Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Oh Bladie. Did I leave you alone for too long?”

Blade looks up at the woman standing in front of him. He can't remember clearly how he got into this situation, the only thing he's sure of is how dizzy he had begun feeling.

As he looks down he notices a dull knife on his left hand. He's not even left handed. He probably ran out of space on his left forearm, that's why he decided to cut on his right earlier.

He must've cut through a vein. It squirts out blood following the rhythm of his heartbeat. Slow then fast. Erratic. Blade can't really tell how many new injuries he has. He can see the fat layer on some. His arm is too bloody to tell much more.

At least this time he had the decency to put a towel on his lap before his episode started. He can't really tell what color it's supposed to be because of the red mess he's made of it, but an attempt was made.

He drops the knife and sighs like a child who's been caught writing his name on the wall for the tenth time this week. Somewhere he can still hear classic music, Kafka must've left her record player on before going into the bathroom to meet him.

He considers stopping the bleeding then decides against it. Kafka can do it if it's too serious, he can't be bothered to treat his injuries right now.

“I'm not a dog.” He decides to answer her instead.

He's lying. He is basically a dog to her. One who Kafka has carefully trained, who will follow her every command.

He's also the kind of dog that will destroy her belongings if left unattended for too long. Of course in this case he also qualifies as a belonging.

Kafka is Blade's owner in every sense of the word. If she wants him to be a dog he'll bark, if she wants him to be a blade he'll hurt. It's been like that for so long he can barely remember how he was before meeting her.

Was he anyone at all? He remembers Kafka's sweet intoxicating voice, urging him to be hers from the first ever second of his memories. Sometimes he remembers other people, a woman of white hair or a man of emerald eyes. For the life of him, Blade can't remember any of their names.

He comes back to reality with a hiss as Kafka presses down on his arm. She hasn't taken her gloves off and she's using the dirty towel to stop the bleeding. Blade feels his entire arm grow numb from the pressure.

There's this thing with Kafka. Because she's so good at words people often forget she's strong too. Strong enough to cut the circulation on Blade's arm. Strong enough to cause him more wounds.

She's never caused him any serious injury, though. Of course compared to his self-mutilation it's hard to find anything really concerning. Her mistreatment feels like kisses. Soft, intimate. The burn mark of a cigarette on his shoulder. A scratch on his face as she checks how sharp her nails are after filing them. A bite on his lower lip when she wants attention.

Kafka could stab him if she wanted to. Blade wouldn't stop her. Yet instead of enabling his sick tendencies she plays with him and treats his wounds.

“You're bleeding a lot, should we get a doctor?”

She always gives him the option even if she knows what his answer will be. Kafka's smile doesn't falter as she sees Blade shake his head. He never believes himself to be bad enough to need a doctor.

“I’ll just sleep it off.” That will at least get the dizziness away until he's stable enough to eat something and refill for everything he just lost.

Kafka shrugs, her pressure on his limb never faltering. She tells him about her day, about the next mission. Idle chat to keep him awake for long enough so she can bandage him up before he drags himself to his bed.

It takes a long time for the bleeding to stop. She dirties two more towels so she can get his arm clean enough to treat the cuts. She could use glue for most of them and call it a day but she decides to stitch him up. She hums to the music still playing outside of the bathroom, keeping quiet once the violin solo starts. Her left hand was holding his in place, but as soon as her instrument began playing she allowed herself to tap on his skin as if his veins and muscles were the strings of her violin.

Blade wonders where she would be now had she pursued the brightness of a stage instead of the darkness of crime. Kafka thrives on attention. She would’ve loved receiving all those bouquets and a standing applause after each concert.

Instead she got stuck in the shithole they call their HQ, bandaging the wounds of a not-truly-alive-not-yet-dead man who by lack of anything better to do decided to butcher his dominant hand.

Blade still doesn't remember why he did it this time. Or rather, why that arm in specific.

He is what his name says, a blade, a weapon for the Stellaron Hunters to use and exploit however they like. And as much as he isn't as skilled in combat as he used to be, he still needs his hand to punch or stab whoever gets in their way.

He scoffs. What a waste of her time. She could’ve done whatever she wanted, she could've gotten Elio or Silver Wolf to call for an actual professional and keep her hands clean from his self inflicted wounds. Now she’ll have to throw away a pair of perfect gloves.

But that wouldn't be like Kafka. She likes expensive but she also likes damaged. Blade has been in her room enough times to notice all the broken things in it. Her record player was old enough that she demanded Silver Wolf to fix it at least once a month. Kafka refused to get a new one, she likes taking care of her broken property.

Blade can see himself in that record player. Both are way past their prime, break themselves down for no true reason and wait for Kafka to return home and patch them up enough so they can be considered functional without being over the top.

Logically, Blade knows that's part of Kafka's manipulation tactics. It's less about ‘Bladie I need you’ and more of Blade not feeling human when she's not around. Her being the only one capable of getting him out of his psychotic episodes doesn't help at all.

“There we go, all fixed up.” Kafka's voice doesn't startle him as much as the loud slap on his shoulder to get his attention back on her. He stands up only to immediately rest his forehead atop Kafka's shoulder. He fee

ls it tremble as she chuckles. “Let's get you to bed now.”

Chapter Text

There’s a man standing in front of him. Blade's first instinct is to sit up, stab him on the neck with the knife he keeps under his pillow and check for more intruders around his bedroom.

He can't get himself to do anything more than blinking confusedly at the guy. Blade feels weak, his vision is still blurry, his stomach aches from hunger, he can't even open his mouth from how dry it is.

The stranger sighs. “Again, Blade?” His voice doesn't sound at all that unfamiliar. Blade closes his eyes again. If that man is there to kill him he won't be the one to stop him, not in his current physical or mental state at least.

There's a hand sneaking down his back, attempting to push him up. “Help me a little, won't you? If I give you water like this you'll choke.” He obeys absentmindedly. His head feels unstable on top of his neck and he starts dropping it to the side.

A hand holds it in place before he can fully fall from bed. Pillows that are definitely not his start piling up behind him so when he lays back he's more close to being sat. He opens his eyes again to meet golden ones.

Almost immediately he feels a straw against his lower lip. He barely parts his lips before sipping on it. Salty water. He almost immediately spits it back down. The man next to him gasps and steps back, then pushes the straw back against Blade's not so dry lips. “It will help you hydrate faster. I also got you tea and food, but you need water first.”

Blade can't argue his logic. But to be fair, the man could tell him the sky was green and Blade could still not argue. He sips back on the water until it's finished and waits for the man to push more nourishment into his mouth.

Instead, he begins unbandaging his right arm. “Doesn't look infected, but I'll get you something for the inflammation anyways.”

The dry blood on his skin gets washed off with a soft cloth before his bandages are changed into cleaner ones.

Once the man is done Blade grabs his wrist with all the strength he can manage. Considering the lack of reaction, it wasn't as intimidating as he wanted it to be.

“Sunday.” He growls at him.

“About time you noticed.” Sunday rolls his eyes. “Welcome back to the living world, Blade.”

Sunday had joined the Stellaron Hunters recently enough for Blade to forget his existence most of the time. He could barely remember his own name, yet he was expected to memorize everyone else's name?

He slumps back down, drops Sunday's wrist and closes his eyes once more. “Don't fall asleep. You still haven't eaten anything.”

Next thing he feels against his lips is warm. Not hot enough to burn, just enough to make him notice how cold his body was. He parts his lips open without much thought.

Sunday tilts the spoon as soon as he's able to get it into Blade's mouth. The soup feels nostalgic. Blade doesn't even try to remember this time. He lets Sunday pour sweet soup directly on top of his tongue.

“I found a Xianzhou style recipe, if the taste is not to your liking I can get you premade mashed potato Silver Wolf got. There's not many more options aside from that.”

Blade hums and opens his mouth. Sunday takes it as a sign to feed him once more.

He can taste snow pear and goji berries. Blade can't remember home, but he's sure it tasted like this years ago.

Kafka's way of healing him is punctual. If he gets injured she'll help, but she won't go out of her way to stop him from hurting himself. If he asked her where the bleach was so he could drink it she would first tell him where it is then deal with the poisoning later. It's pointless, but he gave up understanding Kafka long ago.

Sunday's way of caring is constant. Blade was never used to someone paying so much attention to him. It started with small actions, cooking a meal and serving everyone. In those cases, Blade was included with everyone else as the recipient of Sunday's care. Then it became more targeted.

Blade noticed Kafka never got the same treatment, neither did Silver Wolf. Sunday never entered their rooms without knocking, sat on their bed and fed them. That was treatment exclusive to Blade.

Maybe Firefly, but she was a different issue altogether. Everyone treated Firefly differently. She was loved and pampered in ways Blade could never imagine himself to be.

After his meal Sunday had decided to brush his hair. He was already parting it to braid once he spoke again.

“I used to do my sister's hair when we were younger.” There he goes again. Blade hums but isn't really interested in what comes out of Sunday's mouth. He's heard him rambling about his sister enough times to remember the girl's name.

“Doing yours is different. Your hair isn't as soft as hers, you won't hug me and thank me after I'm done.” A pin stabs him in the back of his head before it makes its proper war into the bun and holds it in place. Sunday mutters a low sorry. “When I did her hair it was for her. But you don't care whether you live or die, you don't care if your hair looks frizzy from tossing in your sleep.”

Blade raises his hand to feel the braid. How stupid.

“I'm doing this for me. You're just conventionally suicidal enough for me to be able to control without any consequences.”

Blade hums again and tilts his head to the side until Sunday catches him once more. “Stop doing that, you'll fall off.”

“You're not Kafka. You can't control me and make me do what you want.”

Sunday hesitates in his response. “It's not the same.”

Blade lets him get his ideas straight. He doesn't talk back or ask. He waits for him.

“It’ll sound stupid to you. But to me, it makes sense, it calms me. If I can control something as small as whether you eat or not, that means I have done something to help you get better.”

“And why do you care if I get better?”

Sunday hesitates again. Blade doesn't need to wait for his answer this time. Sunday is easier to understand than any of their other companions.

Sunday’s religious upbringing made him this way. That was no surprise for anyone amongst the Stellaron Hunters. He believed he could control it all and fix it all. If someone was miserable there was always something Sunday could do to make it better.

But that was in the past. He had no power like that anymore. He was stuck with a woman who held more control than him, a girl who couldn't care less about anything that didn't entertain her, a mentally and physically unstable maniac and a chronically ill girl who wouldn't get better no matter how much Sunday prayed. That without including a leader who gave cryptic instructions about their missions and whose face he's never seen.

Sunday had never been less in control in his life. If anyone wanted to see how that affected him they'd have to do no more than take a peek under his gloves or his turtle neck. Scratches and skin-picking turned Sunday's formerly pristine skin into red.

“Don't you ever have these kinds of thoughts too? In your case I’m guessing it would sound more like ‘if I cut deep enough I'll be able to pay for my sin’.” Blade nods. Most of the time he did it to feel again, other times he was paying for his past.

No matter how deep his injuries were or how close he got to death, Blade could never shake off the guilt inside his skin. It ate him alive. If what he did was so bad it made him like that he was glad he couldn't remember it.

A woman of white hair had tortured him so he wouldn't forget. She stabbed him enough times to give him his first glance at death, screamed at him enough that her voice was still the first thing he heard when he woke up, but her initial purpose wasn't successful.

“Do you even remember your sin, Blade? Is penitence really worth it if you can't remember the purgatory terrace you stand on?”

Blade looks back at Sunday. Was everything worthy? If there was a chance to clean his insides from that ‘unforgivable sin’ he’d take it. Sunday takes his silence as a sign to continue.

“I can't control whether you reach heaven or hell, but the least I can do is be sure it takes you more time to reach any of those.” Sunday’s head drops to the bed, right next to Blade's torso. He doesn't look at him.

“No matter what I can do I'm not able to fix anything here. Just humour me, let me believe I'm in control and my actions matter.”

Sunday isn't there to take care of Blade. He's there to take care of himself, using Blade's state to enable his own saviour complex. He walks into his room knowing someone suffers and even if he can't fix it he still has the excuse of “at least I tried”.

Blade doesn't tell Sunday his actions will never be enough to banish his inner demons.

Chapter Text

It's not usual for Blade to go out for something other than a mission. Most often than not, it's either Kafka of Silver Wolf who drag him out so they can use him to carry their things.

As usual, his only moment of tranquility is before Silver Wolf hits the arcade. She's been insisting for days how the new claw machine exclusive figurine is a need and that she should be excused from her missions so she can go get it before someone else wins it. Elio, of course, doesn't allow that so she has to wait an entire week before she can take Blade by the arm, grab his definitely not suspicious sunglasses, hat and facemask disguise and take him to the nearest shopping centre she can find, only to abandon him as soon as she sees the arcade.

Blade stays outside of the mall, at a reasonable distance from the arcade's door so he can still see and hear Silver Wolf. Without anything better to do he pulls out a cigarette pack.

He has been fighting against his trembling hand for some good ten minutes. When he checks back to his companion, Silver Wolf is carrying so many winning tickets the store manager's face is glowing white. Blade looks down at his cigarette again.

The filter has gone damp from staying in his mouth for so long. He clicks on the lighter again. The flame flickers and he inhales, but the tremor on his right hand makes him miss the cigarette entirely before his thumb gives up and his lighter slips back into the ground.

He hears a ‘tsk’ behind him. Silver Wolf does not only carry her desired figurine on a bag, she has a snake shaped plushie around her shoulders and is grabbing another one that looks like a small human with a clock for a head by its arm.

“Just give me that.”

She exchanges all of her winning prizes for Blade's damp cigarette then picks up the lighter from the ground. She makes a disgusted face as she puts his cigarette into her mouth and inhales as soon as she lights it up. She exhales like it's nothing and puts the cigarette back into his mouth. With his hands busy he can't take it off when he exhales.

“Finish that quickly, I’m going back inside to get more stuff.” Silver Wolf pops a gum into her mouth and leaves him there again.

The favors he got from her were scarce but thoughtful. Usually, they came as a gift and only after he'd done her a favor before.

“Just take this, it was on sale.”

“Kafka said you wanted this. Tell her to pay me back later.”

“I don't like this, finish it for me.”

Lighting his cigarettes, helping him put his kinesiology tape on, having him eat the vegetables of her meal (he's not sure if that's for his benefit, but none of them usually have a high vegetable intake) are all things she keeps doing for him for no reason.

It’s similar to how Sunday started taking care of him. However, Silver Wolf doesn't ever try pushing his boundaries, she found something that worked once and kept doing it.

That alone is very Silver Wolf-like. If it works, why bother fixing it or making it better? If Blade were one of her game character's she'd be up for days on a row farming the perfect set for him, but he's not. He's her work colleague at most and she'll treat him as such.

If anyone asked him, Blade would say Silver Wolf wasn't nice to him at all. She treated him like an idiot as she did with everyone else.

Blade can't say he hates the sense of normality he gets from being treated like anyone else. He can deal with being seen as either a puppy or a fellow sinner by their other companions, but Silver Wolf puts them all in the same bag as idiots and calls it a day.

Maybe that's what makes Blade comfortable around Silver Wolf. He's not a singular entity she uses for her own benefit. He belongs with the others.

It's been so long since he belonged.

No, that's not it. The more he thinks about it the more he realises how deep his relationship with Silver Wolf actually is.

Sunday won't let him harm himself, Kafka will give him aftercare when he does. Silver Wolf isn't part of that process. She's there even when Blade isn’t unstable enough to need the other’s attention.

Because Silver Wolf doesn't care he's got a past. Hell, she doesn't even care about his present. To her, Blade is just Blade. The guy she can use as a personal bodyguard or a human carrier whenever she wants. Who'll eat her vegetables and spoil her rotten for no reason other than his lack of ability to say “no”.

Blade enjoys the numbing effect of being a weapon, but lately he's liking being Blade as well.

He wonders if Silver Wolf knows she's singlehandedly maintaining Blade's humanity by herself.

There was a time where others called him by his name and hung out together like this. Highschool, maybe. Skipping class and going to the arcade, groaning in desperation when after five attempts the plush inside the claw machine wouldn't fall off.

No one in particular resembled Silver Wolf at all, but she brought him the same kind of peace those memories did. Bittersweet nostalgia for the most part. A slight sense of accomplishment and pride when he saw her get all the prizes she wanted too.

Blade accompanies Silver Wolf to a cafe once she gets tired of winning. He almost felt sorry for the store manager who had to see her entire store being emptied like that on a random Thursday afternoon.

Once they sit down she doesn't wait a second to ask about everything she sees on the menu, eats as much as she can before she pushes the plates towards Blade. While he finishes all the pancakes and doughnuts and shortcakes he wonders if he should get Kafka to send Silver Wolf to the dentist. He can feel a toothache coming from this single meal she's given him.

By the time he’s slurping the last of her milkshake she's back with a box. He can see Firefly's favourite roll cake inside. They haven't spoken about Firefly all day. In fact, usually none of them spoke about her unless she was in the room to listen. Getting her a cake was usually Silver Wolf's way to apologize to her for not being able to bring her along in her antics.

Silver Wolf doesn't say anything to him, just tilts her head towards the exit and Blade follows her. She hands him a kerosene lighter he could swear she didn't have earlier.

For once, Blade is the first to speak. “Have you visited her lately?” He hands his cigarette over to Silver Wolf and watches as she takes a quick drag at it.

“She doesn't want me to. Doesn't even let Kafka in her room these days.” Silver Wolf lets a few moments pass, taking a slower drag before she follows. “She’ll probably let you in, though. Wanna give this to her?”

Silver Wolf lifts the box as Blade takes the cigarette back. He shrugs. Maybe he could visit her, it will make everyone's lives easier if he does.

“I'll see if Sunday wants to

come see her too.”

“You two are getting really close lately, huh?”

Chapter Text

As strong as Blade is, spending hours or days at a time on low sleep and high movement, more often than not getting involved in fights as well, takes a toll on his body.

It hurts.

His joints feel like they're popping out of place, his muscles ache as if he had just run a whole marathon, and his head feels so heavy it might fall off his neck.

He enjoys long missions, the way he has to focus on the fights and survival and has no time for distractions, but he will never get used to the aftermath.

Kafka calls it a “flare-up”, letting him sleep on her bed during those times. It's more comfortable, and she pampers him whenever she feels like it.

She’ll wash his face and massage his wrists before bed, leave the radio on when she leaves, so he doesn't feel so lonely.

Sunday will knock before entering, bringing him a home-cooked meal and water. Blade can hear his muttered prayers, wishing for him to get better when he thinks Blade's asleep.

Silver Wolf will be lying down next to him every so often. Gaming console in her hands, he'll wake up constantly to her loud complaints about how the game was rigged and she shouldn't be in second place.

Firefly visits, too, sometimes. She has someone carry her IV pole behind her so she can push her walker and walk in by herself. It's not usual that she gets out of her room; Blade appreciates the effort.

But even if all the Stellaron Hunters came to visit and comfort him (in their own ways) whenever they could, night would always come and he'd end up alone again.

Kafka avoids going out during the first days of his flare-up, being there for Blade when he's at his worst. God knows how many times she's been there to hold his hair back as he vomits from the stabbing pain coming from his nape. She is, however, still one of the best members of their messed-up organisation, and as such, she has to go back on missions as soon as she can.

“You can stay in my room while I'm gone, Bladie.” She always kisses his cheek before leaving. “Yours is too empty to be comfortable.”

No one really checks on him when she's gone. Correction, no one used to check on him until that angelic bastard appeared, with his bowls of nourishing soup and scheduled meds.

On a good day, Blade wouldn't mind having Sunday preach to him about how “everything will pass” and “he deserved to be taken care of”, but when he's miserable enough from the pain, he doesn't need to be miserable mentally too. He kicks him out of the room every time.

Silver Wolf and Firefly have a joint mission, which means they have cooped themselves in Firefly's room with their computers, doing whatever hackers and internet stowaways do. Blade convinces himself he doesn't miss their company, especially Firefly's understanding of his situation.

He hates to admit it, but he actually feels lonely.

Blade sighs when he realises, and looks up at the window. There's a cat staring directly at him, his fur is short and black, and his eyes glow green when he notices Blade's gaze. The cat jumps down directly on top of Blade's chest, and he feels his ribs crack under the animal.

The cat curls up into Blade's chest and purrs. He can feel his chest vibrate underneath the animal; it's soothing.

“You're back.”

Blade lifts his hand, careful not to spook the cat and pets his head. The cat answers him with a quiet meow. The cat doesn't move even after Blade's hand suddenly spasms and almost hits him.

“Not the brightest one around, are you? I could hurt you. Accidentally, but it's not like you'd know the difference.”

The cat stares at him blankly. Blade doesn't know why he's speaking to him either. It just feels right for some reason.

The first time he appeared, weeks ago, he obviously told Kafka immediately, pulling his phone out and calling her, asking if he should deal with it as if it were a rat.

Kafka laughed it off and told him to befriend the cat. “Maybe he feels lonely like you do”, she said.

So Blade had been doing that ever since. He's not good at making friends, sue him, but he is still trying to get the cat to like him.

“You also never go to my room. You only visit me when I'm here and alone.” He begins scratching the cat's chin, and the cat purrs more loudly. “Don't give me that face. You look stupid.”

He keeps patting and scratching the small creature until his hand cramps again. Apparently, the cat listened Blade’s advice from earlier because this time he hisses and jumped down.

“I didn't mean that.” Blade apologises, then grumbles because why is he apologising to a cat.

“It's hard to be gentle. I can barely feel my hands on a good day; I can't control if I hurt you or not.” While he explains, the cat jumps back onto the bed, getting himself comfortable next to Blade's face. Blade can smell fish when the cat yawns.

“Are you stupid? I keep telling you I can hurt you. Why are you coming back?” The cat rubs his little cheeks against Blade's nose. “You really are a dumb cat.”

Blade pets him again. The next time his hand twitches, the cat doesn't move. He opens one of his eyes as if asking him to keep spoiling him. Blade does so.

The purring from the cat becomes a much more pleasant noise than Kafka's music. Blade has slept for longer than usual lately, but his rest was minimal at best.

His mind feels clearer now. His thoughts aren't as blurry as they usually were; if he tried, he could almost remember.

The cat yawns against Blade's face once more, just as he begins to fall asleep. The disgusting smell of raw fish takes him back. At that time, it was a different cat; she was white with thick and long fur. Her butchered haircut made her look like a lion.

Blade was holding the white cat before his face so he could see her eyes better. What a beautiful shade of blue.

“Are you bothering Mimi again, Yingxin?”