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Fingers skimmed ivory skin and traced feather-light patterns onto a smooth chest, receding when the blond arched his spine in speechless bliss, his lovely features contorting and lips parting to allow for an exhale. Kurapika’s hands reached blindly forward and tangled in raven locks, bringing his bedmate’s lips to meet his own. Chrollo met his passion with equal magnitude as he deepened the kiss, his hands never ceasing their exploration of the soft planes below him.
Many months have passed since they had begun their string of rendezvous. Alone and bereft of loved ones, they found solace in each other’s misery, and a singular desire for connection stole their better judgement. Just like that, they found each other continuously in the other’s arms, seeking solace from the cold reality with the heat of passionate encounters.
It did not skip Kurapika’s attention that he had made a lover of his tribesmen’s killer, nor did it skip Chrollo’s that he had done the same of the killer of two members of his own family. Fate, however, saw it fit that they should be the only ones to understand the other’s torment; that consolation would only be derived from an enemy.
But holding Kurapika in his arms on a cold and moonless night, Chrollo could almost forget who they were. He could abandon that elusive concept of identity and fall into the abstraction of euphoria, enveloped by the warmth of the body beneath his.
He heaved a sigh, and Kurapika rose in a sitting position, their cheeks a mere breadth away and his breath stirring raven locks in a gentle sway.
“I want you to hurt me,” whispered Kurapika, his breathing hoarse enough to draw a dark chuckle from Chrollo, who shook his head lazily and proceeded to litter kisses against his former enemy’s neck. Kurapika groaned and tugged at Chrollo’s hair, forcing him to meet his scarlet gaze. “I mean it,” he said, this time with a clearer and more insistent voice. “Hurt me.”
The frustrated, desperate undertone caused Chrollo to consider Kurapika more thoroughly, forcing himself to clear his mind from the haze of passion that still tickled his insides. Gray eyes bored into ones whose blazing hue flickered in the dark, searching for a crevice that allowed him insight into Kurapika’s mind.
“You don’t strike me as a person who would enjoy pain,” Chrollo mused quietly.
Turning his head, Kurapika said darkly, “It’s not about enjoyment.”
Chrollo blinked, pausing for a second before realization shaded his features.
Ah. That.
When the Kurta had buried his clansmen’s eyes, something was put to death alongside them. It was as though the last sliver of purpose had been taken away from him; and repulsed by blood and murder, he sought no further fulfillment of his revenge. The weight of the realization, knowing there was nothing left he could do, no way in which he could further atone, left him numb and lifeless. The rage and bitterness inside him did not fade away, but rather found a new target, and that target was himself.
Perhaps this little arrangement of theirs did not stem from a singular desire after all.
“Am I a way to punish yourself?”
The words were spoken flatly; an observation more than a question, voiced with the same monotonous calm that allowed no egress for emotion.
Kurapika frowned, but did not deny. If anything, he pulled away slightly, curling in on himself again and shutting Chrollo out. “What does it matter what I think of you?” Gesturing vaguely to their current state and situation, he continued, “Aren’t you getting what you want?”
Chrollo let out a low hum and fell into a pensive silence. “I don’t know.” And he didn’t. But Kurapika’s insinuation left him feeling oddly cold.
It seemed that Kurapika didn’t wish to ponder the enigmatic response, since he pulled Chrollo back on top of him and sought to silence both their minds with a harsh kiss. A succession of those followed, with the Kurapika raking his nails across his bedmate’s back to leave red marks and a stinging pain, silently urging the other to do the same.
When Chrollo broke the kiss, he pulled back slightly to gaze down at the beautiful boy below him, marveling at the very eyes that caused their paths to intertwine. “You can’t be close to anyone without making it some kind of retribution, can you?” he whispered, caressing a soft cheek. “And I’m the best person for that.”
“Shut up already,” groaned Kurapika, crashing his mouth onto Chrollo’s again.
Fervor easily stole discernment. If Kurapika wished to pretend that Chrollo’s caresses were stabs and his kisses, bites, then Chrollo would pretend that affection laced Kurapika’s every touch and whim.
And in the morning, one of them would wake to find the other gone.
Such was the habit. Neither held any kind of responsibility to the other, nor were there promises that bound them together. They met wherever and whenever; leaving it to fate to decide. Chrollo had no fixed residence, and he traveled for extensive periods of times, disappearing and reappearing without notice. It wasn’t unusual for Kurapika to come home to find him in his apartment, having snuck in through the window or by a picked lock, seated comfortably on the sofa and with a book in his hand. Depending on Kurapika’s mood, he either sat down nearby with a book of his own, or took Chrollo’s hand and led him to the bedroom; either possibility being done without a spoken word.
There was a lack of judgement in the quietude that they forged; a voiceless understanding that made them yearn for the other’s company when they were alone; but prideful as they were, they opted to maneuver chains of causality and play with laws of probability to facilitate their next encounter as subtly as could be.
It was no coincidence that Chrollo chose to spend a November’s twilight in the wind-swept park in front of the Hunter Association building, or that Kurapika always walked home by passing the street with the quaint, old-fashioned cafe that Chrollo frequented whenever he was in town. A fleeting glance would suffice to convey what ran through their heads; be it an invitation to follow along, or a discreet desire to simply see the other.
One day saw Chrollo standing outside Kurapika’s place of work, dressed in formal, somber clothing with a band wrapped around his forehead, blatantly awaiting the egress of the blond. Kurapika quirked a brow in surprise when he exited the building, his eyes instantly falling onto the flowers peaking from the bags in Chrollo’s hands.
“Come,” Chrollo simply said.
Kurapika’s frown only served to intensify. He disliked being ordered around, and even more so when the intent was so vague. “Where?”
“You’ll soon see.”
With a final sigh, Kurapika heeded the request and his steps fell in synchrony with Chrollo’s.
They walked for a while, and time seemed to stretch when Kurapika noted that they had exited his familiar district and entered an unknown terrain. Chrollo could see his partner growing impatient as he glanced at him from the periphery of his eye, but he took it as a good sign that the usually brusque blond was yet to make a protest.
A building, distinct in shape, began to manifest in the midst of the barren land. It was an old, abandoned church, left for the mold and the dust to gather on its benches and broken pillars.
Chrollo nudged the door open and walked straight ahead, leaving Kurapika to loiter as realization descended upon him with its melancholy weight. Having set the two bags near the altar, the raven haired man glanced back, taking a moment to admire the mosaic-filtered light as it lent a colorful hue to a blond head and pale, stricken features.
“The local church is much too crowded…” muttered Kurapika distantly.
“Yeah,” agreed Chrollo, offering flowers for Kurapika to take.
The two set forth on their individual tasks. Kurapika lined the altar with lilies and dark roses, while Chrollo lit candles in reverence, compensating for the dying sunlight.
Then, they sat, bearing their families in heart and leaden thoughts in mind.
“Do you think… their souls are at peace?”
“Do you believe in a better place after death?”
“I don’t know… but it would only seem fair.”
Chrollo hummed. He then quoted, “One short sleep past, we wake eternally. And death shall be no more.”
Kurapika leaned forward, shoulders hunched and face obscured. “Death,” he finished, “thou shalt die.”
Kurapika visited the church whenever he felt distraught. Chrollo came and went at odd occasions, and there were days when he stayed there from dusk till dawn.
Sentimentality was not a word either would use to describe themselves, but the bonds that connected them to their loved ones held them captive in the past as they looked onto a bleak, lonely future.
It was a disconnect from the world around them. A sense of no longer belonging. A malevolent monologue playing in their heads and dissipating into fathomlessness with wanton moans and blissful sighs, carried through the night and broken by morning.
If Chrollo had it his way, the two of them would never part. If Kurapika’s wish had been fulfilled, his soul would have ascended to heavens the moment the last pair of eyes was buried.
As the Head of the dead Spider watched the last Kurta sleep, he lamented how hearts couldn’t be stolen as paintings and jewelry could.
Chrollo had planned for the next day to be the last he’d spend in the city before he took his leave yet again. After making polite smalltalk with the barista, he grabbed his cup of coffee and seated himself by the window, refined and sophisticated in appearance, morbidly entertaining the scenario in which the people nearby recognized him as the infamous criminal with a class A bounty on his head.
He grew bored quickly with the thought. Humans’ predictability stirred apathy in him, and whether he would end up killing them or not posed no difference to him whatsoever.
But if anything, it was this disposition of his that warranted his contemplation, in a way that was unprecedented before he lost everything he held dear. He entertained the thought that people were made valuable by the connections they forged, but while this thought held a certain poetic beauty, it failed to resonate in him more than any other abstract concept.
A frown settled on his face, and he sighed, the book in his hand reclining limply against his palm.
Then, there came a shift of light as a figure sat down before him with unmistakable gracefulness. A steaming cup was deposited atop the table. Chrollo looked up, a pleasantly surprised glint passing his eyes.
“It’s almost ridiculously appropriate that you should like Nietzsche,” said Kurapika, nodding at the book.
“You mean to tell me you don’t?” Chrollo returned with a subtle smirk.
“Not nearly as much as you do, I’m sure.”
“Of course; you’d prefer Kant.”
Kurapika’s eyes widened a fraction before he blinked and folded his arms defensively across his chest. “His moral maxims are much more understandable.”
“I’d like to debate you on that.” The look of amusement never left Chrollo’s features, but it was the discernible warmth in his gaze that made Kurapika look away.
“Later, perhaps. I have to get back to work.”
“Over dinner, then. The loser pays.”
Standing up, Kurapika said, “You’re saying you’d be willing to actually pay for something? Now I’m doubly invested in winning.” A jesting tone laced his words, but all semblance of it was gone as soon as he realized he was having an amicable chat with the person he had sworn to forever hate.
Chrollo pointedly ignored the darkened change in disposition, choosing instead to let out a smooth chuckle. “We’ll see how that turns out.”
But they never said when or where.
The blond was already walking away when he was called back.
“Kurapika.”
He stopped and turned his head in a slight inclination.
“You didn’t mention why you came here.” It was a redundant query, but Chrollo wanted to hear its answer from him anyway. Knowing Kurapika, however…
“Coffee, quite naturally,” came the dismissive response, complete with the quirk of a brow and a perplexed downturn of pale lips.
Chrollo nodded in acknowledgement, though a knowing smile lingered on his lips long after the Kurta was gone. Farewells didn’t have to be explicitly bade, but Chrollo heard it anyway - a whisper that leaked from underneath Kurapika's guise of antagonism.
Goodbye to you to, Kurapika.
Chrollo’s leave this time extended far longer than usual. He had located a painting that was deemed a masterpiece and decided he must have it. It was guarded heavily by expertly nen-trained mafiosi, and the heist had every intention of going bad if not for sheer luck.
Now, bloodied and high on adrenalin, he found himself breaking into Kurapika’s apartment well past midnight. Its lone inhabitant was quick to put up a defense, appearing from his bedroom with two wooden swords. Chrollo, however, only saw his lover, deliciously disheveled and radiant with life.
He crossed the distance between them in the few seconds it took Kurapika to falter as he recognized the intruder. Chrollo seized him with both hands and kissed him deeply, barely stopping for an intake of air before claiming his lips again.
“Wait,” said Kurapika in a muffled voice in the small intermissions between feverish kisses. “You’re—”, a kiss, “covered in—”, yet another, “blood.”
Chrollo leaned his forehead against Kurapika’s. “It’s only mine,” he said in a hushed manner of assurance, silently banishing Kurapika's suspicions of any murder Chrollo might have committed that night, regardless of how true or untrue they might have been.
“Idiot,” hissed Kurapika, meeting the next kiss with an open mouth, which earned him a quiet, lustful groan from his former enemy. But he receded completely then, a sobered look washing away any sort of desire he might have felt. “Let me see the wounds.”
Still breathing heavily, Chrollo regarded him with deep, fathomless eyes, calculating and construing, before he at last did as told, lifting his shirt to reveal a deep gash that tore through his abdomen. It was still bleeding, and the fact that he was able to ignore the pain so easily must have perturbed Kurapika.
A hand, deliberate but gentle, guided Chrollo to sit on the bed.
“Take off your shirt,” instructed Kurapika.
Chains manifested on a smooth hand, and upon the extension of his thumb, a chain with a cross on its end descended, glowing gently in the dark. Chrollo noted with interest that Kurapika’s eyes had turned scarlet, and his interest only served to grow when the cool metal touched his skin and sealed the wound, until not a trace was left.
But his disposition was quickly marred by alarm when Kurapika doubled over, clutching his head with a hand as he lost his footing. Chrollo steadied him and positioned him on the bed, frowning deeply as he looked at the disoriented man, whose visage was concealed by a curtain of silky hair.
“Kurapika? What’s the matter?”
Kurapika shook his head, mumbling, “I’m so weak now… It’s ridiculous.”
Silence, then… “It’s linked to your ability, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps…” Kurapika climbed to the top of the bed, curling into a fetal position and facing away from Chrollo. “Go shower. You reek of blood.”
For a while, there was no disruption to the stillness. Chrollo’s thoughts were a mystery as he stared at his withdrawn lover, who seemed even smaller in stature in that position. A wave of fearful protectiveness washed over him. He realized, with no small amount of surprise, that Kurapika could actually be vulnerable; that death could whisk his body away and steal him from Chrollo. The image of his lifeless body was lucid enough to cause a burning lump to form in Chrollo’s throat.
He stood and headed to the bathroom to wash away all reminders of ruin and loss. When he returned, he climbed into bed and wrapped his arms around Kurapika, uncaring of any protest the younger man would make.
He made none.
“I’m scared I’ll die alone,” confessed Kurapika in an impossibly small voice.
Strong arms tightened around his lithe form, and the warm breath against his neck reminded him that he was alive.
“Neither will happen,” promised Chrollo.
The next morning, Kurapika woke up to find Chrollo seated on the edge of the bed with his back facing him, looking pensive even without his visage being apparent. The blond blinked the bleariness away, sparing a moment to question his sight.
“You’re still here,” he said at last.
Chrollo inclined his head ever so slightly. “I am.”
The memory of the previous night washed over them both, but they tactfully avoided bringing it up.
Turning his head fully to where Kurapika still lay in bed, Chrollo positioned the painting in his hold to be in the other’s line of sight.
“What do you see?”
Without so much as sparing it a glance, Kurapika said flatly, “Your latest heist.”
Undeterred, Chrollo proceeded, “It’s said that the artist experienced a moment of profound insight prior to his painting this. He described it as a glimpse of a self he never knew he had.” He paused before continuing. “But I fail to see what he saw. I see nothing but a confused mishmash of colors.”
Kurapika let out a sigh, his unfocused gaze trained on the wall. “That’s because the painting reflects him, not you. You won’t find yourself in things you were never meant to possess.”
“Hm…”
He turned his face towards Chrollo then, nudging him with a knee. “Why don’t you try creating for a change?”
Chrollo contemplated before replying, “I did, at one point. But I felt more disconnected from my creation than from anything I ever stole. It didn’t make me happy as much as disappointed.” He deposited the painting as though it were a cheap object that he found thrown on the street, rather than a masterpiece of immeasurable value.
The mattress saw a downward inclination when he climbed atop it to hover above the blond, his forearms resting on either side of his head as he gazed into two wide eyes. “You make me happy.” He brushed his lips lightly against his forehead, trailing to reach his cheek, and then his jaw. “But I’m afraid you’re not mine to possess, either.”
“I’m not,” affirmed Kurapika in an equally hushed tone, even as a shiver ran down his spine and his eyelids fluttered closed at the gentle caress of a kiss. “This wasn’t—isn’t supposed to happen…”
“But it is happening…” Chrollo slipped both hands under Kurapika’s shirt and ran them down his sides, gauging his fluttering breath. “What do we do?”
Kurapika’s hands threaded through raven hair and anchored his lover’s head as soft lips sought his neck. “We fight it…”
“I’m losing,” Chrollo mumbled, pushing the cotton shirt off Kurapika’s shoulder to avail more skin for his hungry mouth. He placed hot, open-mouth kisses on his collarbone and nibbled, a rush of pleasure coursing through his veins at the mewl he enticed. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “I want to lose.”
A dark chuckle escaped Kurapika and he craned his neck when Chrollo’s mouth latched onto a nipple. “You’ll regret this…” He moaned at the sudden flick. “I don’t… have much time left.”
As soon as he said this, Chrollo ceased his teasing and moved to look straight into Kurapika’s eyes with seriousness that gave no allowance for debate. “You’re not going to die.”
Kurapika turned his gaze downwards, saying quietly, “I don’t fear death.”
And at that, gray eyes moistened instantly, because he recognized those words as ones that he spoke himself. They still held true to some extent, but Chrollo recognized that Kurapika’s death would be much more tragic, much more terrifying than his own. But perhaps, if Kurapika loved him back, he would fear for his own life in turn…
A despondent smile twisted his lips. He buried his face in Kurapika’s neck as tears trailed down his cheeks, and he felt like he solved the secret of life.