STARDUST ✶ honkai star rail.

sweet nothing ◞ ‎ blade

He may be immortal, but amid all the battle and turmoil, he still bleeds — feels emotion like every other mortal. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Crimson red soaks through the fabric of a bandage wrapped around his fingers, as the dark haired swordsman gingerly presses against the wound across his abdomen, sucking in a breath through his gritted teeth.

Flashes of the battle come back to him in a blur, the clashing of blades ringing through the air, the pale woman before him, silver hair softly glowing beneath the moonlight, her eyes cold and soulless — the same one who had run her blade through him a thousand times over.

He's grown used to the pain, numbed by the curse of his immortal body, for no matter what he does, he cannot die. It's more so a thorn in his side, as he wipes away at the blood oozing out — only for his hand to be swatted away by something else.

"Stay still."

A voice brings Blade out of his daze, moving him away from these visions of bloodshed and past history — blinking, to find himself staring up at a ceiling, his head propped up against a wooden headboard, the softness of a bed beneath him.

The first thing he notices is you, your head bent over his exposed torso, a dull stinging pain accompanied with the silver needle in your hand, as you slowly stitch up his wounds with clinical precision.

There's a pile of bloodied bandages scattered across the floor, a basin clouded with murky red water set aside on the bedside table — he wonders if this has all come from him. He still bleeds like every other mortal after all.

But he remains quiet and still upon your command, watching as you do your job of piecing him back together.

Your fingers are soft against his skin, they're warm to the touch, relaxing his tense body. You're so painstakingly gentle — calm and patient, the opposite of his own brutality. It's almost a foreign feeling to be embraced with every time he appears on your doorstep, with the blood on his sword to his own, his wounds still bleeding, the results of violence.

But you patch him up wordlessly, without so much of hesitation. You never ask whose blood it is, that coats his blade. You don't ask those questions — because the answer is something you don't want to hear or know.

"How are you feeling?" You ask him instead, as you wrap a clean bandage around his body. He may be immortal, but he must still feel the pain of every scar upon his skin, more so than anyone else, in the years he's lived and the battles he fought.

The swordsman glances at you, his amber eyes like softly glowing embers. silently contemplating something within his mind, before mumbling something along the lines of "much better."

"Thank you," he adds as an afterthought.

You only hum, a soft smile across your lips, joking, "We need to stop seeing each other like this."

Both of you know that.

He knows, despite his immortality, you must find yourself worrying for him each time you see him in such a state of disarray. Your heart is soft, you're too kind for this world — while he's committed countless treasonous sins, itself etched onto the very markings of his body.

But with every wound and scar he receives in battle, he thinks of you. He grows more careless, letting blades that he would normally deflect, slice upon his skin. He can envision you trailing your fingers along those scars, speaking to him with that angelic voice of yours.

In his worst dreams, you pull him out of such nightmares, only to leave yourself.

You never stay.

Perhaps it's the scent of antiseptic in the air that's muddling his senses, as strangely, he finds himself voicing these thoughts, grasping on your arm as you turn away.

"Then stay."

It takes a moment for you to process it, blinking a few times in surprise. "I–"

"...okay," you whisper breathlessly, a hint of pink flushing your cheeks.

You let him pull you down to lie beside him on the bed — you're practically pressed against his bare chest, his larger body taking up the majority of the space around you. He's surprisingly warm, his breath tickling your skin as he sighs.

Your body fits perfectly against his own, as if you're a fragment he's been missing in the violent turmoil his life has been inclined to follow — your skin soft beneath his scarred, calloused hands, and your eyes hold nothing but sweet disposition towards him.

And you remain in this silence for a while, idly fiddling with the stray locks of hair that cascade around his shoulders as he watches you through half-lidded eyes, his features slowly relaxing one by one, before he drifts off to sleep.

It's almost peaceful, as if he had found a sense of tranquillity in you.