Skeleton Flower

by seiyuna

Summary:

Kurapika dies.

He gets one more chance to make things right.

But this means preventing a massacre from ever happening, finding companions he has yet to meet, and fraternizing with an enemy—who isn’t truly his enemy anymore.

Chapter 1

Notes:

Thank you justliling for illustrating the cover of this fic!

 

The Black Whale is sinking.

Amidst the screaming and crying and chaos accompanying one of the greatest passenger ships in the world descending into the ocean, Kurapika stands against the railing of the uppermost deck. Ahead of him, the sun dips below the horizon, casting a golden glow along the surface of the water. It would be an admirable sight, if not for the fact that it would be the last for many of them.

The Kakin royalty are being ushered into the lifeboats, followed by those of the fairer society. The deck is crowded with passengers making their escape, but even the Zodiacs coupled with the Kakin soldiers aren’t enough to handle the situation. Progress is inevitably slow.

A woman attempts to board Prince Woble’s lifeboat, and Kurapika holds up a hand. “Leave all possessions behind.”

Her eyes are hesitant, almost wary. Her intricate gown and jewelry speak of how she had no time to change from the banquet, but there are two large bags in her hands, their contents threatening to spill over. “I hold my family’s inheritance in my hands. I can’t possibly abandon them in the water!”

“Then feel free to join them in the ocean,” Kurapika answers relentlessly. “There isn’t enough room for everyone, let alone worldly possessions. Leave them behind, or you’ll be the one remaining behind.”

She chokes on a disbelieving laugh, or perhaps it’s a sob. Her deliberation doesn’t last very long, because there are passengers growing impatient behind her, more than willing to take her seat. Thrusting the bags towards a Kakin soldier, she ultimately relinquishes her belongings. The two bags are dropped into the water along with everything else. A woman’s sun hat floating on the surface of the water. A lone briefcase packed with family heirlooms. Sheets of papers scattered by the wind.

The woman lifts her skirt to climb over the lifeboat. It leaves a bitter taste in Kurapika’s mouth that they need to defer to people like her. People who don’t understand the gravity of the situation—bemoaning the discomfort of congested lifeboats, catching colds, abandoning their belongings—rather than the hundreds of thousands of lives below them. Those who have nothing to lose but their lives.

There’s not that much time left. A few more individuals board that very lifeboat, until the expected capacity has been met. An uneasy tension settles in the air, driven by a couple grasping onto each other tightly, so young and inseparable. The realization that Kurapika has not joined them makes Queen Oito rise from her seat, though Bill presses his hands against her shoulders, encouraging her to sit down.

“What is going on?” Queen Oito’s hands fist into her skirt, her knuckles going white.

The hands on her shoulders tighten ever so slightly. It takes tremendous effort, but Bill manages to answer, “Kurapika is staying behind.”

His words are a death toll, striking fear into Queen Oito’s heart. “What do you mean?” Her hands are trembling now, a habit that has never left her. “I swear upon everything I hold dear, if Kurapika doesn’t come with us, I will throw myself into the ocean—”

“Your Highness, please calm yourself.” Only the railing separates them now. Kurapika looks at her as softly as he is able to, as if he hasn’t resigned himself to his demise. The ache in his chest eases with the knowledge that Bill will remain by her side. “You have to understand that I don’t have much time left. I have nothing else to offer you.”

“No! How could you say that—” Her voice is laced with more desperation than Kurapika ever heard of before. She reaches out to Kurapika fiercely, struggles to wrench herself from Bill’s hold, but her efforts are futile. A sob breaks apart in her throat, a sound that tears from inside her, and she’s shaking with the force of it. “I refuse to lose anyone else. Don’t you dare do this to me—”

“I’m sorry.” Bill tries not to let his voice falter, because there’s a deep-rooted ache that mirrors her own. He refuses to let her go, smothering her attempts to drive her elbows into his ribs and twist away from his grasp. “I promise,” he says to Kurapika, with the same endless, impossible faith that once drew Kurapika away from his seething hatred, that reminded him of what was most important, “that I’ll protect them.”

There are furious tears stinging at Queen Oito’s eyes, because this is the ultimate betrayal, but instead of being concerned for her mother, Prince Woble looks at him with that same curiosity as when they first met. The golden sun feathers her hair with light, lends a softness to the swell of her cheeks, making him consider how much she’s grown throughout this journey. She will be just fine when she has her mother, Bill, Shimano at her side. She might not even remember him when she grows older.

“Thank you.” Kurapika allows himself to smile and it falters around the edges a little. He’s never said farewell before, not even to his clan, and wonders if this is how it should go. Should it feel like the gentle wind tousling his hair, the taste of sea salt on his tongue? He’s so apologetic yet heartened by the promise of a better future. “That’s all I could ever ask for.”

Grief bleeds into their gazes, and then—

The lifeboat drops.

Kurapika turns away and pretends that he doesn’t hear his name.

His task here is over. From the corner of his eye, he recognizes a pair of familiar white scrubs, sees Leorio assisting a heavily pregnant woman and her husband onto a quickly filling lifeboat. His limbs feel heavy when he walks past them, but his heart feels lighter than it’s ever been.

It’s as difficult to push past the crowd of people as it is to wade through sea water. He wonders if any of the lower passengers have been informed. The impending aftermath chills him—the endless ocean robbing air from thousands of people, filling their lungs with water, swallowing them down without anyone to come to their aid. It’s a terrible way to die.

Kurapika’s vision blurs with each step he takes, and it’s not because of tears. He hasn’t cried since his homeland fell, had forgotten how to cry, but perhaps it was indignance that burned all of his tears away.

Slipping past the Kakin soldiers, he slides open a door to return to the indoor cabins. The silence is so sudden and deafening that it makes his head spin—a contrast to the air outside, so tense with panic and desperation. No one is going to return here, and Kurapika isn’t going back outside.

Kurapika keeps a hand against the walls of the hallway to steady himself. Not because of the way the ship slowly lists, but because it is difficult to stand upright after exhausting himself for most of the day. The fatigue in his bones has dulled to a low throb, but he forces himself to move onward.

The rooms he passes are dark and still, devoid of any presence. Eventually, he finds himself in front of a door at the end of hallway, a stream of weak light coming from the gap. The remnants of fresh blood are stark against the white floor. A long breath escapes him before he pushes the door open, letting it fall soundlessly behind him. The metallic scent of blood saturates the air.

“How kind of you to join me.”

Kurapika levels an even gaze at where Kuroro is leaning against the wall, clothes torn and stained from a extensive, gruesome laceration running from his collarbone to his ribs. He never thought it possible for Kuroro to grow paler, but he seems to have done so. His eyes are dark beneath a fringe of even darker lashes, though there’s a weariness that wasn’t there before. It had taken only one day for Kuroro to go from one of the most powerful individuals in the world to a dying man.

“I’m not here for you,” Kurapika answers, when there are ten canisters at his side, each with a vibrant eyeball suspended in formaldehyde. “I’m surprised that you haven’t left this world yet.”

Kuroro laughs, but it isn’t cruel. It’s soft, desiccated. “I couldn’t possibly die before seeing you again.”

The slope of the ship is more noticeable now, and Kurapika watches with an abstract horror as the canisters begin sliding on the floor. Without a second thought, he throws himself forward to gather them all, preventing the shattering of glass with his own body. He kneels by Kuroro’s side, carefully lining them against the wall.

“You are a fool,” Kuroro says through shallow breaths, “for watching your friends leave and staying behind.”

Kurapika leans back against the wall, right beside him. “If I leave, I would only end up as a dead body. An unnecessary weight.” He doesn’t look at Kuroro, only glances at the clock adjacent to them, watching the minute hand increment. If he’s calculated the time he has left accurately, then he should only have an hour. It would be better to succumb to the restrictions of his abilities than let the ocean swallow him first. “This is the price that these Eyes have demanded I pay.”

Kuroro tips his head back and closes his eyes in thought. “My companions are dead. You can still give closure to yours.”

Kurapika thinks that he hears something akin to respect in his words. The animosity between them has been long suppressed, but that doesn’t mean he could ever respect Kuroro in turn. If things were the same as two years ago, then he would be dying at Kurapika’s hands. But he isn’t.

“If my clan couldn’t afford a proper burial,” Kurapika says, staring at the Scarlet Eyes looking past him, “then why should I have the privilege?”

He can only imagine the burden that would come with carrying his body ashore with them, having to bury him despite being their youngest, and the memory haunting Queen Oito for many years to come. It’s better this way. With no grave to visit, perhaps moving on will be a little easier.

A shift, and then there's a gentle pressure on his shoulder. Kuroro presses his face against his shoulder, and while being touched by Kuroro should leave him feeling filthy, he lets him stay there. Sweat pools at Kuroro’s collarbone, blending with the blood that seeps from his wounds. There’s no catharsis in seeing him like this, and it’s a wonder how he’s somewhere between alive and dead.

“You are too young,” Kuroro murmurs, breath against Kurapika’s skin. “Too kind.” A pause. “If things were different—perhaps we could have been companions.”

It’s not an apology, and it draws a pained laugh from Kurapika. “You’ve lost so much blood that you’re speaking nonsense now.”

If things were different, perhaps Kurapika would not be dying because of his bloodline.

He would return ashore with the rest of them, see Queen Oito and Prince Woble off to safety, free from the circumstances of the succession war.

He would visit Killua and Gon one more time—Gon, especially, because he never did visit him at the hospital, never met his beloved Aunt Mito in the backwaters of Whale Island.

He would watch Leorio at his graduation ceremony, donning his black cap and gown and accolades, hearing his name being read aloud in the auditorium—Dr. Paladiknight, that's who he will be, because he's going to fulfill his dreams of saving people’s lives.

He would fall in love with someone, someone that loves him more than he does himself, and have a family of his own so that his bloodline would not die with him. 

In another life, a different life, perhaps certain things would have meant more to him. There are people who need things of material and sentimental value to ground them, need photos to remind themselves of their friends and family. But Kurapika’s family burned on a pyre and died for their eyes. He only has ghosts.

It’s enough, the way things turned out. He did not have to die a torturous death during an encounter with Kuroro, let alone Tserriednich. He did not have to take another life—Kuroro’s life, because someone else wanted him dead just as much.

“Perhaps we could have been more.” Kuroro lets out a soft sigh. “This feels too much like a lovers’ suicide pact.”

Kurapika doesn’t have the capacity to be offended anymore. There’s a bone-deep weariness within him that even sleep could not appease. He's been tired for far too long.

“This isn’t the end,” Kurapika says, in finality. “We’ll see each other again in Hell.”

The end of Kurapika’s story will be found in the endless water; in the slow, steady beat of his heart; in worn, forgotten books. There was never any happiness for him, no hope for him, when he only burned himself out for retribution, willing to die for memories of his ghosts. The end will be found here, but perhaps, there will be another beginning.

As he hears a soft hum in agreement, Kurapika closes his eyes.

A gentle darkness is the last thing he knows.

 

Notes:

Here's my obligatory time travel fic. Contrary to Kurapika's expectations, I did want to give him a calm ending. He deserves peace.

I would say, that in the end, Kuroro and Kurapika were able to work together somehow. Tserriednich is gone, and the Scarlet Eyes were able to be retrieved. The next chapter will be up very soon, hopefully within the next few days!

@ks_lobos2 did this lovely piece of art inspired by this chapter. Please do check it out! <3

Please feel free to leave a comment—I would love to know what you think. You can also reach out to me on Twitter or Tumblr.

Chapter 2

 

There are no beginnings in the comfort of a seraphic forest; in the warmth of a summer with sunlight caressing his cheeks and grasses beneath his feet; in the scent of wind carrying morning dews; in grassland birds taking flight and finding freedom in a vast sky.

Kurapika’s eyes snap open. The sudden flood of awareness is just as overwhelming as the pain searing throughout his body. He’s sprawled over the arid ground, aching down to his bones, and he can’t distinguish where one pain starts and another ends. 

There’s no water in his lungs—everything is so dry when he takes his first full breath—and his throat hurts as if he had swallowed a handful of thorns. The air speaks of drought, but life still persists around him. When he lets out a cough, the black birds pecking at his soles rustle their wings and retreat to the sky. It’s impossible to tell where he is from their cries and calls alone.

Another breath, and it’s easier now. Kurapika doesn’t know how long he’s been lying here, his back on dead leaves and jagged rocks, his face upturned to the darkening sky. Perhaps a moment, perhaps an eternity. Time has vanished from the forefront of his mind despite how much it meant to him, when he always measured the passage of it. 

The remnants of a dream follow him into wakefulness. There’s a litany of voices in his ears, people he can’t discern, fragmented images flowing through his mind. Kurapika slides a hand through his hair and—remembers a phantom warmth, a gentle kiss pressed to his forehead. Remembers looking into the eyes of a young woman, only a few years older than him, but when he measured time in years, she looked the same as when he last saw her.

The memory comes with a stark, aching clarity.

It’s not your time yet.

Breathe.

It hits him so hard that his heart stutters. His chest suddenly feels too tight.

He can’t possibly—

Breathe.

Kurapika chokes on his next breath, a strangled gasp, and his hands fist into his hair. He wants to sob the way he hasn’t been able to in years, too caught up in the throes of grief and vengeance without release. He can’t cry, not now.

Catching his breath seems impossible, but he manages to take slow, deliberate breaths, until the panic begins to slide away.

Stay safe. I’ll be waiting for you.

A shudder wracks through his body, and he doesn’t know if it’s because of relief or regret or something else altogether. He presses a hand against the ground, feeling the imprint, the depth, and forces himself upright. He can hear his joints crackling in protest. The weight of return settles on his mind, reminding him what exactly happened before he closed his eyes for what he assumed to be the last time.

Letting go of his life was much easier than expected, when the exhaustion of his abilities only left Kurapika connected to life by a thin thread, before it severed altogether. He simply didn’t expect to wake up in an unfamiliar place when he should be buried thousands of feet beneath the water.

When there’s no water to be found, Kurapika can’t be anywhere close to the Black Whale—not even a distant island. A breeze scatters dead leaves onto his lap and he picks one up between his fingers. It crumbles with the slightest pressure, leaving nothing in his hand but a stem and veins. Kurapika gazes towards the direction of the wind. Beyond the mounds of rubbish and filth, a city rises in the distance.

If this is supposed to be Hell, then he’s seen far worse than Hell. Slowly and carefully, he gets his feet under himself and rises, dusting the dirt from his clothes. A wetness seeps through his suit jacket and he gingerly presses his hand over it, expecting the worse.

Blood stains his hand.

Not his blood, but Kuroro’s own.

It takes a moment for his thoughts to realign. When he closes his eyes, he sees a pale face marked by weariness, a body worn thin and deprived of blood, a phantom lingering on the fine line between life and death. When Kuroro lost his world, Kurapika’s could not be salvaged, and they accompanied each other until death.

But his heart beats on and on, and the steady rhythm sounds nothing like the heartbeat of someone who is dying—shouldn’t even belong to someone who is supposed to be dead. Breathing like this feels no less different than his life before. He doesn’t believe in second chances, but doesn’t know what else this could be.

Kurapika’s not willing to sit around doing nothing, so he keeps his eyes open. He needs answers and perhaps, he will find them in the city.

The city takes half an hour to reach by foot, and he steps past too many broken glass bottles, foil candy wrappers, and scraps of newspapers throttled by the wind. Sheets of newsprint get caught at his feet, and he reaches down to retrieve them. His eyes flick to the front of the page, the ink smudged from being thumbed through, and everything stills.    

METEOR CITY MAN WRONGFULLY CONVICTED FOR MURDER EXONERATED AFTER THREE YEARS.

62 KILLED IN MASS MURDER-SUICIDE.

An ill feeling rises high in Kurapika’s throat. The images blur before his eyes, the names of the deceased swim on the crinkled page, and he finds himself gripping the paper too tightly. He knows this incident well—the tramp incident from a decade ago, where the 31 individuals who condemned an innocent man were murdered by another 31 individuals from Meteor City in a fierce act of retribution. 

That’s exactly what makes Kurapika feel faint.

The date on the newsprint is indicative of ten years ago.

Kurapika doesn’t know what to do with this information, because it becomes strikingly clear that he’s in Meteor City. A miasma staining the air announces his arrival, and he has to hold his breath to walk along the dusty streets. He folds the article and tucks it away in his suit pocket. When he passes by old apartment buildings and sleeping bodies in dark alleyways, his presence does not go unnoticed. The people lingering in the streets stop what they’re doing on sight, regard his dress intently, and turn to whisper too loudly to their companions. 

Kurapika’s black suit is a sharp contrast to the torn clothes hanging from their thin frames. As much as he tries to drag his feet forward, the sight of a particularly young child in the periphery of his vision grounds him. The boy curls in on himself, his arms to his chest, as a group of older children strike him with their feet and fists in effort to snatch the pouch clutched to his chest. 

The boy doesn’t make a sound throughout the beating, until one of the larger boys lands a kick on his stomach, forcing a sharp gasp from him. Kurapika frowns. In one swift motion, he seizes two of the boys by their collars and lifts them from the ground.

“What the—?”

“Let me go!”

Both of them flail in protest, and Kurapika releases them none too gently. Stepping over them, he demands, “Leave.”

They scurry back in a cluster, securing their escape through the alleyway, but one of them dares to look back at Kurapika. “Don’t tell us what to do, outsider.”

The boy isn’t necessarily wrong, but Kurapika shrugs his words off, turning his attention to the child at his feet instead. Behind a mess of silver hair, his owlish eyes are beseeching, and Kurapika can’t help but feel like he’s seen them before. He kneels down and offers an outstretched hand.

“Are you alright?” Kurapika asks softly, receiving a nod in response. He doesn’t take Kurapika’s hand, though. “Is that something important to you?”

The boy looks down at the pouch and shifts it in his hands. The gentle clinking of coins could be heard. “I’m starving.” In the shadows of the alleyway, faint scuffling noises come from small creatures searching for their meals. Teeth and nails scrape against metal, and then there's the sound of an empty can rolling across the ground. “Do you have—?”

Kurapika pats down his jacket and pants and remembers that his wallet is in his back pocket. He doesn’t know how he was able to keep this out of all things. He opens up his black wallet, and at the sight of paper notes, the boy comes closer. Too close, and then—

His wallet is no longer in his hands. It takes half a heartbeat before the boy takes off, and another before Kurapika follows, racing through the streets before he can get any farther. God, the first time in a while that he tries to be helpful to a stranger, he pays for it. Kurapika nearly loses the boy when he runs past a vegetable cart, and Kurapika almost slams into it, spilling old produce over the ground and rolling about on the streets.  

The merchants curse at him, but Kurapika pays them no mind as the boy turns into the bend of a street. It appears to be a dead end, which works well enough for him. Against the worn brick wall, there is not one boy, but someone else waiting for him as well.

The sight is an incongruity, because it’s like Kurapika is looking at a ghost. A pale face, dark eyes, and black hair parted evenly over a cross tattoo. His mind can’t catch up to what he sees, because all he can think is—Kuroro’s dead, Kuroro’s alive. But there’s no blood on him, no tears in his clothing, no wounds on his skin. This isn't the Kuroro he knows. He looks so much younger, so much cleaner, almost as if he could be the same age as Kurapika. 

The boy clings to Kuroro’s legs, shaking. Kuroro fondly pats him on the head and says, “You shouldn’t get caught if you steal, Kortopi. Especially if they’re as nice as this stranger here.”

Oh, Kurapika thinks, because this has to be some kind of construct of the past. Horror settles within him, something that feels like a heavy blow to his heart. It’s one thing to lend a hand to a child, but another thing entirely to a Spider. He tries to suppress the horrible feeling in his throat, because Kortopi’s a child too, but it doesn’t make much difference.

Kuroro takes the wallet from Kortopi and throws it in Kurapika’s direction. It falls into his hands with ease.

“This is no place for tourists,” Kuroro says, regarding him as if he’s some kind of wealthy businessman or missionary. “Go home.”

Kurapika feels too lightheaded. Kuroro brushes past him as he walks by, and he doesn’t know what he should do. Should he reach out to him, call out his name? Surely that would be a dangerous move, when Kuroro doesn’t seem to recognize him at all.

Kurapika swallows thickly, ignoring the inexplicable ache stinging at his chest. All he says is, “Thank you for returning this.”

A wave in acknowledgment, before Kuroro disappears with his young companion in the street. He feels as if he's making a grave mistake for letting Kuroro leave like this, but he quickly checks his wallet again. Tucked away in the pockets are bills left untouched, receipts from old purchases, and recent train tickets. All of them are dated from his time, but he doesn't know if he should ask someone for the date of today.

Everything in his wallet seems to be there, but his Hunter license—

It’s gone.

 

Notes:

Another quick chapter, so please bear with me. Poor Kurapika was robbed twice.

I'm taking liberties with pre-canon aspects of this fic, so the Silva and Kuroro fight might be happening very soon..

Please leave a comment—I would love to know what you think. You can also reach out to me on Twitter or Tumblr.

Chapter 3

 

A flash of lightning, but no rain.

The sky grows dark and oppressive, encouraging civilians to close the doors and windows of their apartments without hesitation. Meteor City doesn’t seem like a place that would see much rainfall, or any at all. The sight of lightning is more like an omen than anything.

The sudden change in humidity makes Kurapika’s hair stick to his face. As if the heat could be more unbearable. The heaps of garbage rise several floors high next to the buildings, and the pungent scent seems to have magnified. No wind passes by as he moves through the vacant streets, keeping a measured distance behind Kuroro and Kortopi to remain undetected. It’s fortunate that he can still conceal himself using Zetsu.

As he leaves behind old apartments, more decrepit dwellings come into view. Some makeshift houses seem more durable than others, constructed from planks of wood and cardboard, while many are only composed of ropes and tarpaulin. Although most of the civilians have retreated into their homes, barefooted children still mingle beneath low roofs made from tin sheets and plastics. Kurapika fears they will not hold should it rain.

Kuroro eventually stops at an open landscape, far from the homes of Meteor City’s inhabitants. Finally, because Kurapika didn’t exactly want to ambush him in public. Amidst the smoke and ascended dust, where something used to stand, only rubble and broken glass remain. The aftermath of destruction is thick in the air.

Kurapika presses his back against a slab of rock, not daring to make a sound. When the dust begins to clear, he can make out a massive figure approaching Kuroro and Kortopi. The sudden flood of aura melts away the scraps of the building at their feet, vaporizing them into nothing but air. Kurapika’s breath seizes in his throat.

Silva Zoldyck emerges from the dust, holding a young woman by her long, black hair—but she isn’t struggling, isn’t even moving. Only her white dress billows with the breeze.

If Kuroro could grow even paler, he does. Kortopi hides behind his leg, trembling and grasping onto him without any intention of letting go.

“You’ve kept me waiting, Spider.” Silva drops the woman, and her body strikes the ground with the sound of a crumpled doll being discarded like garbage. Her hair spills over in a pool of black, soaked with fresh blood. “Where’s the rest of your subordinates?”

Kuroro sets his jaw, not breaking eye contact with his unwanted visitor. “Go, Kortopi.”

Kortopi’s head snaps up, looking at him with wide, fearful eyes. He shakes his head, grabbing onto Kuroro’s clothes again.

“Did you not hear me?” Kuroro’s tone is harsher now. “Go.”

Kurapika knows faintly of their past together, of how Kuroro managed to hold his own in a fight against the Zoldycks twice, though he doesn’t know who hired Silva. This is unfortunate timing on his part, because all he wants is his Hunter license back, not to get involved in a fight between these two.

Silva approaches with thunderous steps, and the smell of something burning is their only warning. Electricity crackles in his hands, spinning into an orb of vibrant purple light, and he hurls it towards their direction with terrifying strength.

Kurapika doesn’t even have time to see the result, because Kuroro grabs Kortopi by his shirt and throws him across the landscape—back in Kurapika’s direction. As Kortopi’s body skids through the ground, landing at his feet, Kurapika doesn’t even think, just picks him up and runs. He makes a sound of surprise, but Kurapika doesn’t have the time to explain yet. Earth shatters, rocks flatten, and when Kurapika looks back, his heart racing like never before, Kuroro’s figure has disappeared with the dust.

The surge of dust sears at Kurapika’s skin as he runs, stings at his eyes, but he refuses to stop. The static is so close, so strong that it crackles through his hair. He’s tucked Kortopi underneath his arm as if he’s carrying a package, though he’s far too light for a child. “Don’t say a word, kid.” Kortopi doesn’t struggle in his grasp, only looks at him with profound confusion. “I’m getting you out of here.”

“But Kuroro! What about Kuroro—”

“Kuroro’s strong,” Kurapika says without hesitation. It’s not something he’s ever admitted before, despite the times Kuroro called Kurapika’s own abilities fascinating and his strength compelling. Behind them, there’s the sound of impact and a hundred birds escaping from the battlefield. “He’s stronger than you think. He’s not going to die so easily.”

“How do you know—”

“Focus.” Kurapika grits his teeth. “I don’t think you can fight, but I can. You’re only a liability here. You don’t want to be a liability to Kuroro, right?”

“Then go help him!” A sharp tug on the sleeve of his jacket, and Kurapika looks down. Faint tracks of tears stain Kortopi’s face. “Please.”

Something hot sparks at his chest, but Kurapika chooses not to answer. He doesn’t stop looking forward, continues moving through the haze of smoke and dust. A deafening blast distinguishes itself from the others, so powerful that the ground shudders beneath them—and there's another and another and another—and the series of explosions only gain momentum from that point on.

It’s only when the heat in the air fades and the smoke is a distance away, that he sets Kortopi down on the ground. They’re close to the district where they came from, and Kurapika finally lets out a quiet breath of relief. They take cover beneath a canopy in front of an abandoned shop front, and it’s enough shelter for now. His head is spinning, his legs are trembling, though he can’t tell if it’s from adrenaline or from the fact he decided to rescue a Spider.

To what extent should Kurapika get involved, if any at all? The outcome of this fight has already been decided—a standstill where both end up surviving the encounter. Perhaps he didn’t need to do anything at all, but he’s seen too many deaths already, too much blood spilled, and letting a child bear witness to that isn’t something that sits well with him.

As Kortopi looks up at him, tears slide down his cheeks. He cries quietly, with only the softest of sniffles. “Who was that?”

Kurapika can’t think of a roundabout explanation. “That man wants Kuroro and his friends dead. You saw what happened to that woman.”

A Spider that he’s never met before. But he doesn’t dwell on the thought, because she’s dead.

“But why?”

“Because someone hired him to do so.” Kurapika thinks of the first time he saw Silva during Yorknew, as a fellow assassin rather than Killua’s father, and how he did things the way he liked, despite expectations of the mafioso. “He’s doing his job.”

Kortopi contemplates this in silence, looking at the dust on his shoes. Kurapika has never particularly enjoyed being around children, although that thought might have changed during the time he spent with Prince Woble. He wonders how she is doing now, if she managed to safely return home with Queen Oito.

A moment passes between them, before Kortopi’s expression shifts to something more hesitant. “How do you know Kuroro? You don’t—want him dead too, do you?”

“I’ve only heard of him,” Kurapika decides to say, closing his eyes for a brief moment. There was a time when he wished Kuroro dead with all his being, but that time is not now. “I just want my Hunter license back, that’s all. I’m not going to murder him over it.”

Kortopi wipes away his tears with the sleeve of his tunic. “I don’t want Kuroro to get hurt. If you’re a Hunter, then you must be strong too.” He reaches out to tug at Kurapika’s pants, pleading him. “I think he needs help.”

Kurapika lets out a resigned sigh. He doesn’t exactly have a plan beyond not getting interfering with Kuroro’s fight against Silva. “I’ll go take a look. Stay here, and don’t move.”

When Kortopi finally lets go of him, he drags himself back to where he last saw Kuroro. Despite the reverberation in the distance, something like a detonation, the street children have yet to take shelter. They look on with curiosity in their eyes, towards the grey, rainless sky. He hopes that Kortopi will heed his instructions and avoid getting into trouble with the other children. He would rather not return to find him getting beaten again.

As Kurapika gets closer, dust sweeps across the landscape, and he has to cover his face with his suit jacket as he forges onward. The last thing he wants is for Silva to mistake him for Kuroro’s acquaintance—or even worse, a Spider.

When the dust clears, the landscape has been violently warped, consisting of nothing but deep craters steaming with smoke and ridged footprints trailing away from the area. The air is still with Silva Zoldyck nowhere in sight.

Amidst the rubble, Kuroro lies a few feet away from him. His clothes are scorched, left as tattered pieces on his frame, and the blood on his torso conjures an echo of the last time Kurapika saw him on the Black Whale. Kurapika goes to him, lowering himself to his knees by his side.

Kuroro’s gaze sharpens, striving through the haze of pain to focus on Kurapika’s face. “It’s you.” It takes effort for him to speak, though he sounds perplexed, as if he believes that he’s seeing things. “I thought I told you to go home.”

Kurapika suppresses the urge to scoff. “You have something of mine, and I’m not leaving without it.” He turns his head, taking in their surroundings. “Where is he?”

“Escaped,” Kuroro says after a moment. He heaves himself upright, flinching at the discomfort, but Kurapika splays a hand across his chest to support him. Kurapika doesn’t know why he does so, but Kuroro feels alive, and the touch feels capable of burning Kurapika’s hand. He leans back against the rubble in a sitting position. “Kortopi? The child who was with me?”

“He’s safe.”

“Good,” Kuroro murmurs, although there’s nothing good about the pain in his inflection. His voice trembles as he speaks. “I'm glad.”

A soft, breathless sound is the last thing Kurapika hears before Kuroro suddenly falls forward onto his shoulder, instead of a slab of dusty stone. When he breathes, the sordid scent of blood and ash fills his nose. It makes him go very still, because all he can remember is—

Kuroro resting limply against his shoulder, so close to the crook of his neck, bloodied and broken. Kuroro murmuring his last words against the bare skin of his neck, his breath still warm. Kuroro closing his eyes, ensuring that Kurapika would not be alone during his last moments.

Kurapika shouldn’t have such poignant memories about his former enemy, but he does. They were never companions. They were the last survivors of their families. They didn’t choose each other.

But the Kuroro he knows is dead.

A breath to steady himself, and Kurapika turns his attention back to the person in front of him. Though the wounds that Silva afflicted upon this Kuroro seem severe, the future has already dictated that he will survive this ordeal. How, Kurapika doesn’t know.

Kuroro has already fallen from consciousness, only a light weight on his shoulder now. It’s jarring to think that he will be the one to destroy the world that Kurapika cherished so much, when he looks so vulnerable here. His hair, shorter than what Kurapika remembers, is a dark veil over his sepulchral face. His lashes are still very long, brushing against his cheeks. Kurapika can’t fathom a time when Kuroro was truly innocent.

The reality that he's with Kuroro makes him think of the possibilities. If he's truly ten years in the past, no matter how unfathomable it seems, then—there’s the potential for a future where his family will still live on, where he will not have to be the last relic of a forgotten past.

But he isn’t the kind of person to change the world. His heart isn’t as big as Gon’s and his hands can’t save countless lives like Leorio’s. Yet, he's all that the world has right now. He’s already been a boy, a murderer, a savior. Who must he be? What must he be to change things?

Kurapika doesn't know, but it’s best to destroy an infection before it spreads. He could easily end Kuroro’s life now, when he’s so defenseless by his side, and eliminate the rest of the Spiders for good measure. His chains are a well-remembered weight on his hand and he could certainly do it, end everything before it even begins. A future where the Spiders would stand no longer makes his heart feel so light, but—

Kurapika doesn’t need any more blood on his hands. Eradicating the Spiders doesn’t mean that his clan won’t be susceptible to the attention of others as well. Doesn’t mean that another threat won’t rise in its wake.

At his side, Kuroro’s chest rises and falls shallowly. His wounds demand attention from him. He has to make his choice now.

Kurapika knows what will happen, and he’s prepared. All he has to do is prevent the worse from happening. It’s a new purpose for him, and he’ll make sure that he accomplishes it while he's alive, no matter what it takes.

So he gently lays Kuroro back against the rubble, keeping him upright. His hands shake when he reaches for Kuroro’s shirt, peeling whatever’s left of it from his wounds. It’s entirely possible that Kuroro’s ribs were broken and punctured his lungs, and Kurapika can probably heal to that extent.

But he’s not willing to use his Eyes for this. Not after how he exhausted his life in exchange for greater power.

Though, it’s still comforting to have his Nen. His cross-linked chain is suspended over Kuroro’s skin, glowing a gentle green, and he uses his own aura to accelerate the healing of damaged skin and muscle and bone. It won’t be perfect, but it will be enough for Kuroro’s body to heal naturally thereafter.

If Kurapika was the person he was two years ago, he would never let Kuroro live, but this time, he needs Kuroro alive if he wants the answers he seeks. When the wounds have sealed, Kurapika gathers Kuroro’s arm over his shoulder and lifts him. Although Kuroro isn’t much taller than he is, he is a much greater weight.

This means having to dragging Kuroro back to Kortopi on his own strength. It takes twice the amount of time than it usually would, when Kuroro keeps on sliding from his shoulder and he has to avoid hitting Kuroro’s body on the edges of buildings. The odd looks he gets from children seem to be directed towards him rather than Kuroro. Relief eventually comes when he finds Kortopi waiting for them at the same place.

Kortopi rushes over to them, his features fraught with concern. “What happened?"

“He’s fine.” Kurapika’s seen too much for one day. His legs are aching and he’s ready to drop Kuroro on the ground any moment now. “Where does he live?”

Kurapika silently prays that the building that Silva decimated wasn't Kuroro's home. Thankfully, Kortopi announces, “This way!”

His apartment isn’t very far, but Kurapika’s legs protest when he has to climb a flight of stairs. Kortopi helps him unlock the door with a spare key. The space is rather sparse, but much cleaner than expected, and Kurapika breathes a sigh of relief when it isn’t cluttered with dust and filth. He releases Kuroro onto the bed, letting him fall none too gently, and finds himself envious of Kuroro for having a bed to sleep on.

Light streams weakly from the windows, passing over Kuroro’s face and reminding Kurapika of how young he really is. His dark lashes flutter in slumber and the areas around his eyes are free of fatigue. The sight makes him contemplate why and how Kuroro became the person he did, though he'll most likely never know.

Kurapika sits on the edge of the bed and carefully removes the rest of the blood-soaked shirt from Kuroro’s body, discarding it on the floor. His torso is exposed now, scarred lightly from his unfinished healing efforts, and there’s the etch of a black tattoo on his arm. Kurapika averts his gaze before his eyes can shift to scarlet.

His Hunter license should be in Kuroro’s pants somewhere then, or perhaps his shoes. He wills himself not to feel uncomfortable when he leans over to search Kuroro, digging his hands into his pockets for that familiar card, and then—

The doorknob turns, the floorboard creaks. Kurapika looks up, startled and very guilty of laying his hands on a half-dressed and unconscious Kuroro.

That aquiline profile is undeniable, because Pakunoda stands there at the entrance, her hands covering Kortopi’s eyes. Her dress is modest and her face is clean of makeup. Her lips part slightly, as if she's too surprised to say anything. Kurapika can feel his face heating up, having possessed the most impeccable timing in all situations today, and the flush on his cheeks doesn't make things any better.

But behind her is another presence all too familiar. Nobunaga steps closer, tightening his grip around the hilt of his blade, though he doesn’t unsheathe it just yet.

“Who are you?"

 

Notes:

This is a new record. I updated this fic three times in one week, consecutively. T_T

I always lose motivation with longer fics, since I just want to upload the more explicit chapters already. +;) But alas, we are not there yet.

Please leave a comment—I would love to know what you think. You can also reach out to me on Twitter or Tumblr.

Chapter 4

 

“I wasn't aware that Danchou had a lover.”

The remark comes from Phinks first, and it couldn't have been farther from the truth. Kurapika wonders if it's possible to choke on air, because he can't get a sound out from his throat. He stands at the bedside, facing four members of the Phantom Troupe—if he can even consider Kortopi to be part of them. Even during the early days of the Phantom Troupe, he wouldn't put it past Kuroro to have a child as a member of his group.

Pakunoda is alive. Nobunaga is alive. Phinks is alive. Kortopi is alive. They are all supposed to be dead, and yet they are not. But Kurapika is the one who doesn't belong here. He has to remember that.

Pakunoda scrutinizes him as if he's some sort of deviant, and he can't help but feel offended at the very thought. She continues protecting the purity of Kortopi's eyesight, her hands over his face. “I wouldn't think that he would consent to being touched when he's unconscious. Unless his lover is that repressed.”

“I'm not,” Kurapika manages to say, and it comes out much rougher than he intends. He clears his throat. “I'm not his lover.” Despite the absurdity of their claims, he can't come up with an explanation that could be less farfetched.

Nobunaga rubs his cleanly shaven face in thought. "Then what’s someone like you doing here?" He takes one step forward, and the sound of a blade being exposed from its sheath cuts through the stillness of the air. “I'll give you one try to answer.”

“Wait—” Kortopi pulls Pakunoda's hands away from his face. He stumbles in between them and Kurapika, spreading his arms out. “He's a good person!”

That draws skeptical glances from all of them. If Phinks had eyebrows, he would raise them.

Kortopi goes to Kurapika’s side, holding onto the hem of his jacket at first. But then his small hand closes around Kurapika’s fingers, and he looks up at Kurapika, determined. “This person saved me and brought Kuroro back here.”

Nobunaga seems unconvinced. “The timing’s too convenient, especially when we just lost number eight. If only we were there—”

“But he was.” There’s a tremor in Kortopi’s voice, as if this is the first time he's raised his voice, the first time he’s fought for something in his life. His grasp tightens around Kurapika’s hand. “I don’t know what would have happened if he wasn’t. He healed Kuroro too.”

“A good samaritan?” Phinks looks straight at Kurapika, growing impatient with his silence. “Nobody does anything without expecting something in return. I want to know what happened back there too.”

“Silva Zoldyck came.”   

Kurapika turns to the bed in faint surprise, where Kuroro is staring up at the ceiling. He doesn't know how long Kuroro's been awake, but if only he had woken up before Kurapika had to drag his body all the way back here.

“I’d like to speak with our guest, so if you all could leave for a while.” It’s not a request, as Kuroro’s words are definitive. With pronounced effort, he pushes himself up on his elbows, despite that the movement makes him grow paler. “I’ll provide all of the necessary details after.”

Nobunaga looks intently at the both of them, before sliding his blade back where it belongs. Even Kortopi gives him one last glance before letting go of his hand.

Kurapika isn’t certain if they all live in this building, but this space definitely belongs only to Kuroro. When only the two of them remain, Kurapika gets straight to the point.

"Where is my Hunter license?” Folding his arms, he stares flatly at Kuroro. “I have methods of knowing if you aren’t telling the truth, so I would advise you not to do so.”

Kuroro blinks, but slowly moves to sit up and lean against the wall. A weighted silence sits in the air between them.

“You shouldn’t get caught if you steal from someone,” Kurapika echoes. He’s not sure if someone like Kuroro has the capacity to feel guilt, but he has no intention of being sympathetic here. “Isn’t that what you told Kortopi?”

“I apologize.” Kuroro’s tone is impeccably polite, but his expression is as unreadable as ever. Even with all of his pockets turned inside-out, there’s nothing to be found. “But it isn’t with me.”

Kurapika’s lips tighten into a thin line. “That isn’t possible.”

“What I mean is,” Kuroro explains carefully, “if it was lost in the fight, then there is no way of retrieving it. It’s most likely dust and ash at this point.”

Without another thought, Kurapika slams his hand against the wall, right beside Kuroro’s head. Kuroro doesn’t so as much flinch, only continues staring into Kurapika’s eyes as he leans over him. Something burns inside him, but he doesn’t know if he’s angry out of principle—because Kuroro’s taken so much from him already—or angry because the Hunter license meant something to him.

“You have to be kidding me,” Kurapika says, lacking inflection. His blond hair falls into his face as he looks down at Kuroro. He can’t remember the last time he cut it.

“If it matters to you,” Kuroro starts to say, somewhat awkward, “I can attempt to replace it.” What he really means is that he’ll try to steal another or purchase it off the black market. Kuroro doesn’t seem like the kind of person to owe debts.

There isn’t any use getting frustrated. His anger slides into disappointment, because despite that he only became a Hunter in order to pursue the Spiders, he worked to earn that license. It was then that he met his companions for the first time, that he finally felt as if he was making progress towards his goals.

Kurapika doesn’t even know if he would retain the benefits of having a license in this life, but that’s not the point here. It feels like he’s losing a connection to his past. He takes a deep breath, because if he doesn't calm himself, he'll throttle Kuroro before he knows it. He turns away to face the adjacent wall instead.

He can feel Kuroro’s gaze on his back, assessing his reaction. After several moments of silence, an unexpected offer comes. “Do you have a place to stay? You’re welcome to stay here tonight.”

“That's very considerate of you,” Kurapika says dryly, as if that would rectify things between them. It’s been years since he last had a home to return to. Since then, he’s managed well enough to find places to sleep. “Do you always take in strangers like this?”

“I appreciate the fact that you assisted Kortopi as well as myself,” Kuroro says quietly, “and I believe I should reciprocate in turn. While I am interested in knowing what a Hunter is doing in a place like this, I won’t ask if you’re not willing to tell me now.”

Kurapika isn’t particularly inclined to trust Kuroro, but he has nothing else to lose. He’s exhausted, on the verge of passing out, but he’s more than capable should anything else happen to him in the midst of the night. Being one bodyguard out of Queen Oito’s remaining two meant forgoing sleep for many nights and covering the responsibilities that should have been distributed among many more. “Fine.”

“Can I have your name?”

Kurapika hesitates for a moment, wonders if he should divulge his name freely, but he’s never used a name he hasn't been given. He’s always worn his name with pride, the last trace of his dying language.

“It’s rude to ask when you haven’t introduced yourself.” Kurapika looks over his shoulder, meeting Kuroro’s curious gaze evenly. “While Kortopi called you Kuroro, the others called you Danchou.”

“You can just call me Kuroro. Kuroro Lucifer,” he offers with a small smile. In a place like Meteor City where so many individuals lack identities, names hold power and meaning. “Kortopi isn’t old enough to call me that yet.”

“Kurapika,” is all he says, although Kuroro seems to be waiting for the rest of his name. He doesn’t have a last name.

“Kurapika,” Kuroro repeats softly, slowly. “That’s a nice name.”

Kurapika doesn’t deign to answer, only huffs in disbelief, because accepting compliments from Kuroro isn’t something that he ever plans on doing. Slowly, Kuroro rises to his feet and keeps his steps steady when he goes to open the small closet in the corner of the room.

“You can take the bed, and I’ll sleep on the floor.” Kuroro has yet to fully recover, but it isn’t Kurapika’s problem if Kuroro sleeps on the floor since he’s the one offering. He folds a set of spare clothes and a towel, presenting them to Kurapika. “You can also use the shower. The water is clean, if you’re concerned about that.”

Kurapika nods, accepting the neatly folded pile. “I’ll do that then.”

He retreats to Kuroro’s bathroom, quietly closing and locking the door behind him. It’s easy to discern that the rest of Kuroro’s place is as clean as the bedroom, albeit small, though he must be more privileged than most of Meteor City’s inhabitants to live like this. After hanging Kuroro’s clothing and towel on the hooks on the wall, he loosens his black tie and starts to divest himself of the rest of his suit.

Turning on the water, he steps into the shower. The temperature of the water is a welcome warmth on his skin, easing the tension deep in his bones. He makes use of the bottles of shampoo and soap on the racks, taking his time to wash his hair and body, grateful to have time to himself. All of the dirt and dust from his skin washes away with ease. The clean, earthy scent of sage fills the bathroom, and while it's nice to escape the foul odor of the outside, it’s a strange sensation to share the same scent as Kuroro.

Kurapika eventually leaves the shower, feeling refreshed yet still very tired, and gingerly dries his hair with the towel. He can’t make sense of why he’s here, in Meteor City and Kuroro’s company, out of all the places he could possibly be. But he’s alive and everyone he knows is alive—just not in the way he remembers them. The mirror over the sink is fogged with steam, and he sweeps his hand across the surface, considering his reflection.

Taupe eyes that sometimes shift to scarlet. Shadows beneath his eyes, from too many nights sacrificed to his duties. A small nose, sharp jaw, and cheekbones that make him see his mother in his reflection.

It won’t be long until he’ll reach the ages his parents were when they died, for he’ll have outlived them for many years now. The thought leaves his heart aching, but perhaps, he’ll have the opportunity to find their younger selves in this life, even if they won’t ever know who Kurapika is.

That makes him feel better, feel worse, he doesn’t know. He continues dragging the towel over his damp hair. His bangs continue falling over his eyes, reminding him that he should cut it soon or resort to tying his hair back. Too many times had Prince Woble pulled on his hair when he looked over her, cradled her in his arms, and the memory makes him smile to himself. When he feels dry enough, he leaves the towel on the hook and gets dressed with the clothes that Kuroro lent him.

The white tee shirt falls over Kurapika's hips, too large for his frame. It’s loose over his shoulders, exposing his collarbone more than he would like. The sweatpants are shapeless as well, long enough that he has to roll them up over his ankles. He doesn't really mind. More than anything, he’s just surprised that Kuroro owns something that isn’t black in color.

Kurapika returns to the bedroom, where the light is still on. At the foot of the bed, Kuroro is sitting on a blanket on the floor, having changed into clean clothing himself. He looks at Kurapika for a moment too long, before turning back to the book in his hands. He’s been acting awfully calm for someone who just lost one of his Spiders, because Kurapika clearly remembers what he did the last time that happened.

Kuroro closes the book before placing it on the desk. He stands up and approaches Kurapika, taking his old clothes from him. “I’ll make sure your suit gets cleaned.”

“Thank you,” Kurapika answers, to which Kuroro smiles. The politeness is beginning to unnerve him, but he supposes that Kuroro must have always been like that.

“I’ll go ahead and shower then,” Kuroro says. “You can sleep first.”

When he closes the door to the bathroom, Kurapika takes a quick glance at the rest of his bedroom. The last time he can recall sharing a room with another person was during the Hunter Exam, and he doesn't know how he feels about spending the night here. He peers beneath the bed, finding only stacks of books instead of anything else someone would expect from a teenage boy. He shouldn't have expected differently from Kuroro.

Once he hears the water running, he lies down on the bed, staring at the blank walls. His wallet is hidden beneath the pillow, right where he can rest assured that it's still in his possession. Despite the softness of the sheets and blankets, he’s not certain if he could ever be comfortable on Kuroro’s bed, let alone sleep tonight.

 

Notes:

Here's another quick chapter.

It took me two years to get in a scene where Kurapika wears Kuroro's clothes.. It was the first thing I ever wrote for kurokura in 2016, but it never made it into any of my fics. :')

Thank you for reading so far! Please leave a comment, as I would love to know what you think.

You can also reach out to me on Twitter or Tumblr.

Chapter 5

Notes:

Thank you so much for your kudos and kind comments over the past year. I loved reading them and hope that you’ll enjoy the future chapters too.

Thank you to Lu and Thea for reading this over.

Thank you to Seth for drawing the fanart for this chapter!

 

Kurapika’s body aches for a good night’s rest, to recover his strength for the first time in months, but his thoughts refuse to slow down.

The entire day could have been a dying hallucination, nothing more than a desperate hope brought to life when he was damned to his demise. After years of dreaming of the dead, of those he couldn’t save, only this time did he save Kuroro instead of being plagued by his nightmare. But why would he delude himself with dreams of his former enemy instead of his loved ones? 

Kurapika is certain that dreams shouldn’t last this long. They certainly shouldn’t be realistic enough that he can hear Kuroro at the foot of the bed, breathing quietly in his repose. The soft sheets whisper against his skin as he turns to peer over the edge of the bed. He steals a glance at Kuroro through the darkness, where the silhouette of his chest rising and falling in slumber dispels his doubts. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, is the recognition that something must have happened during the precious moments between surrendering his life on the Black Whale and ending up in Meteor City. But what?

The only conclusion he arrives at is the manifestation of some latent Nen ability that guided his return to life. Even then, transcending time makes no sense.

Kurapika rests his head back against his pillows. He can feel his body betraying himself to exhaustion, refusing to allow him to dwell on this any longer. When he closes his eyes, he doesn’t expect to wake up tomorrow.

Somehow, he does.

There’s softness all around him, making him want to sleep for another lifetime instead of opening his eyes. He’s being lulled back to that gentle, dreamless world, when his calm vanishes at the sudden awareness of another presence beside him—a familiar aura that he hasn’t felt this close to him since the sinking ship. A shadow falls across his face, blocking out the light striking his eyelids. 

In his other life, his second life, Kuroro’s face is what he wakes to.

Kurapika lashes out before he can even think. His fist slams into Kuroro’s face, sending him stumbling backwards on the floor.

“Ouch—”

Kurapika jolts upright on the bed, tangled around blankets, his mind disoriented but his body aware. His arm is outstretched in a punch, his knuckles throbbing with rosy splotches blooming over them. The stinging pain he feels couldn’t possibly be from a dream.

Adrenaline flooding his body, Kurapika risks a glance around him. The room is small and sparse, with dust reflecting in the lamplight. An innumerable number of books line the shelves on the wall. His gaze falls to the floor, where Kuroro is recovering from the force of impact, looking more stunned than pained with one hand pressed against his eye. And he also looks ten years younger than when Kurapika last remembers seeing him.

The realization settles that he’s in Kuroro’s bedroom. Kurapika wills his heart to calm down, but even as a teenager, Kuroro still manages to trigger his stress response. 

“I’m—” Kurapika cuts himself off because all he can think is I’m not sorry. “You startled me. What do you think you’re doing?”

“Waking you up for breakfast,” Kuroro answers slowly, blinking up at him in mild surprise. Kurapika responds with scrutiny, his eyes narrowing with palpable suspicion. “I wasn’t going to kiss you or anything, so there’s no need for you to look at me like that.”

Kurapika’s fingers grip onto the fabric of his blankets, searching for something to strangle. “Ki—?” 

He manages not to raise his voice in his disbelief, but he can’t bring himself to repeat that. He draws the covers over himself, all the way up to his collar, as if this is going to protect him from unseemly advances. “I’m more inclined to believe that you were trying to kill me.”

“It’s a joke,” Kuroro assures him, and it’s not very convincing because his tone is entirely bereft of humor. Making things even worse, he adds, “Haven’t you heard of Sleeping Beauty?”

An incredulous expression crosses Kurapika’s face, because the Kuroro he remembers would never say something so inappropriate. “It isn’t funny.”

Kuroro considers him for a long moment, then has the nerve to look apologetic. He seems to try Kurapika’s patience in every lifetime, when every conversation and interaction leaves him at a loss for words. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

His gaze drops to Kurapika’s white-knuckled grip over the covers, before meeting his eyes again. Kurapika expects the familiar burn of indignation to surface, but it never comes. It’s alarming how much reign he has over his reactions nowadays and he should welcome it more, if only the absence of his anger didn’t leave him feeling so empty. Only a flicker of irritation remains at the way Kuroro looks at him, with the downcast of his doe-eyes and the collapse of his shoulders, reminding him of a puppy accidentally kicked by his owner.

“Are you alright?” Kurapika asks with a calmness he can’t quite comprehend, somewhat begrudging. 

Kuroro lifts his hand to reveal the swelling over his left eye. An angry bruise is manifesting over his pale skin, although it isn’t as severe as the beating Kurapika gave him in Yorknew. “I think so. You have a strong arm, though.”

“You could’ve dodged it,” Kurapika says, at the risk of sounding like an unapologetic asshole.

Instead of challenging him, Kuroro admits, “Well, you caught me off-guard.”

Kurapika’s mouth tightens a little. Kuroro has no right to seem so defenseless, when he’s the last person he should be concerned about. He doesn’t know how to reconcile this young and boyish and seemingly harmless Kuroro with the man who was capable of merciless monstrosities, who orchestrated massacres for the souls of the dead, who eviscerated Tserriednich’s eyes from his skull to exact retribution that he had no right to, who called Kurapika kind when he was anything but.

Silence winds tight between them while Kuroro seems to consider what to say, as if he doesn’t want to upset him further. Kurapika eventually breaks the stillness with a sigh, deep enough that his bangs flutter around his face. Casting one last suspicious glance, he throws off the covers and gets out of bed. 

“Let me take a look.”

Kurapika drops to his knees on the floor, sitting before Kuroro. He raises a hand to the side of his face, a slow and tentative motion. His fingers gently press against Kuroro’s cheek, the tender skin around his eye. The swelling feels warm beneath his fingertips. Kuroro doesn’t stifle his wince, but he doesn’t refuse him, even though the last touch they shared was violent in nature.

Kuroro sits there numbly, watching him with unwavering eyes, as Kurapika carefully examines him. Treating the area would only require a small measure of Nen to speed up his body’s natural healing processes, but it’s laughable that Kurapika entertains doing so—as if Kuroro, fearsome leader of the Phantom Troupe, is so vulnerable that he can’t handle a single punch. 

He considers the feel of flesh and blood and bone beneath Kuroro’s skin, the steady thrum of aura in his veins. Touching Kuroro makes his presence more tangible, tethers him to where he is, when all Kurapika sees is a ghost beneath his skin. It’s as if he’s wiping blood off his face that isn’t even there.

He still can’t quite believe it. A headache flares behind his eyes, not the way overusing Emperor Time leaves him feeling, but from trying to understand his circumstances no matter how much he should deny them.

Kuroro catches his wrist, startling him from his thoughts. “Are you going to heal me again?” 

Kurapika immediately wrenches his hand away. With the way that he’s acting, Kuroro must think that he has gone insane.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Kurapika says, and it comes out harsher than he intends. 

Kuroro’s eyes widen, and the earnestness of his confusion brings him pause. Perhaps Kuroro expected more from him.

“You’ll be fine,” Kurapika tells him, rising to his feet. “Do you have any ice?”

A beat of silence passes, before Kuroro answers. “In the fridge.”

Kurapika crosses over to the small kitchen on the other side of the room, passing by the breakfast laid out on the table. He can feel Kuroro’s attention on him, a prickling that starts at his neck and travels down to his spine. He rolls his shoulders to shake off the sensation, and pulls up the collar of his shirt to prevent it from slipping off his shoulder. 

Opening up the fridge, Kurapika finds it largely empty except for a water pitcher filter. Maybe Kuroro used up everything to prepare a meal for him. The starkness of Kuroro’s living spaces still comes as a surprise, making him ponder where he keeps all of his stolen goods. But when he doesn’t own much of anything here, it’s not too difficult to stay clean.

There’s enough ice in the upper compartment for him to use. He takes a clean cloth from the counter and wraps it around a handful of ice to create a cold compress, trying not to feel self-conscious under the weight of Kuroro’s gaze. 

“I can do it myself,” Kuroro says from right behind him. 

Kurapika nearly jumps out of his skin. He’s so caught up in his head that he didn’t even hear Kuroro approaching.

“Just sit down,” Kurapika urges, his heart pounding furiously in his throat.

Kuroro looks at him in question, tilting his head to the side—a habit that Kurapika startlingly recalls as he wills his heartbeat back to normal. But Kuroro listens as he settles into one of the chairs at the table, waiting for Kurapika to join him.

“Here.” Kurapika stands in front of him, bringing the compress to press none too gently over Kuroro’s eye, making him wince again. He wouldn’t be surprised if Kuroro thinks that he’s trying to make it worse. “If you hold it there for a while, the swelling should go down.”

Kuroro sends him a hesitant smile. His hand brushes against Kurapika’s as he takes over from him. “Thank you.” 

The air between them remains tense. Before Kurapika can say anything else, his stomach chooses that very moment to growl. He snaps his mouth shut, the heat of embarrassment rising to his cheeks, finding it difficult to remain impassive. 

Kurapika can barely remember the last time he ate something. His body had grown used to its constant hunger, forestalled as best as he could with his draining energy reserves.

Kuroro laughs unexpectedly, a gentle sound that would be pleasant if he was anyone but himself. “You should eat before everything gets cold.”

As his resolve wavers beneath Kuroro’s amusement, Kurapika glances away. 

“If you insist,” Kurapika murmurs, as if he has no other choice. 

He escapes to the bathroom to wash his face, grateful for this moment of reprieve. He splashes his face with cold water and pushes his bangs back, exposing his forehead. Droplets of water slip from his damp hair, down his chin.

There’s a moment of disconnect when he looks up from the sink and stares into the mirror. He doesn’t look much better than yesterday. The eyes reflecting in the glass are shadowed and insomnious, and his frame beneath Kuroro’s shirt is too thin, as if he’s only one shove away from collapsing. 

He runs a hand through his blond strands, gathering his hair at the back of his neck in a mock ponytail. Because he doesn’t have anything to tie his hair with, he releases his hold. His fringe falls gently around his cheeks, above his eyes. He brings both of his hands to press against his face again, finding that the sallowness of his skin lends a spectral quality to his presence. But he’s truly here, solid and corporeal. 

He is alive, not a ghost. 

But an entire decade has wound backwards. Time is supposed to flow forward, just as how water streams from the faucet and spills through the gaps between his fingers. It doesn’t pool back into his hands. Something must have happened—either a phenomenon gone wrong or divine intervention—and somehow, it brought him back to this time, back to him. Not his mother, father, Pairo, Leorio or any of the others, but Kuroro. He doesn’t know how this could be. He doesn’t understand what any of this means.

His reflection has no answers, but there’s no use denying what is in front of him. He turns away from the mirror, and finds his suit laid out on the rack adjacent to the shower. Pulling his towel off from the hook on the wall, he dries his face. He can change later.

When Kurapika returns, he slides into the seat across from Kuroro, where he’s perusing through newspapers over the table. Kuroro looks up at him from the papers patiently, still nursing his black eye. There’s a bowl of white rice porridge and toasted baguettes in front of Kurapika, with condensed milk and butter on the side. The cup of coffee accompanying them also seems to be for him. It’s a simple meal, but promising enough that his stomach rumbles in anticipation.

At the same time, Kurapika doesn’t forget that these gestures of kindness—everything from giving him a bed to sleep in to preparing a meal for him—are quite clever. That Kuroro is doing this because there’s something he hopes to gain. 

“Did you make everything yourself?” Kurapika asks, cradling his palms around the chipped ceramic of the mug. The warmth gently settles in his hands, somewhat.

Kuroro nods, continuing to apply the compress over his eye. “I went out to get bread this morning. I thought about asking you to come but you were sound asleep.” Kurapika silently berates himself again for being so unaware that he didn’t even hear Kuroro leaving the room. His internal clock has been off from the scarcity of daylight and his endless responsibilities aboard the ship. “It’s not much, but I hope it suits your tastes.”

Kurapika tries to summon an appreciative smile, but his face refuses to make that expression for Kuroro’s sake, and he ends up pressing his lips together, looking wry and unimpressed. He brings the mug to his lips, pausing for a moment. He can never be too careful, but he’s willing to take the risk when he never died from eating the most peculiar things. 

The small sip Kurapika takes is overwhelmingly sweet, so he sets the mug back down on the table. “I assume you met your friends, if you went outside.”

Kuroro lowers the compress from his face, pressing at the cloth with his thumbs. He takes on a contemplative expression as he stares at his hands, something distant and unreadable. 

“They buried her this morning.”

Kurapika has no condolences. Kuroro doesn’t expect them. 

In the silence that descends, Kurapika tries Kuroro’s simplistic cooking for the first time, finding the soup lukewarm, but he appreciates that this aligns more with his tastes. It’s not completely bland either, when the undertones of ginger and garlic and some form of bone broth linger on his tongue. He reaches over for the baguettes in the basket and tears off a portion to complement the softness of his porridge. Kuroro might not expect manners, but he waits until he finishes swallowing before speaking again.

“What’s your plan?” Kurapika asks. “Are you going after Silva Zoldyck?”

Kuroro slowly raises his gaze to meet his eyes again. “I’m more interested in pursuing whoever hired him for this hit. My informant is already working on it.”

“Huh,” is all Kurapika offers in thought, because Kuroro doesn’t know why he was targeted. He continues making progress with his breakfast, letting the porridge settle warmly in his stomach. “You sound like you’re someone important.”

Kuroro arches an eyebrow, but it’s not as if Kurapika means to appeal to his ego. “Have you heard of the Phantom Troupe?”

Kurapika doesn’t answer immediately. He looks to the newspapers on the table with outdated headlines, not finding much of anything except that the date specifies the fourth of September—he would laugh if not for the possibility that he would offend Kuroro. He absently pushes his spoon around in his porridge, gathering his thoughts.

“They’re thieves, criminals, philanthropists,” he finally says, as if he’s reciting what he has heard with a pretense of uncertainty in his voice. “Something along those lines.”

“Yes,” Kuroro says, as unthreatening as he could possibly be. He taps a finger against his arm, where the body of the Spider is branded beneath the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt. “And I’m their boss.”

It’s not as jarring the second time Kurapika hears this. This revelation alone would have been enough to set him off were he younger, flooding his heart with all-consuming hatred, burning a vigil on behalf of everyone he has ever loved and lost. The quietest urge towards violence gathers in his fists, and he relents. All he knows now is the ghost of a memory, a singular purpose that was once everything he lived for. 

He doesn’t realize how famished he was until he finds himself staring at his uncovered bowl. Only half a baguette remains, even though Kuroro didn’t help him with any of the food.

“You don’t seem to be worried,” Kuroro observes with quiet curiosity, expecting more of a reaction from him.

Kurapika tucks a few strands of hair behind his ear with indifference. He catches the way Kuroro’s gaze falls upon the ruby earring on his left ear, only for a fleeting moment.

“You can’t be that terrifying if you’re willing to make me breakfast. Besides, I’ve met worse people than you.”

Kuroro lets out a soft breath, sounding suspiciously amused. Rather than being indignant at the slight, his posture is deceptively at ease. He props an arm over the table, resting his cheek in his palm, as he watches Kurapika finish the rest of his meal with implicit fondness.

“So, Kurapika,” Kuroro eventually says, his weightless tone matching the loose lines of his posture, “who are you?” 

Kurapika sets his utensils aside, his spoon clattering against the empty bowl. “I thought that you said you weren’t going to ask.”

“I’m curious about you,” Kuroro admits, giving him a small, apologetic smile. “All I know is your name and that you’re a Hunter. But you appeared out of nowhere on the same day that I lost my companion—so I can’t help but want to know more.”

Kurapika searches for an explanation that isn’t as improbable as transcending timelines. He’s under no obligation to explain himself to Kuroro, but the sudden flicker of appraisal in Kuroro’s eyes sends a shiver of foreboding down his spine.

He considers the different roles he played in his previous life, but his successes and failures, friendships and camaraderies, and all the reputations he raised for himself no longer exist here. They might never do. He has nothing and no one here. Kuroro’s stare grows weighted with his silence, and every moment that passes with his question unanswered leaves Kurapika more suspect, so he settles for an alibi that isn’t necessarily true to himself. 

“I am an emissary,” Kurapika answers carefully, “of the Kakin Empire.”

“Kakin,” Kuroro repeats, barely curving up in a question. He turns this name over like a polished stone. 

“Yes.” Kurapika faces the intensity of Kuroro’s gaze, not allowing himself to waver. “I’ve come in search of a woman in Meteor City. I’ve been imposed upon to bring her back to the Empire, accompanying her as a bodyguard on the return journey.”

Kuroro’s features ease into something more readable. “A prisoner?”

“A wife,” Kurapika says.

Kuroro raises a curious eyebrow.

“The King became besotted with her during his previous travels here.” Practice keeps Kurapika’s voice even, and he uses the same tone when confronted with difficult questions from the Kakin bodyguards on the Black Whale. There’s a reason that people come to believe him. “And he intends to take her as his eighth wife.”

“A woman from Meteor City,” Kuroro muses. A thoughtful silence follows his words as he considers Kurapika’s story. “I suppose that’s nothing new, when Silva Zoldyck found his matriarch here as well. But eight wives?”

“Polygamy is embraced in order for the King to have enough heirs to choose from as his successor.” Kurapika keeps his manner informative as he continues without pause. “The woman I’m seeking is named Oito, but I’ve had no success in finding her. All of my belongings were stolen when I arrived, so I’ve faced some setbacks in doing so.”

Kuroro studies him for a further moment, something calculating in his regard, and nods. “Will you return as soon as you find her?”

Kurapika weighs his next words carefully. “I plan to ensure that she never goes.”

Kuroro seems to hear the intent in his words, because he smiles at that. “You would deny her of her fairytale?” 

“If it means saving her from a fate worse than life in Meteor City,” Kurapika answers with gentle conviction, with more certainty to his words than he feels, “then yes.”

But Kuroro doesn’t ask about what could be more severe than his homeland. “What does she look like?”

When Queen Oito learned of his intentions to stay behind, Kurapika remembers the aftermath. A lifeboat suspended over frigid waters, at the precipice of the sinking ship. Trembling hands as she reached for him, her unbanished tears spilling over her face. Heartache in her gaze as she laid her eyes on him for what was the last time. The eighth queen of Kakin, a beggar. 

He can see the perpetual frown in her thin eyebrows. The whites of her eyes pooling under dark irises, when her gaze was always wide and worried. The black coils of her hair, pinned back with an ornate hairclip. Kurapika pieces what he remembers of her together, linking a long chain of features that can make up someone. There are smaller imperfections that make her more humane, that he will undoubtedly forget over time just as he did with his parents, and he does his best to preserve her.

“She’s pretty in a humble way,” Kurapika decides, when she was always swathed in a white gown without the need for pageantries. He marks a pause, narrowing his eyes at his sudden realization. “She looks—a little like you.”

Kuroro blinks in unspoken surprise. Kurapika wishes that he could take back his words, when it sounds as though he’s suggesting that Kuroro’s attractive. Heat blooms over his face, not making his situation any better, and he fervently hopes they can drop this subject before he ends up saying something he will regret even more.

“Do you plan to elope with her?” Kuroro asks after a moment of quiet. 

“What?” Kurapika breathes, having not expected that. He has no idea how Kuroro arrived at that conclusion.

“You’re going to intercept the King’s engagement,” Kuroro explains matter-of-factly, his fingers lightly resting on his chin. “I assume this means you want her for yourself.”

“Of course not,” Kurapika chokes out. 

Kuroro slightly tilts his head to the side, infuriatingly innocent. “Then why?” 

Kurapika draws in a quiet, steady breath to pull himself together, allowing the high-strung tension in his body to leave with his next exhalation. Then, he imparts the same explanation Queen Oito gave him the first time they met.

“There will be a war of succession among the royal family, where the King necessitates his children to prove themselves worthy of the throne. Only one prince will remain alive.” The cadence of his voice remains detached from the circumstances he speaks about, but he's reminded of Queen Oito’s regret from resigning her daughter to this fate, her quiet desperation. He has saved them once. He doesn’t know if he can do it again. “Most of the King’s children have enough influence and resources to fend for themselves, but if Oito becomes queen and gives him his youngest heir, she and her child would be most vulnerable in these circumstances. She wouldn’t survive.”

If Kuroro doesn’t believe him, then there’s not much he can do because this part is the truth. If Senritsu were here, listening to his heartbeat with her hypersensitive ears—Kurapika’s chest aches at her memory—she wouldn’t hear a single falsity.

“But why would you go this far for her?”

“I wouldn’t want her to lose her family,” Kurapika says quietly, his words heavy with a history that Kuroro isn’t privy to. “But enough of your questions—unless, you’re willing to answer some of mine.”

Kuroro easily accepts the change in subject. “Go ahead.”

“Why did you take me in last night?” Kurapika's tone betrays none of his suspicions. “And don’t tell me it was all for recompense.”

Kuroro takes a deliberate moment to answer. “Having you around was more advantageous than letting you go,” he says mindfully, careful enough not to reveal anything more, but the unspoken insinuations hurt him the most. “Especially after losing one of my Spiders.”

Kurapika bites his lip, tasting his blood, but Kuroro doesn’t falter at the sight of it. He abandons Kuroro’s gaze for a moment, focusing on the surface of his untouched coffee. He doesn’t trust himself to pick up the mug again, lest the ceramic fracture in his hand.

“Because you want to recruit me,” Kurapika says as he faces him, the calm steadiness in his voice belying his accusation. His resentment is barely restrained behind his teeth, and he refuses to give it a voice. “Because you want me as a member of your team.”

“I do.” A smile tilts at Kuroro’s mouth, as if he’s pleasantly surprised that Kurapika is following his line of thought. “I want you, Kurapika.”

He knows it was inevitable, knows he should have expected it, but hearing Kuroro’s affirmation hits him full force nonetheless. Nothing could have ever prepared him for it. Power surges behind his eyes, bright red and searing. He forces them shut, fighting to keep his torrent of rage and grief and vengeance at bay. Not again—not when the abuse of his bloodline has taken its toll.

When Kurapika opens his eyes, his face is impassive because it has to be. Because if he falters and gives so much as a flicker of red in his eyes, he will risk giving away everything. 

Pressure builds in his head, behind his eyes. It hasn’t been this bad in a long time—not since Kuroro asked for a partnership and gave him his clan’s eyes, staining his hands with Tserriednich’s blood so that Kurapika didn’t have to.

The sound of Kurapika’s hands slamming down on the table echoes throughout the room, and the entire table trembles beneath his strength. “Have you no standards?” 

Kuroro’s smile falters. “Huh?”

This is not what Kurapika expected to say. Nor does he expect to delve into a lecture on the dangers of trusting strangers, because Kuroro’s history of recruiting Spiders has been nothing short of careless. 

Kurapika is standing now, although he doesn’t remember doing so. What he remembers is his anger, unraveling in his blood and scorching hot in his veins. Remembers the reasons for it and why he should never forget it. 

But he has to keep himself together. He needs to protect his past, needs to chain up everything that doesn’t belong here. He reigns in everything in him that wants to scream, forcing all of the oppressive Nen rising in threat around him within, burying it until it’s quieter and smaller and nothing more than a dying ember. Until it’s simmering beneath his skin instead of threatening to sear his bones to ashes.

There are no words adequate for what he feels, when it means endangering his presence here. “You should be more careful about who you choose to accept into your team,” he forces out through grit teeth, strict and precise. “I’m not saying this because I’m dangerous, but you don’t even know who I am and the full extent of my abilities.”

“I’m fascinated by what I’ve already seen,” Kuroro insists, but not really because he was unconscious the entire time. “I can tell that you’re a competent Nen user. You were capable enough to protect Kortopi and heal my injuries, despite that you had no reason to help us. Even if it was all for your Hunter license, your actions yesterday made you our ally.”

Kurapika’s throat feels very dry, dryer than the deserts surrounding Meteor City. When he swallows, it feels as though he’s swallowing around grains of sand, sand which becomes glass, and the sharp fragments carve up his throat from the inside out.

“You have too much confidence in me.” The tightness of his throat doesn’t ease, when he should be regarded as a threat instead of an associate. Rather than being deterred, Kuroro’s expression seems to brighten. “What would you even gain from this?”

Kuroro gives him a disarming smile. An unusually soothing aura radiates from him, and it deliberately washes over Kurapika in a wave of calm. “We’re lacking a support member after number eight fell, especially since she was our medic who specialized in healing. If I’m to pursue her murderer, I’ll need your help. You would be invaluable as one of my Spiders.”

There is far too much irony in his proposition, when the man who is at fault for his world is offering him the opportunity to join the group that will destroy it. Even without the knowledge of his Eyes and bloodline, without the right to membership by murdering two of his Spiders, Kuroro still covets him with unfathomable curiosity and fascination. No one has ever looked at him the way Kuroro does, like he’s an artifact worth possessing when he’s only a forgery among precious jewels. 

“I want to make you an offer,” Kuroro continues, and he doesn’t need to hear this when he already knows with unshakable certainty. “When a member of my team—one of my Spiders—is killed, I am responsible for replacing them. If you’re willing to become our new number eight, I’ll help you in your ambitions, whether you’re searching for the Kakin queen consort or have another matter at hand.”

“And if I refuse?” Kurapika asks, his voice sounding strained to his ears.

“You’re not my hostage, Kurapika,” Kuroro tells him, and Kurapika thinks that he hears the vestiges of disappointment in his voice. “You can go wherever you please.”

Kurapika’s instincts are screaming to refuse him. Nothing stops him from turning away and finding his way out of Meteor City by himself. He can search the world for some knowledge of Nen that manipulates space and time, trying to understand his predicament and if there’s any possibility of returning to his own timeline. He can retrace his footsteps and wander into the forests of his homeland, but he would only be an outsider in Lukso, with no place to belong to and no leads to follow.

He silences his mind, trying to approach Kuroro’s proposal with more clarity. “To what extent would you assist me with my goals?”

Kuroro assesses his reaction, or lack thereof. He continues looking at him, the darkness of his eyes deep and sagacious. “What is it that you’re asking for?”

Kurapika considers what he can ask of him. If he remains with Kuroro, he can use his resources to his advantage and understand his motivations behind the massacre, beyond coveting their Eyes. With his collection of stolen abilities, Kuroro might even encounter some form of space-time Nen that would allow Kurapika to make sense of his presence here in the past.

“I have forsaken Kakin for my family.” Kurapika tightens his fists, mindful of how his hands are absent of the cold steel of his chains. “My birth family, who are unaware that I’m alive. After I ensure Oito remains safe in Meteor City, I am hoping to find them.”

“I can help you,” Kuroro assures with unwavering confidence. “We can also call on my informant for support if it’s necessary.”

Kurapika unclenches his fists, taking a deep breath before he speaks. “Your conditions?”

“The twelve-legged Spider inked upon your skin,” Kuroro answers, because all of his members bear that incriminating, inevitable mark of fealty, “and a fight.”

“A fight?” Kurapika echoes. 

“Against me,” Kuroro affirms. Kurapika has never engaged him in combat before. “I won’t kill you, but I’ll need to assess your abilities to see how you will fit in with the team.” He clasps his hands together over the table, with the business-serious temperament of a recruiter. “As a Spider, you will have to ascribe to our principles. My orders as the leader are to be followed, and you must come when I request you to do so. Outside of my directive, you can go as you please, and I am willing to accompany you to fulfill your goals.” He gives Kurapika a moment to consider his words, watching him expectantly. “Will you accept?”

If Kurapika accepts, he might be able to investigate why the Spiders perpetrated the massacre. What exactly his clan had taken from them that caused all of this suffering.

And if he doesn’t?

What then?

There will be another boy who makes the decision to leave his homeland, to bid farewell to his people, only to live with the knowledge he will never be among them again. A boy who loses his entire village to fire and blood and ash, left with the disembodied eyes of the dead. A boy who falls into the abyss and chases after his ghosts when he has no one left to follow.

This is Kurapika’s greatest tragedy. The massacre robs him of his adolescence and loved ones, and when he devotes himself to everything that has been taken from him, he loses the rest of himself. He refuses to let this future happen again—a future where Kuroro destroys his world and he destroys himself. 

For all his helplessness in being trapped in this time, it could always be much worse. Kurapika could be dead and be capable of nothing, but here, he is alive and can accomplish everything. Having this chance means the world, and he will do his damndest to ensure that his clan stays alive. Even if it means having to stay by Kuroro’s side. 

He can save them. He knows that he can.

Resolve floods his bloodstream with a glacial calm. The path ahead of him will be difficult when he doesn’t know where to start and what to mend, but he can see his home at the end and it is alight, full of his people. All of them precious.

Kurapika’s focus has always been narrow. Once he has a goal, he devotes every aspect of himself to it. He remembers his oath to his clan, his prayers offered to those who would never hear him, as his fingertips ghosted over the glass of canisters, lending names of the dead to unseeing eyes.

Membership requires him to give himself up to Kuroro and the Spiders, betraying everything that he stands for. But he will never let them touch his loved ones again, and it doesn’t matter what he needs to do and who he needs to use for this to happen. Maybe he will even disassemble them from the inside out. 

So he finally settles down in his chair, returning Kuroro’s proposition with a challenge of his own. “If you can defeat me, I’ll join you.”

Something flickers in Kuroro’s eyes, bright and manic. He might not be aware of Kurapika’s capabilities, but Kurapika is at least somewhat familiar with his. He won’t rely on his full strength with the power of Emperor Time, and he doesn’t need to when he has enough advantages over him.

“Very well,” Kuroro accepts with a calm smile, at odds with the new light in his eyes. “I’d like to introduce you to my companions if that’s alright. Properly, this time.”

Kurapika acquiesces with a nod. Kuroro stands up, gathering all of the empty bowls and plates on the table. He places them in the sink and turns on the water, cleaning up after Kurapika without asking for assistance.

“I did my best to wash your clothes,” Kuroro says, his back still turned to him. “They’re hanging in the bathroom, and we can head out after you get changed.”

Kurapika rises to his feet again, planning to get dressed. “Thank you.”

When he reaches the doorway to the bathroom, the water in the kitchen sink ceases. “And Kurapika?”

Kurapika stills in his steps, looking back at him. “Yes?”

“The blood was a little difficult to clean," Kuroro tells him, and his blood runs cold.

Kurapika has one hand on the doorframe to ground himself, suddenly feeling horribly exposed and figured out.

“Someday,” Kuroro continues, casting a subtle, knowing smile over his shoulder, “I hope you’ll be able to tell me who you really are.”

 

Notes:

Can you tell that I'm in the mood to write time travel? My last several fic updates have been for this trope. >_<

I originally wrote this chapter in Kuroro's POV, but I wasn’t satisfied and rewrote this in Kurapika’s POV. Maybe I’ll try Kuroro’s perspective again in the future.

Please leave a comment! I’d love to know what you think.

You can also reach out to me on Twitter.

Chapter 6

Notes:

Thank you for 1000+ kudos!

This is my second kurokura fic to reach this milestone so I’m happy that you like this story so far. +:)

 

The afternoon sun bears down upon them with a vengeance as Kuroro guides him through unpaved roads and rubbish mounds smoldering beneath the intense heat. Despite not leaving Kuroro’s apartment for long, the putrid stench rising in the air is beginning to make Kurapika feel ill. They follow a path towards the outskirts of the city, keeping to its less populated streets but more suspect alleyways. If Meteor City is dangerous at its best, its backstreets are even worse.

Kurapika senses hunger from the people lingering in the darkness. They search his face for evidence of inexperience as they impede his passage, only stepping aside when Kuroro intends to pass through. Rather than paying him deference, it seems that they know better than to provoke Kuroro. Even at his young age, Kuroro’s reputation has reached even the most obscure parts of the city.

Overhead, the outdoor staircases from the apartment buildings tighten the space around them. Kurapika follows closely behind Kuroro, more closely than he would prefer, as they navigate around unconscious bodies and scavengers searching through the discarded trash. The narrow alleyways eventually fall behind them and give way to a vast landscape of ruined buildings. An impenetrable blood-orange smog drapes over the district, obscuring his visibility of the structures in the distance.

Even with the lapel of his suit jacket pulled over his face, Kurapika struggles not to cough whenever he breathes. He managed well enough yesterday, but somehow, his airways are finding it more difficult today. Smoke and dust settle over his hair, his face, and even the black fabric of his suit, clinging onto him like a second skin.

A sudden wind carries the stench of accumulated waste and decomposing garbage across their path. Meteor City’s miasma continues its inhumation, seeping into his lungs and his bones. It may as well be draining his lifeforce.

Soon enough, a cough escapes him.

Kuroro’s movements slow, and then still when he realizes that Kurapika has fallen behind him. He looks back at him with an expression of faint concern. 

“Are you alright?”

Kurapika is hunched over, his fingers digging into his knees, nearly leaving marks in the fabric of his trousers. His eyes sting with the threat of tears.

Drawing in a futile breath, he composes himself and nods. As much as he tries to summon a response, no words leave his desiccated throat. 

As Kuroro braves the harsh environment without faltering, there is no doubt that Nen users possess an advantage here. Those unable to protect themselves are left to wither and die in the dust. The decay festers beneath his skin, and Kurapika needs to get rid of it. After remaining in a passive state since the previous day, he releases his aura. A protective cocoon engulfs his entire body, mitigating the consequences of the poisoned air and allowing him to breathe again. 

It takes a moment to pull himself back together. As the tightness in his chest eases, he can breathe without the weight smothering his lungs. He should have done this sooner.

When he catches up to him, Kuroro deliberately falls into step beside him.

While walking alongside Kuroro, Kurapika realizes the absence of height disparity between them. From what he remembers, Kuroro always stood above him—only now they’re on equal ground. Despite their similarities in stature, he frowns at how oversized the clothes he borrowed from him were.

Kurapika expects more questions from him, but only silence rests between them. Perhaps he’s considerate enough to allow Kurapika to catch his breath instead of forcing him to speak.

If Kuroro notices him staring, he doesn't make his awareness known.

They traverse the landscape, only coming to a stop in front of what appears to be an abandoned church standing above the rubble. Rather than resembling an impressive cathedral or basilica, the towering stone edifice is verging on structural collapse, weathered and worn by time. With a metallic creaking sound, Kuroro pushes the rusted door open and leads him inside.  

In the corner of the entrance, a lone spider spins its web. Before the familiar scarlet can reach his eyes, Kurapika averts his gaze and follows Kuroro inside.

He breathes in deeply, finding some reprieve from the dust and smog outside. The air smells stagnant and musty, but he catches the faintest hint of incense, as if a ceremony had been held earlier in the day, and he recalls Kuroro’s mention of laying their fallen comrade to rest.

Stillness reigns inside the sanctuary, disturbed by the sound of their footsteps on shattered glass. The stained glass windows around them are all smashed, spilling fragmented daylight over the blackened stone walls, permeating the darkness of the congregation area. Small candles are burning with offerings for the dead, lighting the way like fireflies as Kurapika accompanies Kuroro further down the aisle. The wavering candlelight flickers across Kuroro’s face, lending his pale features the illusion of color, as if making him mortal to greet his faithful followers.

Eight Spiders are awaiting them on the steps of the altar, their solemn forms shrouded in funerary wear. Pakunoda. Machi. Kortopi. Feitan. Franklin. Phinks. Nobunaga. Uvogin. 

Three appear to be missing. Perhaps Kuroro hasn’t recruited them yet or they have yet to arrive.

Behind the altar, the chancel window is the only intact stained glass pane in the sanctuary, bathing their somber features in a kaleidoscope of light. Their cold eyes appraise him, their attention weighted with crushing judgment, as if belonging to statues of impassive saints guarding a place of worship. Kurapika has grown accustomed to being on the receiving end of disdainful stares. This time is no different.

The Spiders maintain their distance from him. Only Kortopi comes forward to meet him, wrapping his arms around his leg. “Mister Kurapika!”

Kurapika has a moment of hesitation, before patting him on the head. It seems that Kuroro already told him his name. “You can just call me Kurapika.”

“Kurapika,” Kortopi repeats shyly. He clings onto Kurapika’s pants with his small hands, and for some inexplicable reason, Kurapika lets him even when he should be pushing him away. “I’m Kortopi.”

Kurapika rests his hand against Kortopi’s silver hair. “Hello again.”

Pakunoda folds her arms beneath the swell of her chest. “You’re late, Danchou.” 

“My apologies. We were having breakfast,” Kuroro explains, earning the incredulous stares of his companions. Without elaborating further, he turns to face Kurapika. “My informant Shalnark hasn’t returned yet, so we’ll have this meeting without him.”

“Did something happen?” Pakunoda casts a wary glance at Kurapika as she descends the steps to approach them, her heels clacking against the wooden floor. “Is everything alright?”

Kuroro smiles as if he doesn’t know why that wouldn’t be the case. “Yes?”

There’s an undeniable closeness between them, because Pakunoda reaches out, laying a gentle hand where Kuroro’s black eye is still visible against his pale skin. A bruise that wasn’t present when Kuroro convened with his members earlier. 

Pakunoda’s lips press into a worried frown. What she says next is inconceivable.

“You can always rely on us if you’re having a problem with your boyfriend.”

A violent cough seizes Kurapika. Witnessing their leader with a newfound injury must be suspicious—but somehow, they’re under the impression that Kuroro is a victim of domestic abuse, and himself, the perpetrator. 

They aren’t wrong about the latter, but how long are they going to misunderstand his relationship with Kuroro? And why is he the one at fault?

Kuroro blinks in confusion. He takes her wrist and moves her hand away. “I appreciate the concern, but Kurapika isn’t my boyfriend.”

Despite speaking truth to their situation, Pakunoda doesn’t seem to believe him. Her protectiveness makes sense, because she has correctly discerned that Kurapika harmed Kuroro even if she doesn’t understand why. 

“So he’s your sugar daddy?” 

“What,” Kuroro and Kurapika say at the same time. 

Neither of them share the embarrassment that boys their age would have at the idea of being involved together. Kurapika doesn’t know if he still has the capacity to choke. But if he weren’t in more control of himself, the words leaving his mouth would have been what the fuck?

“He looks too nice to be from around these parts,” Machi elaborates upon seeing their incredulity. Her cool gaze assesses Kurapika from head to toe, focusing on the tailored lines of his suit. Even though the rest of the Spiders are similarly dressed in formalwear, there’s a visible difference in the material and fit of Kurapika’s attire, apparent through the eyes of a skilled seamstress. “We could use the funding.”

As Kuroro mentioned earlier, wealthy men searching for vulnerable companions is a common occurrence in Meteor City. Being associated with men like Nasubi Hui Guo Rou undoubtedly makes him feel unpleasant.

A heavy hand clasps Kurapika on the shoulder, and he suppresses the instinctive urge to flinch. He should be more cautious, because if it were Pakunoda who touched him, he would have revealed everything about his existence here.

“He doesn’t smell like money,” comes a familiar voice beside him. “But he smells like you, Danchou.”

Kurapika looks up, ignoring the insinuation about his relationship with Kuroro. 

Seeing Uvogin this close makes his heart pound painfully in his chest. His face is considerably younger and his hair is coiled instead of fanning around his face in a mane, different from the monster in his nightmares. The Uvogin here isn’t one of his clan’s murderers—at least not yet. 

A wave of nausea washes over Kurapika with the memory of his first kill. A blood-red moon rising above the desert, as red as the eyes of his bloodline, watching over him as the only witness to the execution. The sound of bone splintering beneath his hands and the smell of blood in the air still remain with him despite the years that have passed. Even now, the phantom tang of blood lingers at the back of his throat.

Uvogin pleading him to kill him echoes in his mind. His last words before his imprisoned heart was crushed by his chains—

Go to Hell. 

Kurapika exhales slowly, trying to steady the frantic beating of his heart. He slaps the offending hand away from his shoulder. “Don’t touch me.”

“What’s his problem?” Uvogin looks at him disparagingly, despite staring into the eyes of his future murderer. Kurapika doesn’t bother pretending to be friendly with people he neither cares for nor respects. “Danchou, are you sure you want him to join us? He looks like a weakling.”

The Uvogin he remembers is a corpse buried in an unmarked grave. If their circumstances force him to, Kurapika knows he can kill him again.

Machi continues regarding him with her cold and steady stare. “He must be strong if he can land a clean hit on Danchou.”

But Uvogin doesn’t seem convinced. “That doesn’t mean anything—”

“In a fight between you two,” Kuroro calmly interrupts, glancing at Kurapika with a strange interest, “I wouldn’t know who would win.”

Kurapika keeps his expression blank under their scrutiny. Kuroro’s words leave him stunned, but he doesn’t know if Kuroro actually believes in his strength or if he’s only trying to appeal to him. 

“Danchou!” Uvogin’s voice echoes throughout the sanctuary. Kurapika finds his presence too overwhelming, his voice much too loud. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Don’t tell me you’re taking his side!”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side.” Kuroro smiles humorlessly, his unreadable grey eyes reflecting different colors in the prismatic light. “But enough, I want you all to meet Kurapika properly. He’s neither my partner nor my benefactor as you seem to be thinking—” Machi shrugs her shoulders. “But he’s someone who might become our new teammate.”

He introduces his companions to Kurapika one by one. Unlike the Spiders who rarely remember the people they have killed, Kurapika remembers all of their names and faces. Out of all the members, Machi and Feitan are the most apathetic to his presence, remaining aloof to the idea of him joining them. Similarly, Franklin and Phinks are regarding Kurapika carefully instead of questioning Kuroro’s leadership. Pakunoda leads Kortopi away by the hand to purposefully distance him, despite his willingness to remain by Kurapika’s side.

Nobunaga is the last member to be introduced, but he barely acknowledges Kurapika despite being the subject of their discussion, giving him a once-over before looking away. “What makes you think we would accept him?”

“I’m not asking you to.”

Nobunaga doesn’t flinch at the severity of Kuroro’s tone, but his shoulders tense at the pressure from the sudden manifestation of Kuroro’s aura. The air is so heavy and oppressive that it steals Kurapika’s breath, reinforcing that Kuroro’s decision is meant to be unquestioned.

Still, Nobunaga doesn’t retreat in the face of unspoken consequences. His hands are clenched at his sides, slightly trembling, but his eyes betray no fear against Kuroro’s aura, only reflecting deep resentment in how Kurapika is being initiated into their group. “How could you recruit a new member so quickly? Without even asking us?” 

Kurapika isn’t bothered by the opposition to his membership. 

They’re upset that their former companion is being replaced so easily. Kuroro might be the Spider’s head, but not accounting for the limbs while making an important decision seems like a mistake—potentially why mistakes like Hisoka were allowed to happen. The strange atmosphere between them makes Kurapika feel like a stepfather whom Kuroro is shamelessly introducing to his children—only a day after their parent died. 

“We need to be prepared to pursue Silva Zoldyck’s client. If we found a new member tomorrow or months from now, the number eight position was going to be replaced regardless,” Kuroro explains. “Am I wrong, Nobunaga?” 

“It’s only been a day,” Nobunaga tells him, his voice pained with grief and betrayal. Kuroro’s expression makes it clear that he will not tolerate his insubordination any longer.

Judging by his reaction, this must be the first time that they’re replacing a Spider. Kurapika is aware of the camaraderie between the members, but he still finds it strange to see them with such humanity. 

“How can we trust him when he showed up right after number eight died?” Phinks asks as Nobunaga lapses into a displeased silence.

Kuroro considers his words for what seems like an eternity before finally speaking. “I think it might be fate.”

An unexpected snort escapes from Kurapika. All eyes in the room suddenly land on him, their suspicions refusing to abate.

“Because he helped us twice,” Kortopi argues on his behalf, breaking out of Pakunoda’s grasp and coming to his defense once more. Kurapika assumes that the first time must have been when he saved Kortopi. “And he’s a lot nicer than you, Phinks!”

As Phinks rises to his feet with a threatening glare, Kortopi hides behind Pakunoda’s leg. 

“I’m not blindly recruiting Kurapika,” Kuroro explains to reassure his members. “Since he hasn’t earned his membership by killing one of us, he’ll need to prove himself by fighting me for a place on our team. Once you witness his abilities, there will be no doubt in your minds.”

The weight of Kuroro’s words speaks of his unfounded expectations, but Kurapika wonders what will happen if he isn’t so impressive. Surely Kuroro will try to steal his Nen before allowing him to leave.

Uvogin cracks his knuckles in anticipation. “Why don’t you let me fight him?”

“No, I’ll take this challenge on myself,” Kuroro declares, striking him down. “As part of our agreement, I’ll be the one to fight Kurapika. Isn’t that right?”

As Kuroro turns to face him, his features brightened by the candlelight, Kurapika falls into a contemplative silence. Kuroro stands distinctly against the stained glass background ornamented with the Son of God nailed to the cross, the backlight limning his form and encircling his head in a corona of light—making him appear as a saintly figure. His presence directs Kurapika’s sight upward, as if he’s standing pedestaled above them all. In a place abandoned by faith, Kuroro awaits the resurrection of his fallen Spider, and Kurapika wonders if he can fulfill those expectations.

“That’s right,” is all that Kurapika can answer.

Kuroro goes over to where Machi is sitting on the steps. 

“A hair tie, if you please.”

Machi looks up at him in mild annoyance. “Another one?” 

Pulling the turquoise ribbon from her hair, she releases her fuschia hair over her shoulders and passes the cloth over to Kuroro.

“Thank you,” Kuroro says with a small smile. He unsheathes the Benz knife at his hip and ties the ribbon against the handle, before raising the blade towards Kurapika. “As part of the assessment, I want you to steal this hair tie from me before sundown. You can use whatever means necessary to do so. If you succeed, I’ll grant you one of your requests if you choose not to join us. But if I win, you’ll become my Spider as promised.”

Stealing from a master thief. 

Kurapika supposes that it’s more appropriate than having to beat the living daylights out of Kuroro, but also more troublesome. Although that doesn’t mean he’s going to abstain from doing so either.

“Alright,” Kurapika answers with clear confidence, “I accept your challenge.”

 

Notes:

Hello, it’s been a while. I hope that you’ve been staying safe and healthy in the past year.

Life has been busy but I was happy to see so many readers interested in this story. I truly appreciated seeing all of your kudos and comments for the previous chapter. I hope that you like this quick update too. :')

The next chapter will have more action, but I need a little help with Kuroro's Nen abilities so feel free to let me know if you have any ideas or headcanons about his stolen abilities.

I'm hoping to update sooner this time. I’m also planning on updating my other two time travel fics soon so you can expect those updates as well. >_<

Please leave a comment! I would love to know what you think about this chapter.

You can also find me on Twitter or Tumblr.

Chapter 7

Notes:

Thank you justliling for illustrating the cover for this chapter!

 

The moment Kurapika catches sight of the Bandit’s Secret in Kuroro’s hand, the ground drops out from underneath him.

Kurapika crashes into a heap of discarded refuse and metal, the impact hard enough to leave him breathless. Debris clatters down on him as he lies insensible among the rubbish, his head spinning from what he recognizes as Kuroro’s teleportation ability—the disorientation familiar from when Kuroro first subjected him to it on the Black Whale. The sudden change in their surroundings is too confusing for him to get his feet under himself. 

A shadow blocks out the sun and obscures his view of the sky, belonging to none other than the person responsible for his descent. When Kurapika looks up, his vision wavering before him, Kuroro is standing there with his hand extended in an offer of assistance. He looks out of place against the massive junkyard behind them, his appearance pristine and untouched by filth, when Kurapika is covered in dirt and debris as if he’s the one who belongs to Meteor City.

Kurapika shoves himself upright, fighting the accompanying wave of dizziness brought about by the movement. He rises to his feet by himself as if he didn’t just fall embarrassingly hard earlier. “Next time, it would be nice if you gave me a warning.”

“I’ll consider it,” Kuroro answers with a small smile, amused that Kurapika caught onto his ability so easily.

He wouldn’t be smiling if he knew that Kurapika was capable of emptying his stomach over Kuroro’s shoes. He recalls how Kuroro finally stopped messing with him on the ship the last time that happened.

Kuroro moves several steps back, giving him a moment to orient himself with their newfound surroundings. Kurapika takes this opportunity to recover his balance and steady himself on his feet. A hot gust of wind sweeps through the junkyard, stirring the hair from Kurapika’s face and billowing the back of his suit jacket. 

Instead of standing in the shadows of vast skyscrapers overlooking any other city, they’re surrounded by mountains of refuse jutting up into the sky, appearing as if they would come crashing down at any moment, unable to support the weight of the accumulated detritus of Meteor City’s inhabitants and the rest of the world. Beneath them, the ground is completely covered in debris, incapable of greenery without a single blade of grass in sight. 

This is Kuroro’s sanctum and stronghold, so Kurapika needs to stay on guard when he doesn’t have the environmental advantage here. Kuroro goes over to the edge of the garbage mound they found themselves on, nodding towards the ground as a gesture for him to follow. He slides down the slope, and Kurapika follows him in his descent.

Kuroro lands on the ground effortlessly. He strides a short distance away and faces him from the opposite end. His Bandit’s Secret rests in one hand, the book open to a blank page, and he draws the Benz knife from his hip with his other hand, the handle bound with the turquoise ribbon.

“Both physical weapons and Nen are permissible for this fight,” Kuroro tells him, the ribbon in his grasp reminding Kurapika of his objective. He shifts into a more serious stance, making Kurapika materialize his chains in anticipation, but nothing suggests that he plans on making the first move. “Now let’s see what you’re made of.”

For a moment, the only movement between them is the passing wind. They appraise each other with a tentative calm—

And Kurapika goes on the offensive. 

He lashes out with his Dowsing Chain with the force of a punishing whip. The chain dislodges a scrap heap that explodes violently into metal fragments when Kuroro evades with remarkable speed, making it clear that his younger age hasn’t made him less formidable. 

“Chains, huh?” Kuroro leaps over the remains scattered beneath them and avoids the incoming chain again without retaliation. “I didn’t expect you to have that kind of taste. Do you use them for anything else?”

It’s a suggestive question meant to fluster him. Obviously, Kuroro is observing and questioning him to clear the conditions of his own ability. 

Kurapika decides to let his chains speak for him. “You’ll have to find out for yourself.”

The chain hurtles through the air, missing Kuroro’s head by a hairbreadth as he takes a dancing step back, his black hair flowing around his face. Kurapika chases after him—the irony of the situation not lost on him considering how much of his life has been spent in pursuit of this very man. 

Kuroro leads him through mountains of scrap metal, using the surrounding environment of metal structures and twisted pipes to conceal himself, but Kurapika follows after him in close pursuit. Turning over his shoulder, Kuroro grabs a detached car door and launches it directly into his path. 

Kurapika’s chain snaps out to meet it. A swift severance, and the door cleanly splits apart in the middle. Judging by Kuroro’s reaction, he didn’t anticipate his chains to be capable of such strength—powerful enough to decapitate if necessary. Kuroro ascends a scrap mountain to distance himself, but Kurapika refuses to allow his escape. Ensnaring a metal pole with his chain, heavy enough to support his own weight, Kurapika whips it through the air towards Kuroro.

Kuroro dives out of the way as the projectile narrowly misses and smashes into the scrap heaps. The mountain starts giving way and collapses in a cacophony of screeching metal. A panel of aluminum roofing tumbles off the side of the mountain, slamming into the ground where he had been standing moments before. Kurapika avoids getting caught in the momentum, pieces of debris hailing down on him as he runs, the path behind them disappearing in a landslide of refuse.

Kurapika lunges after him with the devastating swing of his chain. Kuroro falls back and prevents him from landing a single strike, each missed swing destroying the scrap heaps around them instead of his opponent. Engaging Kuroro in a fight without the threat of death would have been unthinkable in the past. But he didn’t accept this challenge because he had something to prove. Rather, he’s testing Kuroro as much as he’s testing him. 

Kurapika has an entire arsenal of abilities at his disposal—more power and strength than he’s willing to reveal at this time. He feels the weight of his chains resting steadily within his chest, the thin blade suspended over his heart from the covenant he made with himself a lifetime ago. He doesn’t know when he’ll need to restrain the Spiders again—he’s prepared to do so if the situation necessitates it—but that time isn’t now.

Even if he could end this by capturing Kuroro, he wouldn’t be able to without casting suspicions over the limitation imposed upon his middle finger chain. Despite depriving himself of his greatest abilities, despite that he has the power to accomplish so much more with them, his restrictions won’t stop him from winning this.

He concentrates on the turquoise ribbon on the handle of Kuroro’s knife, rippling in the air with a color more vibrant than anything else here. Conviction surges through Kurapika as he aims at Kuroro’s blade, intending to displace it from his grasp. Steel flashes in Kuroro’s hand, and he deflects the blow. 

The sound of metal clashing echoes in the air. Kurapika forces him back with relentless strikes, sparing none of his strength. Kuroro intercepts his subsequent movements, striking his chain aside without pause, and no matter how hard Kurapika tries to overpower him, he’s unable to break through his defenses. From what he knows, Kuroro could hold his own against Silva and Zeno Zoldyck in collaboration, having mastered fighting without Nen. There’s no satisfaction in this when Kuroro continues dancing around him, remaining on the defensive the entire time and sparing no reaction as if he isn’t even trying.

Kurapika knows by now there’s nothing that can subdue him better than the element of surprise. Instead of locking with the blade, the chain’s pendulum strikes Kuroro’s hand, winning Kurapika a second of opportunity to whip his chain around his wrist, binding Kuroro in place. A fleeting surprise flits across Kuroro’s face, and there’s a subtle satisfaction in catching him off-guard. 

"I'll take the ribbon,” Kurapika tells him with an air of finality. “You can try and stop me.”

Kurapika wrenches Kuroro forward so that he comes flying within reach. He pulls back his left fist, poised to deliver a devastating punch, but before his fist collides with Kuroro’s face, Kuroro vanishes.

“Behind you.”

Kurapika whirls around, sensing his presence a second too late and—

A kick lands painfully on his back, sending him flying through the scrap heaps. Stinging pain tears into his shoulders and back as shrapnel slices through the fabric of his suit, sun-scorched to unimaginable temperatures that leave his skin burning and bleeding. The air whistles past him as he crashes through the mountains, each subsequent impact more devastating than the previous one. He doesn’t have a chance to get his bearings, when Kuroro reappears behind him in midair with another kick that slams him into the ground.

Nen cushions his fall. The sight of Kuroro above him forces Kurapika to roll out of the way in time as he strikes the ground, cratering it upon impact. Dust and debris explode in the air from his landing, obscuring everything.

Kurapika tumbles over and regains his footing, his defensive Ken flaring around him in a protective barrier. In his current state without Emperor Time, he can only reinforce his body with sixty percent efficiency. While Kurapika never expected Kuroro to hold back, he was unprepared for the unexpectedly hard blows Kuroro landed at his side. He concentrates on breathing while recovering, his Holy Chain mending the lacerations in his skin and muscle with its gentle green aura. 

A displacement of the air interrupts his healing. 

Kurapika throws up his arms in time to block the incoming kick, skidding several feet back when his Nen enhancement absorbs some of the damage. A shock of pain—his bones would have splintered without his Nen barrier—but it’s manageable compared to being thrown around in the air. Kurapika counters with a deadly swing of his chain, but Kuroro disappears, before another brutal kick sweeps out from the dust and knocks him to the ground.

Kurapika lands on his hands, continuing into a handspring and reinforcing the heel of his foot with Nen, kicking out as hard as he can. Kuroro’s hand catches his ankle in an immovable grip, his other hand still holding onto the Bandit's Secret book to presumably access his teleportation skill. Kurapika wastes no time while upended, lashing out with his chain, but it passes harmlessly through the dust as Kuroro teleports away again.

Kurapika returns to the ground, his gaze darting in every direction in search of him. There has to be some underlying pattern to Kuroro’s movements, a subconscious sequence to his attacks, but Kuroro’s teleportation ability is too unpredictable for him to defend against, leaving him no other choice. A shadow ripples amidst the billowing dust and from the Thieving Index Finger Kurapika sends out his Steal Chain, intending to take the ability for himself.

The syringe never connects.

Kuroro is beside him faster than he can follow. A Nen-enhanced fist slams into Kurapika’s abdomen, forcing all the air from him in one unforeseeable movement, throwing him across the junkyard for a second time. He collides with a solid metal wall, his head snapping back from the force of impact. He coughs up blood, feeling the pain reverberating throughout his entire body.

Before Kurapika can recover, a hand seizes him by the throat. Kuroro’s fingers are bruising as they press into his neck, restricting the air from his lungs. He holds Kurapika above the ground with one hand and slams him back against the metal wall.

Kuroro looks at him dispassionately, despite his vicious grip over Kurapika’s throat. “Will you surrender?”

For the first time since meeting Kuroro here, Kurapika feels that his life is in danger. Kuroro’s voice is the same as his memories of Yorknew, impassive and devoid of any tone. His fingers wrap around tighter and Kurapika chokes for breath. He can’t allow his Scarlet Eyes to surface—he won’t.

Kurapika swallows the metallic taste in the back of his tongue, his throat bobbing underneath Kuroro’s hand. Darkness swarms at the periphery of his vision from lack of air. The crushing pressure is becoming too dangerous to ignore—he should have treated this fight more seriously if Kuroro was going to inflict this much damage. 

Rather than meet his gaze, Kurapika searches for something to ground himself with, and finds the bright ribbon on Kuroro’s hip reminding him of his objective. Concealing his chain with In, Kurapika allows his Chain Jail to fall free from his middle finger. He casts out the chain, a thin snake of invisible aura that succeeds in hooking onto the end of the ribbon.

Gyo burns bright in Kuroro’s eyes as he stares down at himself. It comes as no surprise that he managed to divine the location of Kurapika’s chain so quickly. 

Kuroro releases him before he can take the ribbon. Instead of dropping to the ground, Kurapika falls.

The air pressure changes as their surroundings warp again. His stomach plunges with a sickening swoop as the ground disappears—

Only to reappear beneath him. 

Kurapika lands hard against the wooden floor, dust filling the air from his impact. A familiar nausea washes over him as he pushes himself up on his hands and knees, his limbs throbbing painfully underneath him, still unused to Kuroro’s sudden teleportation. He clutches his neck, coughing at the dust clogging his throat, his lungs burning from being denied air for so long. Recovering the wind knocked out of him takes time.

He gets to his feet, taking a staggering step and catching himself on a wooden crate when teleportation leaves him with anything but his normal balance. He can barely see anything in the darkness, but the musty scent from the shipping crates and containers around him tells him that they’re in an old warehouse. 

He stretches out his aura in their surroundings, searching for Kuroro’s presence, and finds nothing but silence. His nerves are humming with tension as he continues moving forward, sensing for any sign of movement.

A ripple in the darkness is his only warning.

Kurapika turns around.

The skeleton of an Indoor Fish glows in the darkness, swimming in the air towards him. Kurapika takes off in a run.

Moving faster than Kurapika can predict, the Indoor Fish swoops down while he dodges between the wooden crates. His endurance is dwindling when his body isn’t at full strength. Even if he tires, the Fish made from Nen will not. 

He swings his chain through the high stacks of crates and pallets, snapping them in half and sending their contents crashing downward to impede its path. Dust from the destroyed crating clouds the air between them. He recalls that Kuroro’s Indoor Fish can only survive in closed environments. If Kurapika can smash the windows, the Fish will dissipate—the only problem is that the windows are nowhere near his proximity. 

He reaches the other end of the warehouse without any way out. He’s cornered.

The Indoor Fish appears from the dust, suspended in the air above him, regarding Kurapika with deep and devouring black eyes. A cold chill passes as the Fish descends upon Kurapika suddenly, as if intending to consume him whole and—

Kisses him on the nose.

Kurapika opens his eyes after instinctively closing them, finding that the Indoor Fish’s face is only a few inches away from his own. It makes an inhuman noise, nudging Kurapika’s cheek affectionately. He’s dumbfounded.

“It’s a carnivore that enjoys human flesh,” comes Kuroro’s voice as he reveals himself, a slant of light illuminating his profile, “but it seems that it likes you more.”

Kurapika pushes the Fish’s head away, but it resists his strength. It latches onto his suit jacket, tugging at the fabric there. “Stop pulling—”

The sound of fabric tearing rips through the air. The sleeves of his suit jacket are gone, although he should consider himself fortunate that his limbs and muscles are still intact.

“Stop this nonsense,” Kurapika snaps, gathering the remnants of his jacket over his shoulders. “It’s going to strip me at this rate.”

Kuroro only laughs, amused at his interactions with his apparent pet. Before it can devour the rest of his clothes, Kurapika ropes his chain around the Indoor Fish, restricting its motion with a leash. 

The result is only temporary, when the Fish starts pulling Kurapika on the leash and dragging him on the floor like a large dog pulling its owner. His Stealth Dolphin is far more intelligent.

While Kurapika is preoccupied, Kuroro flips to another page in his book. The Indoor Fish disappears and Kurapika’s chain falls to empty air.

Kurapika feels a premonition of free fall before his surroundings change again. He lands on his feet in a viridescent field of wildflowers, gentler than all the other times Kuroro teleported him. He curses himself for failing to escape Kuroro’s control once more. But this time Meteor City’s pollution falls away, extinguished by the scent of morning dews. 

A strange, numbing calm surrounds Kurapika, forcing his heartbeat to slow and the tension in his muscles to loosen. He takes a deep breath, the clean air a respite from the constant stench of putrefaction in the air. Gentle wind passes through the grass, brushing against his ankles and cooling the dew on his skin. Birdsong serenades him and sunlight warms him from above, as if welcoming him home after a long departure. He could recognize this place anywhere. 

But this calmness feels wrong.

The Lukso he remembers withered long ago with a constant sense of death and decay lingering in the air—the atmosphere cold even when the sun shone the brightest. There’s no blood underneath his feet, the grass emerald green and the flowers bright instead of being seared away when his homeland burned to the ground. This isn’t the Lukso he knows, absent of the blood meant to be staining it.

He’s become a butterfly trapped in a spider’s web. This is all an illusion, a false paradise spun by Kuroro’s deception. This place will ensnare him if he moves even a step further. He needs to get out of here—

Then he sees her.

Beyond the wildflowers is a woman who Kurapika knows as well as himself, more familiar than anyone else in the world. Her features may have faded in his memories over the years, but she stands before him with such aching clarity that her existence is undeniable. 

Her hair shines gold in the sunlight, framing a face unmarred by time or tragedy. Her slender frame is clad in the same dress from the day that the massacre had befallen them—he remembers holding her desecrated corpse in his arms the first time he returned. She has never been this bright, this beautiful in his dreams, when all he ever sees is her empty eyes and detached throat. 

Kurapika’s breath leaves him. The world falls out beneath him without the need for teleportation. 

“Mom?”

The woman looks up with clear eyes, and it's the same as meeting his own eyes in the mirror. In the same way that recognition lights up her face, Kurapika knows with unshakable, bone-deep certainty that it’s her.

She approaches through the tall grass with slow and steady steps, and while Kurapika wants to run, he can’t bring himself to move from where he is. That same feeling of plummeting through space with nothing to stop his fall grips him despite the solid ground beneath his feet.  She comes close enough to stand before him, an expression of wonderment on her face as she studies all his features that mirror her own, and then—

She smiles, bittersweet.

“Kurapika.”

Hearing her voice makes something in his chest fold in on itself, collapsing underneath the weight of a decade of longing, and for a moment, Kurapika can't breathe. He knows better than this. Even if Kuroro managed to transport him to Lukso from ten years past, it’s impossible for his mother to know who he is.

“You’re Kurapika, aren’t you?”

Kurapika’s throat feels too tight for him to answer. He nods, despite himself.

She reaches out and pulls him into her arms, and she doesn’t smell of charred flesh and blood. There’s only the gentle fragrance of green leaves and the sweet perfume of wildflowers clinging to her hair and skin, and the familiarity of her scent sends a pang through his chest.

Kurapika doesn’t remember the last time someone held him like this, the last time he felt safe in someone’s arms. He finds himself leaning into her touch, burying his face into her shoulder and feeling the soft cotton of her dress beneath his cheek. His mother’s embrace is a comfort long forgotten, and while he reminds himself that none of this is real, he still feels her nostalgic warmth all the same.

“My little sun,” his mother says in the softest of voices, and suddenly, Kurapika feels like a child again. All of his homesickness comes rushing back all at once, threatening to overtake him when he tries to keep himself together. “You’ve grown up so well.”

And something inside him falls apart. 

Kurapika doesn’t deserve this. He feels ashamed to come to her like this—carrying the lifelong regret of surviving the massacre in his heart, the phantom stain of blood on his hands. No matter how much he wants to cling to her and return her embrace, he keeps his hands still and steady at his sides. Longing for her is a dangerous thing when he has denied himself of any physical comfort for many years now.

His mother pulls back to look at him properly. She raises her hands to frame his face, and he finds himself unable to resist this too. He wonders how she sees him in her eyes, but she doesn’t seem surprised at all to find Kurapika standing taller than her. Gone is the young boy with dreams in abundance, and in place of him is a stranger in an unfamiliar black suit. He’s grown up now, and still, she holds him like a child even though he’s nothing more than a stranger.

Kurapika bites his lip, holding back the swell of emotions. There’s no one else who can make him feel this vulnerable in their presence. “I have so much that I want to say. So much I want to tell you, but…”

“But?“

“I can't,” Kurapika tells her, bringing up his hand to rest it over her own. “This isn't real. None of this is.“

Her gaze turns melancholy. “Kurapika...“

"There's something I still need to finish here, but once I do, I'll come find you," Kurapika promises with conviction, intertwining their fingers together in affirmation. “The real you.“

Her lips part in surprise, but it only takes a moment for her expression to turn into one of understanding. “Alright, Kurapika.” His mother beams at him with so much affection that it makes his heart ache. “Remember that I will always love you no matter what happens. And I know that the real me will love you just as much.”

Kurapika nods, not trusting himself to speak. He doesn’t allow himself to cry, doesn’t even close his eyes because this might be the last time he’ll see her face in a long time. He can’t do anything else but look at her, not wanting to miss a single moment.

“There’s somewhere else you need to be, so you should go.” His mother leans in to press a light kiss to his forehead. Her smile is gentle as she steps back from him. “I'll be waiting for you.”

It's an echo of the same words whispered to him the first time he woke up in this place. Kurapika reaches out one last time, but his hand passes through nothing when his mother’s form bursts into a thousand flower petals, whirling around him in the gentle wind. 

And she is gone, leaving nothing but the faintest scent of wildflowers, until that too fades away. 

Kurapika feels everything return at once when the dreamscape bleeds away—the ache in his limbs from enduring the fight, the oppressive heat of the sun, the mephitic air filling his lungs. Even as Kuroro’s influence fades, the phantom impression of a lone flower petal lingers in his palm.

Kuroro is standing there, as if he has been waiting for him.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Something inside Kurapika burns from his foolishness, shaming him for falling for Kuroro’s trickery. Stealing his dead mother’s visage is sacrilege of one of the highest forms—somehow, the illusion of her alive in a peaceful time is more painful than reliving the worst of his nightmares.

Kuroro’s reappearance rouses something within him, something hot and sickening and vicious beneath his skin. Like he wants to kill him.

“What did you see? I heard that the illusion shows the victim their greatest desire, but it seems like yours was something terrible—”

“Shut up,” Kurapika says. 

And Kurapika’s fist collides with Kuroro’s face. 

There’s the sound of bone crunching beneath his fist as Kuroro’s head snaps back, but it’s not enough. Before Kuroro can stagger back, Kurapika seizes him by the collar of his shirt and pulls him forward, lashing out with another brutal punch. There’s no finesse here, no elegance in motion, nothing but savage anger consuming Kurapika as if he’s truly going to kill him, his knuckles searing with the satisfaction of each punch. Adrenaline surges through his veins—he can barely hear anything beyond the sound of blood rushing in his ears as he continues his assault—and Kuroro does nothing but take it all.

Despite the blood streaming from his nose, stinging his split lip, Kuroro gives him a roguish grin. There’s that manic look in his eyes again—the one where Kuroro's regarding him as if he’s a valuable worth possessing.

“You fight like one of us.”

Kurapika almost sees red. 

Almost.

The affirmation that Kurapika would belong with the Spiders keeps himself in check, but he pays for this moment of distraction when Kuroro’s Benz knife slices through the air, the edge scratching across Kurapika’s cheek when he tilts his head out of the way, catching his hair as it flows away from his face. Strands of blond hair are falling around him, drifting away in the wind.

Before Kuroro’s blade can cut through the air once more, Kurapika throws another harsh punch but this time, Kuroro parries his fist with one hand and counters with the other. They exchange powerful blows, but neither of them falter in blocking and countering any movements from each other. It’s infuriating that Kuroro is skilled in hand-to-hand combat too.

Kurapika finds his movements staggering, his reactions slowing, delayed by the poison of Kuroro’s blade that has penetrated through his skin and into his bloodstream. Even when Kurapika manages to deflect his blows, the blunt damage reverberates through his body.

It’s time to end this—there’s no telling when he will lose consciousness from the toxins inside him. He has no other choice.

One second.

One heartbeat.

This is how long Kurapika calls upon the devastating power of Emperor Time. There will be time later to reprimand himself for depending on his greatest power—the cause of his inevitable tragedy. 

Later, when his thoughts regain a greater sense of clarity, he can remind himself that this power was never meant to be awakened again. But in this moment, when his eyes are bright red and burning, honing in on Kuroro’s area of vulnerability with utmost precision, the smug satisfaction of defeating Kuroro outweighs everything.

Aura rages around Kurapika’s fist, threatening to detonate on impact. His fist slams into Kuroro’s abdomen with the destructive cataclysm of a falling star, and Kuroro violently coughs up blood. As he loses his balance, Kurapika shoves him back with all his strength, sending them crashing into the ground.

Wrenching the Benz knife from Kuroro’s grasp, Kurapika straddles him, flipping the stolen blade in his hands and pressing the point against the pale, unguarded expanse of Kuroro's throat. His hair falls into his face, and Kuroro's breath catches as he stares up at him.

"You," Kurapika breathes sharply, his chest burning for Kuroro's deeds committed past, present, and future, "lose."

It takes everything not to sink the blade into flesh, to see that red, red blood spilling over his skin—the same blood staining Kuroro’s burst lip. It nearly happens when Kuroro slowly reaches a hand out, tucking Kurapika's outgrown bangs behind his ear. 

A rush of wind displaces Kurapika's hair again, making the strands flutter around his cheeks. Gathering a fistful of hair behind his head, Kurapika turns the blade on himself.

He slashes up, shearing through his hair in one fluid motion. Kuroro stares at him with widened eyes as the strands fall around them in thin ribbons of gold, floating gently in the passing wind.

“I lose,” Kuroro admits, his voice strained in his throat. He looks at the blade in Kurapika’s hands, the ribbon still bound to the handle. “The ribbon is yours.”

“You held yourself back,” Kurapika says in accusation, still catching his breath. 

“As did you,” Kuroro answers with a quiet chuckle. “Although that last punch was rather painful… Since it’s my loss, I’ll oblige any of your requests as we agreed upon.”

“I’ll join you.”

Kuroro blinks up at him. “What?”

Breathing out a sigh, Kurapika removes himself from their position to sit beside him properly. “I’ll join you, Kuroro Lucifer.”

A stunned silence passes. There's a violent sunset burning across the horizon. His knuckles are swollen and aching, but it isn't an unpleasant sensation.

“Then,” Kuroro says, grinning with what Kurapika thinks is a genuine smile for once, bloodied and all, “I look forward to working with you, Kurapika.”

 

Notes:

I am never writing a shounen fight scene again... :')

About Kurapika's hair, the earlier chapters mentioned that his hair has gotten longer so he decided to give himself a haircut. >_<

Most of this chapter was written in 2020 but I wasn't able to continue writing until recently. Thank you so much for reading and waiting so patiently—I hope that you liked this chapter.

After the newest HxH manga chapters from last year, I think that this fic still holds up well, so I would be happy to incorporate more of Kuroro's canon backstory into this story.

Please leave a comment—I would love to know what you think.

You can also reach out to me on Twitter or Tumblr.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of There will be other lives