Days passed in slightly less of a stunned blur, though they didn't offer me the solace of any further messages or calls from Chrollo. June turned into July, and July first became the second, and then third—one full month had passed of being without my only one. It was hell, to say the least, but I would be foolish to deny the pinpricks of light which pierced through that suffocating blackness, almost stifled and yet refusing to be put out. There weren't many of them, but there were a few. There wasn't enough to truly take much of my attention away from the fact that he was gone.
Most of my days were spent sketching, or dragging on hopelessly while Kurapika made every desperate effort to distract me from what he didn't realize plagued me. Of course, now that Feeler Inversion was completed, I didn't have the excuse of exercising my aura until I was mentally and physically exhausted enough to go back to sleep. I still exercised it, though—partly because I didn't want it to slip through my fingers, or for that mind barrier to be built up again and force me to start from square one, but partly because I wanted something to distract myself, something to take my thoughts away from the present.
Sketching could only do so much for me. I wasn't very good at it. Or, at least, my drawings never compared to Chrollo's eloquent artistry. I could tell, several times, that Kurapika was mildly curious about what was inside my sketchbook, but I'd refused to show him. He'd respected my wishes, though I wondered what might happen if he were to see the countless anatomy studies Chrollo had done of my body, and the final piece of me sleeping, unclothed, on my side.
I often stared at that picture, remembering the first moments I'd found it, the day when my lover was to return from the Republic of Padokea after leaving for a week and a half. The memory of his beautiful reasoning and poetic explanation of his feelings and inner communications often echoed through my mind, as well as what had followed that evening, empty words spoken to a flushed atmosphere, and then the passion of his dark irises locked on mine and the persistence of his alluring form pressed against me as my lips could release the sound of only his name. Many times, I would zone out while sketching, and tune in to Kurapika calling for me to ask me a question or checking up on me to see if I'd eaten anything—I typically forgot to eat, and he'd recognized that numb pattern from me.
But as numb as I certainly was, I noticed, in Kurapika, a return of much of his own intensity, that heaviness having settled back down over him and becoming tangible in his presence. He still tried, though. And it hurt the most to see him trying so desperately to uplift me while his own mental health deteriorated, crumbling at the foundation and leaving him a blank slate, unfeeling, suspended. I wished he wouldn't try so hard, but perhaps it was one of his last means of finding contentment, satisfaction—I felt guilty either way, because no matter the valor in his efforts, I held no energy to respond to any of them. They were wasted on me, and watching them fall to waste was perhaps my greatest source of pain. Of course, he knew nothing of the reason why I couldn't afford him a response.
I almost wanted to find a way to keep him enamored with me, to keep him trying, to selfishly string him along, but even that, I could not actively contribute to. Inevitably, I did so without even bothering to pay attention, but manipulation had not yet consciously played a part in my endeavor to keep him invested enough to stay in York New. It almost felt as though I were sitting by and watching him gradually fall apart, but he was too stubborn to admit or see, himself, that his passion was diminishing.
Even so, through all of that confusion and emotional conflict I'd sensed from him, seen from him, he managed to find an infinitesimally brighter exterior when we spoke, when we engaged in simple things like making coffee together. I could still see it in his weighing eyes, the way they lifted just barely when we made eye contact, when I answered one of his trivial, always trying questions. It pricked my heart, and terrified me at the same time.
Now, I was curled up on the sofa, the sketchbook open in my lap and turned to the drawing of me. I held a pencil in my hand, though I didn't intend on even touching Chrollo's work, for fear that I might smudge it—I only gazed thoughtlessly again, searching for a place, any place, apart from the present. My eyes followed the deeply cast shadows he'd depicted and the softly illuminated plains of skin, the few scars which would've been visible having also been depicted. For some reason, I wasn't repulsed by them, but surely that came from the knowledge that my only one had been the one to draw what I stared at. His intentions with shading the scars were already known to me, and blissfully so.
"...but until then, I can do my best to make you understand how beautiful you are to me."
One side of my mouth was taunted upwards, forcing a gentle, crooked smile to infect my expression. My fingers twiddled uselessly with the pencil as I recalled the morning he'd playfully attacked me by placing relentless kisses over my scarred skin, leaving me writhing helplessly beneath him, a glowing, feeling heart in my chest and the inherence of belonging tinting my emotions.
I'll be able to return to that in one month. Just one more month.
In a way, it felt short, arising a shuddering excitement in my soul, but it also felt just as dragging when I compared it to the month I'd already been through. I didn't want to live through another day knowing I was fully capable of divulging the truth to my lover, but that I was unable to do so until he came home.
My face fell once more. Expressionlessly, I peered over the sketchbook and over my knees at where Kurapika knelt on the other side of the coffee table, hunched once more over that strangely heavy, embroidered fabric. His fingers moved carefully, cautiously, but deftly as he pricked the needle through in a specific manner unbeknownst to me and then pulled the thread taut, securing his work, doing so repeatedly. My brows twitched lower as I tried to pick out a rhythm in his movements, but I couldn't make perfect sense of it.
He must've felt me staring—his hand paused, and he looked up after a few moments, a tired smile twisting his lips, but not touching his eyes. I forced one in return.
"Do you need me for anything right now?" he asked, his voice pleasant and low, quiet. "Would you like me to make more coffee?"
I blinked and flickered my gaze down again, shrugging.
"You can if you want," I murmured. "That sounds good."
I allowed my eyes to stay trained on the drawing of me for a prolonged minute before finally releasing a sigh and closing the book. Kurapika gingerly set the needle aside and stood, stretching his arms up over his head—I watched absently and felt an involuntary twinge of endearment in my heart at the sight of his biceps trembling mutedly, his forearms bending behind his head and his eyes fluttering closed for a second. His legs extended jaggedly as he stepped forward, and then he dropped his arms, exhaling heavily before walking towards the kitchen. I found it strangely comforting to see him perform regular, human acts like that, as if it somehow proved to me that he wasn't just a shell, that he, too, indulged in simple satisfactions.
While he started a fresh pot of coffee, I grabbed the sketchbook and took it back to my duffle, tucking it away securely and checking the time on my phone as I did so.
4:36 p.m.
Earlier that day, I'd rehearsed extending Feeler Inversion again—it was still flawless, though it often resulted in a minor pounding within my temples. It felt odd, though, as well, and disconcerting to release so many emotions at once. I was so used to hiding them that whenever I deployed such a technique, the skin at the back of my neck tingled and the hair on my arms raised, creating a trail of disheveled goosebumps over my body, as if my subconscious mind was alerting me of the fact that I was taking part in so much vulnerability, so much exposure. But it was mostly just odd to trust completely, to finally have nothing to hide, or to know that when my lover did return, I would be able to reach the point of hiding nothing. It was relieving, but it was terribly frightening.
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.
"I don't," he murmured softly, his voice almost dismal as he spoke with the tangible burden of a weighted, thrashing loneliness. "Not really. This is a cultural practice. It's very important to me that I remember the ways of my clan, even in seemingly meaningless actions like stitching."
I felt my brows fall over my eyes, and I tried to suppress the edge of guilt I felt whenever he mentioned his past, or the reminder that he was once a carefree child with hopes and dreams and friends and a future. My fingers twined conscientiously together, and I lowered my gaze.
"I don't think it's meaningless." My words were just a whisper. "I think it's very beautiful that you continue cultural traditions. Was this type of clothing commonplace for your people? Or was it something set apart for special occasions?"
Apart from the despondency creeping into my heart at the knowledge of the context of my question, I was interested, and fascinated, by the embroidery and the talent necessary for dealing with such detailed embossing. He'd told me, only once before, a vague overview of the events that had proceeded during the Kurta massacre—if memory served, it had been the day he'd told me his true name, the day I'd first seen the full effects of so much visible desolation in his exterior, and boiling beneath that surface within his interior—but I knew next to nothing of the practices of his clan, the cultural nuances or how he'd lived at one time. I wanted to know, though it felt horribly wrong.
There was something suddenly hesitant about him as he pondered my inquiry, however, something unsure and almost shy. I couldn't pinpoint where it might be coming from, but I didn't dare to turn and try to decipher it from his expression.
"It was commonplace," he hedged quietly, air breezing smoothly over my jaw with his words. His fingers elongated and traced the thick, simpler embroideries most boldly marking the front. "Though, this particular pattern is not. As a child, I was taught specific techniques of stitch work, and what each design meant. Some of them were based on coming of age, while others were meant to show your status. The basics of this practice were those patterns which flaunted emotional intelligence and wisdom—unless one was of noteworthy status, the amount of sense within the stitches on one's clothing would usually show control and acknowledgement of the power in certain emotions, and how those emotions affected our outward display."
Outward display—the Scarlet Eyes.
It was a clear assumption. Surely, his clan knew of the rumors passed in dangerous circles of their delicate irises, and formed a way to reign in most of the outbursts which gave away an active member of the Kurta. Perhaps clothing and those specific stitches were a method of making publicly known who was fit for visiting the outside world. Either way, I didn't want to ask that kind of question, though I was curious—I didn't want to set off a memory for him concerning those sacred eyes and how they were so brutally stolen. And if I was honest with myself, I hated that the administrator of such trauma was the one I loved with the entirety of my soul and heart.
Ironically, I was morbidly invested in what, exactly, lived on in Kurapika's mind when he recalled his own tragedy. I didn't wish to know, but at the same time, I felt as though I needed to know the lengths my lover had gone to, the violent slaughter he had taken part in, as if those details would somehow serve some greater purpose in my mind rather than increase the conflict in my thoughts. Perhaps it was my subconscious way of further empathizing with Kurapika, but if that were the case, it might've been better, had I stayed away from such vile, plaguing knowledge. After all, in the end, it was him who I was to prepare myself to say goodbye to.
If only you could know who I am, who's soul I hold, and who holds mine in their hands.
I swallowed roughly, shoving away the disturbing truth, and shifted in place beside him. He pulled away infinitesimally, just enough so that I was no longer feeling the light graze of his hair against my cheek, and I felt his eyes on my movements as I reached up to trace my fingers over the most recent, most complex thread he'd been weaving into the chest piece. He seemed wary, bewildered by my absorption, but hopeful, all of it washed blue by the pain in his demeanor.
"So... do these stitches have emotional relevance?" I inquired after choosing my words carefully, my tone still low and cautious. "These new ones look... um, confused, and sort of knotted. The other ones look cleaner and bolder. I think it's all fascinating—your culture is very unique, and very lovely."
Again, he paused, sheepish and uncertain, as if there was something he needed to tell me, but it was something he didn't want to tell me. I waited patiently, still dragging my gaze over the fabric and distractedly trying to imagine it on him. When I moved my hand to examine the placement of the needle, however, he reached forward, gently stopping me from touching it. I chuckled, almost dismally, and my muscles fell slightly limp as his fingers twined with mine over the fabric—I watched, unable to pull away, as his thumb traced lightly over my knuckles.
"These center designs, the way I've stitched them, represent wayward passions," he breathed. His voice was hoarse now, submerged in an indefinable distance. "They're a simple embroidery; rage is a simple emotion. But it is quite bold, and unpredictable—the borders are stitched the same way. When I created this piece, I etched revenge into every thread, a reminder to myself to never allow my hatred to dwindle. And it hasn't..."
I exhaled in a shallow manner, wishing to see his expression but unwilling to read what I knew I might see there. I became increasingly aware of how close he was, how his words practically grazed my skin, and I was suddenly thankful for the turtleneck I wore—my tattoo was entirely covered. But beyond the slightly uncomfortable realization of his proximity, I was baffled by the way he'd trailed off, and saddened by the lengths he'd gone to just to prove to himself that his own vengeance controlled every motive, every action.
Do you hear yourself, Kurapika?
I wondered if he really did, and if he was truly beyond caring about what little character he could salvage after his violent rage. I witnessed every day how exhausted it made him to be, how drab and uncaring his heart had become—any hope I might've had of his mildly brightened exterior around me turning his path away from death was always crushed in moments like this, and perhaps my soul ached even more for him because of it.
He never finished his faded sentence. It sounded as if it hadn't been completed, as if there was something more to add to it, but he remained quiet beside me, his hand constricting just barely around mine.
"...but what about this new pattern?" I prompted softly—he'd conveniently ignored my inquiry about what I'd seen him furiously focused on the past few days. "Why is it so... different than the embroideries representing rage?"
Inhaling deeply, he brought our hands down to my lap before answering. I gazed down at them—the picture looked wrong, and it felt wrong, but it also seemed correct, easy. Just the two of us, together, was easy, despite the mental battles I'd been engaged in for so long. Without those things, without reality, our friendship was easy, and I knew it was foolish of me to look for intentions which hardly existed in the first place. My body relaxed hesitantly into his, the tension draining as the ice around my thoughts melted away, leaving me with only empathy, only compassion. I wanted to fix him, but it wasn't my responsibility, nor was it even possible.
Steadily, Kurapika pulled back, keeping his fingers laced with mine and lifting his free hand to tilt my chin towards him. My heart stuttered nervously, but I was no sooner trapped in place by the sight before me. His irises were a rich, swirling crimson, depths of unknown dangers glittering beneath the surface, but they weren't angered, or enflamed. In fact, I thought I could remember a time when I'd seen this kind of scarlet, and the sensations flickering under it, some while ago. It was familiar to me, and if I truly expended the effort to analyze the yearning in his defeated features, I might've been able to place it.
He held my gaze for many long moments, silently asking me a question I dared not answer as he tucked stray hairs behind my ear. My lips parted unconsciously as I was rendered still by the sincerity of his stare.
"This technique was only used for... special reasons," he whispered, his head tilting just slightly to the side. I thought he'd leaned ever closer, be it on purpose or naturally, I couldn't tell, but there were alarms blaring in my mind as he sighed against my lips. "It represents something more violent than an emotion, but more peaceful than the satisfaction of a choice; it represents giving in, in a way."
I couldn't make perfect sense of his description—it felt muddled and unsure, simply the outskirts of what he seemed to be avoiding, what I wished he would continue to avoid, but at the time, I couldn't understand why I would be wishing as much. All I could pay attention to was the drowning fullness of his irises, the acceptance and the desolation at war with something kind and tender, pleading. I longed to turn away, but I felt frozen in place without my consent, without even a desire to stay unmoving.
He's too close.
"Why stitch it onto the garment meant to remind you of your rage?" I queried, guarded and endlessly curious, endlessly wanting to comprehend while relentlessly begging him not to tell me.
His brows slanted in surrender, and I felt his palm fit loosely over my jaw, his fingers pushing gently into my hair.
"Because I am no longer certain where my heart is being held captive," he implored me desperately, his voice carrying no tone other than a wispy breath. "I've confused myself, (Y/n), because I desire vengeance against my tormentor, but there seems to be a separate wantonness in my mind. My rage hasn't diminished, and it never will, but yet this wantonness remains—don't you understand?"
I shook my head, though I'm not sure if it was a direct response to his perplexing question more than it was to the innate sense of wishing to comfort him while rejecting the quickly dwindling distance between us. My gaze was wide and wary, and my chest expanded in swift, jagged motions as I fought the urge to wrap my arms around him and absorb every last drop of pain in his soul, to promise to him that he would no longer have to bear so much weight, to swear to him that I would save him from the inevitable.
But I can't.
Why did he give himself so freely to his hatred? Of course, I knew the answer, but I despised that answer all the same. I despised that my happiness, my own inner peace and security, would eventually come from his demise, the obliteration of an innocent. Why must every blessing be plagued by a curse?
As if hearing my unspoken turmoil, Kurapika's reddened line of sight lowered as his eyelids closed, and his hands, both of them, gradually withdrew, his body shifting back as he worked a tired fist into his sandy locks. I strived to keep my appearance smooth, to not allow him to truly see any of the warfare within me.
"I'm sure you don't," he uttered, replying to himself, and he forced a small smile, a marveling smile. "I certainly don't. But it seems so coupled with my drive now... I wanted it engraved on the piece previously meant only to serve my drive."
He didn't need to say it out loud for me to know that this specific embossing had to do with me, with those unkempt emotions he never honestly communicated to me. But I was shocked and almost disoriented by the fact that he found them so chaotic and prominent as to permanently stitch them into one of his last remnants of his culture. In my mind, I knew this practice carried more severity than I could even fathom. This, too, frightened me.
I looked up through my lashes at his now crumpled form; my breathing nearly felt heavy. I scrambled for words, for how to adequately respond. He was correct, of course—I didn't understand, though I feared that I soon would. And although his eyes were still closed, I continued to see the scarlet glare of his irises around the corners of my vision, a scarlet which sunk my heart and left me at a loss before him.
"Do you wear it often?"
My tone was solemn, raspy after having stayed silent for so long, and I turned my head to sweep my gaze over the blue and gold material. He didn't move from his position.
"I don't wear it lightly," he murmured, a broken determination seeping into his speech. "But I need to finish these stitches soon. I plan on wearing it to the Republic of Padokea, if only to show that murderer what he thought he'd entirely destroyed one more time before erasing his own existence."
I flinched visibly. Heat flashed through my body, and my fingers shook mutedly in my lap. I raised a hand to my face, pressing a fist to my lips, if just to steady the trembles.
He's going to leave. He's going to find Chrollo.
I didn't want to look at Kurapika now—I was afraid the boundlessness of the crimson of only several seconds ago would soon shift to that bloodthirsty, vengeful scarlet. I racked my mind for how to answer, how to convince him to stay, how to keep him with me and hold him back from the one goal he'd signed his soul to, because there wasn't any other option. I couldn't put it off any longer.
You're getting ahead of yourself. It isn't going to be one conversation from earning his compliance.
Compliance—what a wicked word, as if I were coercing him against his will to indulge mine.
But you are, (Y/n). And you have to, in order to protect Chrollo.
My thoughts raced, but my expression was suspended; my mind crashed and burned with every possibility, but my body just barely shuddered as a result. My mouth opened, but I couldn't string together a coherent sentence for many, many moments.
What if I can't convince him to stay? Would I have to tell Chrollo the truth before using Feeler Inversion to warn him? Would I have to risk losing his heart, his soul, in this betrayal?
And what if I didn't? Would Kurapika overpower him? Would my lover die at the hands of his chains?
I hadn't realized it when my knees brought themselves up to my chest, when my arms wrapped in ironclad around my legs, when my chin dug furiously into them and my eyes squeezed closed. The only words I could think to speak were spoken through a weakened whimper.
"Do you have to go?"
I didn't see if he'd shifted closer, but I felt his searing gaze. The silence was louder than any scream, the pause more indefinite than any hurt, and my ears rang, a high-pitched, hushed, torturous song behind the anxiety rapidly blackening my thoughts. Suddenly, however, when I felt the pads of his fingers brush the back of my hand as he reached out to me, I winced away, my body jaggedly forcing my eyes open, though they looked unseeingly at the floor.
I can't lose Chrollo.
His touch retreated almost instantly at my reaction, and he released a short exhale—if I could force myself to peer up into his face, I might see something like worry or sympathy clouding his irises. But I couldn't.
"(Y/n)..." I hated that he was the one who sounded guilty. "I didn't—I didn't think about leaving you here alone. I'm sorry; I have no choice."
"Yes, you do," I shuddered out treacherously, wretchedly. "When are you...?"
I couldn't finish my sentence. It hit me too soon.
Has Chrollo already set the date for the fight?
Why wouldn't he tell me? Wouldn't he at least try to find someway to contact me about it? Perhaps just to let me know when he would be home?
I felt so incredibly unprepared. My numb, manic surroundings were shattering, revealing an eternal black hole beneath me, gaping and wide and terrifyingly unknown. I had no method of keeping perspective, of remaining calm or collected or frozen anymore. My shoulders hitched softly, and I strived to focus on a specific physical attribute of the carpet below where I sat, anything to catch me out of this teetering tower and ground me back in reality.
Kurapika moved. I noticed the motion out of the edges of my blurred sight, but I didn't process it until he'd fully laid a hand on my arm. Again, I cringed out of his hold, tightening my grip around my legs and wishing him away, wishing this misery away, wishing once more that I'd never, ever known him.
"Why do you flinch away from me, (Y/n)?" he pleaded gently, sadly. I could hear a minuscule crack in his voice, and it lashed at my soul. "Please, understand this. I don't want to leave you alone, and I hate that I must. But I can't... I can't pass up another opportunity to avenge what I've lost."
He didn't say what I wanted him to say; he didn't blame me for his lack of active, current search, for staying in that apartment with me. I wanted him to hurl his rage at me, perhaps to give me what I deserved, or perhaps so that I could take all of it in Chrollo's absence, that I could run it dry and take every hope of death he placed upon my beautiful lover's head, the one who saved me from my own life of torment, the one who comforted me when my mind was uncontrollably violent, overwhelmed by the memories of greedy hands and vicious words and fear, so much fear. I wanted to take on Chrollo's burdens because he'd done the same for me, but also because I loathed even entertaining the imagination of my only one at the mercy of death.
But it is what he deserves.
I was a selfish fool to admit to myself that I didn't care what he deserved when I knew so clearly that I vividly hated what Kurapika had gone through at his hand. But I could pass no blame. I didn't want to pass blame.
I didn't reply. No tears came to my eyes, strangely—I felt like I should've been crying at such a point. Kurapika didn't touch me again, but I could feel the desperation in his aura, tinged by that undercurrent of wrath, lying in wait to be awakened. Time ticked by.
"I buried them," he whispered after a long while.
A sharp, unsteady inhale drew in through my nose. I forced my gaze to meet his, comprehending only an infinite horror in his expression.
"What?" I breathed hoarsely.
"I was close to turning thirteen." His voice reverted to an empty, blank monotone—perhaps the greatest horror came from the fact that he was looking at me, but I doubted he was seeing me. "I had left for the afternoon—just an afternoon, I'd told Pairo. I wanted to go about this simple task on my own. I would be back, I'd told him."
No. Oh, god, no.
The crimson in his irises appeared living, alive and well, fresh and wounded as if he was currently experiencing the words which slowly tumbled from his mouth. He'd never before told me explicit details—I could feel my heartbeat accelerate with my pulse, roaring in my ears.
"I came back," he rasped. "I found Pairo. But I was too afraid of the ongoing, ruthless slaughter before my eyes to save him. They were everywhere, and they moved so fast... I watched, frozen, as flames consumed my only home, and I listened to the screams of everyone I loved as they were murdered in front of me. Everything, and everyone, utterly destroyed." His expression contorted painfully, his jaw clenching as his gaze became glassy. "I can still taste the fear and see the terror on their faces sometimes; I still remember the sight of bodies being ravaged, their eyes being gouged and ripped away as though they were toys. But what I remember the most clearly is the look I shared with Pairo, moments before I was able to urge myself to run far away, because I was too afraid to save him."
My mouth hung slightly open, and tears stung my petrified vision. Nothing, absolutely nothing, escaped my dried lips, but salty liquid drew a damp line down my cheek. The vile hatred, the savage fright pulsing from Kurapika's energy haunted me, and glued me in place, never freeing me from his bottomless scarlet glare.
Not even thirteen years old.
"There are no words to describe what I felt," he continued in a cold desolation. "There are no words to describe what I feel. But I came back, after many hours of hiding, like the scared coward I was. Everyone was gone, and only their eyeless bodies remained—I buried each of them, the proper, ceremonial way. I buried the body of my mother, and the body of my father, and the body of Pairo, my friend. If only I could..." His breathing hitched as he trailed away, and he exhaled through his teeth, gritting down further on his jaw. "If only I hadn't left; if only I would've saved him instead of running away. It's my fault Pairo is dead, and I'll never be able to tell him that I'm sorry, that I regret that day more than any moment of my loathsome existence.
"I vowed to myself that I would never cower from my enemies after that day, that I would never strive to control the rage in my heart. I would feed it, and watch it flourish, and watch it destroy those who massacred everything I loved."
My lips trembled; my throat constricted. There was no decipherable emotion in my heart, save for a crushing, eternal agony, a screeching anguish at the face of that frightened little boy, running from the scene of a wicked, cruel slaughter. I could almost take in his livid anger and feel it to the most acute degree, and in that moment, I directed all of it towards Chrollo.
Why, my love? Why...?
The torment Kurapika lived with was unimaginable, separate from my own and entirely foreign to me, but right then, I empathized too perfectly, too strongly for the mental state I'd been suspended within. He didn't cry; the tears lingering behind his eyes never slipped away. But quiet sobs rattled my hunched form—all I could see was him, young and innocent, and the completely unfiltered pain ripping through his mind as he watched his family die, his friends, his parents.
His vengeance is all he has left.
That statement hadn't become so surreal to me until the despondent present, when I felt the slashing whip of just the surface emotions emanating from him.
My arms unlocked from their wrenched position, and my body involuntarily moved, stumbling towards him, close enough to place a perspired palm on either side of his pale face, now sheet white with reverberating memories, a violent dance of trauma and fury. His irises seemed to snap to mine, clearing instantly and softening at my appearance, my dampened cheeks and my sorrowful gaze.
"Kurapika," I whispered jaggedly, sniffling once, "I'm s-sorry. I'm so sorry."
A yielding defeat settled over him, and his eyes flickered closed as he leaned into my touch, placing a hand overtop of one of mine.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, (Y/n)."
That's not true.
"I don't want to see you cry for me," he murmured gently, much of his muted turbulence oddly dissipating, perhaps forcibly, perhaps sparing me, though I deserved it. "Please don't waste your tears on me. But do you... understand a bit better now why I must take this opportunity? Why I must leave you?"
I couldn't hold in the audibly released sob from my chest at his words. The worst part was that I did understand, that in fact, I understood more than I ever wished to know. If he hadn't told this to me, I would have easily continued forward in my wretched manipulation. Things were so much harder now.
I hated that he was the one comforting me. I hated that he gave so much to me while I only took from him. And I hated that his death would be by the same one who administered to him so many wounds. Regardless, he wrapped his fingers around my wrists and brought my arms down, tugging me carefully into his lap as I wept against his chest. So many tears—there were so many tears I thought I could hold back, so much pain I'd reasoned I could ignore, but not when he held me so tenderly to his body, his chin resting over my head and his heart beating smoothly into my pounding ears.
"I need you, Kurapika," I whimpered helplessly. "I need you."
I didn't know why those words were the ones I chose to voice, but it was all I could muster in the weakness I felt for him.
"Shh," he hushed me kindly, almost frantically. "I didn't mean for this to hurt you so badly. I'm so sorry—we don't have to talk about this."
I didn't respond. And for what felt like an hour, or perhaps longer, I cried softly into his embrace, releasing tears until there were no more to be released, until I was numb again and pulled dry and empty. God, how I wanted to feel something apart from misery, apart from guilt and treachery, how I wanted to save him from his rage, his vengeance.
How does one drown their sorrows when those sorrows are the ones performing the drowning?
Silence, and a gradual blankness became my demeanor. The natural lighting in the apartment shifted from white with the afternoon to tinted orange with the setting sun before he finally moved, but the exact amount of time that had passed was unknown. I couldn't be sure if the crimson of his irises had faded yet, but I wouldn't be surprised if it hadn't—too often, he repressed his emotions, but that only lead to a more shattering inner explosion. I hated that, as well.
"Would you like to do anything special tonight?" he asked, shocking me in the deadened quiet that had become the apartment. "I can... um, I can get wine, if you want. I don't know how often you drink, but..."
Why are you trying to comfort me when I'm only wishing death upon you?
But I didn't wish death upon him, not truly. I wanted to help him; I wanted him to find happiness. And if I allowed myself to think too deeply about the horrors he'd shared with me, I would quickly find reason to indulge in anger against Chrollo. I didn't want to think anymore.
"Sure," I stared blankly, immediately.
Anything to be rid of this feeling.