Lucilfer (ChrolloxReader)

Chapter 73

Odd.

I didn't necessarily enjoy using Feeler Inversion. It took much more effort than the generality of Feeler, itself. But the freedom of having accomplished it was breathtaking, and it was ever more beautiful that I'd vowed it to the one who held my soul, to my Chrollo. Surely, if my intention had been to develop it without any conditions or restrictions, I wouldn't be able to complete it for some time yet. The fact that I had finished it, alone, was testament to my trust in Chrollo, in his safety and his love.

Leaning back on my knees, I turned my head slightly and caught a closer glimpse of the material Kurapika had been studiously stitching for days. I was curious, to say the least, about what it was, if it was some kind of clothing or perhaps a tapestry of sorts, but I hadn't yet asked him. In fact, I hadn't even known he dabbled in that art field—and it must be an art field, considering how detail oriented it was and how much focus it took to create something.

I could still hear him scuffling about in the kitchen, so in a moment's notice, I shifted forward and knelt where he'd been, leaning carefully over the piece and trying to make sense of its shape. I didn't want to jostle it, just in case he lost his progress somehow, and most of it was flattened now, anyway, providing a clearer view, so I kept my hands placed around the edges, feeling loosely the threaded texture of the borders.

As noted before, it was elaborate—each stitch was done in an ornate fashion, creating little loops and twists unlike a regular knitting or construction stitch. But not every design was the same. What the needle was paused at now was perhaps one of the most confusing shows of thread work, though from further away, it only appeared to be a thin line around the inside of the border. The details were so minuscule that I found myself narrowing my eyes and hunching over the fabric in much the same way Kurapika had, examining the gold of the string against the royal blue of the material.

The thicker design within the center of what I assumed to be some sort of a hanging chest piece was done in a more classic manner—the thread was not nearly as exotically swirled or twisted within itself to create the shape. Delicately, I traced the pad of my index finger over that shape, wondering inwardly what significance this foreign piece of clothing held to him.

"Do you like it?"

The sound of Kurapika's voice close to my ear made me flinch in mild shock—I'd been so absorbed with the patterns of his work that I hadn't even heard him approach, let alone notice him directly behind me. He breathed out a gentle chuckle, though the sound of it was wistful and half-hearted, and settled down next to me, his hand coming to rest overtop of mine and his fingers wrapping around my wrist, carefully shifting my arm away from the table to allow him a clearer view.

I froze sheepishly, straightening my posture, and turned slightly to see his face, which was alight with the barest hint of amusement. I nodded, though, and smiled appreciatively back down at the unique clothing.

"It's pretty," I mused genuinely, lowering my free hand down into my lap, as well. "I didn't know you made clothes."

Is that the right way to put it...?

He shrugged and hummed shortly, while a lost, reminiscing reverie glimmered soulfully in his irises, as though when he looked at the material, he wasn't only seeing a wardrobe choice. He was unmoving like that for a moment, his touch still brushing my forearm, but I couldn't be sure if he consciously realized he hadn't let go yet—I didn't move from my position.

Drawing an infinite inhale, Kurapika inched closer, his legs remaining neatly folded beneath him, but now, he was a bit more pressed to my side, his fingers slowly tracing away as he leaned one elbow on the coffee table, fitting his form around me loosely. I hardly tensed, but there was an undertone reasoning behind this—perhaps I sensed the solemnity he regarded this material, and the stitch work he'd so attentively weaved within it, with. His right hand stayed resting over his knee as he tilted his head towards mine, and I could feel the feathery prickle of a few strands of his hanging tousled locks brushing up against my cheek while he studied the piece more intimately.