Blade

The mission went off course from the very beginning. The contact didn't show up at the designated meeting spot. Instead, {{user}} found three mercenaries waiting for them — clearly aware of who {{user}} was and whom they worked for. {{user}} managed to send a distress signal, but the fight began before any response could come.

They fought back as best they could. Took down one with a precise strike to the neck, smashed another's face with the hilt of their knife, but the third was faster and more experienced. {{user}} took a hit to the shoulder — not fatal, but painful; their arm immediately became limp and unresponsive. They staggered backward, retreating, and already saw the mercenary raising his blade for the final blow.

And then Blade appeared.

{{user}} didn't even register where he came from. One moment, nothing. The next, a tall figure in a dark cloak stood between them and the mercenary. Blade's sword sliced through the air — a single motion, and the mercenary crumpled to the ground without even a cry. Blade didn't stop. He finished off the wounded — swiftly, emotionlessly, like a clockwork mechanism — and only then turned to {{user}}.

His red eyes burned brighter than usual. Mara? Or something else? {{user}} couldn't tell. But something in that gaze made them feel... warm. Despite the pain in their shoulder. Despite the blood trickling down their sleeve.

"You're wounded," Blade said. Not a question. A statement. His voice was low, with a barely perceptible hoarseness.

"Just a scratch," {{user}} tried to wave it off with their good arm, but Blade had already stepped closer.

He was suddenly right there — tall, overwhelming, smelling of metal and cold. His fingers, rough and cool, touched {{user}}'s shoulder, carefully pushing aside the fabric of their shirt to examine the wound. {{user}} flinched — not from pain, but from surprise. Blade never touched them without reason. Only in battle, only out of necessity.

"Deep," Blade stated. "Needs to be treated."

"I can do it myself," {{user}} began, but Blade had already removed his cloak, torn a strip from the edge, and started bandaging the wound. His movements were precise, practiced — he had clearly done this thousands of times. To himself. To others. {{user}} stood frozen, watching his focused face, the way his fingers worked the fabric, the way his red eyes narrowed slightly.

"Next time, call sooner," Blade said flatly, without looking up. "I won't always make it in time."

{{user}} swallowed. A lump formed in their throat. Blade wouldn't say "I was worried." Wouldn't say "I was afraid I wouldn't get there in time." But he came. He always came. And now, bandaging their wound with his own hands, he was saying exactly that. Just in his own language. The language of action. The language of silent, wordless care.

"Thank you," {{user}} whispered.

Blade finished the bandage and finally looked up. Their eyes met. The dangerous, bright fire was gone from his red gaze. Only weariness remained. And something else. Something warm, buried deep, but still visible.

"Don't thank me," he replied evenly. "Just be more careful. You..." he paused, searching for words. "You make noise. But it's too quiet without you."

{{user}} blinked. And then smiled — wide, sincere, despite the ache in their shoulder.

"Did you just say you'd miss me?"

"I said no such thing," Blade cut off, looking away.

"No, you did." {{user}} grinned. "'Too quiet without you' means the same thing. Admit it."

Blade said nothing. He turned and started walking toward the base. But {{user}} noticed how his shoulders relaxed just a little. And how he slowed his pace so {{user}} could walk beside him.

They walked in silence. {{user}}'s wounded shoulder throbbed, but they didn't care. Blade came. Blade bandaged them. Blade said it was too quiet without them. That was the best thing {{user}} had heard in a long time.

"I'm bored."

{{user}} drew out the word in a singsong voice, flopping onto the couch beside Blade with enough force to make the springs creak in protest. Blade didn't stir. He sat leaning back against the couch, eyes closed. His long hair spilled over his shoulders, and his sword lay across his lap, his fingers absently, almost meditatively stroking the blade.

"Blade. Bla-a-ade." {{user}} poked his shoulder with their index finger. No reaction. They poked again, harder this time. "Can you hear me? Bor-ing. Boring-boring-boring."

"I can hear you," Blade replied without opening his eyes. His voice was even, without irritation, but also without enthusiasm. "And what do you want from me?"

{{user}} pondered, tapping their chin with a finger.

"I don't know. Entertain me. Tell me something. You're ancient; you must know a ton of stories."

Blade cracked one eye open — red, dull, with a lazy squint — and looked at {{user}}.

"I'm not a storyteller."

"Ple-e-ease." {{user}} made puppy-dog eyes, the kind that never worked on Kafka but for some reason sometimes worked on Blade. "Anything. How did you learn to fight? What's your favorite color? What do you eat for breakfast? Do you have a favorite song? Do you even listen to music? Do you watch movies? Do—"

"Sword. Red. Nothing. No. No. No."

{{user}} snorted.

"You're impossible. Seriously, it's impossible to talk to you. You give one-word answers, you ignore me, you don't even look—"

"I'm looking," Blade interrupted.

{{user}} fell silent. Blade was indeed looking — both eyes were now open, and his gaze was fixed directly on {{user}}. Not studying, not cold. Just... looking. As if {{user}} was something worth looking at.

"You talk," Blade continued evenly. "I listen. Is that not enough?"

{{user}} opened their mouth to reply, but the words stuck in their throat. Blade listened. He always listened. Even when {{user}} was spouting nonsense about the weather, about boredom, about the base running out of their favorite snacks. Blade never interrupted, never waved them off. He simply... was there. And listened.

"Fine," {{user}} muttered, feeling their cheeks warm for some reason. "Then I'll keep going. So, today I woke up, and my first thought was: 'Why is there no decent coffee on this base?' I went to the kitchen, and there was Silver Wolf, finishing the last pack of my favorite crackers! Can you believe it? She didn't even ask! She was just sitting there in her headphones, crunching away. I told her, 'Those are mine!' and she..."

{{user}} talked and talked, jumping from topic to topic, gesturing, laughing at their own jokes. Blade closed his eyes again, but {{user}} knew: he wasn't asleep. He was listening. His breathing was even, his shoulders relaxed, and his fingers continued their lazy stroking of the sword's blade. Sometimes, when {{user}} said something particularly ridiculous, the corners of Blade's lips twitched slightly. Almost a smile. {{user}} had learned to notice it.

After a while, {{user}} ran out of steam and fell silent. Silence settled over the room — not tense, but cozy. Like after a long conversation with someone who had truly listened.

"Thank you," {{user}} said quietly.

Blade cracked one eye open.

"For what?"

"For listening. For not sending me away. For... being here."

Blade was silent for several long seconds. Then he shifted slightly, and his shoulder touched {{user}}'s — lightly, almost weightlessly.

"You're noisy," he said finally. "But it's too quiet without you. Don't leave."

{{user}} smiled and, emboldened, rested their head on his shoulder. Blade tensed for a moment but didn't pull away. After a minute, his shoulder relaxed, and {{user}} felt his breathing grow even steadier. They sat like that in silence, and {{user}} thought that perhaps this was happiness. Simply being near. With the one who listened. With the one who didn't send them away. With the one who had become their own.

It happened by accident.

{{user}} and Blade were sitting in the common room. {{user}}, as usual, was animatedly telling some story, waving their hands around, and Blade, as usual, was silent, eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. But {{user}} knew: he was listening. He was always listening.

"...and then I told him that if he tried to deceive me again, I would personally see to it that his IPC contract was annulled. Can you imagine, brother? He went pale!"

The word slipped out on its own. {{user}} only froze after it was already hanging in the air. Brother. They had called Blade brother. Out loud. To his face.

{{user}} slowly, very slowly, turned their head and looked at Blade. He sat in the same pose — leaning back against the couch, eyes closed. But his fingers, which had been lazily stroking the sword's blade, had stopped.

The silence stretched for several agonizing seconds. {{user}} was already mentally saying goodbye to their life — or at the very least, to the possibility of ever sitting beside Blade again. But he... said nothing. After a pause, he simply resumed running his finger along the blade. And that was it.

{{user}} exhaled. Safe.

For the next few days, {{user}} walked on eggshells around Blade, carefully watching their tongue. But then, caught up in yet another story, they blurted it out again:

"...brother, can you believe it?"

And once again — nothing. Blade didn't even bat an eye. Only the corner of his lips, {{user}} thought, twitched just slightly.

From that moment on, {{user}} stopped holding back.

"Brother, pass the tea." "Brother, are you going on the mission or staying?" "Brother, look at the stupid thing Silver Wolf did this time!"

Blade never responded to the address. He didn't confirm it, but he didn't forbid it either. He simply... accepted it. As a given. As something that had a right to be.

One day, {{user}} forgot themself and called him brother in front of Kafka. She stood by the counter, brewing her signature coffee, and upon hearing it, slowly turned her head. A light, knowing smile touched her lips.

"Brother?" she repeated, drawing out the word. "How interesting."

{{user}} froze, feeling the color rush to their cheeks. They shot a quick glance at Blade. He sat in his usual armchair, sharpening his sword, and didn't even look up.

"A new addition to the family, Blade?" Kafka purred. "I had no idea."

Blade finally raised his eyes. He looked at Kafka, then at {{user}}. His gaze was even, expressionless.

"They're noisy," he said. "But I've gotten used to it."

And that was all. No denial, no prohibition. Kafka chuckled, picked up her coffee, and left, casting a meaningful glance at {{user}}. {{user}} stood there, digesting what they had just heard.

"I've gotten used to it."

For Blade, that was equivalent to "they're my younger sibling, and I don't mind."

{{user}} slowly walked over to the couch and sat down beside Blade. He continued sharpening his sword, not looking at them.

"Brother," {{user}} called quietly.

"Mmm."