Honkai: Star Rail oneshots

(Nonviolent) communication

CW: Blade/Kafka, fluff, a little hurt/comfort

inspired by "Myriad Celestia Trailer: The Jepella Rebellion — Scene 47," and set right after it.

title is "Nonviolent Communication" by Metro Boomin, James Blake & A$AP Rocky.

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A simmering ache. Kafka wraps her right hand around her left wrist while gazing down at the destruction below. Jepella—soon to become just another name in the Stellaron Hunters' book. She finds it hard to fix her eyes on just one thing: the rioters flooding the streets; the collapsing buildings; the fire swallowing up every last trace of a fallen regime. This inferno is terminal... but from all the way up here in their departing spacecraft, Kafka simply feels as though she is gazing into a fireplace.

With a smoldering, subtle burn that flares up like a warning when she leans too close to it. Like the pain in her recently-cuffed wrists, spiking whenever she flexes them in a certain way. Kafka sighs; maybe she should have taken Sam's advice about not playing with her food. (Though, what would be the fun in that?)

There is yet another thing, that she has been sensing for the past several minutes: a gaze on her back, particularly attentive whenever she touched or examined her wrists in any way. She has been pondering whether to let it go, bring it up... or let him stare forever, herself feigning ignorance.

Sam's voice echoes in her head again. Ugh, fine. "Something on my back?"

"No." The way Blade grunts makes her chuckle. Seems she has caught him off-guard. Not many at all can boast about doing that to their swordmaster.

"What is it, then?" Kafka turns around to face him. They are alone in this cabin— well, she supposes Elio is always watching, has perhaps even seen this play out. But she hasn't, and that is enough to make her curious.

Blade is silent, still looking at her but not quite at her eyes. "Let me see," he says.

"Oh, I'm fine."

"Can I see?" She has anticipated him trying again, but not in such a tone—gentle, tentative. It pulls Kafka toward Blade, arms held out as if she's about to be restrained again. That's what it feels like for a split-second at first, when his fingers close around her wrists—but the worn softness of his glove on one hand, and the rough warmth of bandages on the other... both cannot be more different from the confines of the metal cuffs. With a light hold and even more delicate motions, Blade is giving her the freedom to pull away whenever she chooses—but Kafka sees neither the point, nor the need for that.

"What's the verdict?" she whispers, when he finally looks up from her wrists.

"They seem fine. Just give them some time and you'll feel better."

They make eye contact. A few seconds too long and Kafka knows Blade has something more to say. They've been by each other's side long enough for her to be able to discern that—just as he is able to discern her vexation even in her silence.

"What is it?" she asks.

Blade opens his mouth, then shuts it again, as if he thinks speaking unwise. But he speaks, regardless. "Don't do that again."

That is unwise. "You can't ask someone in our profession to avoid danger." You shouldn't even harbor hope that they will, Kafka thinks.

"Then be more careful next time."

"I was careful."

"Not with the mission. With yourself."

"Bladie—I don't know how to do that."

Silence. Kafka smiles. 'Fear' seems so omnipresent in everyone else's experiences of life, that it can become very easy for them to forget the complete absence of it in hers. There's no point in getting upset over such a small mistake though; that's why she squeezes Blade's hands, when she sees the self-directed frustration seep into his features. "Hey. It's okay. I get it."

"Sorry."

"It's okay." She tilts her head, trying to catch his gaze which has fallen to the floor. "Besides—I don't go out that easily, you know."

That pulls a chuckle out of Blade, sharp and humorless. "You're not one to talk."

Touché. Now it's Kafka's turn to feel bad about forgetting about Blade's affliction. But she knows that laugh wasn't at her, and the resentment is just a byproduct of his centuries-long hopeless struggle. If anything, that his hands are still in hers is proof enough.

"C'mon." Kafka breaks them away from the tension physically by tugging Blade toward the seats. They have entered outer space, the planet a rapidly-shrinking amber blot below. Neither care to spare it another glance. Kafka buckles up with one hand; the other she keeps steadily around Blade's. He does the same. Unspoken agreement. Mutual feelings.

The stars seem to shine a little brighter as they sail through the darkness.