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nyoomiin · 2 months

Text

'til the end of the line.

“do you believe in fate?”

in which one late night conversation spirals into many, many more.

pairing. danheng x gn!reader

tags. no warnings, slice of life, fluff, slowburn, friends to lovers, healer!reader

notes. yes this is a repost <333 i adore this fic so much

Screeching metal, the glint of a blade, a sickening stab and a pierce through his heart. Panic stricken, he whirled around, barely able to retaliate before he was pulled down under.

Then, there was nothing.

Dan Heng’s eyes flicker open, calm despite the pounding in his heart. He was never one to dream, and more of the kind who never woke up fully rested. Yet, they were always similar in nature when he did, phantom pains ghosting over his chest in their wake. There was no point in trying to get back to bed now — his body had already had its fill, it seemed.

He heads to the kitchen, suddenly parched.

Clattering noise resounds from his destination, and he tenses, the residual fight or flight instincts kicking in immediately. Who could possibly…?

It was only you.

You were new. He didn’t know much about you, actually. The day before was your first day as a passenger of the Astral Express, and he had watched from the shadows as you flit about, chattering and bubbling and sunny. He left for the archives before March dragged him out and introduced him to you.

You were… baking, humming a cheerful little tune as you did.

“What are you doing?” he asks anyway.

You startle, neck snapping around to see him. Batter spills from the whisk in your hand and onto the ground. Your eyes widen at the sight of him, looking him up and down, but he supposes he must seem a mess, having crawled out of bed post-nightmare.

“Oh,” you say finally, “I’m making cookies.”

“... At this hour?”

You snort, using the whisk to gesture between him and you. “Pot, kettle. What are you doing awake at this hour?”

“I wanted water,” he replies. “That’s nothing like baking.”

Shrugging, you turn back to the counter. It’s a right mess, with crockery and ingredients scattered and strewn across. Still, you move with practised ease. You must do this a lot, he notes. His observations are confirmed when you speak again. “I like baking when I can’t sleep. You?”

“I work.”

You chuckle, and it’s a warm thing. “To each their own, I guess. Anyway, you getting that water or what?”

Ah. Right. He moves from the doorway and toward the tap when you whirl around, eyes alight. He doesn’t have the time to be startled before your hands are firm against his shoulder, guiding him toward the seat at the aisle.

“No,” you seem to decide, “I’ll make us both hot chocolate.”

Amusement bubbles in his gut. You were endearing, in a way. He can’t seem to get angry at the flour stains on his sleeve, too. You work fast, and in no time there’s a steaming mug of goodness being offered to him. It’s warm, he thinks, but your expectant eyes might be warmer.

Your head jerks toward the cup, so he drinks. It’s good. Better than good, actually. He can feel the heat seeping down his throat and through his chest, pooling near his naval. When was the last time he had a drink this comforting?

“Good, isn’t it?” you ask, taking the seat across him. You sigh contentedly as you sip on your own mug, drink cradled in your hands. “My best friend used to make it for me.”

Then you slap a hand over your mouth, eyes comically wide. He frowns faintly, curious and wary. “I still don’t know your name! And you don’t know mine either! Damn, you must think I’m weird.”

Compared to March, or even Stelle, he feels you’re pretty tame. He doesn’t say that, though. “My name is Dan Heng. I am the guard of the Astral Express and its archiver.”

You introduce yourself in turn, grinning sheepishly. “So you’re the one I hadn’t met.”

He nods slowly. “I suppose I am.”

You stand then, stretching as you do. Your mug clinks as you set it down in the sink. “I’ll finish my baking now. You can leave your mug there after you’re done. I’ll clean up.”

Glancing down, he realises his hot chocolate has long gone. He stands too.

(That morning, he rises to a box of fresh cookies by his door. Chocolate chips. He decides those are his favourite sort now.)

—

The first time he officially meets you is two days later. Somehow, your schedules hadn’t aligned until March was physically pounding on his door.

“DAN HENG!” March shrieks, excitement coating her tone. “Muffins! Come on! Have some with us — they’re great!”

“I’m coming,” he assures her, “Would it kill you to relax?”

She blows him a raspberry, grabbing his wrist and making a break for the parlour carriage. And these muffins really do smell great, it’s buttery scent wafting through the express even from where they are. He has a sneaking suspicion on the identity of their maker.

The first thing he sees stepping inside the parlour is Stelle unceremoniously stuffing her face. “Wha’?” she asks, mouth filled to the brim. “‘ey’re very goo’.”

A laugh draws his attention from Stelle to you. A bashful smile sits on your face, whilst you hold out a tray of blueberry muffins. “I’m glad you like them, but don’t eat too fast — what if you choke?”

Stelle waves your concern away and your gaze finds him, your smile widening. You’re wearing an apron with the words Kiss the Cook printed on, hair tied in a messy bun. Honestly, it’s adorable.

“You want one?” you ask, holding the tray out to him.

March bounds forward before he can reply, swinging an arm around his shoulders with a force that makes him stumble forward. “This is Dan Heng!” she chirps. “He looks mean but he’s really not. He’s all sweet and mushy inside, but don’t tell him I said that.”

“I’m literally right beside you.”

You snort, and he takes a muffin from your tray, thanking you softly. Grinning, you look him up and down like you did that night, eyes are tinged with amusement. “Bet you fight well too.”

March nods eagerly. “One of the best I’ve ever seen! It’s like — Hiya! Kapow! And everyone’s down.”

“Huh. What I’d give to fight like that,” you muse, more to yourself.

“Nah. You keep making these and we’ll keep you here for life,” Stelle pipes up, having inhaled the last of the muffins.

Laughing brightly, the three of you begin chattering away, drifting to the other side of the parlour. He takes a seat near the window and a bite of your muffin. Damn, it’s like biting into a piece of heaven. He can’t tell if he wants to devour everything you have or squirrel it away to treasure it later.

Himeko sits on the seat beside him, eyeing the muffin in his hand and following his gaze towards the three of them. “Y/N really has a knack for baking, hm?”

You do, he agrees. You must practise a lot. Admiring the curve of your lips as you smile, the glittering warmth in your eyes, he wonders where you are headed. Most passengers don’t stay long, excluding the Nameless. He’ll miss you, he thinks.

“Y/N’ll be joining the crew,” Himeko says, as if reading his mind. “It was time someone who follows the path of Abundance joined our ranks, anyway.”

You’ve been hopping from world to world, different IPC ships and had been just about everywhere, helping people affected by the Fragmentum, before Himeko approached you on Herta’s Space Station, she explains. You had never accepted money, only food and shelter and enough to get by before you’d move on.

How noble.

“That’s a lot of work,” he comments. If that was how it was then it’s no wonder you’re so warm. You carried that air of self-assurance that most healers had, something he hadn’t quite placed before.

Himeko nods, smiling faintly. “Y/N is a good person. I think we’ll help them as much as they’ll help us.”

He didn’t quite understand what she meant by that last statement, but she didn’t elaborate, and he never asked. Instead, he directs his gaze out the window and at the winking stars. He wonders how many are worlds you’ve helped before.

—

Screeching metal, the glint of a blade, a sickening stab and a pierce through his heart. Panic stricken, he whirled around, barely able to retaliate before he was pulled down under.

Then, there was silence.

Dan Heng’s eyes flicker open, his chest raw like the moment he first received the wound. The same dream twice in a week? He sits up, breath escaping in shallow puffs. Standing, he’s out the door before he even realises it, body moving on its own accord.

Water would be good, he decides. Maybe you’d be there too, call it a hunch or call it hope.

He was right. There you were, puttering about the kitchen under the lamp’s golden glow, a soft tune dancing under your breath. Resting a shoulder against the doorframe, he can’t quite decide what to say.

What a coincidence was too snarky, yet what are you making was too blunt. He couldn’t just walk in without saying a word either, that was too rude. Perhaps he should simply return to his room.

“I’m starting to think neither of us sleep.”

Your voice startles him out of his thoughts, and he finds you leaning against the counter, smiling at him with soft amusement. Unwittingly, he begins to smile too. Just the slightest.

“No, I guess not,” he agrees.

“Rough night?” you ask, turning to reach for two mugs. “I’ll make some hot chocolate.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, mostly out of courtesy. Just the thought of the warm drink reveals a slight craving for it. “Nightmares,” he finds himself admitting, something in the atmosphere drawing the confession that much easier. “No, memories, to be precise.”

“Ah, I get it,” you murmur, and he feels like you really do.

He seats himself in the same seat he did three nights prior, and you do as well. The mug of hot chocolate you offer him is accepted gratefully. They might become his favourite drink yet. You have a knack for making them feel like drinking warm hugs.

“I’m making cupcakes tonight,” you explain, noticing the way he glances at the batter on the counter. “Red velvet, one of my favourites.”

He nods in assent, and the both of you settle into comfortable silence. You’ve relaxed into your seat, he observes, resting your head against a hand as the other taps on your mug rhythmically, the porcelain clinking as you do. He maps out the lines of your face whilst you map out each constellation outside, gazing into the eternal night.

“Do you believe in fate?” you ask suddenly, in the moments just before his mug goes cold. He had finished the drink ages ago, he realises. He frowns faintly then, bewildered at the change in the conversation’s direction.

You must sense his confusion, and you’re continuing, “You know, when everything in your life happens because it was meant to be, and all that.”

“I know what fate is,” he replies, “But… why?”

“Why not?” you answer, a playful smile on your lips. “Just… hell, even gods are real, but no one has an answer to it, fate, destiny, or free will?”

You seem to be serious despite your lighthearted tone, so he tries to give you a serious answer in turn.

“I don’t,” he says slowly. “Fate is… complicated. To believe your future is set in stone is foolish at best. What I do believe in is the existence of free will. Life is filled with countless possibilities. Everyone has a path to walk, but it is the individual that chooses their direction.”

“What do you believe in?” he ends off, looking at you piercingly. You’re sitting upright now, alert but pondering all the same.

You hum. “I think… some things really are meant to be, but in the end, it’s your own hands that forge your destiny, no? Fate, free will… whatever it is… It might simply be just what we make of it.”

“Yet if there is no right answer, why ask anyway?” he counters.

Your eyes sparkle, and at that moment, you just might have the universe in your eyes. “Maybe some questions are meant to be asked.”

“And some things aren’t meant to have an answer?”

“Exactly,” you say, with the vigour of a bursting sun. “Nothing matters. Everything matters. Maybe…”

You trail off, an embarrassed chuckle sounding in your throat. “Yea, I have no idea what I just said.”

He can’t quite stop the laugh that leaves his lips.

(Some time later, you stand, stretching as you do. “Damn, I might leave the baking for another day,” you say, voice thick on the cusp of a yawn. “All this philosophical stuff is making me sleepy. You should get some sleep too, I think both of us need it.”

When he returns to his room, something in him prompts him to heed your advice. He sleeps.)

—

Somehow, both of you had taken to ‘meeting’ in the kitchens during the twilight hours, once every few days. He’d wake up after a nightmare or when sleep simply eluded him, and found you with your sun-like eyes, the songs under your breath and the hot chocolates that felt so much like hugs. You’d speak about anything and everything under the stars, of questions with no answers and answers that meant everything and nothing. Then you’d part ways with his mind swirling and chest bursting, all traces of that phantom wound gone.

(There were days you weren’t there, of course, and he’d be faintly disappointed, but you did still need sleep.)

He’s computing data on Jarilo-VI when someone knocks on his door. It can’t be March, as she’d simply forgo all etiquette and barge in after the first knock. Stelle was out exploring the planet they were currently stationed at, and both Himeko and Mr. Yang were busy. That left… you.

“Come in,” he calls, hearing the door slide open and click shut.

You’ve been an official member of the Astral Express crew for a month now, and this was the first time you’ve specifically sought him out. You’re smiling slightly sheepishly, hand picking at your palm. “Are you busy? I can come back another time…”

He sets down the files, looking up from the monitor. “No, it’s fine. What do you need?”

“I wanted to learn more about Yaoshi,” you tell him, sidling up to his side.

“You can use this,” he says, tilting the screen to you and standing up. He can complete archiving later. The work never ended, in any case. “Search up whatever you need.”

“Thanks!”

He makes himself comfortable at the other corner of his room, picking up the half-finished book on his desk. Vaguely, he’s aware of his bed on the ground and the mess that is his half area of the room. He hopes you don’t think too much of it.

A while later, you stretch, letting out a sigh as your hands drop back to your sides. Your gaze darts around the room inquisitively. “So, this is the archives…” you murmur. Then your eyes meet his. “And your room?”

“I hadn’t planned on staying for long,” he says quickly, an odd need to explain rising. “Then, I suppose I got comfortable.”

You smile, a tad bit wry. “It’s definitely got charm — like that map!”

And you’re getting up, fixated on the large map on the wall. Your eyes are starry, mouth slightly parted as you study the endless abyss that is the observable universe. “That’s, wow, has the Express been to all of them?”

“Not even a fraction of it.” His reply is soft, much like the moment itself.

Your hand raises, reaching for the blank areas at the edges. “So I’m guessing these are the parts yet to be.”

“The universe is always expanding,” he says in lieu of an explanation. “And the Express will trailblaze along with it.”

“That sounds rather pointless, doesn’t it? Mapping out the infinity?” you muse. “Boarding a train whose line never ends? Or does that make it poetic?”

“I suppose it depends on how you look at it.”

You swivel around, eyes bright and blazing with delight, and he can’t quite place why his breath catches. “Maybe that’s just how the universe is meant to be. A line with no end. A atlas which always has two blank pages at the end.”

You seem to catch yourself then, gaze darting downward and a chuckle leaving your lips. “Sorry, I always get weird about these kinds of philosophical stuff.”

“It’s alright,” he assures you, it really is. Life would be that much duller if he had to do without these types of conversations with you. You meet his gaze then, almost bashful, and in that moment, he can’t seem to tear his eyes away.

Then you blink, clearing your throat, and the moment vanishes.

“Right. I’ve been here long enough, though, so I’ll just… go now,” you say awkwardly, sending him a dizzying smile before you’re bounding out the room.

—

Weirdly enough, despite everything he’s seen in this life and before, this was certainly one of the oddest situations he’s been in.

He’s in March’s room, a room bursting with colour and vividness, a stark contrast to his. You’re here too, along with Stelle and March herself. Positioned in the fluffy armchair in the corner, he’s got the best view of the entire place along with the door. Stelle’s made herself comfortable, spread eagled on the bed whilst March and you are seated beside her cross-legged.

He’s not too sure how it came to be so. The three of you turned out to be quite the trio, and he had been in his room as per usual when you three burst in, manhandling him into joining you. (With that grin and your hand on his wrist, he’s partly sure he’d follow you anywhere.)

“Wait, so your name isn’t Stelle because of the stellaron in you?” you ask, head tilted to the side.

Stelle shrugs. “It could be? I don’t remember much of anything before I woke up on the space station.”

“And March’s name is ‘cuz she was found on March 7th…” Then, you pout. “Now I want a cool made up name. Is Dan Heng a made up name?”

“All names are made up,” he tells you dryly.

March blows a raspberry at him. “Don’t be such a wet blanket —” Her eyes light up, and she visibly straightens. “I know! I know! Stelle also means star, I think? We can be the sun, moon and stars! Uhm, I’ll be Solar and you’ll be Luna.”

“That’s kinda dumb,” Stelle adds in, throwing a plush toy in March’s face.

It was kind of dumb. You were definitely more sun than you were moon. He didn’t quite know how he knew. It just was.

March splutters, hurling the plush dog back with vigour. Stelle returns it, hitting you instead, to which you gasp in mock offence to and somehow the three of you end up flinging pillows and plushies at each other. You laugh, bright and delighted, and he’s drawn to the curve of your neck as you throw your head back, the glitter in your half-closed eyes, and the carelessly toothy grin on your face.

He doesn’t notice March staring at him thoughtfully, cogs whirring in her head.

“You like Y/N.”

It’s a week after the pillow fight the three of you had, and it’s one of the times everyone’s gathered in the parlour, with the extra bonus of your delicious baking. Cookies, this time, buttery and vanilla and sweet.

The statement startles him from his thoughts, and he turns to see March in the seat beside him, so close their shoulders brushed. There’s steely determination in her gaze, and a triumphant little smile on her face.

“... What?”

“You like Y/N,” she repeats, and his eyes dart to where you were, conversing with Himeko and Welt a few tables down.

He didn’t quite understand what March was hinting at. Of course he liked you. Everyone liked you. He tells March as such. "Do you not like Y/N…?"

She facepalms, groaning softly.

"No! Of course I do! But you have a crush on Y/N," she explains, gesturing wildly with her hands. She beams excitedly, bouncing in her seat. "Like, you know, you wanna date and stuff. It's so cute!"

"I…" he blinks, utterly puzzled, mouth slightly parted. "No…? I don't."

The sound of your laughter draws his attention away from her for the briefest second. Snorting, March slugs his shoulder, rolling her eyes as she does. "Funny. It's so obvious! You're literally giving Y/N heart eyes right now. Even Stelle noticed."

He huffs, fixing her with a glare. "I do not have a crush on Y/N."

March sighs, a knowing smile on her face. Standing, she tousles his hair as she says, "Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night!"

She flounces away, leaving him there to scowl and fix his hair. Still, he can't help but feel as if he's missing something important, like a book without its title, or the sun without its moon.

—

Screeching metal, the glint of a blade, a sickening stab and a pierce through his heart. Panic stricken, he whirled around, barely able to retaliate before he was pulled down under.

Then, there was warmth.

Dan Heng’s eyes flicker open, a hand instinctively rising to his chest. This was getting ridiculously repetitive, to be haunted by the same memory for nights on end. Still… Something felt off about it, as if there were pieces of the puzzle that had yet to make the scene. He doesn’t realise when he got to the kitchen, but he does, and the sight of you chases the worries out of his mind for now.

“Do we ever sleep?” he asks rhetorically, taking his usual seat at the aisle.

You grin, setting down two mugs in front of him. “S’pose not. I’m gonna have to take a really long nap soon, though.”

Your nails clink against the porcelain, a habit of yours he’s gotten used to, but what’s curious is the way sparks are emitting from your fingertips. He frowns, concerned, but you don’t seem to notice — or mind.

“Your hands…”

Looking down, you let out a soft ‘oh’, and wiggle them. “Eh,” you say nonchalantly, rubbing your thumb and index finger together. “Part of the package deal with my powers. They’ll go away soon.”

“It doesn’t hurt?” he questions, just to make sure.

“Nope,” you say, popping the ‘p’ ever so slightly. “But the insomnia’s a bitch.”

You’re rolling a ball of… fire(?) in your palms now, eyes golden with the reflection of it. His confusion grows by the second. Glancing up, you notice it, and you smile a little wistfully.

“When I started following the Abundance, I gained some sort of fire powers? But there’s always a catch, isn’t there? The energy kind of accumulates inside of me until I use it. When I don’t use it, this happens —” you hold up your hand to show him, summoning a wisp of a flame before snatching your palm back “— along with the insomnia. But after draining the energy, I get really sleepy and black out for a few days. It depends on how much I drain, of course.”

“And your energy hasn’t been drained since…”

“Since I joined the Express,” you finish for him. “No one’s needed healing since then, anyway. Which is a good thing.”

“Nothing in the data bank stored any information on this type of power,” he says, mostly to himself. He’d do another search later. There had to be something. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

“Yep! Our next station is Penacony, isn’t it? I can stop by the hospitals there or something.”

“Alright,” he replies, albeit rather dubiously.

Then your eyes gleam wickedly, and you rub your palms together in imitation of some storybook villain. “Wanna see something cool?”

And as you showcase your talent in manipulating fire, he can’t help but admire you. The minute he thought he knew all there was to know about you, you had gone and revealed something entirely fantastical about yourself.

Literal healing abilities that stemmed from pyrokineses. That explained quite a lot, actually. Sunny eyes, sunny smile, sunny demeanor. You were practically the embodiment of the sun, and this simply perfected it even further. Warm inside and out. He brings the cup of hot chocolate to his lips, taking a small sip. You could even create warmth too.

Your smile is wide and expectant as you present to him a fiery image of the Express, which morphs into Pom-Pom, then Stelle, Mr. Welt, Himeko and finally March.

Intrusively, his mind conjures up the image of March’s excited, knowing announcement. You like Y/N.

Preposterous. He didn't like you in that way. You were a good friend, and he was merely close to you. Sure, you were sweet, baked really well, funny, a great conversationalist, bubbly yet not overbearing like March herself and utterly sunny and— Oh.

Oh.

He liked you.

—

Nothing changed. Much. Realising he had a little more than platonic feelings toward you only seemed to heighten his awareness of you. Your laugh. Your eyes. Your warmth. You, in general.

Except March seemed to know too, if her shit-eating grin and horrendously concealed inneundos were any indication. You should ask them on a date, she had squealed once.

He couldn’t just ask you out. How would he even go about doing that? Any train of thought in that direction just left him feeling incredibly awkward. Being your friend was enough, he decided. Your night-time meetings. Your hot chocolate. It was more than enough.

“He almost kissed me,” Stelle wails dramatically, shaking your shoulders. “You know how shocked I was? I woke up to a random dude in my face! Never let him do CPR ever again.”

March nods along solemnly. “You can do all the first aid, right Y/N? That man doesn’t know any to save his life.”

“As if you know any more than I do,” he snipes back, faintly horrified they were telling all of this to you. He remembers that day. March and Stelle were definitely overselling it. “And it wasn’t that bad.”

“Of course not,” Stelle says dubiously, shooting him a dirty look.

You’re cackling, wiping tears out of your eyes. “No way. None of you know first aid? I can teach y’all some.”

March squeals, clapping her hands. “YES! Let’s do CPR. I volunteer Dan Heng as tribute.”

“I don’t want CPR on me again.” Stelle nods in a ‘fine by me’ gesture, humming as she does. “Dan Heng, you do it.”

“Majority wins,” you sing, grinning, and shrug at him as his gaze meets yours rather helplessly. “Get on the ground, on your back.”

March does it for him, practically shoving him on the ground. He glowers at her, to which she deftly ignores. Stelle’s only snickering from the bed. You settle down near his side, and all he can see is your back and hair as you turn to speak with the other two.

“Right, so first, you make sure there’s nothing dangerous around you, the casualty and anyone else. Then, you check whether they’re responsive or not, and for major wounds and whatnot. Call for help if you can.”

You shift him flat on his back, and kneel with one knee near his shoulder and the other at his waist. You lift up your palms and show everyone how you put one above the other, interlocking them, positioning them. He can’t quite stop the small hitch in his breath when you lean over him, hands hovering just above his chest.

“Make sure your knees are positioned like this, and your elbows are locked. The heel of your palm should be right in the middle and your middle finger should align with the nipple.”

March and Stelle both giggle at your last statement, and he wills himself not to react. He can feel you roll your eyes at them. You lean away from him then, and there's a small pang of disappointment which he wholly ignores.

You continue to explain how to count each set, and how to time them, and rattle off some songs they could follow the beat to.

He's hit with a strong, strong sense of admiration for you. He hasn't seen you out on field yet, but with the way you teach and demonstrate everything with practised ease makes him that much surer of your capabilities.

Then you turn back to him, a sheepish look on your face. “Okay, time for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”

Oh.

"No! Not actually!" you practically screech, with the way March and Stelle start howling and the widening of his eyes. "I'm just going to explain how it works — Stelle, shut up."

"Fine, fine," the girl in question says, voice thick with amusement.

"After you're done with the first set of CPR but the casualty still isn't breathing, you'd want to do something called a head-tilt chin-lift."

You place two fingers under his chin, literally tilting his head upward. He sincerely hopes you can't feel how shallow his breaths are.

"Then you're gonna have to pinch the casualty's nose, and well, breathe into their mouth. If their chest rises on the first breath, yay, you’re done! If not, you breathe into their mouth again, and..."

You carry on with the impromptu lesson, walking everyone through a few different scenarios. He'd be committing everything to memory if only his mind would stop flashing back to how your hands were so close—

Soon enough, the conversation changes its course, and everyone moves on except for March, whose grin is ever wider and the sparkles in her eyes like fireworks.

'Stop it,' he mouths at her.

She sticks her tongue out at him.

("Hey, we're good, right?" you ask him the next day, a faint furrow between your brows. "The CPR thing yesterday, you just seemed a little uncomfortable."

"It's alright," he says, because it really was. "It was fine."

"Okay then.")

—

Screeching metal, the glint of a blade, a sickening stab and a pierce through his heart. Panic stricken, he whirled around, barely able to retaliate before he was pulled down under.

Then, there was a gentle voice, hushed and comforting.

“You’re gonna be fine. This is no place to die.”

Dan Heng’s eyes flicker open. That dream… how odd. That was certainly something different. He raises a hand to his chest, feeling at the scar through his clothes. There was no sting, no burning sensation. It didn’t hurt, not one bit.

He stands easily, to the kitchens, by now a well rehearsed habit.

You were there, as always, somehow as it should. It brings him comfort all the same.

“Rough night?”

“Memories, is all.”

“Ah…”

Setting down a mug in front of him, you turn back to your baking, an odd deviation in routine. Sparks dance down your hands and fingers from time to time. “No hot chocolate for me today — I want to finish these cookies. Any requests?”

“Chocolate chips?” he suggests softly. “I like them.”

You chuckle. “Sure.”

He watches as you putter about the kitchen, waltzing to the rhythm in your soul. Humming again, bright and airy, that same old tune. He never did get the name of that song, did he?

“Wanna talk about it?” you ask suddenly. “About the memories? Talking with someone usually helps.”

“They’re not very happy stories,” he tells you in lieu. Would you want to hear about how he almost died? How that memory plagued his sleep? His past was a miserable, miserable tale.

“They never are, are they?” is your reply.

He chuckles humorlessly, watching the bubbly foam in his cup swirl and swirl and swirl itself into a vortex. “When I first — long before the Express, I was on an IPC ship affected by the Fragmentum, helping to clear it out. I was too inexperienced, and got myself outnumbered. I should’ve died then, but I didn’t.”

Letting out a soft, frustrated exhale, he takes a swig off his drink. “That’s where the memory ends — where I wake up. I never got to see… When I woke up, the doctors told me the person who helped me had already left.”

“What a shame,” you comment. “But c’est la vie, I guess.”

“What does that mean?” he asks curiously. He never knew you spoke another language.

“It’s a saying I got from one of the worlds I visited! It means ‘that’s life’, I think,” you say brightly.

“You know the worst thing?” he asks, and after your prompting, continues, “The only thing I have left from that day is a scar.”

You’re moulding the cookie dough into shape now, its scent wafting through the air delectably. Sighing, you turn back to look at him with a small, sad smile. “Some say scars are the tapestries left on your skin from the victories you win. That kinda applies there, right?”

“Technically it was a loss…”

“Well, you survived against all odds. That seems like a win enough.”

The fervour in your voice is… surprising. He’d never know you’d defend his honor this passionately, even if it was to himself.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I guess it does.”

The both of you fall into an easy sort of silence for the rest of the night. It was, admittedly, another thing he loved about you — how simple it was to talk to you, yet at the same time to be silent with you. Spending time with you was something he loved, point blank.

—

His new form was… jarring, to say the least. Or was it his old form? There had barely been anything to process anything when—

"Dan Heng," you breath out, hushed and hasty, eyes sweeping over his body. You're bloody and bruised, he notes, breathing hard through your nose. A gash on your cheek that's half healed, and the odd angle your wrist is in.

Your first fight, he realises. The way you held your own is no mere feat, but you weren't a fighter, you shouldn't have had to. And against people that could've killed you a thousand times over? All because of him, and his past.

Yet you're only staggering up to him, concerned etched into your every feature. He meets you there partway, resisting the urge to bring his hand to your cheek.

"Are you hurt?" you ask, a hand reaching for his chest.

Your touch is warm, familiar. It sends sparks flying down his spine and heat up his cheeks, but he wills it away. He murmurs, "I should be asking you that."

"I'll heal," you tell him nonchalantly, batting the concern away. Your other hand wipes the blood off your cheeks, revealing smooth skin where the boy had once cut. "See? Now, what about you? That guy really did a number on you…"

Your gaze stray to where his heart should be. Not even his clothes are torn.

"The last time you got stabbed, you —"

"Nearly died," he finishes. "Don't worry about me. I… The Vidyadhara are hard to kill."

You snort, smirking slightly. You glance at his horns, gaze trailing down. It felt… different from how you did earlier. "You never told me you had an even prettier form."

He feels his entire brain short-circuit right then and there.

"I… you — what?"

You laugh, teasing and delighted. He scowls, to cover his fluster, reluctantly pushing you away. "March is corrupting you."

Shrugging, you turn to Jing Yuan, who he had forgotten was there. His… old friend. At least, his past incarnation's friend. The man leads the both of you to a starskiff. It was high time you reunited with the rest, anyway.

You nudge him with your elbow. "You're keeping it, right?"

He huffs.

"That's not a no!"

"Am I dying?" Stelle rasps, staring at her blood-stained hand. She's audibly wheezing, breath shaky as she stumbles to the ground.

You're there in an instant, shooing March away, however much the girl wanted to help. Even her shields hadn't been enough for Phantylia, and one of her attacks had struck Stelle in the ribs.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Stelle clutch your hand. "I'm too young to die!"

"You're going to be fine, you hear me?" you tell her, yet he detects undertones of worry in your voice. "This is no place to die."

That statement. It sounded so… familiar.

He takes his chance in the lull during battle to glance to the sidelines. Stelle's flat on the ground, blood pooling near her waist and your knees. Hands above the gaping wound, red-hot energy spreads from your palms to her skin. That must feel warm, he finds himself thinking inadvertently.

"That tickles," she complains, evidently much better.

"At least you're not— not dead," you retort dryly, punctuated by a yawn.

"Hey, you good?"

"Just peachy."

You help her up, and Stelle takes her place beside him, already raring for another go. His gaze finds you with concern, only to receive a soft yet determined smile in reply.

"Let's finish this."

(Later, you're all on a starskiff headed toward respite.

Immediately, you slump yourself against him, dropping your head on his shoulder. You're warm, and he can feel the way your chest rises and falls with each breath. The way his heart flutters is utterly juvenile, but it does all the same.

However… the battle was over, yet your words couldn't seem to leave his mind. This is no place to die. Somehow, he knew that statement. But where was it from?

He's definitely never heard it from you. He'd know if it were, he could probably recite most conversations he's had with you by heart. And still…

He turns to you, only to find you already lightly dozing. He can't find the heart in him to wake you.)

—

Screeching metal, the glint of a blade, a sickening stab and a pierce through his heart. Panic stricken, he whirled around, barely able to retaliate before he was pulled down under.

Then, there were warm hands, soft eyes.

“This is no place to die.”

Dan Heng’s eyes flutter open. That dream again…

But how could it be? You? Had you been the one to save him? Or was he just projecting his crush on you into the memory? You would have told him if you had met him all that time ago, wouldn’t you have? He had even told you about it some nights ago…

Swiftly, he stands, resolve firm. He heads to your room, a feeling in his gut that told him that was exactly where you’d be. Honestly, if you were in the kitchens tonight, he’d drag you back to bed himself.

A faint ‘come in’ responds to his knock on your door, and he steps in carefully. Your eyes are half-mast, hair mussed from sleep, and he vaguely wonders if he should’ve saved it for the morning. Yet, the sight you make is just incredibly endearing and he can’t bring himself to regret much.

“Come sit.” You pat the spot on your bed next to you, beckoning him over. He moves almost on his body’s own accord, settling by you so naturally as if it had always meant to be.

“You know, they say ‘character is fate’,” you tell him, interrupting whatever he had been about to say. “Because even from infinite paths to choose from, your character makes it so that you wouldn’t have chosen any other way, in every lifetime and the next.”

“Does that make the two of us fated?” you continue softly, playing with the strands of his now long hair. “If I hadn’t chose to become a healer, if you hadn’t been on that ship…”

“The whole time, why didn’t you tell me that — that it was you?” he asks, gaze meeting yours searchingly.

“That day I saw you on the Express, I thought that it must’ve been fate, y’know?” you explain, smiling wistfully. “You didn’t remember me then, and I didn’t want to bring up the past since you’ve always seemed so uncomfortable about it. I told myself that it would be up to fate if you remembered or not, hah.”

Your reasoning was entirely, perfectly logical, and yet fantastical all the same. You were always one to believe in fate. Still… “I just… it had been you all along.”

You, with the hot chocolates and the sunny-like demeanor and the midnight talks. You, who traversed the universe helping others selflessly, who during your first battle were only concerned with him and his health. You, who he had so irrevocably fallen in love with.

Shit, he didn’t just like you. He loved you. Or at least, he was on the very cusp of it, at the moment just before a star was born, ready to fall, ready to let go.

“I think it’s fate,” you announce seriously. “I mean, I made chocolate chip cookies the day we met and they’re actually your favourite.”

“I only decided they were my favourite after tasting yours,’ he retorts without thinking, still faintly stunned by the revelation.

You laugh, sharp and amused and delighted. “That good?”

“The best.”

“Can I see it?” you ask suddenly, turning to him in a way your shoulders lean against his.

He swallows, instantly understanding what you were alluding to. Hesitantly, he nods, pulling up his shirt to reveal the spot where there should’ve been a scar. Your hand grazes along his skin, and he’s sure you can feel the way he shudders.

“This form doesn’t scar,” he murmurs lowly, almost apologetic. That scar had meant many things. His weakness, his survival. His past, his future.

You hum under your breath, and the way the faint starlight reflects off of your eyes should be considered ethereal. “Well, I guess it’s good you don’t. With the amount of fights you and Stelle get into…”

Glancing up at him, you meet his eyes, and you smile shyly, like the sun peeking through the clouds. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Suddenly parched, his tongue darts across his lips. Was it just him or had you always been this close? Something delicate was in the air, as if the simplest move would break it, and he couldn’t quite make a sound despite the hammering in his heart. The hand you have on his chest hasn’t moved, warm, but trembling ever so slightly. He —

“If you don’t say something I think I’m gonna kiss you,” you whisper, almost out of breath, and your eyes oh so wanting.

It’s all the confirmation he needs. He dips his head, a hand snaking around your waist as finally, your lips meet. Your hands find its way in his hair, and you’re sighing into the kiss, the smile evident on your face. He feels himself do the same.

It’s no more of a kiss than a simple brush of lips, but it’s sweet and shy and promised so much more that he feels warmth unfurl in every fibre of him. You relax against him, nuzzling your face into his neck, and he can’t help but place a kiss atop your head.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” you confess, muffled into his body.

“Surely not as long as I have…”

You laugh. “March is going to take one look at us tomorrow and scream ‘I told you so’. She’s been saying you liked me back since forever.”

Despite March’s annoying meddling, he feels a tad grateful toward her. Without her intervention, he probably would’ve taken much longer to realise his feelings toward you.

“You asked me once if I believed in fate, and I told you I didn’t. I still don’t,” he says, musing, rambling, barely putting two words before the other before he’s speaking. “But you do. So if it’s any worth, you’re my fate. Infinite paths to choose from and I’d always pick this one, if it gets me to you.”

You still, and for a moment, he thinks he’s messed up, that whatever he had said earlier was too rushed. Then, you’re hugging him, squeezing him so tightly his ribs might cave in. The smile on your face is radiant, your eyes dazzlingly bright.

“That means you’re stuck with me, y’know,” you say loftily, “Possibly forever.”

He’s sure the look on his face is absolutely, irrevocably lovesick. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” he vows. “‘Til the end of the line, and not a second less.”

#dan heng x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #danheng x reader #dan heng #honkai star rail #hsr

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