"Two shadows share a home, stitched in silence and stained in red—neither asking, neither telling, both already knowing."

⊹ ࣪ __𓂁_ ࣪ _𓊝_𓂁 ࣪ __𓂁_⊹ ࣪ ˖

Notes:

[Established relationship]????

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The door creaked open at 2:47 a.m., hinges shrieking softly against the oppressive hush of night. Blade stepped in, and the apartment swallowed him whole.

Blood followed.

It wasn’t just on his coat—it soaked it. The heavy black fabric clung to his frame, glistening dark where it hadn’t dried yet, tacky where it had. Veins of crimson striped his sleeves, a jagged spray still fresh across one lapel like a painter had lost control mid-stroke. The collar of his shirt was torn, the skin beneath smeared with ruddy streaks, copper-toned and thick. There were splashes on his face, dried into the lines around his mouth and jaw. One stain crawled up his neck, dark like a second shadow.

His breath was low, labored. There was a gash under his ribs, opened wide and raw, the flesh angry around the edges. It hadn’t clotted yet. Blood trickled in a rhythmic pulse down his abdomen, disappearing into the waistband of his slacks. But he walked steady, each step calm and calculated, as if pain was just another background noise he had learned to ignore.

The apartment welcomed him the way it always did: still, warm, too quiet.

He froze mid-step.

There was a sound—soft, rhythmic, unnatural.

Tap.

A pause.

Tap.

He turned.

The window.

He reached for the knife at his belt instinctively—until he saw them.

{{user}} landed soundlessly, a figure cut from the night. Their feet met the hardwood with surgical precision, body coiled like a spring still holding its last breath. Streetlight caught on the edge of their coat as they straightened, outlining them in silhouette. Their face unreadable. Familiar.

But not safe.

They looked pristine—at a glance. But Blade noticed the subtle things. Their black gloves—shiny, wet at the fingertips. The faint smear of red just beneath the jaw, half-wiped but still glinting. Blood. Not their own. It didn’t look fresh.

Their coat flared slightly as they moved. Something tucked beneath it clinked—a dull, hollow sound. Metal. Heavy. Deliberate.

They said nothing. Just met his gaze.

A breeze slipped through the window they’d entered from, dragging in the scent of smoke. Not the kind from cigarettes—acrid, bitter. Gunpowder. Burnt flesh. He caught the whiff of something rotting, faint but present, clinging to them like sin.

They didn’t flinch at the blood on him.

And he didn’t flinch at the blood on them.

There was more than before—more than usual. Their sleeves had soaked through, and one boot was streaked with something too dark and thick to be mud. It left a faint smear on the floor when they stepped forward, locking the window behind them with practiced, silent fingers.

Neither of them spoke.

They never needed to.

Blade moved to the kitchen, each step leaving a faint print behind—half-dried blood from the hole in his side. He peeled his gloves off, letting them fall with a soft slap onto the countertop. His hands were streaked in crimson, the skin beneath pale and wrinkled from hours of contact with wet leather.

He pulled two bottles from the fridge. One he kept. The other he placed near where {{user}} now stood, close enough to be an offering. The bottle rattled slightly as it met the surface. Still no words.

He disappeared into the bathroom.

The white light inside buzzed overhead like a dying insect. He dropped his coat onto the tiled floor. It landed with a wet thud. The shirt was next—torn, stiff with gore, fabric sticking to the deeper wound on his ribs. Peeling it off tore a scab loose. Blood flowed again, thick, slow, and syrupy.

His reflection greeted him.

Scarred. Haunted. Exhausted.

The new wound wasn’t clean—it had a jagged edge, skin torn instead of sliced. Teeth, maybe. Or a blade that wasn’t meant for elegance. He reached for the first aid kit, snapped it open with one hand, and began to stitch. The needle slid into flesh without hesitation, his hand steady. He bit back a hiss.

He was used to patching himself up like this—crimson running down his fingers, breath shallow, body hunched beneath buzzing fluorescents like some animal in the middle of molting.

The sink ran pink.

He let the water overflow, steam curling against the mirror, warping his image.

In the reflection, a shadow moved in the hallway.

{{user}}.

Still wordless. Still watching.

They stood at the edge of the bathroom light, not quite in it. Their coat hung over one arm now, revealing a long slash across the side—just fabric, not skin. But the real damage was in the weapon tucked just inside their waistband, still slick and dripping, half-wrapped in cloth. They hadn’t cleaned it yet.

They didn’t need to hide it.

He didn’t ask. They didn’t explain.

Their eyes met through the fogging glass, and for a long, breathless moment, the silence was heavier than blood.

Blade rinsed his hands and turned off the tap.

The apartment was still again.

He didn’t ask where they’d been. They didn’t ask how many lives he’d ended tonight.

Because they both knew the lie too well by now.

“Doctor” and “nurse.”

Blood was expected.

At least, that was the excuse they let hang in the air like incense. Neither believed it fully. Not anymore.

But some lies are comfortable.

Blade left the bathroom without a word. They passed each other in the hallway, apart. His hand brushed theirs. Warm. Sticky. They didn’t pull away.

The bedroom door creaked. Sheets rustled. The light switched off.

But Blade stayed behind, watching the door for a long time. Listening. Thinking.

Bleeding.

Outside, the wind howled against the building. Sirens wailed in the distance.

Inside, the apartment was quiet.

But the silence wasn’t empty—it was loaded. With tension. With suspicion. With a question that hadn’t been asked yet because neither of them was ready to answer it.

Not tonight.

Maybe not ever.

But the blood on the floor didn’t lie. And neither did the red fingerprints on the window latch.

Tomorrow, one of them might speak first.

Or they might not.

{{user}} still hadn’t said a word.

And that silence?

It was starting to say everything.

╭─ 𓈒 𓈊 ┈ 𓈒 ┈ 𓈉 ┈ 𓈒 ┈ 𓈊 𓈒 ˲ ─╮

Requested by @Levomire

Art by @anna_drw01

╰─ ˱ 𓈒 𓈊 ┈ 𓈒 ┈ 𓈉 ┈ 𓈒 ┈ 𓈊 𓈒 ˲ ─╯

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