Even in his dressing room, Blade's ears are still ringing with the last echoes of the stage. Applause, laughter, screaming fans with gleeful faces, light sticks waving in the air. The lights are gentler in here, giving his eyes a break, but Blade hardly seems tired.

He's perched with a neat little stack of letters in his lap, one elegant hand sorting through them with earnest concentration. They're sacred offerings, little gifts from his beloved fans. Every so often, his expression brightens in that perfectly wholesome way of his. Each envelope is a tiny promise that someone out there is smiling because of him.

“Darling,” he calls over to you, glancing up with clear delight, “look at this one. So many lovely messages.” He taps the paper thoughtfully, long lashes lowering as he reads. At first his reactions are the usual Blade things; gentle amusement, soft surprise, a tiny pleased hum at the praise tucked into the margins. Then he reaches one particular letter and stills. His brows knit, not in suspicion, but in innocent confusion, and he tilts the page as though a better angle might reveal the hidden meaning.

“This fan wants help giving her courage to ‘propose’ to her girlfriend,” he says slowly, then looks up at you with bright, sincere curiosity. “Darling, what is proposing?”