cw: Blade/Luocha, blood & injury (not super graphic just post-mission Blade), partial nudity, temporary paresis

super self-indulgent!! me exploring them w this dynamic ig.

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The door to Blade's room is slightly ajar when Luocha arrives. It is a silent invitation, but still, he knocks, by way of announcing his presence. The room is as Luocha remembers it: lukewarm, dimly lit, and simple if not barren. What's left of Blade's clothes after the mission he just returned from is lying in a haphazard heap by the bathroom door. The sound of running water hums through the space, amplifying the lethargic atmosphere.

Luocha drops off his own bag and coat. He walks over to the bathroom, raps his knuckles against the door. "Blade, I'm here."

"One moment." Blade's voice is dampened by the water—and much tiredness, Luocha notes. "Can you close the front door?"

"Sure."

It seems Blade is making him wait, so Luocha takes the liberty of wandering around his room, in absent-minded search of anything that may pique his interest. The only thing he's repeatedly found funny is the amount of pillows on Blade's bed; he didn't strike Luocha as the kind of guy to want five. He wonders if that's actually Blade's preference, or just the amount the room came with, and he couldn't be bothered to toss some out.

The water shuts off. Luocha patiently waits for the other man, but what emerges from the other side of the door is not Blade, only his voice. "Luocha. Can you help me?"

A smile involuntarily tugs at the corners of Luocha's lips. Forget asking; the old Blade would never have even factored his healing into his mission plans, much less subject himself to receiving it. The only times Luocha could get his hands on him were when Blade was physically unable to protest, having either gone into shock, lost consciousness, or been in one way or another subdued by his fellow Hunters. So to call such a display of trust 'rare' would be a profound understatement. How can Luocha possibly turn it down? "Of course. I'm coming in, then."

He slides the bathroom door open. The inside looks nothing short of a crime scene. There's red on the floor, in the sink, all along the walls... as if Blade has had to claw and struggle his way into the bathtub. The air is thick with steam, filled with a familiar scent as sweet as it is metallic. On the edge of the tub sits Blade, facing away from Luocha, hair like wet silk clinging to the bare curve of his back.

"Shut the door, please," he rasps. "It's cold."

"How about you put some clothes on?" Luocha grabs the bathrobe hanging nearby and goes to cover Blade with it, but not before quickly taking note of what's visible to him. As expected, bruises are already lightening to yellow, and open wounds have closed over with new, pinkish skin. But the hand Blade has pressed to his abdomen raises a flag for Luocha—as well as a glimmer of what looks concerningly like Kafka's signature threads, just beneath the skin of his waist. Luocha wraps Blade in the plush bathrobe, leaves the other man to slip his arms through the sleeves and lazily pull the piece of clothing around himself, while he takes care of his dripping wet hair. "What happened?"

Blade makes a soft grunting noise when Luocha drapes a towel over his head and starts to rub his hair dry. "A Voidranger shot at me," he explains; then, after a few moments, corrects himself, "through me."

"Huh?" The healer inside Luocha finds his own lackluster reaction alarming. Granted, Blade is much more... robust than the usual person, but having one's body torn apart in that way must still have been traumatic. "'Through,' how?"

"Well... through." Blade makes a hand gesture like impaling himself in the stomach. He sounds slightly exasperated. "I don't know how else you want me to explain it."

"Okay," Luocha acquiesces. It's bad bedside manner to cause distress to his patient—though he still needs to know the details of the incident, in order to best take care of him. "And then? After that?"

Blade shrugs a shoulder defeatedly. "I don't know. When I woke up, we were already on our way back. I guess... Sam must have carried me to my room."

"I noticed Kafka's threads on you," Luocha prompts. Blade's hand once again goes to cradle his side.

"Oh, right. She said they would dissolve naturally. I think she... reattached me."

"I see." What is a lethal injury for others is, expectedly, just another day for the undying Hunter. Satisfied with the dryness of Blade's hair, Luocha puts the towel aside and reaches for the comb. He does a thorough job, efficient without any need for force. "How are you feeling now?"

"Lightheaded. And... weak," Blade mumbles. "My legs, especially."

"You did lose a lot of blood. And an entire half of your body, for a little while." Luocha sets the comb down. Blade turns around to look at him at last, tell me something I don't know voiced through all his features except his mouth. Luocha opts to ignore it. "Can you stand?"

He helps Blade up from the edge of the bathtub. They are about the same height, Blade quite a bit heavier from all the training and fighting he does on a daily basis—but that doesn't deter him from fully leaning onto Luocha, making the other man support his entire weight. Not that his body is allowing him another option. Blade's legs visibly shake when he lifts them out of the tub, his feet unsteady as they meet the ground... himself almost collapsing onto Luocha when he attempts to stand upright.

"Are you okay?" Luocha adjusts their positions, so that now Blade has an arm around his shoulders, and him an arm around Blade's torso. "Does it hurt?"

"No. Not really. It just...." Blade sounds uncertain. He wobbles a concerning amount when they try to take their first step. "Stop. Luocha. I-I can't—"

"I've got you," Luocha says. He can sense Blade's rising panic in the increasingly shallow breaths he takes, the way his grip tightens on him. "Blade. I've got you."

The other man nods. He's not meeting Luocha's eyes. No matter. Luocha stands beside him, steady, patient, until Blade stops tensing so rigidly against him, and his fingers relax somewhat from where they were digging into Luocha's shoulder.

"Slowly," he concedes.

"Slowly," Luocha assures.

Step by wavering step, they move out of the bathroom and toward Blade's bed. Fortunately for both of them, Luocha's swordsmanship isn't just for show; he manages to support Blade all the way until they're close enough for the latter to be lowered onto the bed. Even then, Blade's grip lingers on him, as if he's afraid he might topple over the moment he lets Luocha go.

"Can you sit upright?" Luocha asks. He makes sure Blade has sufficiently braced himself before moving away. "I'll be right back."

He disappears into the bathroom, and returns with a warm, damp towel. Blade is sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs hanging off the side—which makes it all the easier for Luocha to kneel down and take his feet into his hands, wiping away the blood on his soles. He has understood early on that Blade finds direct affection to be too much—too overwhelming, too vulnerable, too undeserved—but he can handle it in small doses. Which simply means Luocha has to administer his feelings one thing at a time: something sweet to stop Blade's head from spinning, something warm over his shoulders when they are tensed. Something soft, to bandage his wounds and soak up his blood, if only to comfort Blade in his wake.

"Done," he announces, setting the towel aside and moving back. He observes Blade closely as the latter shifts further onto the bed, pulling his legs up and tucking them into the warmth of the bathrobe. Though his movements are still clumsy and poorly-coordinated, he is now able to move on his own. "Your legs will be fine," Luocha concludes, "though for the next few days you'll likely require some support to walk. Be patient and take it slow."

Blade simply stares off into space, as if unimpressed with the recommendations he's been given. He blinks, though, upon seeing the healer shrug off his outerwear and unclasp his boots. "What are you doing?"

"The human spine is delicate. I'd rather not leave its healing to chance." Luocha arranges his things into a neat pile on the floor, before straightening up and circling to the other side of the bed. "May I take another look at your back?"

"Oh. Sure," Blade says, and then the bathrobe is off, as swift and simple as if he were taking out a hairpin. He neither asks, nor turns around to check what Luocha may be doing when the healer climbs onto bed behind him. It could be his nonexistent sense of self-preservation, or his conception of himself as a mere tool... or, more perplexing yet increasingly frequent, the trust he has decided to bestow upon Luocha—which makes the idea of breaking it even more detestable.

Luocha makes sure his hands aren't cold, first. "Let me know if anything at all feels off," he tells Blade, before placing his palm flat against the other man's lower back. Blade is surprisingly warm to the touch—the result of, Luocha realizes, having had that thick bathrobe wrapped around him right out of the shower. "Will you be cold?" he asks.

"Hurry and I won't be."

Luocha's hand begins to glow green against the other's spine. The sigh of relief Blade lets out is quiet but unmissable, both confirmation and cue that he can carry on. So Luocha does, administers his healing in calm, continuous pulses, until he can no longer sense any tension beneath his palm, nor see any of Kafka's emergency stitches with his naked eye. The treatment has taken his hand to Blade's abdomen, his arm wrapped halfway around the other's body—the two of them so close, Blade's scent and heat is present in every breath he takes.

Luocha can't help himself. "May I kiss you?"

"Asking ruins the surprise, you know," Blade says—but when Luocha's lips meet his skin he still shivers, as if no warning could ever really prepare him enough. Their hands find one another, intertwine while Luocha maps out the curve of Blade's shoulder, the crane of his neck, the stubbly line of his jaw. All of it known to him, time and time again stitching, dressing, examining... and all of it new, Blade's permission, how willingly he sinks into their embrace, how tenderly he kisses back when Luocha kisses him.

Luocha feels tipsy when they part. Buoyant and warm. It doesn't click that Blade is meaning to say something, until he suddenly realizes how long the Hunter has been gazing at him.

"What is it?"

"Are you leaving soon?"

"... Would you like me to stay?"

Blade's eyes start to wander. You said it, not me. Luocha chuckles, leans in to place a kiss upon his cheek.

"You need only ask, Blade."

Said man doesn't respond—only guides Luocha by the chin until their lips meet. Luocha indulges him. He thinks they both know he'd spoil Blade any chance he gets.

They finally part when Blade yawns widely. He leans back onto the bed, taking Luocha whose arms are still around him along. "Blade, lights," Luocha says, but he simply shakes his head before burying his face into the healer's chest, a capricious cat finally succumbing to its desire for heat in the dead of night. With some difficulty and no help from Blade, Luocha tugs the covers up and over them both.

"Blade." He tries again. "Will you be uncomfortable? I can undress." No reply. Blade's frame has become heavy inside his embrace, breaths slowing to a steady whisper. To have fallen asleep that fast, he must be exhausted. There's no point in disturbing his rest now.

Somewhen between threading his fingers through Blade's hair and counting the rises and falls of his chest, Luocha drifts off, too.

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thanks for reading and 🤝 if you enjoyed ;) like— idk. what if it was 4am and nothing mattered. let me lean into your comfort bc i know you wouldn't mind it u.u

also-
the multiple pillows: my hc bc blade likes to hug his sword sm. he prolly likes to hug stuff when he's sleeping too.
where the heck are they? listen—wouldn't it be cool if after you pulled a character, pom pom gives them a room on the express?