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If one were to ask Welt Yang who his most constant companion has been over the eighty-plus years he has lived, he might list a few names. Liserl Albert Einstein and Frederika Nikola Tesla, for example, as both the co-founders of Anti-Entropy and as the ones who raised him after the death of his father. Perhaps the Herrscher core within him, and its three hundred thousand souls. The legacy of Welt Joyce. The entire world, all of humanity encompassed in one four-letter name.
Were he to be truthful, the list would contain one word: guilt.
Guilt over his father's death. Guilt over Welt Joyce's death. Guilt for leaving Anti-Entropy for two years as a young man when the burden felt too heavy to bear. Guilt for failing to stop Sirin. Guilt for failing to contain the World Serpent. Guilt for passing on his burden to Bronya. Guilt for failing his Himeko by killing her father, by orphaning her the same goddamn way Otto Apocalypse had orphaned him. Guilt that he abandoned his son. Guilt upon guilt upon guilt for every failure he has tallied in his mind (and that list is impossibly long).
And now this.
Welt thumps his head against the back of his chair. “I'm too old for this shit.”
Beside him, Himeko heaves a sigh into her coffee cup. “You're thinking way too hard about this, Welt,” she says.
Twice a week, Himeko and Welt get together before lunch to 'talk logistics.' Ostensibly, this entails things like planning meals, counting inventory, monitoring finances, selecting commissions for the crew, and so on. All of which usually takes about ten minutes, leaving the rest of the time free for the really important topics. Like books. Or gossip.
Or about how, after almost eighty-eight years of life, Welt has found himself falling utterly head-over-heels in love for the first goddamned time in his life.
“I'm at least fifty years older than him.” It's not often that he drinks anything stronger than coffee before noon. Today, he's skipped coffee and tea and headed straight for the whiskey. “I'm old enough to be his grandfather.”
“I still don't believe you're as old as you say you are.” She sets the mug down, one eyebrow raised as she looks him over. “Honestly, sometimes I think you're starting to age backwards.”
Given that his current body is the equivalent of a forty-five year old's—he'd rebuilt his body back to what it had been in his late twenties/early thirties after the whole Sea of Quanta incident—that's not entirely so far-fetched. Not the least of which because he probably could make himself age backwards if he wanted, what with being the 1st Herrscher of Reason and all.
Not that he's ever going to tell her that.
“I hope not,” he says instead. “Having to go through puberty in reverse sounds terrible.”
Himeko snorts, almost choking on her sludge. “You'd still have a ways to go before you hit that point.”
“True.” He examines his reflection in the whiskey glass, all untidy hair and gaunt cheeks and crow's feet punctuated by dark circles under his eyes, all hidden by the thick-rimmed glasses he doesn't need to wear. “Thank God for small favors.”
“Perhaps.”
The silence that falls between them is only slightly awkward. Himeko is the first to break it. “I think you're using that as an excuse, though.”
Welt bites back a sigh.
“You wouldn't have this problem if we were talking about Gallagher. Or General Jing Yuan. Or the head of the Sky-Faring Commission—what was her name?”
“Madam Yukong, and you're making it sound like I'm some kind of—of manwhore.” The blush that creeps up his cheeks practically sets his ears on fire in its fierceness. “See if I ever tell you anything personal again, Miss Stellaron Fucker.”
“The potty mouth on you!” Himeko cackles in sheer delight, playfully shoving him away from her. Welt shoves back, and for a weightless, wonderful moment they're just two overgrown children roughhousing on the playground. “I give, I'm sorry!” she finally squeals, hands raised in surrender. “You big bully.”
“Says the woman in charge of the dumbass spray. Why am I the only one getting hit with it every day?”
“Because,” she says, as if that explains anything. “And you're avoiding the point I'm trying to make, again. You haven't had a problem with an age difference before. Why would Sunday be different?”
Going right for the throat. He's not sure why he expected anything less.
“I never had sex with Gallagher,” he points out instead, aiming for matter-of-fact and sliding somewhere in between embarrassed and ashamed. “May I note that I am younger than the rest? Like Madam Yukong. She just... needed a friend that night.” That had been a relatively pleasant one night stand, borne from two adoptive parents facing the harsh reality that they couldn't protect their children forever. It was a little bit of comfort he could offer, one that began and ended with the gratitude of being seen and the knowledge that it would never happen again. He was more than fine with that.
Neither of them mentioned Jing Yuan. That was... complicated, what with Welt being arguably immortal and the Xianzhou sworn to hunt immortals down. Casual, no-strings-attached sex was the best he could ever hope for there, and given how busy both men were, he could count on one hand the number of liaisons they'd managed and still have a finger or two left over.
At least she hadn't brought up the toxic mess that was Void Archives.
“You know,” Himeko says gently, when the only other defense he manages to offer is a shrug, “it's not a sin to be in love.”
“I never said it was.” Sometimes, when he looks at Himeko he sees the ghost of a woman long dead. Now, however, all he can see is a dear friend, one he's unnecessarily worrying with his foolishness. “It feels like it should be, though. Himeko, I've—“ He draws a circle with the puddle of condensation under his drink, forces the hint of a laugh. “I've never fallen in love before.”
Himeko sits up a little beside him, a hand to her lips and her eyes owlish. “Pathetic, isn't it?” he says after a moment. “At my age.”
“It's not pathetic. It's sad.” He flinches a bit at the pity in her voice. “Not even once?”
“I was too busy to consider it.” The lie rings hollow, even to his own ears. He couldn't have, in good conscience, ever let himself consider anything as dangerous as romantic love. Not when he could never give over his entire self. The Sovereign's throne was on too high a pedestal, far enough away that no one could see the endless failures piling up at his feet. Not even Edison or Tesla had ever managed to fully reach him, and they were the closest things he had left to family. His own life didn't belong to him; it belonged to humanity, to the name he'd been given, the duty and the burden.
He's had crushes before. Brief fantasies. Dreamed of it, the romantic that he is, on nights when the voices in the core were too loud, their faint remembrances only making him long for it even more.
It wouldn't have been fair, to ask someone to watch him die over and over again, and hope that they'd still be there when he returned. To ask them to endure the dangers that came with being associated with him. To ask another to stand by as he gave everything to a world that he loved but that never loved him in return.
Even without the weight of the world on his shoulders, even after fleeing to an entirely new universe, he still bears the damage of it all. The image of Sunday at his bedside springs vividly to his mind: halo aglow with threads of the Harmony, eyes of molten gold all soft and adoring around the edges, the solid weight of Sunday's hand along his jaw as he dispelled the memory of death before it could swallow him whole. The fondness that had seeped into his voice when he spoke afterwards, maybe I don't want you to be alone with it either.
How could he not fall in love with him in that moment, when Sunday would sit there with all the ugliness Welt bore—not the Sovereign of Anti-Entropy, not the 1st Herrscher, but the broken creature underneath it all—and not flinch away?
And how can he ask Sunday—knowing the trauma and the burden he already bears—to hold the splintered thing Welt calls a heart, knowing that he will cut himself on the pieces?
(Oh, but he wants. Had wanted then and still wants now—wouldn't it be so beautifully human, he thinks, to be loved?)
(Wouldn't it be selfish, to let himself fall?)
“... I've never let myself consider it,” he admits, his voice faint. The water drawing starts to take shape under his fingers—round cheeks, a puddle of hair, a tiny droplet halo—before he rakes a finger through it all. “I can't. He deserves so much better than what I can give.”
Himeko sighs, the sound heavy in the quiet. “Welt...” She lays a hand over his own and squeezes until he looks up at her. Those vermilion eyes glimmer with tenderness as she asks, so gently: “Why don't you think you deserve to be loved?”
Her words hit him hard enough to take his breath away. His vision blurs. A million hateful reasons swarm to his mind, clog thick in his throat, until he could choke. How could she, how dare she shine the spotlight on him like this? How could she force out all the ugly truths he wants to hide in the shadows?
A very distant, very young part of him wants to cry. He can't; he's long forgotten how to. Welt Yang hasn't cried for himself in decades, not since a young Joachim Nokianvirtanen discovered that his tears didn't matter in the end—his heartache meant nothing when compared to the dreams of a man long dead.
Welt leans forward with his elbows on the table and buries his head in his hands, unable to bear the pressure of that knowing gaze. ”Himeko, he looks at me like I've hung the stars,” he whispers. His shoulders tremble. ”What if I hurt him? What if I fail?”
“Oh you silly man,” she breathes. Himeko's hugs are always strong, and this one is especially fierce as she wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls him in. His father used to hug him like this, when he was small and crying from a skinned knee or a bad dream. Tight, and strong, a promise that everything would be okay no matter how much it hurt now. It's so familiar that it aches in the youngest portions of his soul. “But what if you succeed?”
That one question stops him short.
It would be a lie to say he hasn't wondered how a confession might go. What it might be like to have his love reciprocated. But the concepts never got further than thinking about how it might feel to not wake up alone, or what they might look like trying to slow dance in the dark, or how nicely the curve of Sunday's body would fit against his own—anything further than that shoved aside because he didn't know how to allow himself the luxury of wanting.
Could it really be so simple? To just let himself want out loud?
He allows himself to relax against her for a long moment, to bask in her surety.
“You're overthinking it again,” she says. A soft huff escapes him—she's always been good at reading his mind. “No relationship is going to be perfect, Welt. I imagine both of you will make mistakes. But you have to let yourself try first.”
Pushing himself up, he rubs a hand over his eyes. His glasses are smudged all to hell; he ponders cleaning them for a moment before tucking them into his breast pocket instead. Perhaps he shouldn't hide behind them right now. Vulnerability has never been something Welt is comfortable exposing, but... maybe it's not a bad thing that he can't quite put his usual masks back into place. “That's the scary part,” he rasps. “Trying. I could be very wrong about his feelings towards me, and what kind of position would I be putting him into then?”
The exasperated look Himeko gives him in return makes his lips twitch into a smile. “Seriously? If you really thought you were wrong, you wouldn't be panicking over it right now.”
“I really don't like how well you read me sometimes,” he deadpans.
“Stay mad about it.” She bumps shoulders with him. “Come on, Welt. Don't you think he deserves the chance to make you happy? Don't you deserve the chance to try?”
He sighs again, this one all fond at the exhale. “I kinda get the feeling that 'no' is not an option here.”
“I will never force you to do something you're not comfortable with,” Himeko says, tapping out something on her phone. “That said, I can also choose to not step in Stelle's way the next time she tries to lock the two of you in a closet.”
Welt's brain ground to a halt. “Stelle what.”
“Oh, and speak of the devil—“ Himeko slid out of the booth as the kids piled through the door, all with varying forms of mischief on their faces. “I think I'll let them finish the pep talk. See you later, Welt.”
“Wait. What pep—augh, Jesus Christ!” Two giant water guns—where the hell did they get those from?!—two stupidly powerful jets of water, and Welt tries to dodge only to get utterly and completely drenched. “Et tu, Dan Heng?”
“Himeko said you were, and I quote, “being the biggest dumbass of all time,”” Dan Heng deadpans.
“Of all time,” Stelle cackles beside him, her face twisted in a feral grin. “Get him!”
Oh, he is not going down like this. Welt makes a mad dash for the door, only to scramble backwards, skid on a puddle and fall as March blocks his escape route. She aims her water gun directly in his face. “Sorry, Mr. Yang, but you know the rules!”
Surrounded on all sides by the chaos gremlins he calls family, Welt can only laugh to himself as he succumbs to his soggy fate.
Another figure sidles up to him, after, as he watches Stelle and March high-five over their successful ambush. “Need a hand?” Sunday laughs, his wings fluttering in amusement along his cheeks.
There's no mistaking the affection in those golden eyes.
Welt draws in a deep breath and makes himself let go of all of it—the worry, the self-deprecation, the fear—before taking it and letting him help him up. Even through the gloves, his hand slots perfectly into his palm, small where his is large, delicate where his is not. “You're not going to spray me too, are you?”
“I thought about joining them,” Sunday says, his grin turning cheeky. Behind them, March gathers the others up for a celebratory selfie. “But I decided to show a little mercy. Hopefully you've learned your lesson this time.”
Welt hesitates, then traces the edge of Sunday's headwing with his fingers down to the base before tucking a lock of silver hair behind his ear. How beautifully human it is, indeed, to love—and how achingly sweet it is, after so many years, to finally let himself fall. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “I think this time I finally have.”