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Against the distant cacophony of blaring sirens and gunshots, the almost inaudible jazz music buzzing from the old fashioned radio on the corner of Kafka’s crowded desk seems wildly out of place. Though not quite as out of place as Kafka’s only somewhat reluctant visitor. Blade’s ever grim expression and tattered bandages stand out against the vivid pinks and purples in Kafka’s dark room.
Illuminated by the bright lights around the vanity in front of her, Kafka finishes dabbing on a splattering of bright, red lipstick before peering into the mirror. Her gaze, mischievous and dripping with ill-intent, lingers on Blade’s distorted reflection.
“We’ll be departing for our mission shortly.” By ‘ we’ she means herself, Silver Wolf, and Firefly. “Are you feeling nervous? Has the reality of being left alone with our little birdie for a whole month started to settle in yet? I do hope you’ll be able to make the most of your time with him while we’re away.” Her eyes remain pinned on him, even as she begins to pull her silky hair into a high bun.
Blade doesn’t humor her with a response, he doesn’t even glance in her general direction. From where he’s standing, leaning against the wall beside the door, he looks like a statue–one that is, perhaps, all too eager to roll itself out of the room.
Kafka’s smile widens as a breathy chuckle glides over her mouth. That deep red lipstick she had just stained her glossy lips with reminds Blade far too much of blood.
“You know, Bladie,” Kafka drawls as she turns in her chair to look at him. If they weren’t both gay, the sultry tone of her voice could have been mistaken as flirtatious. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I think that little angel of yours has been feeling lonely as of late.”
Blade makes the incredibly foolish mistake of meeting her devilish gaze.
“Did you know that doves are social creatures by nature? They require adequate attention and affection in order to thrive. Don’t you agree?” With a soft pop of her lips, Kafka finishes tying up her hair–not a single strand out of place.
The tempo of the radio seems to increase in urgency with every passing second–growing louder and louder, though it still pales in comparison to the chaos still unfolding outside.
That chaotic beat is not unlike the complex feelings whirling within Blade’s hollow chest–ones he doesn’t speak into existence nor put on display, yet she still reads him like an open book.
“You should consider giving him more attention–perhaps even a pet name or two? I think he would be rather fond of that. You could try dove, angel, birdie, even sunny–there’s so many to choose from.”
Blade stares at her incredulously. Whether that’s because he finds her suggestion nonsensical or because she had just called his lover multiple pet names in the span of a five-minute conversation can’t be ascertained based on his expression.
“Don’t give me that look.” Despite her words, Kafka’s smile widens deviously. She has that sparkle in her eyes that she always seems to get when she’s up to no good.
Blade’s aware, though he suspects her intentions are far from harmless, that she’s not entirely wrong either. Well, about the possibility of Sunday being lonely without the three of them that is.
Their base is never loud–but it’s also never entirely silent either. Silver Wolf’s games can often be heard from the hallways, Kafka’s music fills the void in the dead of night, and the sound of Firefly flipping through the pages of hefty romance novels occupies their downtime during the day. Without them, this ship will be quiet and peaceful–likely filled only with the sound of Sunday’s fingers gliding across the keys of an old piano or the sound of the holavian mumbling as he takes it upon himself to clean the base from floor to ceiling. But, perhaps, Sunday will be lonely.
“It’s a shame, truly, my poor little dove seems doomed to a life of yearning. At this rate his weeping heart might very well close–”
“Fine.” Blade promptly cuts her off and turns to leave without another word.
Kafka smiles unkindly as the door swings shut behind him. When she returns, she’ll have to inform Sunday that he owes her a favor.
It’s five a.m. and Sunday’s only companion is the rickety kettle slowly coming to a boil on the equally dilapidated stovetop in front of him. All of the rocking and rattling echoing through the cluttered kitchenette makes the weight of Kafka, Firefly, and Silver Wolf's absence feel just a bit less heavy.
When Sunday had first joined the Stelleron Hunters, he never believed he would adjust to their way of life or that he would even become acquainted with them. A more romantic person would claim his acceptance into the group was fate–that it had been his destiny to walk beside them all along. To Sunday; however, entering their world had been a means to an end. The first step in reshaping his shattered dream and finding a way to glue the remaining pieces of that dream back together again.
At times, their methods have left a bitter taste in his mouth and made him question if the decision he had made was a mistake. Those moments, these days, are now few and far between. Over the six months since his arrival, he’s come to enjoy their company.
It’s only been a day, and he’s discovering just how used to their presence he actually is.
He misses the constant buzz of Silver Wolf’s phone–of her fingers mashing the buttons on a controller he’s not overly familiar with as a wicked grin stretches across her youthful face. He even misses the obnoxious pop of her bubblegum despite constantly telling her blowing bubbles is bad manners.
He misses chiding Kafka on her way back from a ‘shopping’ trip to take off her shoes before she enters the base. He misses her invasive questions and the sound of pages wrinkling as she thumbs through a new book–lipstick staining the corners because she has a bad habit of wetting her fingers to peel apart pages that occasionally stick together.
He misses Firefly’s help in the kitchen–even if she often did more harm than good. He misses her thoughtful yet melancholic smiles as she gazes out of the window at the stars spanning across an endless universe. At times he would join her, bringing her a cup of warm tea and a blanket, to have a late night conversation about anything at all.
Alternatively, maybe the reason he’s so desperate for their companionship right now is because he’s still trying to grapple with the fact that he’ll be alone with Blade for an entire month. Not that he hasn’t been on duo missions with Blade nor is this the first time that only the two of them were in the base–but those moments were short. A day or three at most. Until now.
The aged kettle is crackling and wailing, but Sunday is too lost in his own thoughts to notice.
He’s not nervous, though the sheer number of times he’s repeated that phrase in his head over the past 24 hours makes it less and less believable.
His relationship with Blade has been complicated since the day the other had come to break him out of prison. At first, Blade had avoided his attempts to repay him for the favor–though eventually he lacked the energy to deny Sunday and simply gave in, allowing him to clean his room, tend to his wounds that would heal without any interference, and wash his hair.
Truthfully, Sunday doesn’t remember when they had gone from coworkers to lovers–if they could even be considered the latter. Sunday’s feelings are as clear and vivid as the first rays of sunlight finally beginning to pour in through the massive window off to his right. Blade’s are more muted–he doesn’t know how to love. Perhaps, he isn’t even capable of it anymore–though Sunday strongly believes otherwise. If he weren’t, Blade wouldn’t be so considerate of him.
Sunday’s gaze inadvertently flickers downwards to the pair of mugs set out on the false marble countertop in front of him. He picks up the one with a broken handle and a chip on the left side, from where Blade had dropped it last week. His worn hands were particularly rigid and unsteady that day. Tracing the pad of his thumb along the jagged cracks, Sunday’s reminded of how Blade’s skin feels against his own.
Next time he’s out, Sunday thinks; he’ll buy a replacement mug for Blade–perhaps even one that comes with a soft cover.
“Sunday… dove.”
A deep voice rumbles directly beside Sunday’s ear as he feels the light pressure of a worn down hand upon his shoulder.
Sunday startles.
In a moment of pure terror, he promptly drops (more like throws) Blade’s mug on the floor. With a loud thunk, it smashes against the off-white tile and shatters into dozens of pieces around his feet. The lasting echo of the cranage doesn’t do wonders for his heart that’s already shot up to his throat in surprise.
Despite Blade’s painfully earnest attempt to follow Kafka’s advice, Sunday doesn’t actually register the words that had come out of Blade’s mouth. Too caught off guard to even take note of the fact that Blade had also mercifully removed the dying kettle from the stove before reaching out to get his attention.
Blade’s always been naturally quiet, but Sunday is also usually far more aware of his surroundings.
He’s not nervous to be alone with Blade for a month. He’s absolutely not.
“Blade.” Sunday tries his best not to choke or stumble on the other’s name, though he fails spectacularly, becoming flustered the second he turns his head in order to look at Blade.
For some reason, Blade seems to be watching him more intently than usual which, quite frankly, Sunday didn’t even know was actually possible.
Blade’s never been good with words or affection, but he’s devoted in his own way. He always lingers close by, and is always watching him. It had unsettled Sunday at first–he’s not unused to being under constant supervision, though Blade’s intentions are far different than that of the Family’s. Blade watches him because he wants to protect him–because he only truly knows how to love by fighting and killing. So, he guards Sunday as if he is under constant threat at every single moment of every single day. Though, that might not be that far off the mark. Sunday’s, admittedly, made more than his fair share of enemies.
“I apologize, I didn’t hear you approach.” Sunday casually pats Blade’s swollen knuckles to coax the other to remove his hand. “I’ll replace your mug as soon as possible. In the meantime, you’re welcome to use mine.”
Trying not to think about the implications of that offer, Sunday quickly kneels down to begin carefully plucking some of the larger pieces of the extremely unfortunate mug off of the ground.
Blade couldn’t care less about the mug. It had already been broken to begin with.
“Don’t dirty your hands, I’ll clean it.”
Before Sunday even manages to grab a single piece, Blade kneels down behind him and carefully takes his hands within his own to stop him.
Sunday sighs softly. Evidently protecting him from harm also means preventing him from cleaning up anything sharp.
“Very well, but try to be careful.”
With little choice but to give into to Blade’s whims, Sunday briefly excuses himself in order to fish out the broom and dustpan from the small closest on the other side of the kitchenette–frowning slightly at the mess that’s been made of it despite the fact that he had just organized it from top to bottom three days ago.
Trying not to mull over it too much, Sunday returns to Blade’s side–the frown tugging at the corners of his delicate lips only deepening the moment he looks at the other.
Blade’s hands are stiff and trembling as he struggles to pick up even the largest pieces of the shattered mug. In the mere moment Sunday had been gone, a collection of cuts had already formed upon Blade’s fingers.
There’s little difference between Blade’s old scars and the fresh wounds that will soon join them in painting a gruesome image of the other’s life upon his broken body. But, even as they heal, Sunday knows which ones are new and which ones have existed since long before he ever met the man. He had counted them once–about a month ago, and committed every last one to memory. He could draw a map of them as if they were constellations illuminating the night sky.
Sunday knows all of them because, in his mind, someone should know, and Blade most certainly doesn’t. He can’t describe how most of the fissures etched into his flesh came to be–he doesn’t know how many he has or how long most of them have been there. So, Sunday will remember for him.
“Blade,” Sunday calls out softly. “Let me use the broom instead.”
Blade complies–as he so often does when it comes to Sunday–and rises back up to move out of the way.
It only takes a minute for Sunday to sweep up the fragments and toss them into the trash. He should have simply done this earlier, but Blade had startled him so badly the thought hadn’t crossed his mind.
Leaning the broom and dustpan against the counter and pointedly ignoring the coffee that’s been sitting on the stovetop this entire time, Sunday turns back to face Blade. The slight frown on Blade’s harsh features isn’t lost on him. Another might have a difficult time reading Blade–he’s not an expressive person in any capacity, but Sunday’s gotten used to his mannerisms these past few months. So, he can tell something is bothering the other.
Reaching out to hold Blade’s hands, Sunday waits for his gaze to flicker up to him before speaking.
“Come, let me look at your hands.” He guides Blade across the tile of the kitchenette and over the wooden floorboards of the common room of the airship to the old couch shoved beneath a massive window gazing out over the glittering skies and numerous rooftops. Sitting down upon the gray cushions, Sunday gently pulls Blade down onto them.
Wordlessly, Sunday turns Blade’s hands over in his own–studying them from seemingly every possible angle. The cuts from the mug had been shallow at best, and have already begun to stitch themselves back together in uneven and jagged lines that look at home alongside all of the others.
Carefully, painfully so, Sunday begins to softly massage Blade’s rigid fingers. Taking on each one slowly and methodically even as their joints seem to violently resist the meager amount of pressure he’s using on them.
Sunday’s ministrations offer little relief, but Blade’s never once been under the misguided assumption that they were intended to. However, despite that, he always craves Sunday’s touch. Unlike his own, Sunday’s fingers are soft. They trace over his skin featherlight, their warmth effortlessly seeping into the chilled spaces between his bones. Sunday’s palms, nestled beneath his own, are unblemished and smooth against his tattered skin. Their flawlessness makes them appear ethereal to him.
Feeling Blade’s fixated gaze on him. Sunday’s eyes lift to meet him. Beneath the curtain of the halovian’s delicate eyelashes, wispy bangs, and glittering feathers, Sunday’s golden eyes are dazzling. There’s so much life and compassion contained within them that, at times, it unnerves Blade and makes him wonder if he even has the right to look into them.
In contrast, Blade’s eyes are devoid of everything. In the centuries he’s been alive, there hasn’t been a spark in them in nearly a millennia. Even now, when he’s little more than a wilted flower desperately pursuing the sun’s gentle light, there’s nothing.
Death is always with him, and he yearns for it more than he could ever possibly yearn for any heart–even Sunday’s.
Sunday; however, is infinitely patient and soft with him–things that Blade doesn’t deserve.
Though the silence between them is largely comfortable, Sunday finally decides to break it. “If there’s something on your mind, speak. I will always listen.”
“Are you lonely?” Blade’s response comes sharp and sudden.
Sunday blinks. The wings on his head lift up slightly in surprise–his silky feathers flaring outwards. For a brief moment, as the question takes its time settling in, he stops rubbing Blade’s hands. When he feels Blade’s knuckles tense; however, he quickly resumes his caresses.
To Sunday, it seems strange that such a thought would even cross the swordsman’s mind.
“Do you believe I am unhappy with your company?” Sunday returns.
“I don’t know.” Blade’s gaze lowers to linger on Sunday’s immaculate hands. “There are better men whose company you could keep instead.”
There are countless stargazers in this limitless universe who would, no doubt, be far better suited for Sunday than someone forged of blood and iron. With unruined and kind hands, they could treat the other gently. They could brush his hair without stray strands catching on lumpy scars or bristles bending because the hands holding them are clutching on too tightly. They would preen his wings without accidentally damaging the beautiful feathers that compose them. They could help him cook without arms that tremble near constantly preventing them from slicing through meat and fruit evenly. Perhaps they could even dust the hard to reach places that Sunday struggles to get to without knocking over books or scratching polished wood.
Those strangers–with blurry faces, generous smiles, and pleasant voices–could surely promise Sunday a future and life Blade most certainly can’t.
Yet, Blade, who can barely even run his fingers along the ridges of Sunday’s knuckles, despises the idea.
“But I can’t let you go,” Blade admits.
Sunday stops massaging Blade’s hands and promptly lets go of them. The sudden absence of the other’s touch makes Blade lean towards him. Sunday’s feathers, still shimmering in the freckles of sunlight cascading in through the window, are tense and thick while his expression struggles to remain neutral.
“That is far from what I meant.” Sunday sounds like he’s scolding Blade. But this isn’t the first time Blade has expressed guilt regarding their relationship. He feels as if he’s placing Sunday in a cage–preventing him from freely travisering the skies as he was intended to.
Though Sunday has never felt anything of the sort, he understands Blade’s train of thought. It’s quite a straightforward way of thinking.
Blade is a dead man. That's an unavoidable and perpetual fact. If the Stellaron Hunters are successful, Blade will not live to see it. If they fail, the last vestiges of Blade’s sanity will surely snap and he’ll die in an unimaginably worse way.
The time they have together is limited–every single day brings them closer and closer to inevitable and eternal separation.
However; if such a fate bothered Sunday, he would have never opened his heart to Blade and accepted him into his arms the night everything began.
Realizing his rebuttal had been harsher than intended. Sunday softens. “There is no other company I would rather keep.”
Blade’s brows furrow.
He’s stubborn in the worst ways.
All Sunday can do is sigh, and move closer to him on the couch–a hand coming to rest on Blade’s thigh, squeezing it slightly. It’s made of solid muscle and scar tissue and it barely twitches within Sunday’s weak grip.
“Blade, for as long as we have, you are the one I wish to be with.”
Blade worries more than he lets on. Sunday believes the other spends nearly every single second of every single day fretting about his safety. But Blade’s concerns are usually about just that–his safety. Oftentimes, the other’s mind is hazy and distorted–his grasp on his own emotions varies from a beartrap to a strainer.
In other words, Sunday doubts that Blade had come to the conclusion he might be lonely entirely on his own.
And he already has a suspect in mind.
“Did Kafka imply to you that I was lonely?”
Somehow, the look on Blade’s face says it all. In this moment, he far more closely resembles a wanted criminal caught in the act than he ever has while committing an actual crime.
“I’m not lonely,” Sunday reassures, hopefully banishing the thought. He suspects Kafka must have been toying with Blade… either that or she had believed she was doing him a favor. “Nor have I ever once felt lonely while being with you.”
Sunday leaves no room to argue, not that Blade ever would. He’s always been pliant for Sunday.
Instead, Blade reaches out to run his thick and swollen fingers through Sunday’s velvety wings, and awkwardly cups his jaw within a hand that can barely bend properly.
Sunday’s skin is warm. He can feel the other’s soft breaths against his palm.
“So you are not,” Blade repeats, then seems to hesitate for a long moment. Lost in thought and battling with the advice Kafka had given him until he eventually decides to commit. “Your company–I desire it, my dove.”
Sunday’s expression remains eerily neutral for a long, silent moment before Blade’s words hit him like a speeding train. He would know, he’s been hit by one before… several times.
His bright, gleaming eyes widen and his wings almost manage to shoot straight up into the air–scattering a few strands of his ever pristine hair in multiple directions. A faint dusting of pink colors his face, and Sunday can feel its heat, but he can’t decide if he’s more mortified by the fact that he’s blushing over how ludicrous the term is or by the fact that Blade had used a pet name at all.
Does Blade even know what a pet name is?
“W-What did you just call me?” Sunday’s not proud of the way his voice stammers as he tries to speak. This situation should be far too ridiculous to make his heart skip a beat–yet, here he is, his heart stumbling and throbbing and the air knocked straight out of his lungs.
Deadpan and earnest, Blade responds, “My dove.”
Then Blade pauses for a moment in thought, brows pulling together before he adds: “Would you prefer angel… or birdie instead?” He’ll take the suggestion of sunny to his grave.
Actually, this is worse than being hit by a train–the word birdie leaving Blade’s mouth is such a stark contrast to the way he normally speaks that it shocks the aforementioned ‘dove’ down to his very core.
Sunday thinks he feels dizzy.
In the entirety of their relationship, Blade has never once called him by anything other than his name. Quite frankly, Sunday had always assumed terms of endearment were simply nonexistent in Blade’s mind and he had been perfectly content with that. Somehow, in Sunday’s twisted logic, Blade saying anything romantic or cutesy feels sacrilegious.
“Are they all unsatisfactory?”
Blade’s far more dedicated to this cause than Sunday would argue the other has any rhyme or reason to be. Why is he so convinced that he has to use a pet name for him in the first place? Secondly, where did he even get the idea–
Kafka. Again.
She’s trying to kill him. She’s actually trying to kill him.
But Blade is staring at him so faithfully–so sincerely–that Sunday can’t help but cave. In the end, he knows Blade is trying to make him happy, even if he had been given misguided advice for how to do so.
“No… d-dove is fine.” Sunday’s face is burning, but he can’t bring himself to chastise Blade for what is clearly an earnest and honest attempt to show him affection. Still, couldn’t Kafka have suggested something a bit less embarrassing?
Blade’s frown deepens as he asks. “Your face is warm. Are you feeling unwell, dove?”
He wasn’t, but now Sunday thinks he might very well be.
Sunday mentally decides to take a stand and lecture Kafka when she returns. Not that he believes she’ll listen for a second, but, perhaps, it will restore just a shred of the dignity he’s been entirely stripped of over the course of this single conversation.
Maybe, if he’s lucky, Blade will grow tired of it and return to using his name. But Sunday's hope for such a thing is rather low. Blade doesn’t often show it, but he is severely devoted to Sunday, and, if he’s been convinced this is something he enjoys, well, Sunday will be stuck with it for life.
It’s endearing,
Unfortunately.
Kafka is truly devious and cunning. Sunday can’t tell if she’s trying to help him or make him miserable.
“Of course it is,” Sunday mumbles. He leans into Blade, resting his forehead against the other’s shoulder. It’s broad and muscular and sturdy. By all definitions, it should be uncomfortable, but Sunday has always found solace in Blade’s clumsy touch and powerful arms.
“But I’m fine.”
Blade is stiff and unmoving, unwilling to disturb Sunday in the slightest. Even though he had returned Sunday’s touch a moment ago, it’s evident that Blade is still unused to physical affection. This husk can’t recall, anymore, when the last time he had touched or been touched by another prior to Sunday’s arrival in his life.
But Sunday’s willingness to touch him–to love him gently, remains a strange thing to Blade. While Sunday is far from innocent–he’s here, with them now, for a reason, Blade struggles to justify their closeness. It often feels as if someone like Sunday shouldn’t be touching someone like him. Like he might somehow defile the other, but Sunday has never hesitated to bridge the gap between them. Even from the very moment they had first crossed paths with Blade broken and bleeding, Sunday had reached out to him without hesitation.
Sunday tilts his head towards Blade’s neck, studying the steady rise and fall of the other’s chest. Digging his arms out from where they’re lodged between their bodies, he lifts Blade’s hand away from his face in order to hold it in his own–lackadaisy rubbing the other’s knuckles as he recounts the number of scars on Blade’s hands and replaces the former number stored away in his head with the new one. This was, after all, the reason Sunday had brought Blade over to the couch with him.
“31.”
Blade makes a small sound of acknowledgement as he watches Sunday–his expression softer than his typical scowl.
“You have 31 scars on your right hand. Three of them are from the mug just now.” Grasping Blade’s hand tightly, Sunday pulls it towards him and softly kisses Blade’s knuckles one by one. “Please exercise more caution–for my sake, if you will not for your own. I take no pleasure in seeing you hurt.”
Sunday knows he’s asking the impossible. Blade’s body has been indestructible for centuries now, and it’s taught him how to fight recklessly. He has no regard for his own life or body–he willingly and freely takes blows or injures himself in order to accomplish his goals. Such habits have been ingrained into his very bones and will never be stripped from their marrow. But even the promise of considering it is enough for Sunday.
Blade pulls their joined hands towards himself, mimicking Sunday’s gesture by placing a kiss to the back of the other’s hand.
“I will try–for you, dove.”
Sunday sits up, lifting his head off of Blade’s shoulder–his smooth lips pulling into a slight smile. “Will you accompany me to pick out a new mug? And… a new coat for Kafka.”
He supposes he owes her at least that much for her… assistance .
Blade’s relatively lifeless stare speaks volumes–and Sunday doesn’t want to think about how many.
“Don’t think about it too much,” Sunday quickly adds.
“I will accompany you no matter where you go.”
That’s more or less always been true–Sunday can only scarcely defend himself with his abilities and he’s never been inclined to violence, so Blade always goes with him everywhere to keep him safe.
“However; stay here with me for a while longer,” Blade says quieter as he wraps an arm around Sunday’s body, pulling him closer.
Sunday’s expression softens and he drops his head back down against Blade’s shoulder. It’s rare for Blade to ask anything of him–truthfully, this might actually be the first time he ever has. Sunday can’t help but feel overjoyed by it.
Blade claims himself a husk. A weapon to be pointed at those who oppose them, and, while the humanity he still harbors is shaky at times, Sunday knows there’s a person buried beneath all of those burns and scars. One that he loves dearly, and one that loves him dearly, clumsily, in return.
“Of course, Blade. I will stay; for however long you desire, I will always stay.”
These quiet and intimate moments between them are often few and far between, and Sunday will always hold them within the safety of his heart, and engrave Blade’s every touch into his very soul.
If Sunday doesn’t, who will remember that there’s softness buried deep within Blade’s rough and twisted heart? If he doesn’t, who else will remember Blade, not as a weapon or a criminal or a sinner, but as a human being with desires of his own? If not him, who will be there to take the last tally of scars on the body of a man long since dead when the day finally comes for that heart he cherishes to cease beating once and for all?