallest notes of the atmosphere, to how his bloodthirst gaze stopped one's strike in mere seconds—this ‘newfound’ favoritism Dan Heng has across all types of desserts in the Planarcadia slid into his eyesight like a rare blue moon amidst the cycles.
From a glance that lingers half a second longer than it should at a display case, how his azure pupils never seemed to dart around and yet settled on one serving no matter how many times he had stopped by. A choice made without much hesitation when alternatives exist—like Dan Heng had learned to stop treating it as ‘spoiling’ but view it as something leisurely, effortless.
And now, a plate that is always—consistently—emptied, chosen when others are not.
It’s not dramatic, nor particularly obvious—consistency was Blade's only clue, and he need not of a magnifying glass to observe the distinct pattern.
Quite endearing, how Dan Heng felt comfortable enough, how he's particularly shoving into the swordsman's face his partiality of a sweet treat, yet Blade was so unaware of its presence, simply thought it was a nice softness for himself.
But Blade isn't one to poke his nose into other's business—as if relearning serenity again, through Dan Heng, through the little habits he hid so well—yet still so obvious.
The first time said ‘favoritism’ settled clear as the sky to the swordsman was… small, intimate. A rare occasion where they get to be with each other again, the past and the empty space of time made it clear any attempt at a conversation will soon lead to a dead end. Not enough for a small talk, but sincerely their time alone—at a scheduled bakery on the noisy street of Planarcadia.
The shop was an enclosed space, sunlight peeking through tinted windows, shining strings of lush pinks and hazy blues across the empty tables and highlighting the luxurious smell of ground coffee—alluring both wakefulness and sleepiness, from the soothing warmth and soft scent of pure dark coffee.
They are seated across from each other, a branch of vanilla sat between them—a line so blurry, so inviting for vulnerability and mellowness—as if a chain to drag, to draw them closer than ever.
Quietness was the only menacing presence here, Dan Heng doesn't look like a man burrowed by the ghosts of the past, Blade didn't feel his shoulders much heavy, didn't feel his scars much painful.
The menu had been simple, choices limited. While Blade ordered nothing without much thought—Dan Heng's gaze lingered over the menu for a while longer, irises skimming over the choices like he had known what to order while the swordsman could only titled an eyebrow up in slight curiosity, then choosing not to interrupt.
“You're not going to order anything?” After a short moment, the archivist eventually asked, peeking through the menu, gaze meeting Blade's exhausted ones. Perhaps he had seen through his façade, perhaps read the questions Blade had in mind—and chose to make aware of it.
“No,” A blunt reply, which felt as a blade drawn a sharp line between them again—Blade really wants to strip off the vacantness he always carried, yet it lingered like a parasite, gripping onto pieces of his brain like a vice, embedding itself in each of his muscles like they’re his new will to exist.
Silence settled again, Blade kept his gaze closed—resting, for once made clear of his trust for the other, chest fluttering with the hint of life—secretly listening to Dan Heng’s murmuring voice, asking for a dessert he couldn’t quite grasp at the name, something sweet—the name suggests that, quite fancy, too.
The pastry arrives quickly, mainly as of them being the only customers in this empty shop—Blade still kept his eyes closed even then, ears ringing with the soft ‘clink’ of porcelain settling on the sleek surface, the faint twinkle and rustle of fabric and trinkets as Dan Heng adjusts his posture. Then he looks, it’s.. tiramisu.
Coffee-soaked ladyfingers structured atop of each other, soft swirl of egg yolk cream sinking into each bits, a thin layer of cocoa sprinkled as the cherry-on-top of it all—such irony, Dan Heng’s face barely held emotions, yet his eyes beamed when the dessert is served, as if sunlight tilted and his eyes were a reflector capturing every shimmer of light.
Blade files the details in his mind efficiently, automatically—a mental note he didn’t know whether it was a habit or pure adoration he rarely felt for anyone or was it guilt, let alone someone tied directly to his solemn past—layered, structured, soft where it should be, and firm where it needs to hold.
A balance of bitterness and saltiness that does not overwhelm either side, like them—colliding.
Dan Heng’s gaze flickered over him just once, again with that dulled awareness that he cannot indulge himself to let go—firm in the line he wanted to draw, yet ached to touch even though it took him everything to drive his mind away once he think about Blade’s company.
Funny how they knew each other so well—where they collided, where they turned, precision, doubtfullness, all collapsed into a clutter of intensity that seemed too addicting to simply speak up.
Nevertheless, Blade watches longer than he intends to. Reddish irises tracing every visible hint of enjoyment on Dan Heng’s expression, searching for an outward sign that this is different from anything else he might consume, even though there’s none—and Blade too was more than aware of that fact.
And yet, the archivist finished it in quiet bites, kept his gaze down like he cherished every bite, every spoonful. Blade looks down to his empty side of the table, then back up again—wanting to say more, taunting comments and teases, but stopped whenever words reach his mouth, settling down to save this rare tranquility for once.
After that, after how well each detail aligned to the mental notes Blade had from his past observations, the sight becomes impossible not to see. As once the pattern exists, it soon will reveal itself everywhere—in passing moments, in small choices, in the lack of refusal despite the quiet tension still lingered around them, despite the passive-aggressive hostility in their eyes.
Dan Heng does not seek out aggressively, does not show an ounce of displeasure whenever his preference wasn't displayed, nor even a refusal for a serving he clearly didn’t like.
He doesn’t ask for it, not even a signal, a quiet talk in the alleyway. The clearest sign is whenever the cake's there, he always chooses it on first sight—gaze darted to the serving despite the eye-catching desserts scattered everywhere in the display. When it is offered, he accepts it, when it’s placed in front of him, he doesn’t leave it unfinished.
And Blade is already someone who expresses affection through small, invisible adjustments—learning this just gives those instincts a direction, a place to be.
That little indication meant more to him than people realize, while he struggles with bigger, abstract expressions of ‘love’. They’re unpredictable—easy to get wrong, easy to overstep. But something like this, something like specific preference, a repeatable comfort?
Blade doesn’t mention it, doesn’t test it as that would require a kind of boldness he does not possess, that he does not wish to stir up uncertainty between a bond as fragile as they shared, let alone a willingness to scare Dan Heng away, making his guards raise up high like untouchable waves, trust hadn’t shattered a piece—Dan Heng’s just.. further to reach.
And instead, he adjusts, quietly, laced with a hint of hope Blade thought himself had let go since millennia ago.
The first time Blade acts on it, he tries to tell himself it is incidental.
There is a café along one of the Express’s stops—unremarkable, quiet, the place people usually pass through without ever remembering despite the shop being shoved into their face when they first stepped foot here. Blade too, had not intended to stop by—in fact, he rarely does to any of these vendor shops, overwhelming colors had never been his thing, nor did they impress his gaze even once.
And yet, by the clear influence and his damn obsession to being just a hint closer to the archivist—the display caught his attention almost inevitably. Like a pigeon, so easily distracted by the smallest thing that resembled the bias of someone he cherished dearly—here, it’s Dan Heng whom he’d accidentally grown to feel calm around.
Not because of its variety, but because of its familiarity, the squared shape of the dessert, the familiar stacking skills he saw through glass cups of the serving—tiramisu, the name appears in his mind as a muscle memory.
He then paused for a moment, just enough to register the presence of it—feel the small, almost imperceptible shift in his thoughts unfolding. As if in the realm of his mind, Blade rummaged through the mental notes he had made—clarifying his observance skills, clarifying how much he had grown fond of the other man.
‘Dan Heng would like this.’
The conclusion arrives fully formed, without much debate, without much doubt. As Blade stands there just a while longer than necessary, calculating everything happening—cost, practicality, justification. It was not a large purchase, nor was it unreasonable. And yet, to him, every acquisition carries weight, must have purpose, must mean something—one way or another.
The script he was given, gibberish letters stacked with metaphors for others, yet mere nothingness for him—a man who was tortured for all his mortal life, a vengeful soul trapped in a piece of his own creation, blinded by the sickening of Mara—’free will’ was a blessing, a sentence, all at once.
And that, one new feeling he was once deprived of now grows on his body, seeping into the depth of his mind as fungi he dared not to remove—was affection. Adoration, longing, even in the wrongful meanings—they’re all feelings under the term of limerence.
The realization is quiet, unsettling for a ‘vessel’ like Blade—yet, he buys it anyway.
Despite that, Blade couldn't bring himself to deliver the pastry so easily, as that would have made his intention too clear. Undoubtedly spoiling the gesture and instead viewing his rare softness as predatory instict rather than admiration.
Instead, he carries the small box with him, carefully—absently, as if this had always been part of his plan. When he returns to the platform, carefully hiding his eerie presence in the shadows, shielding himself away from everyone’s gaze by a quick blur of shifts. He doesn’t go looking for Dan Heng right away, instead sits down at one of those benches, places the box down among his things, pretends it’s not something he’s aware of.
Time slowly passes, enough to dull his intention, enough to make him look less deliberate.
When he finally finds Dan Heng, it‘s not framed as an offering, a request for peace or anything near that term. Blade doesn’t sit across from him, doesn’t bother to pull him somewhere secretive and private nor laced with a hint of expectation. The swordsman simply approaches him once saw his familiar stood alone amidst the street—a bit too strangely intentional—then sets the box down within reach, excusing himself as,
“…They had this.”
His words lacked emphasis, lacked explanation—as of such intimate action performed by someone like Blade—like it happened by chance, by mere coincidence.
Dan Heng looks at the box offered, then backs up, meeting the man’s hazy gaze with a brief pause—considering, thinking, examining the possible meanings behind this..intimacy.
“You bought it.” It’s not a question, just a clarification, a thought Dan Heng quietly said aloud—one trait that Blade adored in secrecy.
Blade’s gaze shifts slightly, not quite meeting his, not quite tearing their eyes away—tracking every bit of the archivist’s expression, trying to see through that calm facade, just for a hint, a split second more before he forced himself to speak,
“It was available.” That, which is not an answer, not yet a denial either—Blade cared, noticed.
Once opening the packaging, Dan Heng’s movements still for just a fraction of a second, the tenseness in his posture easing—not dramatically, not even enough for anyone who isn’t watching closely to notice.
The faint scent of coffee and cocoa lifted into the air once Dan Heng opened the box, subtle but distinct. He doesn't comment on it, doesn't thank the swordsman immediately.
But Blade couldn’t care less, already blissful himself at that slight, at that imperceptible little pause—not immense enough to be perceived as adoration nor acceptance—yet it sank into him as a gentlest beam of light nonetheless.
Truth slumped over him soothingly, settled onto the swell of heart—could be a habit, a routine he'd be more than pleased to engage in—a quiet part of their puzzling doting acts.
Dan Heng notices, of course—long before Blade realizes it has become visible. He noticed the careful spacing, the lack of repetition that somehow still forms a clear line when viewed from a distance, pointing directly to Blade and the hint of humanity he still has left.
Just, the archivist doesn't call it out, at least not immediately. Knowing damn well how much will change if he gave the habit a name—perhaps made it heavier, turning from instinctive to deliberation. Hands that wanted to protect the preciousness yet somehow killed it in the process.
Still, there was a line, too. A point where silence is no longer neutral—a small talk felt more than enough to push everything to the edge, yet it's crucial.
Late, streets of Planarcadia were coated in a hazy blue of moonlight and neon signs—when lights don't mean stimulation, but overwhelm. Enough for exhaustion to blur things, enough that the Express has settled into restfulness.
Dan Heng approached him without much announcement, there's nothing between them this time, nothing to anchor the interaction—just mere presence and the bare tiredness the moon had unveiled.
“You’ve been bringing it for me.” The archivist started first—no accusation, not even particularly pointed at Blade and what he's been doing, just a word stated, drawing out the circle that will be the focus of their ‘small talk’ tonight.
Blade’s fingers shift slightly against the roughness of his sword. “…it’s available often.”
“That’s not the reason.”
Blade doesn't deny it, nor confirming it either—understands that would mean acknowledging intention, and that felt dangerously close to exposure.
“I like it.” Dan Heng studies him for a moment—steadily, unassuming.
Those words are so simple, so mindless, stripped of alertness and revealing a feeling so unbearably close to vulnerability. Strange for him, stranger for the words he murmured, they're sincerity—truthfulness laid bare that even a man like Blade struggled to grasp it in his hands.
And yet, as a still puddle of water being stirred up, hearing his voice as he stated so plainly—without deflection, nor with much ambiguity—did something to the careful structure of watchfulness Blade has built around this.
It removed the uncertainty, the doubts—everything, completely bare, as if flesh and bones to the man before him.
“You noticed,” Dan Heng continues, as if that part matters just as naming this whole ordeal. “thank you.”
Blade's throat tightens slightly, speechless for once in so long, dead years.
“…It was consistent. No need for much appreciation.” He forced out an answer, throat straining—that normally doesn't hurt, until now. As if he too, struggled to face comfort, struggled to believe himself deserved it.
Blade didn't do it expecting acknowledgment. In fact, part of him had hoped whatever this was would remain unnoticed—meaning he could continue on this quiet, precise form of care without it being named.
As of now that it’s named, seen, understood, and accepted—it becomes something else, heavier, one that carried weight. A matter Blade actually cherished and not just a single-handed matter.
The swordsman looked down at his hands, at the slight tension still persisting in each vein, and realized a lingering feeling with a kind of quiet clarity.
This small, specific act of remembering, of choosing, of offering—is love. Not in the abstract way he struggles to define, or the overwhelming, uncertain way that leaves him second-guessing every move he makes, but as in a form he can understand—from past experiences, from past fondness his mortal body once felt on a daily basis, the adoration he cherished so dear.
“…I can bring it again,” Blade continued, almost hesitantly. An offer presented itself as possibility.
“You don’t have to.” Dan Heng’s response is immediate, soft-toned, attuned to the waves of emotions now uncoiling upon Blade's eyes.
To which, the swordsman could only nod, muttering a soft ‘I know’ underneath his breath—diluted pupils easing down to quiet indulgence like a reserved gaze he'd only let slip once his mind calmed down. “...I want to.”
That's the clear, distinct difference between soft indulgence and actions fueled out by hesitation. That's where it changes, where it truly slips into adoration.
Not as something Blade has calculated, not as something Dan Heng earned. That small, steady, intentional little wish—is what will let his affection take root a little deeper than before.