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It’s raining.
The sky rumbles, thick with clouds. The platform glistens in the steady glow of the lamps, a canvas of golden reflections and inky black puddles.
Dan Heng pops open his umbrella. Behind him, the Astral Express thrums back to life, her brilliant headlight slicing through the dark. In a warmly-lit window, he catches sight of Stelle and March pressed up to the glass, waving.
Dan Heng returns the gesture. The Express slips away from port and he doesn’t bother watching them go, turning instead to the looming buildings of Central Starskiff Haven. Rainwater pours off the upturned eaves of every roof, drumming against clusters of bamboo umbrellas still crowding the paths. Colorful fabrics glow red and green and gold under the lanterns hung from the soffits. It’s not often that it rains here, but the gloomy weather doesn’t appear to deter anyone from going about their usual business.
In the low visibility, few if anyone seems to have noticed the Astral Express’s quiet entry and equally quiet departure. He keeps his umbrella low as he heads deeper into the delves, not in a rush, but purposeful. The scent of rain and wet pavement saturates every breath, a welcome reprieve from the musk of strangers, though Dan Heng finds himself less bothered by such things these days.
The text had come in the night before, so late that even Pom-Pom had plodded to bed. Dan Heng himself had been considering retiring from the data bank when his phone screen lit up beside him. When you’re free, please give me a call, the message had read, enigmatic and ominous, and Dan Heng had called Jing Yuan back immediately.
(“Don’t worry,” says Jing Yuan. The mere sound of his voice, calm as always, almost single-handedly loosens the tripwire in Dan Heng’s chest.
“You need to give me more context.”
“You called me before I could finish typing it out. This old man isn’t as quick at texting as you are, you know.”
“Jing Yuan,” says Dan Heng, fingers tightening around his phone, closing his eyes to Jing Yuan’s breath of laughter on the other end. “What is it? What’s wrong?”)
He finds Jing Yuan seated cross-legged on the veranda in the furthest corner of his estate, facing the garden. The rain has reached even here, sluicing down the glazed tiles; the surface of the koi pond dances with the droplets.
He’s out of his armor. It’s the first thing Dan Heng notices, as he sets his umbrella to dry by the door. Out of his armor and his ribbon, his hair down, looking rumpled and comfortable and unconcerned in this small bastion of privacy. He’s just out of reach of the elements, but his shoulders are still faintly damp, the edges of his hair curled with the humidity. The sight of him—of just his back, it doesn’t matter—it yanks at Dan Heng’s heart. The impulse to tuck his head into Jing Yuan’s neck is as sudden and painful as the swing of Stelle’s bat.
Jing Yuan turns his head. The smile on his face is familiar and dear. There’s nothing out of place, except for the fact that he doesn’t rise to greet him.
(“I thought I should inform you,” says Jing Yuan, “but this isn’t a request. Don’t let me pull you away from what you need to do.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dan Heng snaps—then cuts himself short, shame rising quicker than his impatience. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean—thank you. Thank you for telling me.”
“Of course,” says Jing Yuan. If he’s taken aback by Dan Heng’s outburst, it doesn’t show in his voice.
Dan Heng leans over his desk, mind racing. “I’ll ask the others to drop me off,” he says. “They can do without me for a few days. Unless…” He trails off. “Do you want me to come?”
Technically, Dan Heng doesn’t need to. He’s experienced far worse than a couple of days of fever and discomfort, and he’s sure Jing Yuan is no different. It’s not recommended, but endurable. Maybe, for Dan Heng, it won’t even happen at all.
He’s not too sure how Jing Yuan will respond. Jing Yuan has always been preternaturally skilled at circumventing what he wants.
But Jing Yuan says, “Yes,” quite simply, and Dan Heng’s shoulders slump with relief.)
He halts abruptly in the center of the room. Beneath the damp leaves and swelling rain, Jing Yuan smells like lightning. He always smells a little bit like it—a little bit like the storm around them, a little wild and a little sharp but always warm, too, fresh, clean and earthy. He retained all that even after Dan Heng claimed him. This is different. This is cloying and intense, heavy on Dan Heng’s tongue, drowning out all of his thoughts like a high tide. Jing Yuan never smells like this. Not even when he takes Dan Heng to bed.
Jing Yuan watches him. With a start, Dan Heng realizes he’s been silent for too long. “I’m back,” he says, like it isn’t obvious.
The smile returns. “Welcome back.”
It’s weird. He’s tensed up. Jing Yuan’s eyes are very yellow; his pupils are very dark.
Dan Heng will perhaps never swoon into Jing Yuan’s arms in public the way the gossip columns always clamor for, but behind closed doors, he’s never hesitated. It doesn’t matter how often they call or text or chat through their jade abaci holograms; Dan Heng’s longing is like an eternally expanding balloon, a hair's breadth away from choking him, a single shift away from taking him apart from the inside. Now is no different. Yet again, they’ve spent too long apart, busy with their own lives and obligations. Yet again, the months have passed them by, leaving a yawning chasm in their wake. His heart aches and aches.
But his feet are frozen to the floor.
After another prolonged pause, Jing Yuan gestures beside him, and Dan Heng shakes himself free of his stupor. He steps out onto the veranda and folds himself down two arm’s-lengths away. Jing Yuan observes this, then gazes back out over the garden, where the bamboo sways in the blue-gray haze.
New sweat prickles the skin behind Dan Heng’s ears. What in the Aeons is wrong with him?
“Are you afraid?” asks Jing Yuan.
“No,” says Dan Heng, instantly furious with himself. “No,” he says again, and with determination, scoots closer. “You’re not going to make me leave.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” is the warm reply.
This is Jing Yuan. His mate, however far apart they live their lives. Dan Heng has never once felt unsafe in his presence, and he isn’t about to start now. Time and time again, Jing Yuan has proven himself trustworthy; here he is, out in the cold and rain, so that his scent will dissipate, so that Dan Heng can breathe easier.
Dan Heng takes his hand. Jing Yuan’s skin already burns, even in the chilly night. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
Jing Yuan squeezes his fingers. “Omegas are sensitive to pheromone changes. I imagine you haven’t spent much time around an alpha in rut.”
“Welt and Himeko always make me leave.”
“That’s good,” says Jing Yuan. “We seem to have a tendency to be… unpleasant. Far more than our omega counterparts.”
“You’re pleasant enough.”
Jing Yuan laughs under his breath. It’s good to hear him laugh. If it wasn’t for the sharpness about him ringing every alarm in Dan Heng’s head, this would feel like any other day.
He’s not going to let it stop him. “Can I…” He pauses. “Can I come closer?”
Jing Yuan tugs lightly on his wrist. Dan Heng takes his answer for what it is, closing the gap between them until their knees press together, until not even the fresh breeze can chase away the ozone Dan Heng swallows with every breath. His pulse spikes.
Actually, now that he’s adjusting to it, Jing Yuan smells good. Really good. It was the first thing he ever noticed about him, but this…
When they’d first reunited at Dragonprayer Terrace, Dan Heng’s whole world had been upended—but Jing Yuan hadn’t reacted at all. At the time, he’d wondered if there’d been a mistake. Now he knows better. Jing Yuan makes it impossible to doubt with his fingers locked around Dan Heng’s forearm, his gaze intent and bright as embers. The ache in Dan Heng’s belly was and is deeply reciprocated.
The rain roars against the roof over their heads. Dan Heng leans forward to carefully brush aside the curtain of hair obscuring Jing Yuan’s right eye. It shuts beneath his touch. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better, now that you’re here.”
“Give me a real answer.”
“That was my real answer.” Jing Yuan catches his hand. Dan Heng’s cheeks heat, but he doesn’t resist when Jing Yuan brings it to his mouth. “Thank you for being here.”
“Already? Does it really help?”
Jing Yuan smiles against his knuckles. “The worst of it has yet to start,” he admits. “It’s been a long time since I last did this with anyone, and I’ve never been mated before. This may very well be a new experience for both of us.”
An inevitable pang. Of course Jing Yuan has done this with others before. It would be naive to assume otherwise.
Dan Heng’s claim is a perfect array on Jing Yuan’s otherwise unmarred neck, just visible beneath the drooping collar of his robes. He slides his hand away to touch it. To confirm the smoothness of the scar beneath his fingertips, pink and silvery in the low light. Jing Yuan tilts his head, a lock of hair slipping off one of his broad shoulders. The air goes still between them, like a held breath.
“I told Himeko I would message her when I’m ready to leave,” says Dan Heng quietly. “I can stay for as long as you need me.”
“Oh?” Jing Yuan’s slow blink is decidedly feline.
“Within reason,” Dan Heng quickly amends, flushing.
“That’s a shame.”
His tone is teasing, but Dan Heng has gotten much better at reading him lately. He withdraws his hand. “It’s getting late; we should head inside. I’m fine,” he adds, when Jing Yuan slants him another glance. “I know you’re staying out here for my benefit. You’ll catch a chill.”
Jing Yuan rises to his feet. “I can’t hide anything from you anymore,” he laments. Then, “Dan Heng”—and Dan Heng pauses, already halfway through the paneled doors. The lamps inside render Jing Yuan’s expression mellow and golden; the raindrops behind him catch fire. He beckons, and like a fish on a hook, Dan Heng lets himself be reeled back in. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“We’re going to bed together,” says Dan Heng with a touch of exasperation, but nonetheless rises to the tips of toes to greet Jing Yuan properly. The sweet, adoring smile it leaves on Jing Yuan’s face is well worth the embarrassment.
It’s still dark when he wakes. The folding screen next to the bed glows wintry blue in the moonlight, casting a long shadow on the hardwood floor. The whole room is silent; the rain has stopped.
There’s an arm around his torso, a hand rucked up his shirt. The hold is much too tight for its source to be asleep, and proof of it comes in the form of a hot puff of breath across his nape, a dry graze of lips. The body pressed tight against him positively blazes, even with the blankets twisted at their feet. Sweat soaks the layers of cotton between them.
Jing Yuan’s scent has exploded overnight, so potent that Dan Heng’s inner thighs have already gone damp. The hand groping his chest doesn’t really help. “Mm,” says Jing Yuan. His thumb strokes absently over Dan Heng’s nipple. “You smell good.”
He still sounds lucid, if soft and slow. Dan Heng breathes out. He passes his own hand over Jing Yuan’s knuckles, the gentle slope of veins beneath thin skin. The heat radiating off him wards off the chill of the open window; the kisses to his neck make him shiver. Jing Yuan is already hard, his clothed erection trapped firmly against the curve of Dan Heng’s ass. This, Dan Heng expects.
What he doesn’t expect is Jing Yuan’s restraint. His fingers catch again and again on Dan Heng’s nipple, perking it into a stiff bud, but despite the way Dan Heng’s breathing quickens, the way he begins to twitch, Jing Yuan’s hips don’t budge. Affection wrings out Dan Heng’s heart. They’re bonded, already. Jing Yuan doesn’t need to wait.
So Dan Heng moves, instead. He pushes back and is immediately rewarded when Jing Yuan’s arm constricts around him. There’s no point in asking what he needs. Dan Heng will give it to him no matter what it is.
Even so, Jing Yuan asks, “Can I?”
“Take what you want,” says Dan Heng.
Jing Yuan’s chest rumbles against his back. A chuckle, or a growl. He finally gives in, grinding himself against Dan Heng’s ass. Familiar anticipation ripples down Dan Heng’s spine. No matter how often they do this, it still feels electrifying.
He lifts his hips just enough to allow Jing Yuan to tug down his waistband. Jing Yuan wastes no time; his hand engulfs Dan Heng’s small omega cock, already soaked and beginning to flush hot with want.
“How are you feeling?” he whispers.
Dan Heng pushes back against him again. Pushes forward, too, to seek friction from Jing Yuan’s palm, to chase that incredible sensation. “Aren’t you the one in rut?” What’s keeping you?
A nip to Dan Heng’s ear. “Your scent is changing.”
Is it? Dan Heng can’t tell. Jing Yuan’s arousal is so overwhelming on his tongue it feels like it’s pressing down on him. The unnerving tinge to it has faded, but Dan Heng wouldn’t mind even if it hadn’t.
“You smell sweeter,” says Jing Yuan. He places another kiss behind Dan Heng’s ear, then slips his fingers down further, between damp folds. Dan Heng clenches down automatically at the intrusion, his breath catching between his teeth.
Despite his dulcet words and slow caresses, Jing Yuan is remarkably tense. The hard line of his body cages Dan Heng in completely, but he doesn’t speed up, doesn’t press harder. Only continues to languidly stoke the embers of Dan Heng’s desire, even with his goal well in hand. He’s too much. Dan Heng squirms with anticipation.
As if he’s read his mind, Jing Yuan pulls back. The sheets rustle as he works down the waistband of his own sleepwear. When he pulls Dan Heng to him again, Dan Heng parts his knees without needing to be asked.
Jing Yuan has always been gentle with him. It’s not, Dan Heng has found, so much that Jing Yuan thinks him fragile, but that he treats all the things he loves with great care. He’s as meticulous with Dan Heng as he is with his duties. It makes him decidedly unselfish, and it reflects now in the careful way he pushes into Dan Heng’s body, exquisitely slow, pausing and waiting with every twitch Dan Heng makes like Jing Yuan isn’t the one who desperately needs this.
Dan Heng reaches for his hand again, gripping it tight to his chest as Jing Yuan sheathes himself completely inside. Liquid pleasure radiates from their point of connection. Dan Heng’s barely moved this whole time, but sweat already pricks the insides of his knees.
Jing Yuan litters his neck and shoulders with kisses. His thrusts start shallow and lazy, just enough to warm their skin. Dan Heng tucks his face more firmly into his pillow, inhaling the lingering scent of Jing Yuan’s soap in the cotton. They don’t speak. The shifting of fabric fills the silence, sheets and half-removed clothing. The elastic of Dan Heng’s boxer-briefs digs into his thighs when he shifts his legs wider apart, and just like that Jing Yuan hits that spot inside him.
Dan Heng moans, fingernails digging into the back of Jing Yuan’s hand. It must be painful, but Jing Yuan doesn’t flinch. He takes the opportunity instead to worm his other arm around Dan Heng from under him and deepen his thrusts, mouthing under Dan Heng’s jaw, enveloping him so completely that Dan Heng can’t do anything but let it happen. That’s fine, that’s fine—up until Jing Yuan’s hand finds his cock again.
Dan Heng jerks in Jing Yuan’s arms. “Oh,” he gasps. It’s new every time, the needlepoint sensitivity, the relentless swell of tension that looms with such abruptness Dan Heng almost can’t distinguish it from panic. Jing Yuan’s breathing gusts in his ear.
The tension keeps building. Dan Heng rocks into Jing Yuan’s hand and sinks back on Jing Yuan’s cock and suddenly it’s not just the sheets filling the silence but Dan Heng himself, his own panting deafening to his own ears. Jing Yuan’s fangs sting his skin; his heartbeat pounds furiously against Dan Heng’s back.
Climax hits Dan Heng like a thunderbolt. Every muscle locks under a drowning wave of heat, sizzling through him from head to toe; he writhes and, lacking the leverage to curl forward, throws his head back instead, narrowly missing Jing Yuan’s jaw as he shakes violently through his release.
With a burst of strength, Jing Yuan pins him stomach-first onto the mattress. He spears him open again in one deep, effortless slide, and Dan Heng buries his face into the pillow, still shaking, moaning now with abandon. It’s so hot, and getting even hotter. Sweat dots his hairline. Jing Yuan reaches so deep he thinks he can feel him in his belly. It’s almost a shame Dan Heng isn’t a normal omega, with a normal, functioning womb—but it seems his body is rising to the occasion anyway, because he’s only experienced this kind of nebulous throbbing two times before.
He squeezes his eyes shut. Impossibly, Jing Yuan’s cock feels like it’s growing bigger by the second, but the fit is still perfect, the angle is perfect, except the thrusts are getting shallow again, and Jing Yuan is steadily losing rhythm, breathing harshly against Dan Heng’s hair, reaching out to interlock their fingers, slippery and tight against Dan Heng’s cheek—
“Jing Yuan,” Dan Heng breathes, and Jing Yuan makes a noise in response, a ragged groan. There’s a protrusion inflating the base of his cock that nudges Dan Heng’s opening with each thrust, but Jing Yuan doesn’t try to force it in. Even though they’ve already done all this. Even though this is why Dan Heng is here.
“Jing Yuan,” Dan Heng says again, and drags their intertwined hands to his mouth, kisses Jing Yuan’s knuckles, the blue-green veins, the silvery nick on his thumb. And then he shoves himself back into Jing Yuan’s next thrust, sucking the swelling knot inside of him.
Jing Yuan’s control crumbles. With a snarl, he draws back one more time before he slams the entire way back in. His knot fills to its full size as he comes, and comes, and comes, stretching Dan Heng’s walls to almost unbearable limits, pressing up against every fiercely sensitive spot inside him and it’s too hot, it’s too good, it’s too much, it hurts—and then abruptly Dan Heng is coming too, again, an involuntary cry ripping out of his throat, every nerve ending blasting wide open like a wound. He twists away instinctively, dumb with shock, except Jing Yuan’s hands come down hard on his hips, trapping him squarely in place, and fuck, fuck.
Dan Heng punches the pillow, chest heaving. His head spins. Hot-cold shivers rattle his spine; sweat drips down his trembling legs.
It takes a long, long moment before his senses return to him. When they do, it’s to the feel of Jing Yuan’s hands spreading up and down his sides, over his bare hips and under his damp shirt; to the sound of his voice, soft and soothing, just a little bit hoarse.
“Shh, don’t move. Don’t move, Dan Heng. It’ll pass.”
He can’t move even if he wanted to. His body may as well be an amorphous puddle seeping into the mattress. “Jing Yuan…”
They’re locked together; Jing Yuan’s cock throbs and pulses inside him in varying intervals, just shy of overstimulating. Dan Heng’s forehead drops back down onto the pillow. He only raises it again when Jing Yuan tugs on the hem of his shirt; together, and with much difficulty, they shimmy and kick off the rest of their clothes.
“You’re so good to me,” Jing Yuan whispers, once they’ve adjusted into a more manageable position, both of them on their sides again, Jing Yuan curled around him.
Dan Heng drifts in and out of consciousness, warm and heavy. Even just a minute twitch of their bodies sends another crackle of pleasure through his lower belly; a tremor still punctuates his spine every handful of seconds. Jing Yuan continues to shush him, rubbing soothing circles into his ribs. “No more than you are to me,” says Dan Heng.
Jing Yuan kisses his cheek. Guides Dan Heng’s chin around, and kisses the corner of his mouth, too. Dan Heng returns it the best he can. “You’re going into heat,” Jing Yuan realizes.
“Mm.” Dan Heng drops his head again. He still remembers Jing Yuan on the dais, his hands behind him, saying those exact same words. Stately and dignified and so far out of reach. Dan Heng had wanted him so badly even then.
“How do you feel?”
“Hot,” says Dan Heng. “But not in pain.”
“You’ll tell me if you need to stop.” It’s not a question.
Dan Heng acknowledges him with a quiet noise. “How about you? How do you feel?”
“Do you really need to ask?”
“It’s the reason why I’m here.”
Jing Yuan adjusts his grip, smiling into Dan Heng’s hair. The corded muscle of his forearm is so pale in the dark it may as well be glowing. “Clear-headed, for now,” he replies. “This is already a significantly better start than last time.”
“Was it bad?” asks Dan Heng. It doesn’t escape him that Jing Yuan must have had more than a few ruts in the years since Dan Heng was exiled—since Jing Yuan realized they were soulmates. How he’d managed with that knowledge, Dan Heng will never understand.
“It varies,” says Jing Yuan. “Over time, ruts slowed down for me, but they used to hit me hard and painfully in my youth. Jingliu would shut me in a room for several days to wait out my tantrums. Eventually, I figured out how to endure it.”
“Tantrums?” Usually, partnerless alphas are the ones who lend themselves to aggression. Jing Yuan could have anyone, if he wished.
Wryness fills Jing Yuan’s voice. “I’m told I can be quite stubborn.”
Dan Feng, Dan Heng thinks.
He wishes he could see Jing Yuan’s face. Wonders, without surprise, if he would find heartache there, the same heartache that occasionally clouds the edges of Jing Yuan’s expression when he looks out over Scalegorge Waterscape. Dan Heng has worked so much of it out of him over the past year, but still it lingers. Some things will always linger.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.
A gust of air to the back of Dan Heng’s head. “It’s been more difficult to deal with in recent years, but nothing to be concerned about.”
“Is it my fault?”
“None of my choices are your fault,” says Jing Yuan.
But he always seems to keep Dan Heng in mind when he makes them.
Dan Heng gazes out past the edge of the bed. Delicate leaves embroider the folding screen. Its glossy wooden panels, too, have been carved with an intricate, elegant relief: a dragon soaring amongst clouds. “I told myself I was too late,” he says, after a minute. “Back then, at Dragonprayer Terrace. You didn’t bring it up, so I thought I was crazy. Either you were already mated or the soulmate bond was one-sided. Either way, you probably already had a partner.”
Jing Yuan’s scrutiny is a tangible weight behind him, but Dan Heng doesn’t stop. “Were you alone?” he asks. “This whole time? Were you waiting for me?”
The embrace around him tightens. “It’s been much longer than that since I last shared a rut, Dan Heng.”
“You were the one who said it’s been harder to manage. There are obvious solutions to fix that.” Dan Heng’s heart beats like a bruise in his chest. His face feels hot but everything else hurts. “I had my first heat a few days after you sent me away,” he says, and Jing Yuan falls silent. “I didn’t know what it was at the time. I thought I was sick. Even after I figured it out, it didn’t occur to me that you were the cause.”
“I’m sorry,” says Jing Yuan softly. “I wish you hadn’t suffered.”
“You’ve suffered, too,” says Dan Heng. “But you always do it so knowingly. You never try to help yourself.”
Jing Yuan moves. Dan Heng flinches when it jostles the knot inside him, but it’s already begun to deflate, just enough that Dan Heng doesn’t feel like he might die as Jing Yuan leans over to kiss him properly. Pleasure rockets through him regardless. He makes a soft sound, mouth falling open for Jing Yuan to devour.
“I can’t hide anything from you, after all,” Jing Yuan murmurs, their lips brushing together. “It’s always been silly sentimentality on my part. You’re a lot braver than me.”
“I’m not brave,” mumbles Dan Heng. “I’m selfish. I want to be the only one to ever do this with you.”
Jing Yuan laughs fondly, cupping Dan Heng’s neck. “You’re the first one in centuries,” he says, pressing down on the claim he left in Dan Heng’s skin. It throbs beneath his touch; throbs even more when Jing Yuan replaces his hand with his lips. “And you’ll be the last.”
Dan Heng exhales a ragged breath. Jing Yuan’s knot continues to deflate, but his cock hasn’t flagged one bit. “Are you…”
“I’ll be depending on you,” says Jing Yuan. His eyes curve playfully in the dark. He nudges Dan Heng’s knees apart, and Dan Heng’s huff quickly dissolves into another moan when Jing Yuan pulls out just enough to sink back in, scorching hot all over again, his path made velvet by the slick and come leaking out between them. Even with the rest of him so sluggish and useless, Dan Heng’s cock twitches again with renewed interest.
It seems not even a rut can completely overcome Jing Yuan’s self-possession. Face-to-face, Dan Heng has a full view of his overbright eyes, the way they blow wide with hunger; his pink mouth, parted for air; the sweat that glistens across his collarbones. Never once does Jing Yuan’s grip go painfully tight. Never once does his face become unrecognizable, greedy and cold. The love in his gaze burns just as bright as his lust. Dan Heng preens and shies away in tandem from his undivided attention, clawing at the pillows, stuttering through uncontainable mewls as Jing Yuan pounds into him.
In a way, this position is harder to bear. Jing Yuan’s hand traces his cheek. He presses kiss after kiss to the corner of Dan Heng’s mouth, the bow of his lips, his chin, unfathomably gentle through all of it. Dan Heng reaches up to bring him closer, foggy-headed and tingling. This time, when Jing Yuan ties them together, he does it with Dan Heng tight against his chest, his face in his throat, his fingernails dug so deep in Jing Yuan’s shoulder blades that any deeper would draw blood.
It’s too much. The brilliant blaze of pleasure teeters precariously close to pain. Dan Heng can only hang on, muffling his panting into Jing Yuan’s skin. It’s too much, but—but it’s still not enough. He can’t help himself; he grinds down even further and clenches on Jing Yuan’s second knot of the night, sobbing and arching as his entire body draws taut.
Jing Yuan swears breathlessly in his ear. Dan Heng returns to earth once more only distantly aware of his own harsh breathing, the death grip he has in Jing Yuan’s hair, the inexorable cradle of Jing Yuan’s arms. His thighs quiver around Jing Yuan’s hips. The cock snug inside him continues to pulse, blazing hot, stuffing him full.
When he finally slumps, Jing Yuan presses his lips to the damp hair plastered over his forehead. Dan Heng tilts his chin instead; Jing Yuan obeys. Their ensuing kiss is plush and tender. Dan Heng closes his eyes to it—boneless, fuzzy, exhausted. His instincts purr with satisfaction.
“Still with me?” Jing Yuan murmurs.
Dan Heng must make some kind of sound, because Jing Yuan doesn’t ask again. Another kiss. Dan Heng struggles to return it. They wait it out, Jing Yuan’s hand stroking up and down Dan Heng’s flank. It can’t be comfortable, leaning over him like this.
Eventually, he finds the strength to open his eyes. Jing Yuan offers him a smile. He looks as lovestruck as Dan Heng feels, mouth relaxed and eyes glittering, his hair like snow in the dark. Clumsily, Dan Heng smoothes some of the messiness away, baring more of that beloved face.
“Dan Heng,” says Jing Yuan. He’s always saying Dan Heng’s name. Sometimes, it seems, just to say it, like he likes the feel of it. Like he knows how it hangs between Dan Heng’s ribs.
Dan Heng’s voice comes out rasping. “You can keep going.”
“Only if you want to,” says Jing Yuan. He kisses the corner of Dan Heng’s eye.
The shift in weight, however careful, is more than enough to pierce through the lead in Dan Heng’s body. His toes curl. “Feels good,” he breathes.
Jing Yuan’s smile widens. He kisses him again, but doesn’t move any further. Just as well. Now that his pulse has slowed, Dan Heng’s muscles have all begun to protest. The sheets beneath him are uncomfortably damp, rough and sticky to his overheated skin.
The rest of the night passes in a long, dreamy haze. Jing Yuan knots him one more time before Dan Heng truly can’t take it anymore. He tosses his head back into the pillows when Jing Yuan finally pulls out, eyes stinging and fist crushing his own discarded shirt. Jerks violently when Jing Yuan’s fingers circle his puffy, swollen folds, when Jing Yuan gently gathers the come dripping out of him to push it back inside.
“I can’t, Jing Yuan, I can’t—”
Jing Yuan rolls him to the clean side of the bed, muffling his whimpers with soft words and slow, calm kisses. “No more,” he promises. “You’ve done so well. You’ve been so good to me,” he says again, burying his nose into the crook of Dan Heng’s neck. “Dan Heng, thank you.”
Slowly, the buzzing in Dan Heng’s head subsides. His heart roars in his rib cage. He finds Jing Yuan’s hand and clings tight.
The night bleeds into dawn. Their bodies must be in some kind of torrid feedback loop, because Dan Heng wakes again fuzzy-headed, hollow, and aching. They’d wiped themselves down before they’d given in to sleep, for all the good it does now; fresh slick coats his thighs. His stomach gives a pang—from hunger or arousal, Dan Heng isn’t too sure at this point.
Jing Yuan slumbers next to him, the sunlight pouring through the window diffusing every contour of his body, washing him in gold. Dan Heng angles his head against the pillow to watch him. It’s rare that he gets the chance to witness this, despite how often Jing Yuan drifts off during the day. They don’t spend nearly enough time together.
He’s just as pleasing to look at in the daylight: smooth skin, strong muscle, broad shoulders tapered into a trim waist. For all that Dan Heng worries about him, Jing Yuan does take care of himself. There are too many people depending on him.
Now, he looks debauched. Teeth marks and red lines mar his neckline, little stamps of Dan Heng’s gluttony. Dan Heng isn’t sure if even the high collar of Jing Yuan’s uniform can conceal it all, and the thought makes him flush. He hesitates. Then, slowly, his hand creeps down between his legs.
He doesn’t make a habit of touching himself. Even if he wasn’t so aware of the single wall that divides him from March and the others, it’s not the same when he’s alone. Dan Heng’s yearning is a low, simmering thing he always keeps a lid on. If he doesn’t think about it, it’s not distracting. But it’s impossible not to think about now.
He’s still sensitive, though not nearly as badly as he was hours before. His cock is small enough to be enveloped completely by his own hand; he rocks experimentally into it. Sparks fizzle in his blood, smoking away just as quickly as they flare. His fingers slide lower.
Oh. There. Dan Heng turns his face into the pillow. Oh.
It doesn’t take long. His stomach clenches; a familiar tide of fire courses through him, a rush of tingling that pours from his pelvis all the way down to his toes. He chases it desperately, eyes slammed shut, biting down on his own gasps in an effort to keep quiet.
Why bother. When he collapses back onto the mattress, he finds Jing Yuan watching him with dark, amber eyes. Dan Heng blushes violently. Immediately, he curls away.
A rustle behind him. Jing Yuan’s smile is clear in his voice. “What a sight to wake up to. Do you often do that first thing in the morning?”
“Jing Yuan,” Dan Heng complains, but he doesn’t resist when he’s guided back around. Jing Yuan takes him in. A large hand slides from his collarbones down to his navel, and despite his deepening blush, Dan Heng stretches out like a cat, shuddering wantonly under his palm.
“Can you give me another one?” Jing Yuan asks mischievously. Dan Heng hides his burning face behind his forearm. He has no idea—he’s had so many already.
He’s just about to say so when something warm, wet, and soft engulfs his cock. Shock blasts through him; his arm flies aside. “Jing Yuan!”
Jing Yuan laughs, mouth red and shining; Dan Heng feels the vibration all the way to his bones. Oh, this is so much better. He throws his head back with a whimper, kicking at the blankets. Jing Yuan presses him firmly into the bed, kissing the tip before swallowing him down whole, his feathery hair tickling Dan Heng’s inner thighs, and it turns out Dan Heng can give him another one after all.
He breaks apart again sobbing, wrung out, desperately sensitive, thrusting up, twisting away. Slick gushes out of him. His walls squeeze on open air, hungry to be filled, but Jing Yuan only licks his lips, comforting him through his quivering, his touch as light as cotton. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, unafraid as always to say it out loud.
Dan Heng’s brain is nothing but static. “No more of me,” he pants. “What about you?”
“I’ve never been better.”
It’s easy to believe; Jing Yuan looks so satisfied, like a well-fed cat lounging in a sun spot. It’s only when he shows genuine contentment that it becomes apparent how opaque his smiles usually are. The thick, overwhelming scent of his rut has receded for the time being, but Dan Heng reaches for him with needy hands anyway.
The sun rises higher. Eventually, after another bout of dozing, Jing Yuan urges them both out of bed. He draws a bath in the washroom. Dan Heng wobbles into the tub and nearly falls asleep submerged in the cool water, blissfully lost in the sensation of fingers carding through his hair, held up only by Jing Yuan’s embrace.
He’s so spoiled now. Every visit to the Luofu has become a point of gold in his memory, even when they’re embroiled in new turmoil. It’s never anything Dan Heng and the Express can’t handle; it’s never anything Jing Yuan can’t fix. Dan Heng’s trust in him only continues to grow, and the light at the end of his journey only continues to glow brighter.
They take a meal out in the garden. Only a handful of people are ever made aware of Jing Yuan’s rut at its onset, and one of them is Qingzu, who has graciously left a delivery of takeout baskets in the main hall. Yanqing, meanwhile, Jing Yuan explains, has gone to visit Yunli on the Zhuming. They’re well and truly alone, something Dan Heng figures Jing Yuan prepared from the start. He polishes off a lotus steamed bun, turning his face up to the sunlight. The air is crisp after the storm; the flagstones still glisten from pooled rainwater. Dew drips from tiny sunlit osmanthus flowers.
The Luofu drifts on in a lingering peace, stable and flourishing. It’s a startling dichotomy from the chaos of Dan Heng’s adventures.
They’re playing a match of starchess on Jing Yuan’s favorite board—Dan Heng’s gift—when Jing Yuan’s scent spikes again. Dan Heng looks up, but Jing Yuan doesn’t react; he places down an ink-black piece with a clatter, no different than before.
But Dan Heng—Dan Heng’s gone hot. An immediate, instinctive response. He tries to ignore it. Though Jing Yuan’s skill in starchess far surpasses his own, he can still give him a run for his money. In a way, playing as his opponent is an insight to Jing Yuan’s methodology, and Dan Heng has always been eager to dissect it.
Unfortunately, that same insight doesn’t help him now. Despite his attempt at nonchalance, he quickly finds himself distracted.
“You cheated,” he says, once Jing Yuan springs a checkmate on him out of seemingly nowhere.
“Hm?” Jing Yuan leans on his knee, cupping a cheek in his hand. “How so?”
His expression is too innocent to be sincere. Two can play at this game.
Dan Heng clambers to his feet. Jing Yuan watches in bemusement as he closes the distance between them, as he promptly settles down in Jing Yuan’s lap. The shirt he wears is Jing Yuan’s own, the first thing he found in the wardrobe that wasn’t too complicated to put together. It’s much too big for him, and droops off his shoulder the moment he flicks open the collar.
Jing Yuan’s pupils dilate. Still, he smiles. His hands knead into Dan Heng’s bare thighs. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
“I’m using your tactics,” Dan Heng corrects, turning his head away when Jing Yuan leans in for a kiss. “Don’t ignore me, Jing Yuan.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Just sitting in his lap is enough for Dan Heng’s slick to start leaking. It’s ridiculous. He has no reproductive capability to speak of, and yet his whole body calls for his alpha—calls to be bred. It’s clear Jing Yuan can smell it, too. He doesn’t try to kiss Dan Heng again, but his eyes remain sharp and leonine on Dan Heng’s face, almost predatory. Like if he looks away, Dan Heng will disappear.
“You cheated,” Dan Heng repeats.
“I won,” says Jing Yuan. “Does it matter how?” Dan Heng’s thighs dent beneath his fingers. “Let me kiss you.”
It’s just like him to ask, instead of take. Dan Heng’s heart bleeds; he can’t say no when Jing Yuan looks at him like this. He leans in and their lips meet, lightly at first, only a breath of space between them. Then Jing Yuan takes control.
They don’t bother moving toward the bedroom—there’s no one else here, after all. Jing Yuan maps his hands all over Dan Heng’s body beneath his borrowed shirt. He seems enamored by it, just as Dan Heng suspected. Neither of them bother to remove it. Instead, as Dan Heng eases back onto him, Jing Yuan rucks up the hem, unabashedly baring the sight of Dan Heng’s glistening thighs and Jing Yuan’s cock sinking in and out of him. Dan Heng’s cheeks blaze; he hides his face stubbornly in Jing Yuan’s hair, breathing hard.
They reach their peak wrapped up as tightly as can be, Dan Heng’s knees rubbed raw, Jing Yuan’s shoulders scraped completely red. Jing Yuan’s scent is a heady, mouthwatering thing, and the more Dan Heng inhales it the more he feels drunk on it. It’d be so easy to just keep doing this. To stay holed up in Jing Yuan’s home for as long as they want, even long after their excuses run out, mindless of their responsibilities, mindless of the world outside, focused only on each other and the way they make each other feel.
But it’s not who they are. In the end, Dan Heng will always call the Astral Express back to port, and Jing Yuan will always return to the Seat of Divine Foresight. In the end, they’ll separate, and it’ll be months again before they see each other.
Jing Yuan watches him tenderly. He grazes a knuckle over Dan Heng’s cheek, wiping away a drop of moisture—sweat. No more, no less. It’s quite possible he knows what Dan Heng is thinking, but he doesn’t say a word. Dan Heng is glad for it.
Jing Yuan’s rut burns hot and bright for only two days, no doubt hurried along by Dan Heng’s presence and attention. They tumble tirelessly into freshly changed bed sheets, nipping and kissing and biting, leaving cherry-red marks that Dan Heng hopes will linger long after Dan Heng has left. He has only ever known his heat to be feverish, lonesome, and painful—but this time, the boiling just beneath his skin never tips quite so far. Instead, it only seems to heighten his pleasure.
He loses track of how many times Jing Yuan knots him. Again and again, filling him up, staking his claim, his big hands smoothing over the sensitive skin of Dan Heng’s inner thighs, his waist, his nipples, stiff and rosy from suckling and repeated caresses. He can’t seem to get enough, and Dan Heng matches his appetite with equal enthusiasm. They eat and bathe and sleep only in brief pockets of lucidity, interspersed between long periods of indulgence. “Dan Heng,” Jing Yuan whispers, over and over, brimming with adoration and desire. His face blurs in and out, but his eyes remain bright as lanterns. Dan Heng surrenders himself completely.
It ends, eventually, as all things do. Dan Heng stirs again to the vaulted ceiling, bleary and fatigued. Moonlight catches on the crevices in the beams, shimmering across the jade alloy used everywhere on the Luofu. His limbs feel like they’re tied down by anchors.
It takes a moment for him to notice the touch to his neck: a methodical, featherlight stroke of a finger over his bond-mark. Dan Heng turns to look.
Jing Yuan, too, is awake. A lion in repose, his mane of hair tumbling all over the pillows, his eyes molten yellow in the cool blue night. Dan Heng takes a moment to gather his bearings, the last dregs of his energy. Then he rolls closer.
Jing Yuan needs no more encouragement to gather him in his arms. His heartbeat is slow and strong beneath Dan Heng’s ear. “Are you well?”
“Mm.” A kiss to his brow. Jing Yuan is always so casually affectionate when they’re alone; it makes Dan Heng’s heart feel as mushy as the rest of him. “How long do your ruts usually last?”
“You’re asking this now?” says Jing Yuan, with great amusement.
“It doesn’t really matter. I knew from the start that I was going to stay for all of it.”
Jing Yuan exhales. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Same as you always do.”
A laugh beneath Dan Heng’s cheek. “Four days, on average,” is Jing Yuan’s answer. “I’d forgotten how quickly it can pass with someone else.”
Dan Heng breathes him in. His scent is mild and comforting; back to normal, known, beloved, something Dan Heng always seeks out instinctively. He follows the pale scar over Jing Yuan’s sternum with his thumb, feels Jing Yuan shiver minutely beneath his touch. “Isn’t that the whole point?” he says. “Sharing a cycle increases the chance of conception. You’ve done what your body wants you to do.”
“I suppose.”
“Is that why it’s been so long since you’ve spent it with anyone?”
If I wanted children, I would have had them centuries ago.
Not that there are no other options. Medicines exist to prevent such a thing, if need be.
Jing Yuan is silent for a beat too long. When he finally replies, it’s slowly, too casually. “I’m afraid my reasons for that are far more childish.”
Oh. A pit forms in Dan Heng’s stomach.
Why does he keep doing this? Picking at his own scabs, forcing Jing Yuan to admit what Dan Heng already knows? It only causes them both pain. Heavily, he says, “They’re not childish.”
Jing Yuan finds his hands between them. He squeezes.
Dan Heng squeezes back. “I’m sorry. I know it still hurts you.”
“It hurts you, too,” says Jing Yuan quietly, more understanding than Dan Heng deserves. “Make no mistake, Dan Heng—you’ve made me happier than I ever thought I could be. I would change nothing.”
Dan Heng swallows a lump in his throat. “I can think of some things I would change.” He ducks his head to avoid meeting Jing Yuan’s eyes. “Like your workload. All those tabloids going on and on about your inadequacies. Your sleep schedule. I know you still bring your work home with you, even when I ask you not to.” He can feel Jing Yuan’s smile building against his hair. It makes him brave. “And while I’m at it, let everyone else conduct your responsibilities. You’ve done more than enough.”
Jing Yuan hums. Again, he says, “I would change nothing.”
“I love you,” says Dan Heng helplessly. “I wish you’d come with me.”
Jing Yuan’s entire demeanor softens, diffused and gentle as a cloud. He squeezes Dan Heng’s hands again.
“I know,” says Dan Heng.
Silence lulls between them. It should be enough, Dan Heng thinks. The bond-mark embedded with such permanence over his scent gland—proof of everything they are to each other. Proof that Jing Yuan chose him, proof that Dan Heng can tangibly trace every morning. A reminder, a reassurance. Jing Yuan’s claim swells with power, turning heads even when they’re worlds apart. How is it not enough?
“Maybe for a few days.”
Dan Heng’s pulse jumps. He looks up. Jing Yuan gives a great, lazy yawn, before he rises up on an elbow and leans over him with a thoughtful smile. The pad of his thumb brushes over the corner of Dan Heng’s mouth. “Look at you,” he says reverently. The look in his eyes sends a new trickle of heat down Dan Heng’s spine. “I’ve finally said something right.”
“You always say things right,” says Dan Heng, fighting the urge to glance away. “Whether I like what I hear is a different story. Are you being serious?”
Jing Yuan sighs, half amused, half rueful. “Why hold back on something I can make work? I’ll need time to prepare, but the status quo isn’t so dire that I can’t step away. Fu Xuan will be eager for some more experience.”
“If you can’t, that’s fine too.”
“Hm,” says Jing Yuan. “It’s been thirty years since I last traveled off the Luofu. I think it’s about time for a change of pace.”
I can still wait, Dan Heng thinks of saying. Thinks of telling Jing Yuan not to inconvenience himself, not to be so hasty—not to take Dan Heng’s selfishness so seriously. He didn’t mean to blurt it out the way he did. But then he pauses.
Jing Yuan is never hasty.
Jing Yuan watches him placidly, his thoughts impenetrable behind the line of his mouth. He’s still good at hiding things, after all. How long has he been thinking about this?
“I’d like that,” says Dan Heng quietly.
The stars outside are fading, giving way to the iridescent sky. Jing Yuan’s eyes reflect the dawn. He cups Dan Heng’s cheek warmly, gently, and smiles again at the pink he finds there. Dan Heng tucks his face into his palm.
He’s learned, over the years, that happiness is a privileged, ephemeral thing. Life owes you nothing; joy is something you make for yourself. These days, Dan Heng’s happiness is painted in sunlight. He cradles it now in his hands, and marvels at its glow.