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On the fourth night of Jing Yuan’s medically enforced house arrest, Dan Heng brought four berrypheasant skewers, still steaming, a box of freshly baked red bean cakes, a scroll of otherworldly maladies, and a small, bound book from the Express. A small, meticulously wrapped package was tucked away safely in his coat pocket.
The berrypheasant skewers were well received by the Cloud Knight guards posted at the front of the manor, enough that they didn’t attempt to salute him. Bailu was waiting for him at the general’s kitchen table, and they spent a few minutes reviewing the general’s condition.
“In any case,” she mumbled through a mouthful of red bean cake, “He just needs more rest. No physical activity, and no aggravating the lightning lord.”
Dan Heng knocked on the rest quarter doors and entered when prompted. Like the day before, the general sat in bed, back straight. The barest hint of an electrical current hung in the air. His hair, untied and disheveled, fell messily over a rumpled, simple shirt. Dan Heng thought again that he looked smaller without his usual symbols of office. Not small, but smaller. Perhaps he simply no longer needed to be larger than life in this room.
Jing Yuan blinked at Dan Heng and yawned. Dan Heng thought he looked eerily like a sleepy, large white lion in its lair. It was all rather unfair— if Jing Yuan were a giant lion, he’d have less qualms about pressing a small, fond kiss on his forehead like he wanted to. Instead, Dan Heng handed over the small, bound book from the Express and sat down in the designated visitor’s chair. The package in his coat pocket shifted slightly.
Jing Yuan’s eyes sparkled in interest when he took the book, shaking off their tired glaze.
“Thank you, Dan Heng” he said, and the sincerity, the weight of his name on the general’s tongue felt to Dan Heng like both an affirmation and a promise.
“So what have you brought me today?” The general asked as he perused the book.
“The Express crew was once stranded on a planet with four temperamental seasons—two mild, one hot, and one frozen,” Dan Heng said. “During the frozen season, the hours with light in the day-night cycle would dwindle until a single day when almost no light would pass. On this day, families would gather around a hearth and exchange gifts. The tradition is intended to warm the coldest of days.”
Dan Heng didn’t know quite how to convey the warmth of those cold nights, huddled between Himeko, the first person to ask him to stay, and March, then newly thawed and curious. He thought he’d like to tell him one day.
“Afterwards, we adopted this ritual on the Express, once every five train jumps.” Dan Heng said instead.
Jing Yuan’s eyes were serious now, no longer lightheartedly bright.
“The Luofu was your fifth jump?” he asked.
Dan Heng nodded. “I wanted to give you something for sending me away, back then.”
Jing Yuan’s eyes narrowed, his expression clouding.
“I’d never have found the Express if I’d never left the Luofu,” Dan Heng explained. He felt almost lightheaded himself. He’d never told anyone from the Luofu about finding the Express before. There’d never been anyone to tell before. “March, Stelle, Welt, and Himeko— they’re family to me. I’d do anything for them.”
For the first time, Dan Heng felt that he didn’t have regrets. He’d left the Luofu with this memory of bitterness and sorrow tucked forever into his memory. I’ll never forget this first betrayal, he’d thought as he’d been forced from the only place he knew in the world, alone and chased and hunted. But… he’d do it again if it meant he’d be invited onto a space train where his family would be a girl found in ice and a girl with an anomaly beating her heart.
“Jing Yuan-ge,” he said, heart racing, “I don’t have regrets for how I left.”
Jing Yuan studied his hands in the long silence that followed, before closing them in decision.
“I’ll allow it,” he finally said, his voice gentle. He looked at Dan Heng with a small crook to his mouth. “But only under two conditions.”
Dan Heng huffed, the tension of his confession spilling out in a single breath.
“First, allow me to also give you something. After all, your tradition is an exchange of gifts.”
His eyes crinkled shut in cheeky mirth. Dan Heng nodded, and Jing Yuan beamed at him, twisting Dan Heng’s heart into pieces. He wanted to touch the little beauty mark at the corner of his right eye, wanted to know if Jing Yuan’s hair was as soft and thick as it looked, he wanted—
“Two,” Jing Yuan continued. “You said that you don’t have regrets, and I believe you, but the Luofu did you a disservice before your exile, and no matter what happened after, we hurt you.”
Jing Yuan shook his head, eyes sad. “I hurt you.”
“I- “
His hands twisted in the heavy blankets in his lap before settling into an unnatural, tense stillness. The silence stretched, and Dan Heng tensed with it, waiting, hopeful. He wanted more than anything to move forward, but he didn’t want to put those words in the general’s mouth. He couldn’t.
At last, the general met his eyes, his face soft in his earnestness. “I don’t think we can forget the past, but I want to be able to keep moving forward together.” His tone turned wistful, “You’ve changed, Dan Heng, and I wish I could have been there to see it. But more than that, I’d like to know today’s Dan Heng, if you’d allow it.”
Dan Heng flushed. Jing Yuan wanted to know him, to see him whole. He felt full of a new adrenaline.
His lip quirked, and chest full of bright hope, he teased, “Let’s vote on it, then. The Nameless way.”
And he threw out his hand between them, palm face up.