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Dan Heng rarely gets sick.
He never expected sickness to come, actually. As his body had sustained harsh conditions, weathers, explosions—and even the vivid memory of the dark chambers surrounding his frail, malnourished body—starving him of light, of warmth, of basic necessities. Hands of the past gripping his ankles, harsh enough for him to feel the chill of it years later, stopping him from feeling whole—constantly running, despite everyone around him telling him there’s nothing to run away from—could he ever understand himself?
What aspect of himself had Dan Heng overlooked? What had he didn’t gaze in deep enough? Was there a hand gripping his heart too? Squeezing the soft flesh inside until it aches when he sees the swordsman nearby?
It’s hard to comprehend how much himself has absorbed Blade’s presence—starts expecting him, starts leaving a spot for him, starts worrying for him. They were all started by an unraveling sense of worry that nestled deep in each fiber of his bones—even though Dan Heng understands too well to know the man’s fine on his own, never needing his ‘help’ to start with.
Strange, even when he's sick—the first person to appear in his mind was Blade. When did he associated this man with safeness?
The archive is silent, faintly disturbed by the humming of machinery as well as the soft steam of porridge Pom Pom had brought in nearby. Coating this vacant space in something warm and homy, distinct from the odor of ozone and metallicnes—Dan Heng’s nose was clogged anyway, he can’t barely pick up any notes, let alone the smell of porridge.
This was quite unexpected, embarrassing. Dan Heng might write in his journal that—having to cancel his future plans of finishing those documents and filing in newfound information felt strange for an archivist like him, first time his body ever protested against his unhealthy nighttime habits.
His fever is burning up, the heat from the engine nested in the corner he lies near didn’t help a bit. Alone in the empty room, waiting for time to pass under the disguise of ‘resting’ was a strange experience to himself—the fever was persistent, each blink left faint stinginess lingering at his eyelids.
His body was screaming at him to rest, a stark contrast to how his brain urged him to work, to finish what he had left hanging earlier, much further than his heart allowed him to. And from this, Dan Heng can easily tell that he would faint if he tried to leave the mattress once again.
Dan Heng was helpless like this, despised his poor condition so outwardly, so palpably that even Himeko could sense it from a far distance. Sickness drew him back to arguably the darkest hours of his life, heaviness radiating from his tired muscles felt like chains, labored breathing felt like his lungs collapsing under dust-filled air.
“Rest.” A voice echoed from afar, or nearby—the archivist couldn't tell, his sense had soon been muddied since the fever started the day before. Struggling even telling if that voice was from a short distance or here, next to his bed, staring down at his sickly, vulnerable figure.
“Need me to hold you down myself?” The voice rang up again—this time, Dan Heng finally turned his head with a grunt, exhausted, curious at once.
Then he stops dead in his spot. Breath catching up painfully at his larynx, like all the exhaustion had drained out of him—leaving his body like a vacant vessel, his sentience are muted by pure fear and surprise by the clear—frighteningly clear presence of Blade. Just crouching there, flesh and bone of a man staring at Dan Heng all this time.
How was he supposed to react now? Blade came without a warning, without the brief sliding sound of his door, if the archivist recalled correctly—and now, his brain was too feverish to trigger his defense sensory, vulnerable and exposed before Blade.
“I—mnh..” The archivist stuttered, struggling to catch up with the fast turn of events, “h-how d'you get in..?” Even his voice lacked confidence, laced with nervousness—hesitantly questioning the swordsman like a wounded animal caught in its nest, soft and somewhat dazed.
The swordsman didn't reply yet, instead spent a good minute raking his crimson eyes over Dan Heng's fragile state—narrowing when he show signs of shyness, the slight blush creeping up at his neck, how he curl his hands onto the quilt as though holding onto the warmth will offer him support.
“..Couldn't find you anywhere in the cabin.” Blade sighed as if those words were pulled from his heart, like it cost him something to admit—that he cared. That he actually noticed, always had his gaze lingering on Dan Heng's shadow even though he swore not to notice too much beside ‘partners in crime'.
But he is, so obviously, so palpably—enough for him to tell the difference, something was wrong without ever needing the express to tell him. “You don't usually sleep in, I thought it could only be sickness.”
“Now look at what I found.” His voice tightened slightly, packed with concern and slight irritation—yet the hand touching Dan Heng's forehead was a stark difference, gentle and attentive, bandaged palm touching the warmth of his forehead, checking the restless heat there.
At the slight mockingness aimed at his sickness, Dan Heng could only tighten his grip on the blanket, slowly curling up as in the only method he could defend himself—already well-prepared for whatever taunt the swordsman could throw at him, perhaps laced in care, perhaps soaked in poison sinking in through his skin, vileness attaching itself onto each of his cell.
Yet none of those ever comes. Blade’s gaze—once carried poison and that addictive perilousness, one that kept Dan Heng coming back every time, trusting the shade of his back all over again—now lacked such vile, as if the obfuscation left, unveiling caringness nestled behind the fog.
Strangely—the archivist didn't flinch one bit, body subconsciously choosing to stay still though his heartbeat's messing up wildly in his sternum—half resisting, half leaning into the pleasant comfort.
The hand that grips hilts of swords indestructibly, now capable of such gentleness—the duality Dan Heng never expected, not upon himself. He's sure Blade could show gentleness to anyone, just not him. Never possibly him.
He blamed himself too, for leaning in—letting that hand stroking his sweat-matted hair like an animal relearning care for the first time, blindly believing, blindly hoping for warmth.
Dan Heng hated this wrong sense of affection, there was something he couldn't resolve fuming underneath his skin—almost as if urging his tight muscles to jerk away, body stiff, refusing to accept tenderness and rest-guilting him to work even though he swore his body wouldn't be able to keep up if he did.
As deep down, an unfolding reflex inside him had associated rest with consequences—that meant guilt, helplessness, the dry feeling in his throat waiting for something terrible to happen while his body lacked strength to run from it.
His feverish mind knew Blade wasn’ t the enemy here, knew the swordsman hadn’t come to mock him nor force a blade through his throat while he lay weak and defenseless—his heart knew it, his brain knew it, yet his nerves refused to understand.
Dan Heng’s fingers twitched weakly against the comforter, “I can still work,” That wasn’t true, his words sound forced, wrong. Tiny murmurs leaving his throat before he could stop them—-more instinct than thoughtfulness, more like guilt speaking than himself.
Without fail, Blade’s expression darkened almost instantly, rough voice meeting Dan Heng’s like seas collide—”You’re burning alive.” He said it as if they’re facts Dan Heng knew he couldn’t argue against, couldn’t reason with the sheer accuracy of it. That yes, he’s burning alive, his brain’s torn apart between working until the fever got worse and the aching want to close his eyes and sleep until he’s pleased.
“It’s only a fever..” The archivist’s breathy voice echoed out once more, quiet, pathetically stubborn—-Blade can almost see how much a swallow ached his throat, yet this man still has the dare to continue, burying down pain. “There are unfinished records.”
Even saying it now made exhaustion crawl heavier through his limbs, but the thought of leaving tasks abandoned gnawed at him worse than the fever itself. The unfinished work sat in his mind like hooks beneath skin—impossible to ignore, impossible to rest through peacefully.
Silence soon filled the empty space of theirs—not awkwardness, but needing time to think, reconstructing what bitter words they stored in their throat before this whole ordeal turns into an argument.
Naturally, Dan Heng starts first, not to deny, rather to explain himself—seeking for mutual ground though it's clear from the start of this conversation, they’ve shared none. “I—”
“Dan Heng,” Blade chimes in, cutting through the archivist’s hesitance sharply—gazing at the other almost sternly as he spoke, “I’ll hold you down with my body if you refuse to rest.”
A squint, curious making its way through proximity, pulling them closer like an invisible thread as sturdy as rope. ”Will you?” Dan Heng breathed against his face, hot puffs of air, laced with the faint sweetness of congee brushing Blade’s cheeks—-warmth, hesitant, could he ever refuse?
The swordsman sighed heavily, giving up outwardly, easily as if he indicated this—-too attentive to Dan Heng’s weakened state to push him past his limits, ends up giving in without much of an explanation. Slowly, steadily leaning down to the cramped space, resigned to use this as his spot as the night goes on—so small it could barely hold his frame, half of his back was touching coldness instead of softness.
That left Blade with no choice but to lay on his side, sealing their close proximity—his cold body was pressed up against the other's warmth, the swordsman couldn't help a tremble at the warmth soaking through the layers of his clothes. Up this close, it sure is better for temperature checking, but never was it appropriate for their ‘relationship’.
He hates how much the thought wandered, how much he reconsiders what they are, then drafted hours of thinking, dumbing down close-calls to mere ‘coincidence'.
Dan Heng, sickly, reflexively leaned into the source of warmth—close enough, that ‘source’ was Blade's chest, actively locking the man in a miserable position.
Where he can't choose between wanting to shift the man resting by his chest into a more comfortable posture—or stubbornly hanging on the thin line drawn between them.
In the end, Blade gave in anyway, hesitating just for a curt moment before resting his scarred arm onto the warm figure nestling underneath possibly three quilts stacking up. ‘Hot like a furnace' was an understatement, Dan Heng's rising body heat felt like touching the core of an ancient heat source instead of the sickly warmth of a man.
In the hazy realm of wakefulness and sleepiness, Dan Heng tilted his head—seeking comfort, softness, but instead felt the familiar starchiness only Blade carried brushing his cheek. Brows furrowed slightly, a muffled noise slips out at the touch, restless even if he's too sick to walk.
“Mnf..”
Dan Heng pulled the quilt higher up on his chest, pointy ears dropping adorably, vulnerably—perhaps it was sheer helplessness that turned him into dependency, perhaps it was shame. Balde could never wrap his head around any chance of Dan Heng for once felt safe enough to sleep by him, trusting, giving the swordsman a sense of softness he rarely felt before.
“Sleep.” A pause, hesitant, authority fighting for control, reminding him of what had been done to his mortal body. “..I'll be here when you wake.”
He needed not to ask whether the swordsman's going to stay or not, those words had been whispered against his clammy skin away—“Promise I will.”
Those words came out as a murmur, nearly forgotten by the steady hum of machinery. Dan Heng felt tingles inside of his chest, fluttering and slamming against his ribcages, feverish and annoyed—wondering where that gentleness stemmed from.
Blade breathed out a sigh, one hand pulling up the comforter, other hand sliding beneath Dan Heng's head and offering his strong, scarred arm as the archivist's personal pillow. Ultimately closing the space between them, until they're one breath short away from each other.
Without much filter, neither does thoughtfulness—Dan Heng mumbled a string of words, not until Blade leaned closer did he catch it.
“Kiss?”
From Dan Heng's spot, that sounded like a gentle request, one that slipped out as if melted mochi on a hot pan—on Blade's spot, it sounds like a stubborn order, one he cannot resist nor refuse.
Nor will he ever choose to refuse.
To which, Blade said nothing, only stared at him for a few short moments before leaning in away. The skin of his lips meet Dan Heng's sweat-matted forehead first—each touch meant to bring him affection, also meant to check his temperature again, and again.
Blade's kisses travelled from his forehead, down to Dan Heng's restful eyelids, lingering on his dark eyebags, quietly noting signs of clear overwork that scattered across every feature of his face.
The clammy cheeks, the trembling lips holding weights of words left unsaid—Blade kissed them all, a hand cradling Dan Heng's face as he peppered affection over him—each were a wish for wellness, a blessing for Dan Heng to have full of everything Blade lacked.
Love, acceptance, the ability to rest, see through the past—be himself.
“Rest, Heng'er. I cherished you more than I should,”