Chapter Text
It’s not an easy thing to eat aboard a moving train. In space, of all places.
Himeko tries to avoid it, opting for easier meals that go down fast so as to avoid the nausea that creeps into her stomach. Dan Heng despises it, for he still hasn’t gotten used to the motion. He sits on the floor with his back against a wall for support and rigidly eats his food as though he were a monk. March 7th is the most adept, though even she has to bring her head close to the table and eat carefully.
None of them know how Stelle eats, however, for she never takes her meals in the parlour. The most recent Trailblazer eats in her room, away from everyone else. Nobody knows if she even eats ; she’s fantastically skinny, and while she never brings out scraps, she could easily shove her meals in the bin. Stelle is the trash girl, after all, that’s her duty.
This is a minor thing. So very minor, in fact, that it does not bother anyone aboard the Astral Express.
It doesn’t ‘bother’ March 7th either.
It fucking infuriates her.
She lies awake at 3am, blankly staring at the roof of her hotel room, completely motionless. Sleep should have come hours ago. March being awake after 11pm is unheard of. Thoughts, irritating little thoughts, are scampering through her brain and keeping everything else inside her head awake. Try as she might to dispel them, her efforts are in vain.
Goooooosh, all I want is to sleep.
As is her wont, March lies to herself. What she actually wants, more than anything, is to solve the Stelle Equation. Stelle is something of an enigma to her: Seemingly dull and stupid at first, she possesses an acerbic wit and keen observation skills. She’s faster on the draw with humour than anyone March has ever met, and despite appearing to have the same social skills as a lonely rock, she’s surprisingly pleasant to be around. Whatever magic she’s weaving, it results in March feeling unusually at peace around her.
To say nothing of how beautiful she is. Stelle does nothing to style it, yet her long, layered grey hair always perfectly frames her face. Dark, splotchy freckles spread out from her nose, and her vivid amber eyes are at once piercing and soothing, and the way they light up when she smiles is beyond enthralling. March has only ever seen her smile with an open mouth once, but it was like looking at an angel. Stelle has that kind of charming, dopey look to her that’s usually reserved for lovestruck teenage boys. To see it on a beautiful woman is a gift any Aeon would struggle to match, yet March stumbled into it with ease. Combine all of the above with her height - only 1/10th of an inch shorter than Welt at a tasty 6’3” - and she excels at every part of tall, dark and handsome.
It does not occur to her, as she plays images of Stelle smiling softly or gazing into the distance, that she possesses a moderate to severe case of non-platonic infatuation with her travelling companion.
In layman’s terms, she’s unknowingly stumbled into a crush.
And yet, as March replays their interactions ad nauseam, she can’t help but feel the affection is one-sided.
Stelle is quiet around her, her answers often little more than three words or a short sentence. On the Express, she rarely spends time with anyone else, and March hasn’t ever seen her bedroom. For all she knows, Stelle sleeps in a closet.
At first it was a simple matter to dismiss this as Stelle having a reserved nature not unlike that of Dan Heng, but then Jarilo-VI happened. Stelle remained quiet, sure, but her attitude towards the locals had a surprising gregariousness to it. Especially around children; Stelle talked to Clara more in one evening than she did in the month it took to get there. Normally, March’s usual self-therapy regimen can assuage her doubts, but not this time, not with Stelle.
March sighs, loud enough that it reverbs throughout the room for a bit, and rolls onto her side. Fluffs her pillow and pulls the covers up to her neck. Shuts her eyes and hopes for sleep- Not even sleep, actually. March hopes that mere comfort will come for her, as she’s remarkably on edge.
But it doesn’t come.
Nothing comes besides more introspection and more woes.
Giving up on rest, March reaches for her phone and taps the power button. She is then promptly blinded by the light, having adjusted her brightness up towards the maximum value in order to compensate for Jarilo-VI’s blinding sun. When her vision returns, she’s greeted with a big red ‘1’ by her messaging app.
Tap.
There’s a delay in opening it, only a few seconds.
In those few seconds, a small part of March hopes it’ll be a message from Stelle.
Nope. Dan Heng.
> You left one of your trinkets in my satchel.
> [IMG_4365.png]
Attached is a picture of a small, handmade bear keychain that some of the Underworld’s children made for the trio, delivered via Natasha. Sent only ten minutes ago.
Right… I should go get that.
…
I could talk to him, too.
A master at not showing his true feelings, Dan Heng fills the role of March’s brother. Sometimes, therapist. Sometimes, an indistinguishable blend. Regardless, she trusts him to be honest with her when anyone else would give her reassurances first and truths last.
Sure thing! <
Also, umm… <
> Yes?
> …
> March?
All she has to do is type the words ‘Can we talk?’ and it’ll be fine. She knows the answer is yes. Tragedy has befallen her poor atypical mind, however, and every worry she could have is firing at once.
What if this is the last straw and he gets sick of me?
What if I’m asking too much?
What if he says something really mean?
What if he tells Stelle?
What if I say something stupid and he blows up on me?
What if. What if. What if. What if. On a loop until the end of time. A spiral of perpetual misery. An ouroboros of self harm.
It’s only when a knocking sound echoes through the room that March returns to reality.
“Come in.” March’s voice is a bit rough; she’s exhausted, and while she wasn’t crying per se she was close enough. This doesn’t go unnoticed.
Dan Heng quietly opens the door, inches himself into the room, and closes it without a sound. He doesn’t look tired, nor does he look well rested. Knowing him, he likely dozed off for three hours and only now got up.
“I hope you’ll forgive my intrusion.” Says Dan Heng to someone who invited him in.
“But trailing off this early in the morning invites more than a few worries.”
“I’m fine.” Intact. The word she’s looking for is ‘intact’. She’s miles from
fine
.
“I did uh… I did want to ask you something, though.” March throws aside her covers and swings her legs on the side of the bed. She debates standing up, but decides sitting is sufficient.
“If that’s okay…?”
“Of course.” As he always does, Dan Heng leans against the nearest object. In this case, the closet. Folds his arms, straightens his back, and listens intently.
“The stage is yours.”
“Thanks. Um… Anyway…” What he’s seeing now is a grim marvel: A return of March’s early days, where she was a sheepish and frightful little creature. Immediately, knows something is up.
“Do you uh… Do you think Stelle likes us?”
“Yes.” He responds so decisively that March waits for a moment, expecting a followup that never comes.
“Oh… Okay.” March tries to hide her sadness at the inconclusive and unsatisfying answer, and she fails miserably.
“I assume you had a motive for asking.” Dan Heng won’t admit it even to himself, but he’s been trying to dissect why she would ask after him at 3am. From his point of view, March’s brain shuts off after 6pm - dinner time, usually.
“I, well, haha…” The giggle is a conscious thing, meant to make her seem less frazzled. It wouldn’t work on Hook let alone a man as astute as Dan Heng.
“I … I feel like she doesn’t like me, you know?” Such frankness from March is surprising - at least to herself.
“She’s always uncomfortable when I’m around.”
“I’m not one to speak for other people authoritatively, but…” His gaze darts to the side, then back again.
“I’m rather confident she’s fond of the Nameless.” There go his eyes again, trying not to make contact. He’s…
nervous
?
“That said… Can I ask your permission to be honest to a perhaps upsetting degree?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” March rubs the sleep from her eyes, hoping to dispel the exhaustion affecting her hearing.
That Dan Heng does not instantaneously follow up is scarier than anything he could do.
“I know you
just
said yes, but I feel it’s my duty as your friend to tell you this first.” He’s not one for expressing emotions overtly, so even something as simple as him sighing is a bad omen.
“If I answer your question, I have no choice but to say some unkind things. I wish I had kinder words, but what I can observe unfortunately lends itself to…” Dan Heng looks down at the floor, and it takes an uncomfortably long second for him to look back up.
“Unkind words, so to speak.”
In simpler terms: If he answers March’s question, he’s going to sound like an asshole.
March is lucky that the room is only barely lit up by the Underground’s streetlights. Means Dan Heng can’t see the colour drain from her face. ‘Dan Heng says mean things’, regardless of intent, was one thing her catastrophizing brain expected to happen. For it to actually happen is gut churning, and reaffirms many awful things March thinks about herself.
“Go on…”
This is pure self-harm now.
“Very well.” There’s a pause that lasts a lifetime - to March, anyway. In reality, it’s about 3/4ths of a second.
“I have no doubt that Stelle looks fondly upon us both, but I have a nagging feeling that you think she dislikes you because, to put it bluntly, you don’t treat her very well.”
March audibly gulps, blinks slowly and looks at Dan Heng with confused wide eyes.
“Stelle likes to…” He’s not struggling to think of her assorted neuroses, no. He’s trying to keep the list
short
.
“Repeat things other people say. Fixate on mundane objects. Make bad jokes. Those sorts of things. And when she does, you…”
Right, yes, he
did
say he was going to say some mean things, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to struggle.
“You have an unfortunate habit of poking fun at her for it, telling her to knock it off, and scowling at her. Now,
I
know it’s in good humour, but…”
But she doesn’t. Stelle got hit with it right off the bat, while everyone else saw her develop that way over time. From her eyes, it must look like March can’t fucking stand her, and it’s not like she has evidence to the contrary.
“I see.” March is choking back tears. Most of the self-deprecating thoughts she’s had in her most vulnerable moments have been validated in the worst way possible.
“Thanks. Really.”
I should leave and never come back.
This thought rings through her head for the rest of the night. She’s too weakened to really do or say anything, so Dan Heng simply nods and slinks out. Once he’s gone, March can’t conjure the strength to properly get back in bed. As a sad compromise, she crawls under the covers like a house pet.
Sleep will eventually come for March 7th, after half an hour of crying into the mattress.
Stelle’s night isn’t going much better. She’s struck by three very vivid, very loud fears.
The first fear hangs off in the distance, two days from now. Bronya aims to hold a small celebration, ostensibly in tribute to Jarilo-VI’s resilience. In reality, it’s a way of making everyone come together and celebrate how happy they are to still be living. Still breathing. Still here.
A nice idea on paper, and for 99% of the people on Belobog, it’ll be nice in practice.
Not for Stelle, though. A busy Herta Space Station was pushing it, but an entire city coming together would overstimulate her autistic brain into heretofore unseen levels. What’s worse is that the Express will be ready to move out in three days, so there’s no avoiding it.
The second fear is far more existential, bigger than both herself, Belobog and even the entire planet of Jarilo-VI.
Resting before the night of the Underground’s reopening, a room mixup led to Stelle and Seele seeing one another in a state of undress. Having been made aware that Stelle was trans in the same ways she was, Seele kindly referred her to Natasha for an appointment to deal with her issues.
That appointment was days ago, but the followup is tomorrow and Stelle finds the prospect of making such a grand leap forward with her body - something she views with disdain at best and loathing at worst - to be deeply terrifying.
Speaking of which, such loathing currently makes up her third fear.
Yes, Seele was lovely. Yes, Stelle enjoyed their awkward makeout session. No, being seen and instantly clocked as trans did not make her feel good at all. It made her feel rather terrible, as a matter of fact.
Hey?
Yeah?
Do you think I’m going to be stuck with this man's body forever?
Most people are stuck with their body forever, sorry to say.
What about Herta?
Oh, she’s still stuck with hers, she just doesn’t let anyone else see it. The puppets are remote controlled, remember.
Huh…
Stelle rolls onto her side. Feels her hair bunch up around her face and itch like crazy. Rolls onto her back. Still coiled into her neck. Sits up, swipes her hair around in the hopes that she won’t be aware of it.
Lies back down.
Hair scritches against her neck.
She gives up. Languishes in it. What’s the point, anyway? Something will always itch.
Look at it this way, champ: Everybody greets you as either ma’am, girl, miss, or what have you. When was the last time anyone ever mistook you for a boy?
I know, but… They don’t have to live with it, right?
Of course. But it will be fine. If Natasha is as much of a wizard as she is a doctor, you’ll be fine. After all, Seele is put together like a dream - your words, not mine.
True…
Though helpful, the narration does little to console her. Right now, at the back of 3am, she’s suffering from absence .
Stelle is mad that she has no tits squishing uncomfortably against her chest alongside the hair. She’s mad that no ~time of the month~ presents itself to disquiet her. She’s mad that she gets harder rather than wetter. She’s **furious** that she’ll never have ki-
Oh, oh no.
That last one strikes deep, sends Stelle’s mood careening off the dour cliff into the misery sea. Now too weakened to even roll over, she opts to slink under the covers and weep.
Tomorrow will be better.
A comfort phrase, origin entirely unknown, that Stelle tells herself when things are dour. That the narrator has no comfort for her is a bad omen.
There are much worse things than dysphoria, sadly to say. Within Stelle’s chest bubbles a Stellaron, the cancer of all worlds. Though it gives her life, it is not a steady one; some days are better than others, so much so that she’s indistinguishable from a healthy 19 year old.
Not all days. Stelle wishes it was all days, but she’s not that lucky. On other days, less kind days, she’s suffering from one thing or other. Joints that burn, tightness in her chest that makes breathing a pain, a spine that seems to bend in all the wrong ways, migraines that turn all sensation into pain, the list goes on.
Deep within the archival recesses of Stelle’s mind, if you squeeze past the repressed ex- love from a past life, duck under the crippling fear of inadequacy, sidestep the complicated feelings for a name she won’t even utter, and hop over the fear of loneliness, you’ll come to an entry simply labelled:
Fear of burning out, rather than fading away.