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It came out of nowhere—the grating, burning sensation that crawled up his trachea and died at the back of his tongue. Chrollo vaguely remembers when he first noticed how his lungs started to feel heavier by the day. He had assumed it was a side-effect of having his nen forcefully bound for an extended period of time.
At least, he likes to think it came out of nowhere. But truthfully, his breath began to stutter the moment he met the personification of vengeance in the flesh. Careful words and deadly, hauntingly-alluring gems for eyes—Chrollo was no stranger to beauty, but never had he seen anger in such a brilliant shade of scarlet.
Or maybe he had, back when the Troupe marched to a quaint little village in the middle of a remote forest. Fires raged and crimson stained the trampled grass, but amongst the few salvageable pairs of eyes they managed to cultivate, none of them could compare to his.
Chrollo supposes there is no one to blame but himself. Perhaps if their circumstances were different—if the world was kinder, if he could be kinder—this wouldn’t have been an issue in the first place.
But it's too late to mull over the what-ifs and what-could-have-beens now. With a pained grunt, Chrollo keels over and grasps at the ground helplessly as he retches. Blood, bitter bile, and dusky red petals spill from his lips until there is nothing left for him to give, save for the fact that his life is being held in the palms of the one person he should have destroyed while he still had the chance.
Machi is the first to notice their leader’s sickly pallor.
This doesn’t surprise Chrollo in the slightest. Tier 5 is dim and dingy—one has to squint to read the signs on the wall—but Machi has a knack for catching the smallest of hints. Maybe she didn’t even have to look at him at all; her intuition's sharp, but she knows each member of the Troupe like the back of her hand. Thankfully, she waits until the rest go ahead, leaving the two of them alone in their corner of the dining hall.
“How long?” Machi breathes out, her hesitant voice contrasting carefully blank features. Chrollo can understand why she feels the need to hold back. Killing and stealing is easy, but expressing one’s true emotions called for a living, beating heart, and they had all sacrificed theirs for the Spider long ago.
Chrollo opens his mouth to respond, but the words he needs escape him. He’s sure the disease had taken root much earlier than he realized the existence of his feelings. If that was the case, he’s been ill for several months now.
“A little bit after York New,” Chrollo eventually answers with a resigned frown. He could try to seem calm and collected, but Machi knows better. No façade could fool her, not when it’s been their small gang of misfits against the world for most of their lives.
Machi falls silent, then, which Chrollo finds a little disconcerting. She isn't the type to mince or sugarcoat words. If there was something on her mind, she’d relay it within the blink of an eye. Her reluctance tells him she's pondering over her thoughts. He waits until she exhales sharply and forces herself to meet his questioning gaze.
“We could find a surgeon,” she suggests, unconsciously fisting the hem of her uwagi. “We’ll go to the medical bay, force someone to come with us—”
“No,” Chrollo quickly interjects, leaving Machi shocked and speechless. “I gave you two objectives before we boarded. I need you and the others to focus on those, and those alone.” Her eyes flash dangerously, and he can almost imagine the rebuttal swelling in her chest, but a piercing stare is enough to give her pause. “This is no one’s problem but my own.”
A moment passes before Machi purses her lips and nods robotically. It’s the first time he’s seen her express any semblance of displeasure at one of his commands. Chrollo can't quite understand why—prioritizing their mission should be a given, and she never liked to dally in extraneous activities, anyway.
He decides to think about it later on since the others are headed their way, and Machi’s face had already reverted to its usual state of cold indifference.
He finds the one treasure he could never have at the end of the world.
Kurapika is hunched over an unmoving, shriveled corpse. Chrollo half-expects his eyes to glow, but there’s an unsettling look of apathy on his tired visage. He knows that look all-too-well. It’s the stare of a man who’s grown used to loss and death.
The Observation Deck is eerily quiet, courtesy of the recent establishment of martial law. Past them, pale streams of moonlight bounce off the dark sea, illuminating the area just barely. It could’ve been romantic if it wasn’t for the carcass at Kurapika’s feet and the undeniable sting of reality. The Kurta hated him with enough fervor to raise the dead. Chrollo should feel the same, but he doesn’t, and now he’s slowly inching towards his own demise.
When Kurapika looks up, his jaw clenches momentarily; he’s undoubtedly considering the pros and cons of attacking Chrollo right there and then. Chrollo doesn’t shift his stance to raise his guard, and his inaction causes the other to blink in confusion.
Kurapika breaks the silence first. “Do you have anything to do with this?” he asks blandly, and Chrollo almost wants to laugh at how terrible he is at masking his fury. Instead, he dares to walk two steps forward—Kurapika’s chains hover menacingly, but they stick close to him, waiting for Chrollo to display a smidgen of hostile intent.
Chrollo is determined to maintain his self-assured front. After all, it’s all he has left. “Afraid not, but this seems like a useful skill to have. Imagine never having to worry about clean-up,” he jests, not missing the scowl he receives in return.
“Absolutely disgusting, and not at all surprising,” Kurapika mutters with a scoff as he moves to stand up straight. The suit is flattering, but his figure is thinner, hollowed-out. Chrollo briefly wonders if he’s been skipping meals. Crossing his arms, Kurapika regards him with a searing glare, his aura pulsating around him as an unspoken warning. “As much as I’d love to deal with you, I have other matters to attend to. I highly suggest that you turn around and walk away before I change my mind.”
There is something different about this Kurapika. He's no longer the deranged, impulsive teen who had sucker-punched him in the back seat of a car. Now his words are sharper, more measured, and his temperament has a harsher edge.
Chrollo wants to tell him that there’s no point; he’s already teetering between life and death, and whether he uses his chains or not, Kurapika is still going to be responsible for his end either way.
But suddenly, his lungs are engulfed in fire, and his throat is itching, begging for reprieve. Chrollo doubles over and Kurapika takes a step back, watching as his arch-nemesis gags and dry-heaves.
A “What’s going on?” probably lingers at the tip of Kurapika’s tongue, but his answer comes in the form of thick, viscous vomit, darkened with blood and—
“No way…” Kurapika’s eyes are wide now, staring unblinkingly at the flower petals that are damp with the other’s bodily fluids. “You have Hanahaki…?” If Chrollo didn’t know any better, the faint glimmer in Kurapika’s gaze is one of concern. But—there’s no way that's possible. It's more likely he's feeling threatened, terrified by the notion that he wouldn’t be able to claim Chrollo’s life first.
Chrollo wipes his chin with the sleeve of his coat. “Well, vomiting flower petals certainly isn’t a symptom of the common cold,” he rasps out, trying to ignore the beginnings of another bout of coughing. His face is probably as white as a sheet now, and his hands won’t stop shaking, but his iron resolve allows him to chuckle, even though it pains his chest like a thousand needles.
Kurapika continues to gape for a moment, but then he inhales and exhales, and his features are stoic, as if the entire debacle hadn’t occurred. “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” he begins with a bitter smile, “I bet you thought you were untouchable. It must be quite the wake-up call, knowing that you’re too much of a monster for anyone to ever love you back.”
If mere laughter hurt him like a thousand needles, hearing Kurapika say that is, undoubtedly, a hundred times worse. For a brief second in time, Chrollo can feel the corners of his lips twitch, and Kurapika’s empty sneer slackens ever-so-slightly.
—But it was only for a second. With a callous shrug, Chrollo motions towards the nearly-forgotten corpse. “I heard he wasn’t the first to go like that. Are you having a hard time chasing down the culprit?” Kurapika’s business doesn't concern him, but he’s curious. He wants to know what the other man’s goals are now that he’s stuck on a boat with the people he wants to murder in cold-blood.
“Not at all,” Kurapika answers surprisingly quickly; he almost looks offended. “Besides, it’s none of your business. What are you even doing here, anyway?”
He supposes it wouldn’t hurt to be honest since he's already at the end of his rope. “Prince Tserriednich has something I want,” Chrollo says, toeing the lifeless body experimentally. “And Hisoka needs to die.”
Kurapika doesn’t ask about Hisoka, but he does perk up at the mention of the Fourth Prince. “That’s funny,” he murmurs with a frown, “I’m… also after Tserriednich.” His confession is strange; Chrollo would have assumed he’d be a bit more careful when it comes to revealing his plans to his sworn enemy. Then again, Kurapika had just discovered that Chrollo has a life-threatening disease, so it’s easy to see why he chose to be a bit more open.
It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but Chrollo manages because he’s acclimated to the cutting taste of tragedy.
“What a coincidence. Is this the part where we unite to take down our common enemy?” He’s joking, but Chrollo can’t deny the tiny sliver of hope that grows alongside the parasitic flower in his heart.
The quiet, contemplative look on Kurapika’s face doesn't help one bit. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Kurapika replies sharply. It’s a predictable answer, and Chrollo turns on his heel, ready to leave the scene with his dignity intact. Before he could go any further, Kurapika clears his throat loudly.
“However,” he begins, voice laced with vacillation, “I won’t bother you as long as you leave the rest of the Royal Family alone.”
Chrollo spins around to face him once more, but Kurapika had already turned his back, now focused on the fresh corpse. A part of him wants to ask Kurapika if he is truly at peace with his presence, but then he decides that this is the closest he’ll ever get to a civil conversation with the Kurta, and he stays silent.
It takes a great amount of willpower to stop himself from admiring how the moonlight formed an ethereal halo on Kurapika’s head.
“I can kill him, you know,” Feitan growls, bloodlust radiating from his shaking form.
Chrollo doesn’t face him as he shakes his head. “There’s no need.” Because there really isn’t. There are only two ways this could end, and Kurapika’s death wouldn’t help him understand why. Why Chrollo can't off him like a worthless pawn, why Chrollo’s body feels the need to literally kill itself over its attraction for the other.
He’ll keep Kurapika alive because he needs answers, not because his condition implies that he possesses such unholy feelings for him.
As gargantuan as the Black Whale is, it apparently isn't big enough to keep their paths from crossing. The fourth time they meet, Kurapika’s suit is torn and bloody, his hair disheveled and matted with sweat. In a fight, he moves with a lethal grace; his chains dance around his quick form, deceptively beautiful in their destructive glory. Chrollo knows that his hatsu is specifically catered to capturing the Spiders, but he can’t help but feel enchanted, anyway.
When a bullet barely grazes Kurapika’s shoulder, Chrollo decides that now would be a good time to jump in.
The goons dropped like flies, and Chrollo had initially wondered why Kurapika was even struggling in the first place. But then he notices how the other’s chains never shot out at his adversaries; they were used strictly for defense, while he resorted to non-fatal melee attacks when they were least expecting it. The tactic is inefficient and time-wasting, but when Chrollo’s dagger rips through a man and Kurapika directs a blazing glower at him, he figures it would be in his best interests to play along.
Within a few minutes, twenty-five assailants had dropped to zero. Only one is dead, and Chrollo doesn't know if this new personal record should please him.
“I didn’t need your help,” Kurapika grunts from behind him, breaking the man out of his reverie. One of his chains is emitting a faint green glow, and Chrollo observes as the split skin of his gash mended itself.
He whistles, clearly impressed, and Kurapika rolls his eyes. “I know you didn’t. I just felt like intervening,” Chrollo replies easily with a small shrug. Kurapika is strong and capable. Of course he didn’t need his help.
The admittance causes Kurapika to stare at him skeptically, eyeing him for any signs of mockery or dishonesty. Judging by the flicker of confusion in his dark irises, he saw none of the above. “You’re an enigma, Lucilfer,” he says with an exasperated sigh, tone devoid of its usual ire.
Chrollo smiles inwardly to himself. Kurapika sounds quite nice when he isn't threatening to kill him. The mere thought makes his lungs ache a little more.
For some inexplicable reason, Kurapika’s sights home in on his left hip, and Chrollo can't help but follow his gaze. Apparently, one of the attackers had managed to skim him there—the wound is now bleeding profusely, seeping into the dark fabric of his clothing. Wordlessly, the blond approaches him, features carefully blank. When he raises his right hand, Chrollo tenses up immediately—
But instead of the familiar, cold steel of his Judgement Chain, a different one rises to hover close to his wound. It's the same cross-tipped chain that Kurapika had used to heal himself with. Within a few seconds, his hip is as good as new, and Kurapika's ignoring the startled expression on Chrollo’s face.
“There. I don’t want to owe you anything,” Kurapika mutters as he straightens out the wrinkles on his blazer. It's futile, considering his attire is completely ruined, but Chrollo assumes it's his way of fiddling around whenever he's feeling uncomfortable. Without meeting his gaze, the blond says something unintelligible under his breath.
Chrollo blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I said thank you,” Kurapika spits back with a scowl. “Those were some of Tserriednich’s soldiers. Luckily, they ambushed me instead of my colleague, who’s currently with my charge. I could have handled them myself, but you saved me a few minutes of my time, and I,” he trails off with a pained grimace, “…I appreciate it.”
A flummoxed Kurapika shouldn’t be this endearing. Chrollo swallows back the traitorous prickle at the back of his mouth.
In the past, such small, insignificant moments weren’t worthy of his attention. Being perpetually on the run had jaded him, numbed him of life’s simpler pleasures. But now, with absolutely nothing to lose, appreciating these seemingly-trivial events felt much sweeter than before.
The old Chrollo would have sneered at him in disgust for such sentimentality. Yet in this moment, with Kurapika staring at him in mild irritation and a faint flush on his cheeks, he wonders how anyone could not fall for this man.
His heart pangs violently—perhaps the blooms had gotten bigger—but as long as Kurapika is near, he can bear the pain.
They part silently, like always. There’s nothing more to be said.
Chrollo wakes up, and his sight is blurry from unshed tears. His throat is dry, desperate for water, but anything he attempts to swallow is almost immediately regurgitated. It’s gotten worse. Each heave brings forth a shower of dark, crimson petals. Harder coughs meant more flowers, but the relief is only temporary, and before he could get a decent gulp of water in, his lungs feel like they’re full to the brim once more.
These episodes occur nightly now. He misses getting more than three hours of sleep. The solution is so straightforward, so simple, yet so problematic at the same time. He doesn’t know what compels him to deny the surgery, but finding out is part of the fun—right?
It’s two in the morning when he cracks open a worn book. He has to squint to read the tiny lettering in the dim candlelight.
According to mythology, anemones sprung from the tears of a goddess as she mourned the death of her lover.
Would Kurapika cry over his still corpse? Perhaps they would be tears of joy, but the fantasy is nice, and Chrollo finds himself dreaming of it when he lies back down. When he’s unconscious, he doesn’t have to think about whether or not his desires are logical.
“Look, Boss. Before you protest, I just want you to know that we have someone on standby.” Phinks’ stare is hardened, but his jaw is clenched with thinly-veiled worry. “Just say the word, and we’ll get you fixed up in no time.”
Kurapika laughs at something Bill says, and the sound is like music to his ears.
—Or, that’s what he imagined it would be like. These days, it's getting harder to focus on mundane tasks with his heart pounding at a million miles per second and his lungs threatening to burst. Their voices are muted against the loud ringing in his head, but the least he could do was memorize the slight crinkle in Kurapika’s eyes whenever he smiled.
When Kurapika turns to face Chrollo and the upturn of his lips doesn't disappear, Chrollo has to remind himself to breathe.
Kalluto rarely spoke unless he deemed it necessary. For a ten-year-old, he's extraordinarily mature and vigilant. Chrollo had been the same. They were forced to grow up too soon, too fast.
“Illumi always said that those who contracted Hanahaki were weak,” he murmurs one evening as he folds an origami crane. “But I don’t think that’s the case at all.”
He doesn’t elaborate further, probably because he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel about Chrollo’s predicament. But the sentiment is appreciated, and Chrollo ruffles the boy’s hair anyway.
The waves are rougher, more erratic after the three-week mark. Six weeks in, storms wreak havoc almost daily, and few passengers ever endeavored to leave the comfort of their cabins anymore.
It's raining when their lips meet.
Heavy, salty raindrops pelt their skin mercilessly, and the cold sea breeze is harsh, cutting into whatever was left exposed. But they are able to forget for a moment. Chrollo doesn’t think about the unimaginable pain he must have thrust onto Kurapika, and how it’s impossible for him to repent for a deed he felt no remorse for.
Kurapika pulls away first, his breath hitching from the chilly air and unmistakable fear of the unknown. “Why…” he whispers, gaze pointed downwards, “Why would you—?”
Chrollo doesn’t answer him verbally. The truth shows in his hollowed cheeks, in the petals he has to pick out from his back teeth. Realization hits the other man like a truck, and just like that, the spell is broken. Kurapika backs away from him slowly; Chrollo doesn’t move to close the distance.
Something unfamiliar shines behind Kurapika’s contacts. It’s a glimmer Chrollo doesn’t want to see. Give him anger, regret, sadness, happiness, anything other than goddamn pity.
An eternity passes before either of them speak. “I’m sorry,” Kurapika eventually breathes out, shaking his head in denial. “I’m sorry, I can’t—I don’t feel the same—”
“I know,” Chrollo interrupts. The words weigh heavy on his heart, heavier than the fully-bloomed anemones that bristle each time he sees, hears, thinks of Kurapika. Rejection is a cruel maiden, but Chrollo is still able to smile because he finally understands why. Why he feels so helplessly attracted to his biggest mistake, why he can’t bring himself to rid the world of the last Kurta.
"I can’t reciprocate, but I can still help,” Kurapika says after Chrollo falls silent, and he almost wants to kiss the other man again. He was too kind, too good, so giving, even though Chrollo had taken everything away from him all those years ago. “I know someone who can save you.”
Later, when the rain ceases and they’re mostly dry, Kurapika hands him a slip of paper with a single line of neat handwriting. It’s a room number on Tier 3. “Go here. If he gives you a hard time, just tell him I sent you personally.”
Chrollo carefully pockets the note, and before he leaves, he grabs Kurapika’s forearm, halting Kurapika's movements. “Why are you doing this?”
“I can’t exact my revenge,” Kurapika admits hesitantly with a sad smile, “but thanks to you, I can still bring my people home. I’m only paying you back in kind.” They have Tserriednich cornered, and it was only a matter of time before their final confrontation. Chrollo would get his treasure, and Kurapika would retrieve the last few pairs of Scarlet Eyes. That was the deal.
What wasn’t part of the deal was falling in love with a man who had wanted his head on a platter, but times had changed, and here Kurapika is, offering the one who had ruined his life a second chance.
That night, when Chrollo is alone with a gruesome pile of vomit and flowers at his feet, he decides that he is satisfied. He had gotten his answer from Kurapika, and it's time to move on. Kurapika is everything he isn't, everything he thought he didn’t need. If Chrollo has to sacrifice this irrational mimicry of love to preserve his own life, then so be it. He would get to live, Kurapika would be fine, the world wasn’t going to stop spinning on its axis.
He's going to survive this for the sake of the Spider. Not because he fears death, not because he wants to rid himself of the delicious poison that Kurapika had given him. The Spider is bigger than his life, bigger than his selfish desires, and nothing—no one—will ever change that.
“Well… fuck,” the man in front of him coughs out, scratching the back of his head. “When Kurapika said his friend was coming in, I didn’t expect…”
“Me?” Chrollo finishes lamely, and in truth, he’s a little shocked as well. He didn't expect to run into the driver from York New. Then again, he supposes it makes sense. Judging by the way he would look at Kurapika, he’s probably more than willing to run to the ends of the earth for him.
He stays still as Leorio analyzes him with a critical scowl. The medical student has grown, too. The skin under his eyes sag, and his scrubs are streaked with questionable fluids and dried blood. After a moment, Leorio steps aside and motions for Chrollo to enter.
“I’m not doing this for you,” Leorio says as they walk deeper into the medical ward. The air is stale and reeks of antiseptic. “I don’t know what you did to change Kurapika’s mind, but if you try anything funny, you’ll have to answer to me. Got it?”
Before he has the chance to respond, a small, green-haired woman appears. Her face is partially hidden by her surgical mask, but it's clear she is frowning at Chrollo. “Is this him?”
Nodding, Leorio gives Chrollo one last glare before turning to head in the other direction. “Yup. He’s all yours, Cheads.”
They have him under general anesthesia during the procedure. It’s quick and painless, completely opposite of the horrific torture he had subjected himself to. Chrollo is unconscious, but he can still pinpoint the exact moment when everything became nothing, when the overwhelming presence in his heart and lungs gave way to an indescribable emptiness.
Before that, Chrollo could see Kurapika’s smile behind his closed eyelids. He heard his laugh, felt his warm skin. He would never be able to love Kurapika again, but something deep, deep inside of him knew that this wasn’t the end. If he had managed to fall for the blond in the most unlikely of ways, there was no doubt in his mind that they were destined to meet once more.
Chrollo would give up on him in this life, knowing that he’ll still fall in love with Kurapika over and over, in each timeline, in every universe.
The flowers are removed—and for the first time in what seems like ages, Chrollo’s mind, and lungs, are clear.
“So,” Franklin grunts as Chrollo emerges from his quarters. “How are you feeling, Boss?”
Stretching his sore muscles, Chrollo regards the Spiders with a smug grin. “Better than ever,” he replies smoothly, and the others immediately perk up. “Now, let’s grab that treasure and celebrate with Hisoka’s head.”
Phinks roars and Shizuku claps, but Machi continues to stare at him from the corner, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed. “What if we run into the Chain Bastard?”
If Chrollo remembers the excruciating pain of having his innards forcefully bloated by flower petals and regret, it doesn't show. Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets and makes his way to the door. “I’ll deal with him personally,” Chrollo answers nonchalantly—Machi’s tense shoulders relax.
She huffs out a sigh of relief. “It’s good to have you back, Boss.”
The operation was a success, and Chrollo is back to his infuriating, confusing self. When Kurapika runs into him on Tier 2, his face is fuller, less haunting. Chrollo's probably eating and resting again, now that he can breathe without feeling his lungs rattle.
Kurapika can’t bring himself to forgive, and he suspects he never will, but perhaps he can learn from the past to become a better person. His brief interludes with Chrollo had shown him how futile it was to dedicate his entire life to hunting such a small group of people. Killing the Phantom Troupe wouldn’t resurrect his clan, and the only way to go from here is forward.
His mind drifts back to Chrollo’s insufferable, knowing smirks and stalwart confidence. Kurapika thinks about Chrollo’s cold, damp lips moving against his own, how his screaming conscience had been sated the moment he was enveloped in the other's arms.
He pictures Cheadle with a scalpel in her hand, carefully extracting the deadly flower, removing Kurapika from the place he held in Chrollo’s heart.
—Kurapika barely has enough time to run to the latrine before the ground shifts from beneath his feet. He collapses, and spews out bright yellow carnations.