(maybe you're not usually a drinker, and had overindulged in one too many mixes or cocktails, the alcohol content of which are always hard to gauge. or you've been going through a tough time and had one too many. or meds that mess with the way alcohol affects your functioning. endless reasons, really.

but you'd stumbled into the bathroom, sat down to pee, only to have the world swirling and dancing around you as soon as you'd gotten up again, discordant giggles bursting from your mouth. fuck, i've had way too much, you'd thought before pushing through crowds and heading to the door. you'd seemed fine before.)

dorian exchanges a glance with the other fellow at the door and inclines his head in your direction. "i'll get that one." the night is coming to a close and leaving one person at the door is fine.

if someone rings the alarm at the bar, he's close enough to be able to come running over regardless. dorian squats down in front of you, keeping his hands to himself. your eyes are just barely cracked open.

"hello. are you alright?" he asks. the shake of your head you give him, lilting up and down as your skull moves side to side, says more than enough. "you've had one too many, yeah? who are you with?"

your shoulders hunch up, close to your ears, face scrunching up. "i lost them. my friends. they... they left... i think? i dunno- there's a lot of people inside, and..." you simply trail off, eyes hazy, sentence left unfinished.

"if they really left, they're an awful lot. those are not friends." he tells you firmly. you're clearly left in no state to be on your own, much less in the middle of town around this time of night, when the streets will soon crowd with hordes of drunk folk heading on home.

"i think i'm going to throw up." is all you say in response, chest heaving as if to support your words.

"alright, alright. none of that just now. you think you can stand?" rather than wait for a coherent answer, he's putting his hands under your armpits and tugging you in a standing position with ease. you practically collapse against him, though it doesn't make him flinch whatsoever. all it does is make him let out a soft grunt, before he's supporting you further, looping an arm around you to steady you.

(a lesser doorman would've sent you on their way, told you that you're too drunk to get back in, and secretly thought to himself: as long as they're out of the club and not my problem, they can fall over and throw up in a ditch, for all i care. but dorian takes his job incredibly seriously and always goes the extra mile, always insistent on protecting any unfortunate clubgoer.

...among customers and colleagues, he's also infamous for completely refusing bribes and getting upset with anyone who does accept them. a trait dorian rather prides himself on, but no on else.)

"we've got some chairs in the back. a bucket, too." dorian stands still for a few moments to allow you to catch your breath. "there we go. it's not all that far."

"why do you have... a bunch of, of doors on your arms...?" you slur as he takes you through a hallway in the club, off-limits to visitors.

"i like doors," he responds simply, a response so dry and utterly confounding, especially to your alcohol-addled mind, that it has you laughing so hard that tears are streaming down your face and dorian has to practically drag you over the floor.

he huffs out a breath through his nose, but smiles. he's always glad to see his untapped comedy potential being appreciated.

Despite yourself, your heart flutters. The subject matter is gruesome, but the weight of his words is heavy, their meaning clear. It is almost intimate.

You shift from one foot to the other. "I could try. But I don't have any fancy powers like them, or anything like that," you tell him. He knows, but you feel it must be repeated.

"I am aware. They are not necessary." He is silent, for a moment. His eyes move away from yours, momentarily slipping somewhere you cannot follow. "Sometimes, I wonder if the solution is so simple I have not thought of it yet. I have been maimed in battle in every way imaginable— To no avail."

"Well, then, is there any way you haven't died in yet? Or at least not as often?"

And that is how you end up with Blade on his knees in front of a bathtub filled with lukewarm water. About to murder your own partner. Via drowning.

…Aeons, what are you even doing? You want to sigh and run a hand down your face, or bash your head into the nearest wall. It's for him. For the solemn determination that enters him as soon as the topic of his death is breached, of the clear desire that is guiding him. You love Blade enough that, were he offered a chance at death, you would allow him to take it, even if that meant leaving you behind.

…You know, in your heart, that he would take the opportunity without hesitation, though not without final parting words.

(The only reason you've decided to do is because you are certain that he will not work. That, like every other time, his eyes will close only to open again soon enough. You don't think you will make the difference here. You doubt that Blade really believes it, either. But this kind of hope keeps him going, and so you will not bring it up. Even if this act was never brought up in any script whatsoever.)

"Are you ready?" Blade asks you, as if he's not the person about to be killed. After a beat of silence, you nod.

You extend your arm, and lace your fingers through his hair. For just a moment, you scratch at his scalp, and Blade lets out a noise akin to a hum.

"Okay. I'll do it." You steel yourself, then push his head down towards the water. There is no resistance, his head enters the water with more of a splash than you were anticipating. Rather than merely allowing you to push him under, he pushes his own head under, too.

You're both regretful and relieved that you picked this option. Relieved, because it requires very little of your own action, except to keep his head down. (Right now, Blade is so inert that there are not even ripples in the water anymore.) On the other hand, the act of waiting for him to die underneath your touch is excruciating and uncomfortable. You squeeze your eyes shut, and try to think of other things. You start to massage Blade's scalp with the tips of your fingers yet again.

Eventually, a burst of bubbles escapes his mouth. His limbs jerk and seize, his chin bangs against the side of the tub, purely on instinct. His arms reach for his chest and claw at his flesh-covered ribcage, lungs screaming for air underneath. Your fingers are all cramped up, and you bite on the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood.

Then, all of a sudden, he simply goes limp. You realise a long, deep breath, your shoulders shaking. Crouching, you drag Blade's body out of the tub, muttering an apology under your breath when his skull knocks into the wall when you try to get his… Corpse to sit down. Any bruise he gets will be healed again soon, sure enough— You're certain of it.

You pace up and down the room as you wait for Blade to revive. His skin, already pale during regular days, looks more sunken in, almost blueish. Beneath his nearly-closed eyes his eyes dulled to a shade of their former self. Water droplets leak from his lips and run down his face from locks of his hair. …Despite the fact that he's dead, he's still beautiful nonetheless. You stroke his cheek and find the skin cold underneath your touch, as it always is.

On occasion, you wonder whether calling him alive or simply a reanimated corpse would be more apt of a description. In Blade's eyes, you figure, both of those ideas would be wrong. He's a weapon. Nothing more, nothing less.

His eyelids flutter, and you let out a sigh of relief. Blade's body jerks and shudders. The first thing he does when coming back to life is spewing water mixed with thick strands of drool all over himself. He hacks and coughs, shuddering and twitching, a single tear rolling down his cheek. Once he has his breathing under control, he groans and clutches his head.

"I'm sorry it didn't work." Blade is still too out of it too respond. You take one of the previously prepared towels and dip a tip of it into the bath, using it to remove the remains of vomit from around his mouth. "Are you okay? I can help you get some new clothes on."

You flutter about the room, hoping that he won't have returned to the world of the living in a state other than his usual. When Blade speaks, his voice is hoarse.

"...Thank you. For trying." He sighs, eyes shifting towards the ceiling, staring at the leights. "Let me sit here a little while longer."

You know he cares about you. But the fact you can't provide him with what he wants most, that it conflicts so directly with your own desires, it does hurt. And yet, you smile. You press your back against the wall and slide down next to him.

"Sure. But you do know you're, like, dripping with vomit, right?"

The ghost of a smile quirks its way up on to Blade's lips. "I was wondering if you'd simply dumped me whole into the bath. After I lost consciousness."

"Absolutely not. It was difficult enough to drag you around while you were on your knees."

"I don't like to hear you insult yourself," Blade merely responds, and it would have been better if he hadn't commented at all. You know your upper body strength is not the best, but, whatever! You huff a breath of air out through your nose.

"If you're this coherent, we can get you cleaned up."

As you get to your feet once again, you feel Blade's eyes boring into your back, and when you turn around he is staring right at you, hands folded over his lap.