#salix-writes

However, what you had assumed to be a one-time petition gradually grew into a near nightly ritual over the months. Casual talks shared over soothing blends of tea and the soft shag carpet of your bedroom evolved to conversations in the same bed, curling up under the same sheets. You started letting Sunday sleep beside you when you noticed him lingering awkwardly in the middle of your doorway one night, after you were meant to have said your goodbyes. He had clearly been enjoying your discussions, fluttering wings and the shyest of pleasant smiles. So much so that when the hour struck, your departure felt about as sudden the droop of his wings. To retreat to the emptiness of his own quarters afterwards would feel... frigid. Pained. Like leaving the warmth of a blanket to sink into an ice bath. And in all honesty, you weren’t too keen on letting Sunday go either. It was nice, seeing him so pleased and content. Like he belonged. So, when he lingers, you offer to let him stay. You had to bite back a laugh with how suddenly he beamed, swearing that his halo radiated the softest glow in that moment.

A silent agreement of personal space was shared contently enough between the two of you every night except one. It was you who had broken it to pull him close when you woke to the sound of shuddering breaths and faint sobs, faced with the sight of tears budding in the corners of tightly shut eyes. Another nightmare. You only knew he was still asleep because he was muttering to himself. Words you couldn’t quite decipher but the tone carried with it a grief that laid heavy in your heart. In your defense, you tried first to loosen the knuckle-white grip he held on the sheets, looking like such a small thing curled into himself as he was. When that didn’t work, you reached for his face, brushing sweat-soaked bangs away, and calling his name to no avail. It’s only when you pulled him close, cradling his head to your chest and whispering quiet words of reassurance that he startles awake in a cold sweat. His grip moves from your sheets to your shirt on instinct, his entire frame shaking like a frightened fawn. You had looked upon him with concern, rubbing soothing circles into his back, your voice barely above a whisper. These nightmares were a common occurrence when you weren’t around, it would seem.

Every night, he expects to wake up back in Dewlight Pavilion, he’d told you that night. Standing before his desk, opulent oak wood and concentrated memoria. Penacony would still be under his control, a dark raven fluttering at the very edges of his periphery. His old plans would be set in motion, and the sweet dream would turn sour with the wails of the souls he’s shackled. It’s been a difficult habit to shake, the undue anxiety no doubt making it harder for Sunday to achieve a good night’s rest. You had allowed him to sob silently into your blouse without complaint, arms wrapped securely around him, muttering quiet reassurances and gentle hushes as your fingers ran through his hair. All the way until he fell back asleep. You weren’t sure what else to do.

Sunday… seemed a bit different after that.

Of course, he never admitted such a thing to you. He’d knock on your door once curfew was called, sit and chat over your nightly tea, and eventually climb into bed with you at a respectable distance. As he would any other night. Your personal kettle and assortment of sleep-aid teas has seen more use in the past few months than ever before. So much so that you’ve had to make a note to restock a little extra of Sunday’s preferences the next chance you got. You opt to make a mellower brew tonight in hopes it would relax him a bit and open him up to what’s clearly been bothering him. Sunday was skilled at schooling his emotions over years of diplomatic negotiations, you were sure, but something you’ve noticed over the months is that it’s harder for his wings to lie. Especially when he’s in a more comfortable environment.

He compliments whatever tea you give him, and your conversations usually start with discussing the notes of the blend you had picked before moving onward naturally. Talks of the latest mission and tonight’s choice of dinner go by in a comfortable lull. But ever the stubborn man, his troubles remain unspoken. The most you catch is a couple glances at your hands when they move. Tracing the rim of your cup in thought or wrapped comfortably around its handle. You could’ve sworn his gaze would linger on your lips after every sip of tea, and the grip on his own beverage seemed measured. His wings would flinch ever so slightly whenever he catches your gaze, but nothing more. Whatever bout of nerves he had dissolves as your conversation progresses, and you almost forget that he was ever troubled in the first place in favor of enjoying his company. It’s only when the two of you retire to your bed for the night that you’re reminded of the issue. He’s more restless than usual, as if sleep wasn’t calling to him tonight even after such a long discussion. You appreciate how he tries to be subtle about it, remaining as still as he can be at least until he knew you’d fallen asleep. But you can feel it in the dip of the bed, hear it in the rustle of the sheets, and your exhausted mind spurs you to speak up.

“Sunday.”

Your voice cuts through the silence of the room, and Sunday practically freezes like a deer in headlights. Caught. An awkward cough greets you. “Hah, my sincerest apologies,” he huffs through a nervous laugh, “I don’t mean to keep you awake.” There’s a strain to it that you can no longer ignore. You sigh, shifting closer yourself before he can try to push the issue aside. “You’ve been restless all night. Tell me what’s wrong,” you offer softly, turning over to meet his gaze and reaching a hand out to pat his gently. Politely. “Promise we’ll both sleep better for it.” That was the whole point of this, wasn’t it? That was the reason Sunday comes back to you every night. The comforting hum of the Express’ inner workings fills the silence in place of your companion’s response, remaining as quiet as the stars speckled outside your window. It’s only the two of you. No prying eyes or malicious eavesdroppers. Him, and the warmth of your hand squeezing his fingers. Sunday stares at the miniscule connection, the deepest recesses of his mind telling him it’s not… enough. He concedes, though not without a nervous swallow to which you innocently offer your silent encouragement.

“...Promise?” He whispers. You nod. “Promise.”

You expected him to talk. Years of playing the Oak family mouthpiece no doubt attributed to Sunday’s eloquent way of speaking and formal courtesy. Of course, you were happy to help him ease his burdens every other night, but you couldn’t deny that you also took considerable enjoyment in your shared discussions. Without the pretense of bringing forth an entire planet’s eternal slumber, Sunday was a rather pleasant conversationalist. He was happy to listen and quick to empathize. Always knew what to say with an air of sincerity, and if you were lucky, you’d get to enjoy the spark of joy that returns to otherwise sorrowful eyes when he finds a niche topic to regale you about. Ever the know-it-all. You knew him more to be a speaker, so what he does next comes as a bit of a surprise.

Sunday… reaches out, and breaks your unspoken agreement for the second time. Slender arms slowly wrap themselves around your midriff, the cicatrix woven around his forearms brushing briefly past the exposed flesh of your waist. You suck in a breath, pulled much closer than usual to the halovian – until your stomachs were flushed together, and he could tuck himself within the crook of your neck. Despite the rather bold act, his movements are clearly uncertain. His hands shake as they secure themselves against your back, his wings flinching with the quiet sound that left you, and his knees only lightly brush with yours, as if unwilling to slot between them fully. The position is reminiscent of the first time you held him. Your body remembers before your mind, and your arms settle on instinct to where they once were.

“Apologies, it’s…” he starts, sounding uncharacteristically uneasy, “…difficult to describe.” One hand rests over the back of his head, carding through his hair, while the other rubs slow circles into his back. Knowing how particular Sunday could get about physical touch, you’re uncertain if this is the right move. You had... assumed that the shift in his behavior was the result of you holding him that night. That it had been the wrong thing to do when your agreement felt more for his sake than your own. You expected his visits to dwindle afterwards but if anything, they had increased in frequency despite his odd behavior. The way he melts into you is just enough to keep you where you are, becoming increasingly wary of your own deductions. “Lately, I’ve found myself… thinking of things I shouldn’t.” You’re thankful he can’t see the slight downward tug of your lips at the cryptic nature of his words. There’s an urge to correct him there, reassure him that no one on the Express was going to force him to think a certain way. That his opinion was always valued in discussions. But you bite back your words for a moment longer, coaxing Sunday to keep speaking. “When I’m with you… When you’re gone…” Another gentle squeeze to your middle makes you think he’s afraid the latter will come true. You’re not sure how to sooth it. “I think of when you held me. Like this. How soft you were. How safe you felt.” Ah. So this was about that night. Dull fingers press against your back, as if trying to push past the boundaries of your physical forms. An instinctual remnant of nearly shedding his own, perhaps, because you’re not entirely sure Sunday is aware he’s doing it.

“…I think of other things, too.”

“I fear that sleep now eludes me no longer because of these night terrors, but because I cannot stop thinking of you.” His wings twitch with an urge to curl within themselves – his entire body does. “I’ve never--”A shiver, far too difficult to ignore, travels through his body with your proximity. The warmth of a wavering breath fans gently across your open collar. Knees find the courage to slot between yours, curling against you. “You’ve already done more than enough to assist me. It should be enough.” His tone holds a harsh edge often reserved for himself, his grip wavering. “I should be back in my own quarters, yet…” There’s a heavy pause as he tries to regain himself. Or perhaps he was simply committing your form to memory one final time. Savoring your comfort. “I find myself… wanting.” Breathing in your scent, burying himself in the softness of your skin, hot shame twisting his stomach. In anticipation of your rejection, his next words waver against your neck.

“Tell me I have no right to seek more of you.”

The request spoken inherently searches for absolution, and Sunday seeks it from you. You, who has been at the center of his mind since all this began. Who let him in when he came to you for help, and who remains with him still in spite of his past transgressions, holding him close when his sins return to haunt him. Such things were precious to Sunday – more than you could ever know. But now… Guilt coils itself around his heart as your silence seems to stretch on for millennia, his mind all but solidifying the validity of his worst nightmares. He knows he should let you go. Give you the space to think over the weight of his confession and steel his heart for your subsequent request for distance, dreading returning to the hollow emptiness of his own quarters. But his body does not move. His arms do not loosen their hold, and his head cannot bring itself to pull away from the sanctity of your warmth. It was shameful.

Too weak to even separate himself from your embrace, Sunday braces for the inevitable cold that comes with the loss of your touch... but it never arrives. Instead, he feels the press of gentle lips against his temple, fingers slotting themselves between his silver locks, and it’s like his heart had burst from within his chest. “You-” It’s Sunday who pulls back first, eyes wide with bewilderment and wings quickly fluttering with a rush of excitement he fails to temper. You can’t help but smile at the sight, your gaze speckled with sympathy as you bring a hand to rest against his cheek. “That’s a bit unfair, don’t you think?” You reproach his contrite words with easy confidence, a dust of pink blooming under the press of your palm as Sunday briefly glances away, and his wings curl around your hand to hide the lower half of his face. “You are far too forgiving,” he mutters, though he can’t deny the way he melts into your hold regardless. “You indulge me more than I deserve.” Amber eyes flutter shut and downy feathers cradle the back of your hand as he turns to brush soft lips against your palm. “Sunday…” You sigh his name in a way that makes him want to scream, wings twitching minutely. The growing hunger within him seeks more of you the longer you remain by his side, and you weren’t doing a thing to deny him. His heart leaps against his own attempts to moderate his expectations, restraint turning to desire in that brief moment, and before he could think to do something about it, you take the initiative and roll the two of you over.

From your new perch over him, you enjoy the owlish stare Sunday gives you. It’s endearing, the way his face immediately bursts with heat and his wings flap uselessly beside him, far too aware of your soft thighs now bracketing his own, and the weight pressed against his lower half. Sunday stutters your name daftly, his hands having slipped from your back to suspend just above your thighs while his eyes frantically sought purchase somewhere more appropriate. “Maybe the indulgence is mutual,” you counter, ignoring his cute attempts at modesty. “Maybe… I think of things, too.” It’s immediate, how quickly Sunday’s attention snaps back to you, bewildered. “What-” A sharp intake of breath cuts off his sentence when you rest some of your weight on his hips, replaced with the whisper of a plea instead. “P-please. You don’t-...” You don’t know what you’re saying. Sunday gasps, strained, the hands suspended just above your thighs curling into tight fists. His discipline wears thin, your presence a feast before the eyes of a starved man who refuses to eat.

“…You can, if you want.” Your encouragement is gentle at the sight of his struggles, head tilted slightly to the side. Sunday swallows thickly, noticing how starlight bounces off the curve of your neck, and another ache washes over him. Unsure lips part in search of a response, yet he finds none, not daring to hope you mean what you say. Your hands come to rest over his own, guiding them to find purchase on your waist once more, and making your intentions known. “Seek more of me.” He’s trembling like a leaf beneath you. You looked heavenly above him, softly illuminated from behind by the numerous stars the two of you drifted amongst. Like a dream. But he could feel you beneath his palms, solid and tangible. Could follow the gentle back and forth of your thumbs along his knuckles, and see the vulnerability behind your invitation. How the pads of your fingers nudged between the spaces of his own and encouraged him to relax. Slowly, you feel his hands settle against the softness of your flesh. “Tell me what you want.” You lean close so only he can hear you – hushed and quiet, an offer just for him – shifting some of your weight to rest along his stomach and propping yourself on your elbows on either side of him, caging him in. Sunday sighs, awestruck, the last remnants of his restraint beginning to crumble. His hands squeeze you, feel you, memorize you, and finally he finds his words.

“You.” he breathes, reverent. “I want you.”

There’s a desperation in the way he holds you, pulls you, wanting more of you – closer, closer – until the void within him sates. He leans up to try and connect your lips only to fall just short, hesitant and flighty despite the weight of such a confession. A fragmented breath brushes your skin, amber eyes trained on the plushness of your lips. You don’t give him the chance to second guess himself, closing the remaining distance before he can shy away once more. Your lips slant against his own, and Sunday nearly groans from the contact alone. You felt so soft, so much softer than he could’ve ever imagined. Warm and pliable, he presses into you for more, inhibitions snuffed like a flame. His wings flutter vainly for leverage, and he swears he feels you smile when you meet his eagerness. It makes his heart leap. The swipe of a tongue along the seam of his flesh makes him gasp, the unfamiliar feel of your tongue sending a thrill down his spine he enjoys perhaps a bit too much. His own welcomes you in with fervor, aching to explore – to taste and savor you in turn. You taste heavenly. Mellow and sweet with the tea you both shared. He wanted to drink it all, devour you whole, throat bobbing with the accumulation of saliva that wets both your lips. Sunday never partook in addictive substances, but Aeons, he was convinced you must be equivalent such a thing. To want, and want, and want something that felt so sinfully indulgent regardless of how it may ruin you.

The floodgates have opened and Sunday dares to seek more. Tentative fingers begin to trail themselves across your skin, venturing further than just the curve of your hips. You feel them slip beneath the hem of your sleep shirt, one touch trailing after the other. Unsure hands – guided along the bend of your spine – trace every arch until they could wrap around your midriff and pull your body flush against his. The added pressure has him preening, and you can practically feel the subtle tremble of satisfaction that runs through him. He likes you close. Wants to feel every part of you he can, and you repay the sentiment in kind. Your own fingers slot on either side of his neck, tucking beneath his wings, and cradling the underside of his jaw to guide him closer, and he sighs as if you were drawing the very air from his lungs.

“Comfortable?” You ask innocently enough, and despite the visible bob of his throat against your palms, he nods – a little too eager to please beneath you. He’d kiss you until he saw stars if he could, tilting forward in search of your lips despite the uneven breaths that left him. It’s you who has to lean back so he could catch his breath, and even then, his eyes don’t leave you. “I-Is it... your intent to go no further this?” He pants, a notch in his brow giving way to the hesitance in his words. The thought seems to trouble him. “Hmm? Would you like this to go further?” You can’t help but tease, if not to see the way his wings fluster and flutter, leaning back to drink in the sight of him. Soft panting contributes to the rise and fall of his chest against your palms, and if you pressed just a little bit, you could feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath. “Sunday…” The sound of his name from your lips is intoxicating. He squirms beneath you helplessly, hips stuttering and feathers fluttering over his lips as if they could hide the hot shame rising to his cheeks.

“Please…” he whispers, throat bobbing with a heavy swallow, “Don’t stop…”

Dan Heng could count on one hand (one finger, even) the amount of times as you traveled through Scalegorge that the two of you were alone. An opportunity squandered by a hesitance he couldn’t quite place. A spike of anxiety as he caught you idle by a Vidyadhara egg. Your eyes (never once on him) focused beyond its iridescent sheen to the individual cradled within. He should speak. He knows he should. The back part of his brain screams to utter your name, no matter how weak it may sound in absence of your attention. Your care. …But instead, Dan Heng finds his words caught in his throat. His chest still, his limbs frozen, and his eyes transfixed. He watches with bated breath as you press a gentle palm against the egg’s cold outer shell, seeking the Vidyadhara within. You close your eyes, and listen to the echoes of a past life as it slowly sloughs away with the coming and going of the tide. A medley of fortune and tragedy washing over you in waves.

In your focus, your expression remains unreadable to Dan Heng. A detriment made worse from the distance currently held between you, yet he doesn’t dare step closer. A thousand questions run behind closed lips, forced into a neutral line despite the anxiety writhing beneath his skin. Were you sad? Were you melancholic? Do you grieve a life’s end or celebrate its rebirth? Or did you see one’s past and future united in a single entity. Do you see him?

Dan Heng wanted to speak up then. To acknowledge the silent questions that lingered between you two. To quell his own growing anxieties. However, it’s not until you’re pulling away that he seems to find his limbs. Your attention bestowed not upon him, but March calling your name in the distance. You had lingered too long and Mr. Yang was advising against getting separated. It made sense. Dan Heng watches (only watches) as your connection to the egg severs, the flow of memories fading from your mind as you reconvene with the group and once again wander out of his reach. He can only follow silently, his eyes lingering on the egg for a fraction of a moment as he passes.

There was a tension between the two of you, of that he was certain the both of you felt. A chasm that was growing wider the longer you avoided him, and he kept his distance from you. Even March was beginning to look a little antsy. But with so much to do and so little time, a lover’s quarrel was hardly their biggest concern.

His next opportunity arises as the group is rushing out of Scalegorge, Phantylia gone and an unconscious Arbiter General in arm. As others tended to Jing Yuan (greeted in a frenzy by cloud knights and a furious Master Diviner in tow), there you stood at the base of the high elder’s statue, scrutinizing its stone features. There were parts of it that were similar, features passed down through generations upon generations of high elders. The horns of The Permanence themselves. The weapon and the water known to be wielded by Imbibitor Lunae. Even the silken hair that stretches down their back. Traditional.

Dan Heng, in truth, struggled to see the differences himself sometimes. Denied his right in molting rebirth, he remains a carbon copy of the man who incited sedition within the Luofu, traitorous and guilty of unpardonable sin. Many would like to think he is the same man. Capable of the same crimes. Perhaps he would be, if it were you. Though he can’t afford to think that. Many assume regardless. But you…

So caught up in trying to decipher your expression, Dan Heng nearly jumps out of his skin when your gaze turns to him for the first time since you left him on the Express days ago. A small part of him soothes to bask in your attention once more, but the larger part of him claws with anxiety, a turning unease in his stomach. The vidyadhara stiffens, heart spiking to his throat so hard he nearly chokes. You seem equally shocked, but the sudden nervousness darts his eyes away before he could read anything beyond that.

Somewhere in the commotion Mr. Yang suggests they return to the mainland to get the general proper care and the group moves obligingly, sweeping the two of you back into the residual excitement following Phantylia’s defeat and once again snuffing out any opportunities to talk.

One chaotic trip later and you’re finally saying your goodbyes to the Luofu officials for the night. Jing Yuan was in the hands of trusted individuals in the Alchemy Commission and Fu Xuan gives you the barest skeleton of a debrief, the remaining group agreeing a more in-depth discussion can be reserved for the morning once all had at least had a chance to rest properly and the general’s condition has stabilized. Even so, Mr. Yang opts to remain a moment longer with the intention of discussing the nuances of their plan to handle the stellaron, and March had long ago left for her hotel room the moment everyone stepped back on the mainland, exhausted beyond compare. You had no doubt she’d be out like a light well into the following morning. However that, in turn, left you and Dan Heng alone to traverse the path back to your hotel. The starskiff ride was quiet. The walk from the docks to the hotel, soundless. If you had something to say you weren’t saying it yet, and Dan Heng had no idea where to even begin.

It isn’t until you’re reaching for the handle of your own room, ready to squeak out an awkward goodbye, that your hand is snatched in the grip of another. The motion was so sudden, his grip so desperate in those small seconds where he squeezed your fingers, that it nearly draws a startled sound out of you. Your fingers hover over the notch in the door, hesitating for only a fraction of a moment before turning to meet Dan Heng’s gaze for the first time since Scalegorge. You expect coldness and ferocity within the jade orbs that have been boring into you all day, aspects you’ve seen reflected throughout your battles. You braced for harsh words, some declaration that your Dan Heng (yours) was…

Well, whatever you were expecting was not what you received. Your breath hitches when instead he seems to plead, and for a moment you see your own uncertainties reflected in him. It’s the first time you felt anywhere close to being on the same page, the air swirling with questions and uncertainties barely held behind stoic lips. The hand enveloping yours refuses to let go, Dan Heng’s fingers twitching with the habitual urge thread your fingers together and feel whole again. To hold and kiss you until there wasn’t a doubt in your mind about who he was. Who he wants to be for you. But these things take time. He can see it in the way you chew at your lower lip, eyes darting to the side as you consider your options. He prays you’ll indulge him.

The few seconds of silence are grueling, the near-stranger in front of you daunting in appearance yet so gentle in how he holds on. But the squeeze of the hand around yours is so reminiscent of the Dan Heng who would comfort you during your worst bouts of anxiety — would hold you close beneath warm covers and scold you while dressing your wounds with the care of a lover — that you acquiesce, fingers retreating from your door and nodding slightly. Dan Heng nearly sighs the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Instead, you feel his grip loosen a fraction around your hand. His shoulders lose a bit of their stiffness, but he doesn’t let you go, and you allow him to lead you further down the hallway to his assigned room.

The silence between you persists.

Your eyes are trained on the back of his head, on the flow of dark hair down his back, and the teal tips of a set of semi-translucent horns. The offset of anxiety gives way for curiosity and idly, you wondered if you could touch them. Would he feel it if you did? Or would their translucent appearance allow your fingers to pass through as if they were nothing at all. Even as the battle had ended, Dan Heng remained in this form for reasons yet known to you. You had assumed (wrongly) that perhaps he was just… this now. But clearly something deeper was going on. Different from the worst of your spiraling predictions, and that gave you hope.

You’re brought back from your thoughts to the telltale click of an unlocked door and with a gentle tug of your hand in his, he leads you inside, only letting go once you’ve stepped in to close the door behind you. Your eyes scan the room in the meantime. A standard unit no different from your own on the first night here, though considerably untouched. You wonder if Dan Heng had slept at all since arriving on the Luofu. You knew he would sometimes meditate to stave off sleep, pulling countless nights working on the archives and only displaying symptoms of sleep deprivation if he got too deep into his work over the weeks. (Now that you think about it, a lot of his habits seemed a little inhuman…) No doubt he couldn’t walk the busier streets of the Luofu without drawing unwanted attention, cutting off more direct paths to more important locations. The thought has a slight frown tugging at the corners of your lips.

There’s a bit of an awkward moment as Dan Heng tries to figure out how to broach the subject, one you realize you’re all too familiar with. It’s when Dan Heng stands still, remaining dead silent when he’s expected to speak. He’ll stay there, fidgeting in his own way despite the discipline he so prides himself in. Crossing his arms, closing his eyes, concentrating as if the words would come to him easier. As eloquent with his speech as Dan Heng can be, he often struggled with connecting it to his feelings. It’s significantly easier when you’re there to help him through it. The familiarity is endearing, comforting in a way. Unintentional as it was on Dan Heng’s part. It spurs you to make the first move.

You settle on the side of the bed, marring the soft, pristine sheets. Teal eyes follow your every move, darting for any sign of familiarity from you while still being too afraid to approach. He’s uncertain of where the border lies, if it differs from what it was before, and ever the cautious man, Dan Heng doesn’t know where to push. You give your best attempt at a reassuring smile, smoothing out the worried tick in your brows and holding out a hand. An invite. One that Dan Heng accepts. You’re grateful when he takes it, movements ever so stilted as he shuffles to sit beside you. (You decide against drawing attention to how he keeps holding your hand afterwards.)

Dan Heng aches to be close, unable to help the way your thighs touch as he sits next to you. You radiate warmth even through his thick robes, gentle and familiar. He wanted nothing more than to sink into that warmth. “I…” He swallows dumbly, thumb rubbing circles into the back of your hand. Your more welcoming demeanor allows him room to think. “How… much,” he starts tentatively, keeping his eyes on your connected hands rather than you, “…have you learned of the previous High Elder?”

A quiet breath leaves you, one Dan Heng knows you’re trying to measure for his sake, but his worries spike anyways. “It…” The hand around yours squeezes tighter, and in the moments where you try to formulate your thoughts, his mind spirals through all your potential answers. The reason you were here must mean that some part of you, however small, still believes the Dan Heng you know still remains. He does. He knows he does. He’s all that left. Dan Heng sits before you, no different from the man you loved so warmly before all this began. Not Dan Feng. He just… needs to show you somehow. Quell your doubts just as he quells his own. “…” He braces to hear the sins of a past that is no longer his. The Sedition of Imbibitor Lunae, the unpardonable sin, and the sealed fate of all Vidyadhara.

“Does it… matter?” Your voice is tentative, quieter than he remembers. Dan Heng’s eyes widen unexpectedly. “When we first saw you today,” you continue, “you looked so different I... almost didn’t recognize you.” Now it’s your turn to look away, a reflection of your uncertainty in that moment burning into the floor. “For a moment I thought—” It's an awful feeling, one you can't bear for much longer. Your throat tightening, heart dropping to your stomach, dread settling like lead within you. Just the memory has you shuddering, blinking back tears meant for far worse scenarios. You lean against Dan Heng's side, craving normalcy just as much as him, and slip an arm around to hug his close, “I thought maybe you weren’t there anymore.” It's hard to say and even harder to hear. Dan Heng aches with the trepidation in your tone, squeezing your hand tightly. Like he could lose you in that moment.

“…I know.” It's all he can say.

“But... you’re still Dan Heng, right?”

He swallows the building pressure in his own throat, basking in the comfort of your pressure at his side while fighting back the urge to pull you closer still. To glut himself on you until the void of your absence sates. Dan Heng knows his answer. “Yes.” It's the most sure he's sounded, courage guiding his hand as it lifts your chin to face him. Draconic eyes bore into yours, sharp with determination despite the soft edges of unfettered yearning. "So long as you’ll have me, I want to be— I am Dan Heng.” He feels you shift beside him, jaw setting beneath his palm and this time, you look back at him with a scrutinizing stare. Eerily reminiscent of the way you had regarded the statue earlier. Nose scrunched and eyes slightly narrow. He’d find it cute under any other circumstance. Dan Heng stiffens. “Hmm…” Your spine straightens for a better vantage point, slipping your hand from his to poke at his cheek and tug gently at the sleeves of his clothing. “May I?” you ask, perhaps too politely to the vidyadhara’s anxious mind, but he nods all the same and you take his permission to raise yourself higher on the bed and gently settle yourself in his lap. Your legs straddle his on either side like you would any day before this one, and you let yourself look at him – really look at him – for the first time in this new form. Your familiar weight on his thighs is already doing wonders in quelling his nerves a bit. He’s thankful for the firm pressure there to ground him, and without thinking, he’s moved to rest his hands on your waist as he usually would. Always more than strong enough to keep you secure.

Dan Heng holds his breath under your scrutiny. He allows you to explore his more draconic form as you wish, using all his self-restraint to remain still as delicate fingers glide across his features. There’s a visible bob of his throat as digits rise from his neck and follow the curve of his jaw, brushing faintly across his lower lip before moving to press warm palms against his cheek. He wants more than anything to lean into your touch right now, nerves begging to feel more than just the trace of your touch against his lips after being apart for so long. But he’s frozen in place, more fearful that any sudden movements would scare you away. You’ve already been distant from him for far too long both physically and emotionally, and he doesn’t think he can stand you being so far for much longer.

You trace along the red marks lining his eyes, two now instead of the one mark you were used to. Your eyes catch his for a moment, finding piercing teal orbs staring back at you with an inherent intensity. Even unintentionally, his gaze demands your attention, longing and uncertainty swirling behind widened pupils. He was taking you in just as much as you were him, it would seem. So, your fingers continue their journey. Across his features, his nose and his cheek until ghost-like fingertips reach the auricle of his ear. The quiet breath he sucks in is… adorable, even more so the brief flash of teal in your peripheral signifying the movement of a tail. Soft fingers curl around the pointed tip of his ear to massage the cartilage gently between a thumb and forefinger, taking note of how his body stiffens a fraction. A different form yet his sensitive points have remained the same, it would seem. However, it’s only when he feels your touch travel upward along his hairline to trail soft pads along the curve of his horns that he fails to hold back a small, shuddering gasp.

“Sensitive…?” you ask as if it were nothing at all and there’s a slight hesitance in the shake of Dan Heng’s head, red beginning to visibly dust his cheeks. “Just… unexpected,” he settles on. The last thing he wanted was for you to stop. Not when you were finally so so close to him. He just couldn’t figure out what you were thinking. Were you aware of what your touch was doing to him? What it always does to him? Did you approve of all these differences in his appearance you were exploring so diligently? Or did you find it strange? Distasteful? Briefly, he finds himself regretting not reverting back to his more familiar form the moment they had left Scalegorge. He hadn’t needed to call upon the powers of the Imbibitor Lunae once Phantylia was dealt with, but every time he had glanced your way in this form, you had been looking elsewhere. He just couldn't move forward with you so uncertain about who he was. Who he wanted to be.

“Still mad at me for leaving without a goodbye kiss?” Your voice pulls him back to the present, wondering when he had closed his eyes in the first place with the way you were caressing his horns. It takes Dan Heng a moment to register your words, so distracted by the pass of your thumbs along its ridges. “W-what?” He blinks owlishly at you, pushing your hands away when he looks up half confused and half dumbfounded by the question. You smile impishly, arms coming to rest around his shoulders. “You always get grumpy when I leave without a kiss. So… are you?” The man frowns. You were teasing him. Dan Heng wants to get in your good graces. But… he couldn’t lie to you. On top of worrying about your wellbeing in the entirety of the week you’ve been apart, he’s also grown accustomed to spending his nights with you. Warm in the archives or out on a mission. He can understand a few days away, but to be without you for a week and without a goodbye kiss was… “I’m not mad, I just-…” His eyes flicker off to the ground beside you, hesitating as he finds his footing in his words. “I missed you.” Had he inherited the floppy ears of the Permanence along with those horns, you imagine they’d be sunken flat against the sides of his head with how saddened he looked in this moment. (Though you swear, swear you see those pointed ears tilt downward!!) But then you giggle, and he suddenly perks right up in surprise.

“Then you’re still my Dan Heng,” you hum softly and the relief that immediately floods the vidyadhara has him melting into your arms, canting his head forward to bump foreheads. The chime of another laugh makes him question if you had done all of this simply to tease him, wound up as he was. He’d think it cruel but, in the moment, he’s wanted nothing more than to hear those words. “Yes,” he breathes, unthinkingly. Arms wrap tighter around your waist, heeding wants to have you closer, and Dan Heng finally gives in to his desires. He closes what little distance was left to capture you in a kiss long overdue. Your lips were so soft, so perfect against his. Warm and gentle, the sensation all the sweeter having been without you for so long. Too long. You reciprocate with ease, a thumb stroking his cheek soothingly while your other hand slides down to rest at the side of his neck and he’s on cloud nine, sacrificing a hand of his own from your waist to reach for the back of your head and pull you closer, deeper, never wanting to let go.

“Yours.”