LOVE ACROSS THE MILKY WAY âvarious
SYNOPSIS: just as the universe expands and unfolds, so to the paths that intersect and collideâ but just how do they keep them together? IN OTHER WORDS⊠what is a long distance relationship like with them?
NOTES: i thought of this when i the gym a couple of days ago. can you tell how who i like the most. anyways, this took wayyy too long to make. the original list of characters for this was MUCH longer but i genuinely could not write any more for this fic.
extra ă gn reader . 3k+ wc . mix of fluff & angst . typical long distance relationship issues (i think) . maybe occ? . i just want to give sunday a hug . established relationship . subtle spoilers for hsr plot . terms of endearment .
including ă jing yuan . dr ratio . sunday .
JING YUAN is the patient partnerâ out of necessity and sake. On the outside, he is practical and annoyingly at ease: there are no unnecessary questions or mind games played. He is a simple man after all, trust goes without saying. Underneath the golden hues of his iris, though, he longs earnestly and occasionally, toys; staring outside the high walls of the Seat of Divine Foresight, running his aged mind through bottlenecked dreams. All of which lead back to you.Â
âSo tell me,â you laugh, bringing your knees to your chest, hugging warmth, âHas Yanqing finally stopped buying swords? That kid can fill a whole closet with them!âÂ
Jing Yuan chuckles into his phone, pressing it against his shoulder and cheek while he stirs the garlic, it sizzles in response, âNot as often now, no. Though, it doesn't mean heâs stopped all together,â Jing Yuan glances at the dining table, "Unfortunately."
You burst into laughter, his phone vibrates slightly.Â
âTell him I miss him, will you? Oh! Tell him he owes me a rematch too.âÂ
âYouâve never been good with swords, dear.âÂ
"Doesn't mean I canât try and shoot them.âÂ
Jing Yuan takes the phone and places it on the counter, putting it on speaker. The garlic has released its aroma, the rest of the vegetables follow. The water evaporates instantly, rising in lush curls of steam. Unbridled and figureless.Â
âWhat are you cooking?â you ask, shifting in your tent, the dimming fire cackles outside, âSmellâs good to me.âÂ
âItâs just a stir fry,â he answers, rocking the wok in a wave like motion, the vegetables jump in glee, âWhat do you smell?âÂ
âMmm, let me think,â you pause, closing your eyes for a brief moment.Â
Jing Yuan blinks, the stovetop flame winks at him, he frowns slightly.Â
He can picture you in the moment, eyes closed, knees to chest, cradling yourself, hugging warmth. He envisions your coy smile, the dry sarcasm and hungry eyes. How they ran from one passing thought to the next, never staying long enough to linger.Â
Jing Yuan knows your answer.Â
âGarlic. Lots of garlic,â you groan, shaking your head, âI bet you smell like garlic now.âÂ
âAnd whatâs so wrong with garlic?âÂ
You can sense him smirking through the black screen, eye twinkling, âToo much garlic is unappetizing, Jing Yuan.âÂ
He chuckles at your insistence, âOh? Well, that depends on your definition of âtoo muchâ. Personally I findââÂ
âYouâre lucky I love you.âÂ
âEven with all the garlic you use.âÂ
A gust of wind rushes through the camp, you shiver.
âYouâre in the Asdana Star System, yes?â prompts Jing Yuan, clutching the handle of the wok, âAre you near Penacony?
âIâm on the outskirts of the star system, yes. A distant planet really. It doesn't help that thereâs memoira everywhereâ and donât get me started on the weather here,â you groan, tilting your head back, eyes closed, âTurns out the sun only comes out every five moons.âÂ
Jing Yuan gives the vegetables a final stir, flicking off the heat, he watches the pepper and salt blend into nothing, âI take that itâs cold, yes?âÂ
An envelope of silence falls like snow, you pull the phone closer to your ear, body melting.Â
âI hope youâre not alone.âÂ
âOh no, not this time around thankfully. It would seem us Galaxy Rangers are âcloser than fudginâ everâ as Boothill would say.âÂ
âPerhaps I should meet this âBoothillâ one day.âÂ
âOh aeons,â you laugh, shaking your head, âWouldnât that be something.âÂ
The remaining hour is filled with your voice then his. Alternating, interrupting, riding the waves of invisible rhythm and whim. In the background, your ears follow the clatter of dishes and the faucetâs incessant squeal. You tell him to replace it, he says itâs fine. You ask if his workload is the same, he says yes. He asks if youâve eaten, you say no.Â
âThe locals are already struggling, it would be wrong to ask.âÂ
Jing Yuan glances at the two plates.Â
 âDo you think you can pay a visit to the Luofu soon?â he asks, stifling the quiet aches in his mind.Â
Jing Yuan hears the rustle of your blanket through the speaker, he imagines your lying down now.Â
You swallow, allowing yourself to dream, âI hope so.âÂ
âThatâs all I need.âÂ
In the emptiness of his own home, a chasm is filled, and your voice bounces off the walls like chimes; dancing through the air like birds and blades. Tomorrow the day will be lighter, notes Jing Yuan. The Seat of Divine Foresight quieter, the universe slowing on its almighty axis for just a moment. Enough for the two of you to savor a thousand light years apart.Â
âSave me a meal, wonât you?âÂ
When the call ends, Jing Yuan is seated at the dining table. The lights are dim, creating a fixed golden haze across the table: a mirage of something softer. Across from him is your plate, vibrant and fullâ fuller than his.Â
Itâs the one with less garlic.Â
When Jing Yuan takes the first bite, he hopes you sleep full.Â
There is a knock at the door.Â
And somewhereâ nestled behind the roles of tactician and generalâ his old heart lurches forward, a movement so akin to a fool. He wonders how exactly it came to meet him, how long it will hold in its rightful place.Â
Jing Yuan sets his utensils down and with a mellow smile, he heaves, swinging tomorrow open.
DR. RATIO is the controlled worrier. The one that consistently asks for updates: who hovers over his phone, glancing every few seconds for that stupid ping. Itâs not an issue of trust (he is the least bit insecure), rather, a sad cry of repressed longing. (He wonât admit it). Heâll talk your ear off, be it frustrations or his peculiar observationsâ nothing is left unsaid for the doctor, not when he finally has an active listener. Expect him to do the same. Dr. Ratio insists his daily messages and voice memos are just for your health and his overall peace of mind. Though, onlookers assume much, much more.
Dawn stretches over the horizon, and so do you.
Gradually, you shift to your nightstand, attempting to reach your phone all while fighting through bleary eyes and the gentle hand of sleep. You tap the screen twice, it glows against your dim room.
Veritas: âMorning, have you eaten yet?â
Itâs the first text you read.
You smile, taping the message. Your cold fingers swiftly run across the screen, a faint clicking fills the room.
Once you send the message, it doesn't take long for your phone to vibrate in your hands: incessant and rushed.
You pick up. Itâs a request for facetime.
At first you say nothing, allowing your bed covers to swallow you up, leaving only your eyes and nose to be seen. You suppress a grin, your hands warming. Golden light bleeds through the curtains.
âStill in bed now, are we?â
âIs that a rhetorical question, doctor?â
Veritas stands the phone against his desk lamp, he leans into his chair, allowing for a near full view of his upper body, âItâs early there, I didnât think youâd answer.â
âThen why did you text?â
You watch his shoulders shift, he crosses his arms over his chest, you giggle slightly.
He lets out a little scoff, playful. You burst into laughter now, your voice all the more raspy and muffled against the covers.
âI just wanted to check on you,â Veritas paused, feeling the corners of his lips rise, âHave a good day, alright? Iâll text you later.â
You nod, blinking at him brightly.
âCome on, show me your face.â
âVeritas!â you exclaim lowly, eyebrows furrowing slightly, âI look terrible.â
âYou make it sound like I havenât woken up to your face before.â
âStill,â you mumble, sinking deeper into the covers. A particular warmth spreads across your cheeks.
Somedays, Veritas wonders if he could just reach through the screen aloneâ by sheer force or otherwiseâ just to tilt your chin up towards him.
âYou donât look terrible,â he begins, bringing the phone closer to his face, âTrust me.â
The call ends shortly after, his office all the more quiet. Your face still flashes through his mind in gentle bursts. Much like muted fireworks: all the curves and edges, the blue light reflected in your iris, feathers and all. Memorized by mind and filed away meticulously. Even the first rays of morning light which permeated through your windows, resting briefly on your visage.
Veritas glances at the clock, itâs 8:43 pm. The minute hand ticks loudly.
His phone rings again. Though, not from you this time.
He sighs, swiping right as he rises to his feet, peering through the open window. Night sweeps across the streets.
âIâm shocked you answered.â
Veritas hears Aventurineâs grin through the black screen.
âYou do know the IPC and the Intelligentsia Guild are hosting a gala a week from now, right?â
Veritas glances at the calendar pinned against his walls, âGALAâ is written in large cursive loops.
âYou donât sound pleased.â
âI applaud your observation skills.â
Aventurine pauses, Veritas raises his eyebrow.
âWhat?â heaves Veritas, crossing his arms over his chest.
âMaybe you can finally bring that little bird of yours to the gala.â
Veritas pauses, his lips pressed into a thin line.
âDid I strike a nerve, doctor?â
âI heard theyâre Halovian.â
âOh, will you shut it?â
Aventurine laughs, light and airy.
âSure doctor. Iâll keep my mouth shutââ he smirks, then pauses, his voice lowering slightly, âI can imagine long-distance isn't really your style, is it?
Veritas stops, the picture frame on his desk gleams against the overhead light.
âIâll see you next week, gambler.â
As students filed out of the lecture hall, Veritas quietly reached for this phone, the screen face down.
His lockscreen is a dark, solid canvas of red. When the phone unlocks, your face greets him with warmth.
The photo is clearly rushed, the edges blurred slightly. Your hands are covered in clay, one sleeve rolled up to your elbow while the other slides down to your forearms; dangerously close to the pottery wheel. Your fingers act as a scaffold; supporting the clay as it leaned into the warmth of your palms and the crevices of your fingers. Veritas remembers. The winter breeze which overtook your city in frenzied torrents, how your dim studio lights shone brightly upon your placid figure. What was once a small abandoned firehouse, became intrinsically yours: a spacious art studio with pillars of history in awkward places, exposed beams, and inordinate windows that attracted busy onlookers with a mere glance.
Itâs how Veritas met you, after all.
The photoâ his homescreenâ is one Veritas has opted not to show you. Not yet at least. Not when youâd critique it like all your vases, ceramics, and sculptures scattered perfectly across your studio like falling leaves. Not when your eyesâ honed with painful prowessâ mellowed as your body fell in dance with the clay. Your back is hunched forward, bending into excitement while your hair escapes from its slick prison, framing your face in wispy strands. A gentle grin spreads across your face, breaking into gladness like the yolk of an egg and your feathers, finally, rest in its imperfection.
âThe beauty in truth is that it never changes, even when no one understands it.â Thatâs what Veritas had always thought, it was true to him and true for those whoâ similar to himâ strive to contain truth so it could be packaged for others. When all else could be stripped awayâ there remained truth, his truth even as the universe tripped over its own foot in ad nauseam. Dr. Ratioâs creed remained burned into his chest, laid bare for the universe to see.
Until he met you. Until he watched truth unfold over three hour calls, playful dinners on facetime, and clay stained hands. All those stupidly nervous drives to pick you up, and the whisper of fear when he watches you pack your clothes in a suitcaseâ all of it.
When the lecturer hall is devoid of sound, Veritas clicks on his messages, your name the first on the list.
âI know you're busy teachingâ make sure to turn on the kiln by the wayâ but could you call me when youâre free? There is a gala about six days from now and Iâd likeâ no want you to come.â
He pauses, breathing slowly.
A couple of hours later, when Veritas is teaching againâ an evening classâ his phone vibrates silently. A message pops up on the screen.
(Name): âsooo, is this your sad attempt at asking me out?â
Veritas: âAnd what if it is?â
(Name): âthen expect to see me soon hehe. I have a feeling youâll like the new clothes I boughtâ
A small smile threatens to pull at his lips, he stifles it, allowing only a fraction of anticipation to run across his chest.
Veritas: âWe can go to the art exhibit I mentioned after the gala, Iâll bring more comfortable shoes for you.â
When Veritas sets his phone downâ a group of students at the front are whispering.
âWhat is it now?â he deadpanned.
The students freeze, paralyzed.
He sighs, âGo on, this is a class for rhetoric, is it not?â
âNothing? Alright then, your next essay should be discussingââ
âIs it true that your partner is the Halovian sculptor? (Name)?â
A layer of ice settles over the lecture hall.
Veritas turns gradually, meeting the eye of the studentâ who despite their original confidenceâ shrivels under his gaze.
âYouâve got gut's Ratio, Iâll give you that.â
Aventurine is now in Dr. Ratioâs officeâ much to his dismay.
âI simply answered a question.â
âAnd now the entire Intelligentsia Guild wonât shut up about one of its council members."
âShame on them then.â
Aventurine tilts his head, a small smirk spreads across his face.
âYou had it all planned out, didnât you? I take it theyâre coming to the gala?â
Veritas stares up from his work, âThe Guild and your department would see them and I both at the gala anyways, no?â
Veritas returns back to his work, this time, biting back a smile.
SUNDAY is the quiet ruminator. Otherwise known as the overthinker. His relationship with his sister is long-distance enough, and that alone causes him bouts of stress. How much more you? You're his partner after all, and Sunday has never thought of himself to be capable of having or maintaining a romantic partner. The fear of misunderstanding plagues him, his pragmatism declares it to be doomed, but there is a passionate ache in his chest: an ache so far removed from himself, so utterly defiant and chaotic, that he canât help but marvel aghast. Still, despite it all, you remain and remain and remain against all the odds of his heart.Â
It was Sundayâs sixth evening aboard the Astral Express. All is quiet.Â
Between helping with chore duties, entertaining March 7thâs and Stellaâs antics, and conversing with Welt, the âspare timeâ Sunday had to wrestle with nearly consumed him.Â
Back on Penacony, he was perpetually busy. Time slots filled. Members to consult. Plans to execute. He did it all with assiduous grace: a kind of âalien meticulousnessâ as you dubbed it.Â
Now, there are no burning plans or falling ceilings. Nothing. All is quiet.Â
His roomâ described by March 7 as âsmallââ stares back at him, the space much too wide for himself. The room beats, drumming away to a melody Sunday doesn't know. Canât know. It is empty and full, teetering between dream and reality.Â
Turning to his right, the phone vibrates with excitement. Almost twitching with anticipation.Â
He swipes right, your voice emerges from the device instantly.Â
âSunday!â you beam softly, âI saw the pictures you sent. Tell me, have you played something dramatic on the piano yet?âÂ
Sunday can hear your smile.Â
âNo dear, I am yet to touch it actually,â he puts you on speaker, setting the phone back to the right sideâ where your head could be.Â
The conversation lapses into silence. Sunday fidgets with his finger.
If Sunday leaned just a bit closer, he swears he could feel the warmth of your exhale rippling across his cheek.Â
âYouâre thinking too hard.âÂ
Sunday paused, blinking slowly, âHow can you tell?âÂ
The question is selfish, he knows that. He believes he knows your mind, its idiosyncrasies and bending path: like rivers which curve towards song. Sundayâ he surmisesâ wouldnât mind traversing the facets of your mind. Heâd like to learnâ if he daresâ all the many versions of you.Â
âI love you,â you state, as if it was the most obvious fact in the world, âThatâs why.âÂ
You never cease to amaze him.Â
He lets out a small laugh, almost in disbelief, âItâs that simple, isn't it?â
You smile, your voice steadfast, firm, âYes Sunday, it is.âÂ
The next time Sunday calls you, itâs on facetime. He is seated at the piano, the phone leaning on the music rest.Â
âSo,â you smile, resting your cheek on your hand, âWhat are you going to play me?âÂ
âAnything youâd like, dear.âÂ
Sundayâs response is mellow, his eyes jumping from his gloved hands and the twinkle of your earrings.Â
âHowâs Penacony?â Sunday manages, he plays the first note. The tempo is slow and enigmatic; drawing up from the wells of his soul.Â
Sunday glances above briefly, he sees you shifting in your seat.Â
âAll is well,â you responded placidly, âNothing much going on here.âÂ
The melody leads Sundayâs right hand an octave higher. Quarter notes become eighth notes, the music spills onto the floor. His left hand steadies itself, the lower notes pulling him down. The flats are throwing him off, his right hand plays A natural. Sunday winces. Out of place.Â
âThatâs good then.âÂ
âAre you sure youâre okay, Sunday?âÂ
Just before he reaches the final string of melodies, Sundayâ selfishly he thinksâ steals another fleeting glance at you.Â
It is there, in that strange space before pressing his finger to the next note or the rest at the start of a measure, that his mind fully, truly sees you. Your slightly tousled hair, the glow of light against your skin, and the furrow of your eyebrows.Â
But itâs your eyes that undo him.Â
Youâve searched his very being with those eyes. Nothing escaped them. Not under those gentle hues.Â
âSunday?â you whisper, bringing your face closer to your phone, âPlease talk to me.âÂ
When Sunday finally locks eyes onto you, his gaze pools into your own, retreating into the inner recesses of your mind.Â
âIâll never get tired of you,â you blurt, âIs⊠that what youâre thinking?â
Sunday blinks. His golden eyes soften in relief.Â
âI didnât know you had a partner, Sunday.âÂ
Sunday nearly jumps from the piano seatâ his wings flapping slightly.Â
âOh, Mr. Yang, I didn't see you there.âÂ
Welt smiles softly, ambling towards Sunday, âIf I recall correctly, I donât believe I saw them when you were saying your last goodbyes to Penacony.âÂ
Sunday nods, âYes. I had already bid farewell to them. Or at least, tried to.âÂ
It is there that Welt observes Sunday.Â
âWell,â Sunday manages, his voice mellowing, âThey can be quite stubbornâ in all the right ways of course. And despite my failuresââ he stops, breathing in slowly, âThey are never far from my side.âÂ
Welt nods, a small pang of pride permeating his chest, âIâm glad to hear that Sunday.âÂ
A pocket of pleasant silence opens, Sunday smiles and turns. His gaze falling outside amongst the millions of stars.Â
âWho knows,â muses Sunday, unmoving, âPerhaps they shall board the express too.âÂ
Welt raises an eyebrow, smiling.
âOnly if that is alright with the Express,â Sunday adds promptly, âI am only a passenger after all.âÂ
âThere will always be room for more.â Â
Sunday nods, a small laugh escapes him.Â
Much later, when his bedroom doors slide closed, Sundayâ for the first time since heâs boarded the expressâ allows his shoulders to unwind. To fall from its high mantel. From his own unsaid fear.
(Name): Did I ever tell you your hands look so sexy when you play? The piece sounds so dreamy, I love it.
Another message follows.Â
(Name): Thanks for sending me all the images of the Astral Express, if I didnât have to run the bar here, Iâd be the one serving you drinks! Haha.Â
(Name): Have fun out there. Donât worry too much.Â
A cacophony of noise springs to life in his mind, like fireworks bracing together, singing with each quiet explosion. The corners of Sundayâs lips pull into a smile. It is unhampered: brilliant in the loving darkness of his room and your messages. Each of them crossing the vast sea of the universe for it's recipient. Silence embraces his body, rest follows shortly after.Â
When he closes his eyes, he dreams of you.