Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kalluto awakes to see to low morning sun peering jealously through drawn curtains. For long moments the world is stunted in silence and the thin heat of daybreak makes itself known in slanting ranges of red bathing the floorboards. Through the haze of sleep Kalluto shifts so the friction of the linen moves against the grain of their pajamas, and in turn scrapes against the skin underneath.

They have been awake for only about five seconds and it is already the loneliest day of their life.

Today, Alluka did not come by their room to gently wake them with soft songs and toothy smiles. Killua did not stop by and tell them to sweep the house or do the rest of the chores. And there was no Gon Freecss, unmatched in all of his impossible energy (sizzling firework more than anything perhaps).

The stillness of the atmosphere is daunting.

That should be fine. Kalluto is used to silence. They are used to being silent.

But having been blessed with sound and light after a lifetime buried in hushed tones, Kalluto realizes they despise the thought of being alone again.

The lack of presence coaxes them out of bed.

Kalluto sheds the linens like cobra skin to bring them hissing to bunch around their waist. The tang of morning breath rasps against their tongue, unkind, and fatigue is a vicious thing that tears at their head with gnarled talons.

Kalluto settles their feet into the groove of sandals as their roving fingers find the lacquered mahogany of their bedside table. They find that they do not quite like the trembling of their fingers, pronounced with sleep as it is.

There's a note on the table. They can tell from the moment they flip open the crisply folded paper that it is written by Alluka by the neat and disciplined motion in her sweeping words.

'Dear Kalluto, By the time you wake up I'll be gone, sleepyhead :P I'm having a girl's night out with Aunt Mito, Ms. Cheadle, Oito and her baby, Woble! I made you pancakes for breakfast before I left, they're on top of the stove. I hope you enjoy! xoxo
Love, your dearest sister Alluka.'

Kalluto puts down the note and cannot stop the little quiver that lapses into the beat of their heart like something infectious.

-

The amble downstairs is a long and slow one. Kalluto shuffles across nylon carpet in the living room, noting with a measure of discontent the lack of familiar faces (Gon, Killua, Leorio-- anywhere) and reaches the kitchen.

Kalluto is not quite sure what they were expecting, but it is just as Alluka said-- there’s a plate of pancakes stacked unevenly on the oven, polite and unassuming. Berribonned in healthy dollops of whipped cream, Alluka had skillfully modeled it into the face of a kitten with a looping-mawed smile.

Alluka made this all for Kalluto. Kalluto, who is (empty space, a backdrop) always forgotten. Alluka had regarded them, even as she was preparing to slip out the door.

And Kalluto, who has not allowed themselves to feel vulnerable in so many years, feels like crying.

It is such a simple gesture, but so meaningful; in that instance it becomes more than just breakfast. It is a precious gift and Kalluto is determined to honor it-- to do right by Alluka by eating it all.

Kalluto plunges headfirst into the breakfast and begins devouring it with all the poise and charm of a beast. It is a stupid stunt, stupid because the pancakes have grown cold, because most of the syrup ends up getting on their nose and cheeks instead of in their mouth, and they end up with a sore stomach and lips so sticky that they can barely open them.

Once upon a time Kikyo would have scolded them for such an unruly display. Grace is everything, they’ve been taught. Gracelessness has no place in the Zoldyck household.

But Kikyo is not here, this is not the Zoldyck household, and Kalluto has begun unlearning a great many things. For instance-- they have begun unlearning the way blood fills their cupped hands and smooths into the intricate lines of their palms.

Yes, surmises Kalluto with some rising satisfaction that settles into a gap between tender lungs. Kikyo is not here anymore. Perfection is no longer glory, and Kalluto is unfettered and free to explore everything they’ve been deprived of. They are free to be everything they could’ve been.

And the knowledge of that sinks in so deeply that Kalluto’s heart (buoyed with light) soars.

-

After messily cleaning their face with a cloth left by the sink Kalluto makes to head back to their bedroom ready to land on the bed with a thump, shrouded in finality, and tuck themselves in a warm duvet once more to sleep in for a couple more hours.

But they don’t get very far because they’re not alone, not if the muffled sound of footsteps pressed to the staircase in greeting are anything to go by. Kalluto freezes in their tracks.

They thought the house was empty.

Kalluto fumbles for something familiar-- a weapon, the comforting crook of a fan’s handle. They fumble for something that isn’t there. Shit.

The arrival of the stranger is preceded by embroidered robe, thick rimmed and heavy hemmed, followed by blond hair that framed dark cheekbones and eyes so brown and rich that Kalluto cannot help but stare.

This is no stranger, Kalluto realizes. It’s a face they remember all too well from a time long ago. It’s a face they remember from someone defiant and young, not yet hardened into steel; arriving on Kukuroo mountain for the first time like a thief in the night, to steal their brother from them.

But those days are behind them. Now Kalluto faces down Kurapika, and for a moment silence dwarfs them.

“It’s you.” Kalluto cannot keep the comment from slipping out with a roll of their tongue, and they quickly shut their mouth with a click of their teeth to keep from saying more, from saying things they'll probably regret.

Kurapika only looks over them. (Shrewd, frighteningly intelligent Kurapika. Someone to be wary of-- a threat, they once thought, because Kalluto was once a part of the Phantom Troupe; and the name ‘Kurapika’ was always uttered like a curse)

"Where's Killua?" There's a ginger pause, "And the rest?"

"Leorio got fed up of Gon and Killua throwing rocks at each other.” Kurapika answers. They pad down the stairway deliberately, unhurried. “So he signed them up for father son pottery classes."

Huh.

For Kalluto in that brief, bewildering moment, speech evaded them. Instead, they let silence fill the empty spaces where words should be, pursed their lips into a firm line. Considered saying something, and then didn't.

After all, Kalluto has learned never to expect the usual. Not from anyone, and least of all from Gon or Killua.

It was best to never ask too many questions.

-

Kalluto ends up foregoing returning to bed in favor of showering.

By the time they’re finished, Kalluto has already found the comforting wrap of a snug kimono, and is staring helplessly into the mirror at the brush in their hands. Today, they have nothing but a framework of maddening bed hair and no way to deal with it. Instead of dragging the bristles through the knots with a steady motion and purpose as they should have, they end up pondering of their morning quandary and picking at their mole in frustration.

The door to the bathroom opens, and in walks Kurapika. Kalluto nearly startles.

"Are you here to shower? Sorry I'll lea--"

"No." Kurapika cuts them off, but not unkindly.

Kalluto pauses, "You're not going to shower?"

"I’m not," Kurapika affirms. “Came here to brush my teeth.” Their worn, sunken eyes travel from Kalluto to the brush they hold, “If you need your hair done, I can help with that.”

Kalluto nearly splutters. It’s such a simple offer, but their hair is a thing of importance; and it has been an eternity since anyone other than Kikyo has touched it. Kalluto does not know what to think, “You know how to do my hair?”

“I can try.”

Kalluto wordlessly handles them the brush, and they take it without hesitation.

When Kurapika brushes Kalluto’s hair, they are careful and firm but not in a way that is unpleasant. The bristles of the comb straighten out the unruly nest of hair, and Kurapika undoes the tangles they cannot reach by working their fingers through them. Kalluto sinks into the soothing motion. They do not know how long it lasts, but they realize that they do not wish for it to end; the attention being doted upon them, even for a fleeting moment, is too good.

By the end of it all, Kalluto’s hair has been crafted into its usual polite bob. Kalluto can see the buzz of satisfaction in their eyes. (it’s a strange, strange thing, yet it’s not an unpleasant look)

Excusing themselves from the bathroom, they utter a quick thanks to the last person they expected to come to their aid. They think that they would not mind Kurapika doing their hair a second time, or a time after that.

It’s the first time Kalluto sees that Kurapika is kind; not at all the monster that the Phantom Troupe made them out to be.

Granted, at least, when the right mood strikes them.

Chapter Text

Midday was a world full of pink.

Amidst tousled clouds, it yawned so loud that it shore a path burnished with early sun that combed everything into golden webs. Then it was leaving, making it's brisk retreat from a sky so wistful, shedding it's underbelly of bleeding tans to roll away. Hopeful evening came in marching like a lion to take it's place then.

It was around this time that hunger decided that it wanted to eat Kalluto alive. 

And Kalluto's hunger was a shapeshifter.

One moment, it was a youthful yellow-eyed sputter, a brilliant wick. The next, it was the forest fire, a demanding hunger, with a medley that sweltered and sang right into the concave of Kalluto's stomach. 

There was nothing left to do other than travel to an empty kitchen on an empty stomach, and there Kalluto sat peering into the gaping contents of a gently humming fridge like it would provide them answers.

It gives none. 

Kalluto stares back at what little could be of lunch, sitting imperiously on glass shelves as if to mock them, and they begin to dream for impossible things. Like for the food to grow arms and legs, and rearrange itself into something edible.

With the exception of the elbowed, ivory wings of paper cranes, Kalluto never learned to make anything for themselves. They lived a lifetime in a mansion where silence stuck to walls, everything delivered to them on the edge of silver platters ( everything except maybe, for love ), and now they stood, focused on a white spot in a fridge. And in that silent pace of doing nothing, rather than proper food, Kalluto was instead solemnly digesting the fact that they hadn't the slightest idea how to cook.

If only they'd realized that sooner.

( The first time they'd eaten since leaving the Phantom Troupe for good, Gon had peeled a tangerine for them, as fresh and as orange as a new star, dimpled peel curled away in crescents, cradled shyly in the half fold of their rough hand. And they'd taken it willingly from him. Funny that they did, given how much they loathed Gon. Or, how much they thought they did. )

Kalluto chews their lip. Looks away. The steady whimper of hunger wraps its fingers around their chest.

They close the fridge.

___

Kalluto suffers quietly. And they suffer with hunger as their captive and only company.

And they watch.

They watch a verse of time as it creeps beneath the frame of a glassy eyed clock. They watch it tick still, in a chorus of machinery and cogs chased bronze, on limber finger and waltzing hands about a dark crown.

With all the predictability of the four seasons, it simply moves onward, as it always has for unreckoned centuries. Steady and greater than Kalluto.

They don't watch for long.

See, Kalluto is a discerning person.

And their spine shudders with the trappings of sound.

They sense the footfalls first. And then they hear it.

Kurapika wanders inward, past the dining room and straight into the belly of the kitchen, and Kalluto cannot help but snap awake from that daring brink of sleep they toed.

For a long while, Kalluto feels. And they feel only the thud thud of cabinets slamming open, the dull thrum of a fridge's roar. Moments later, Kurapika pokes their head from around the kitchen, and Kalluto nearly jumps.

"Do you eat garlic bread?"

Every word that Kalluto had ever learned to say fizzles to cinders in their mouth. They forget how to speak, because Kurapika's voice cuts through the atmosphere, a gilded knife through warm butter. Sudden, and cradling all semblance of speech to an early grave.

"I'm making lunch," Kurapika continues.

"Yes," Kalluto finally manages, wringing their fingers, and hiding the motion behind the cover of their armrest. "Two slices, please."

Kurapika wordlessly gestures into the kitchen behind them with a tiny, minute nod of their head, that lent hair curtsying to the bend of their cheek in soft, feathery waves. "Could you pour a cup or two?"

When Kalluto finally unrolls from the couch and straightens to their full height, all the long locked muscles in their back howl it's bright animal pain beneath skin and pulse at the sudden movement. The first tentative steps gnaws their bones with yellowing teeth and make them ache, but they trek into the kitchen anyways, hungry, and all the more grateful for Kurapika's presence.

Grateful for Kurapika's presence.

A very, very strange thing indeed.

( Then again, Kalluto finds that there have been a lot of strange things happening this week. )

___

It's how they find themself in the kitchen, watching a knife sink into the soft flesh of bread as Kurapika fussed over lunch, and Kalluto poured both of themselves cups of water. The sight of Kurapika, of vulpine-wit, once upon a time all frost and snapping fangs now looking for all the world so domestic, so tame and careful as they work is so strange that Kalluto cannot wrest their eyes away from it. 

They end up spilling water onto the counter in the process, and Kurapika ends up making a mess of the kitchen in less subtle ways.

___

While they wait for the bread to bake, Kurapika and Kalluto seat themselves at the dining table.

Silence, Kalluto finds, is a thing easiest to honor in the presence of another. This silence is a type that settles all around them like dust, reigning thick from the corners as if it were in hiding.

Their own cup of water is left untouched. With Kurapika's eyes tethered to the phone, they let their mind wander.

And Kalluto busies themself with listlessly thumbing around a piece of paper, worrying the edge of a bone white border.

Paper is flat and malleable; paper is a blank, clean slate. It has a personality, too. If Kalluto tries hard enough, they can find it through the shifting of the hands and precise, flitting fingertips. They can shape it-- as it's the one thing in their life they’ve learned to take control of. Paper doesn’t complain. It bends the way it’s supposed to. There’s something ironic in the little ways Kalluto relates to it. Something so plain can have a new beginning. Kalluto likes to imagine that they can have that for themself too.

Kalluto forms a butterfly, a quiet reflection of the soul. Kalluto looks at it and thinks, perhaps they will move on from the shallow chrysalis of their childhood.

But there's a minute. Just a little one, where the cloaking silence becomes too silent.

Kalluto looks up.

Kurapika's gaze is no longer focused on that flat, glowing screen.

The complete intensity of those eyes are on Kalluto this time instead. They are close enough that Kalluto can see the tiny depressions lining the periphery of those deep, dark irises.

Kalluto has heard that eyes are the windows to the soul. Maybe that much is true, with Kurapika's eyes a little too deep, a 

little too bottomless, as if, just maybe, there were more there within them that Kalluto could not place a name to.

"How are you doing that?"

"Origami?" Kalluto's mouth feels like it should be too dry to speak. They still do, anyways.

"Yes."

"Can you teach me?"

In lieu of balking, Kalluto miraculously moves, like it has been instinct all along. Sheets of thin paper occupy their hands, sliding under the glimpse of their palms ( grounding; familiar. ) One for them. One for Kurapika.

See, Kalluto has a hiding place, a little world to themselves lined up on little strips of illustrated paper. 

They knew no other way to speak. So they reserved the softest parts of themself for paper planes and paper people.

For the first time in years, Kalluto was going to share their hiding place with someone.

They were going to share it with Kurapika.

Kalluto doesn't know if that thought terrifies them.

"Um," Kalluto begins, failing to meet Kurapika's lancing sight again, scared of those cosmic eyes.

Little Kalluto, under the magnifying glass of Kurapika's vision.

It is the most scrutiny Kalluto has ever received in their lifetime.

And it is overwhelming.

"Like this," They grab one edge of the corner, pulling it in and down, crimping. Kurapika mirrors Kalluto's movements, and it occurs to Kalluto, in the haste of it all, that they have never had anyone follow them before.

It is something suddenly new and exciting. Scary, even, for Kalluto, who has always been the follower.

And they are wholly unprepared for it all.

So under Kalluto's inelegant guidance, it's no surprise when Kurapika's missteps.

One border pulled the wrong way, too short. Wrong.

Kalluto takes notice.

"No," Kalluto says, and it is more out of reflex than anything, but they stumble on that word almost as if they could trip on it, and an apology leaps to their tongue in fear of sounding too blunt.

And then they halt. Now's not a moment for apologies. 

So Kalluto finds larger, warmer hands with their own. "Here's how you do it," Gentler this time, and helps Kurapika find the clever symmetry of bold lines with the pads of their thumbs.

They go back and forth this way, letting tension fall away into something dogged with meaning and intent. It's slow, but still progress, and when Kurapika finishes, Kalluto is allowed to marvel at the product of their instruction. 

The neck doesn’t quite curve the way Kalluto thinks Kurapika meant to make it. The wings are wrinkled, the tail split in several places. If they squint hard enough, it vaguely resembles the spiraling head of an ice cream cone. Or maybe even a used tissue.

But Kurapika is quite proud of it, and Kalluto thoughtfully tells them that they did well for a first try.

"Mine doesn't look as good as yours," Kurapika notes. They are silent for a few moments more as they look to Kalluto's heartbreakingly sculpted butterfly, and then back again to their own twisted, dejected bird. 

"You truly are talented," They marvel with a voice so full of inflection and reverence that Kalluto feels something inside them break a little.

Kalluto could preen, here. Kalluto could be proud and let sheer joy tangle laughter in their belly. 

But they do not. Not when they have spent so long sitting in square spaces and yearning for what others had to ever learn what pride felt like. ( envious most of all, of Alluka, a passionate soul. She was molten fire and everything Kalluto could not be. She filled the room, drew attention when she wanted to. Drew others into her orbit.

Kalluto is not quite anything like that. )

"I do it because it makes me happy," Kalluto responds in earnest. "I didn't think it was that important."

"I think it is very important, in fact, if not for the sheer fact that it makes you happy."

Something fierce laps it's way into Kalluto's chest. 

"Huh." Kalluto responds dumbly and for a while, only lets the magnitude of that pause fold it's way around them. 

For the first time in many months, Kalluto regards their own happiness.

Happiness, Kalluto had thought, was so close within reach when they were with the Phantom Troupe. Close enough to taste. 

Because being in the Phantom Troupe meant finding Killua.

It also meant stealing and stealing in multitude from others, because they never gave themselves enough to be satisfied.

After all, being lonely didn't matter when your pockets were lined with the jewelry of the corrupt and the 24 carat diamonds of all the men and women you swindled.

Being wealthy didn't mean happy either.

But Kalluto-- the Kalluto of Now could decide for themselves what happiness was.

And maybe happiness was just a little slice of kindness, reserved for themselves on the rainy days, on the quiet days. 

And yes, maybe happiness was understanding that they were every bit as good as they imagined themselves to be ( That they were gold rather than brass-- that copper and silver were never good enough for them. Never had been. )

By the time Kalluto finally gathers themselves, their voice threatens to leave them entirely, "That's very wise of you to say."

"There's plenty more where that came from."

A shadow of a chill that did not at all seem physical rasped knobby knuckles, gawky to leave it's echo along the ridges Kalluto's spine. "You mean you have more wisdoms?" Kalluto inches over the table eagerly. Conspiratorially. Because maybe, just maybe, they liked Kurapika like this. Tongue a gilded sword, profound and ready to cut knowledge deep.

Kurapika 'hm's thoughtfully. 

"Then what's your wisdom, Kurapika?"

"Don't eat hot cheetos first thing in the morning. It's gon' burn."

-

Perhaps Kurapika is eating away at the layers that Kalluto has clothed themselves little by little, bridging the Grand Canyon of a gap that once defined the distance between them.

Because for the next few minutes, Kalluto sits quietly, basking in the comfort Kurapika's presence. And no one else knows it yet, but this is the way they've learned to love. Without words.

But it's a peace that doesn't make itself at home for much longer when the cushioning silence is dashed by the unceremonious wail of the doorbell.

“Is that Leorio and the others?” Kalluto is perched elbows to tabletop, almost ready to stand, but Kurapika is already by the door before they can even finish the sentence, on sure, swift foot and a grimace. 

“It's Jehovah's witness,” Kurapika breathes and the sound of it is soft and almost treacherous in the stillness of the room. 

They’re pulling away from the peephole right as the doorbell unhelpfully squeals then, swearing in an unknown tongue that sung like music and lickity split consonants.

“What’s a Jehovah's Witness?” Kalluto presses at Kurapika's silence. “Shouldn’t we just ignore them?”

"No," Kurapika says, and when they do there's this look in their eyes. Kalluto isn't sure exactly what type of a look it is, but it's a look . “They'll be back, but I have my ways of dealing with them."

That was ominous.

But terribly interesting, too. Kalluto isn't sure if they should grimace or grin into the rim of their cup.

Kurapika is swinging open the door to let it squeak on its hinges.

And Kalluto couldn't help but to feel as if something utterly bad was 'bout to go down.

Far away, muffled by the doorway and threatening to be lost from distance, a voice:

"Good evening. Do you have a moment to--"

“I don't have a moment for anything," Kalluto could hear the scowl dipping low into Kurapika's voice. "You better get the fuck out of here if you know what’s good!”

From the threshold: Seething shards of light. Aura sloping thick onto the floorboards.

Kalluto hears the visitors scrambling at the doorstep.

And in that very moment, a tender lapse of weakness, a guffaw gallops sharp to Kalluto's mouth.

The little, stupid things make Kalluto laugh nowadays, and that's okay.

Kalluto is beginning to love the little things that make them them.

___

Minutes later, Kalluto stands again by the oven.

They know it shouldn't be long before the bread is done now, the skin of it browning into warmth, into gold, into satisfying crust.

They inhale that mouthwatering scent--

And Kurapika is leaning over them before they know it. Before they can even sense the pickle of energy in the air, and glaring at the oven with an unsettling intensity that should not be reserved for any kind of cooking appliance. Kalluto startles.

“What… are you doing?”

“Turn it up,” Kurapika says.

“I... What?”

“Turn it up to seven hundred degrees."

“Ah,” Kalluto’s mouth drops open. Is that even possible?

“Trust me. It will go faster that way.”

Kalluto looks from Kurapika, then back to the oven.

Do they dare?

‘Well,’ Thought Kalluto, wryly, whose entire life from the moment they could speak had been fit into frames by the decisions of adults, ‘They're older than me. They know what they're doing.’

As so commanded, Kalluto reaches for the knob.

They dare.

___

That did not go well.

In dithering fumes, smoke ambled from the house. 

Kurapika and Kalluto had opened the backdoor to the patio a long time ago to let curling tongues of grey escape, and now they sat squinting grimly at each other in a house where humidity plagued the rooms and heat pressed it’s lips to the walls to breathe with a kiss foul.

They at least managed to recover the garlic bread, which, now razed to an unrecognizable crisp, resembled something that Kalluto would politely put, looked downright "demonic."

And ever since pulling the tray from the oven, neither of them had looked properly at it. 

Kalluto hadn't even dared.

Kurapika was less concerned with the bread itself, and was instead eyeing Kalluto expectantly. After a few moments of sitting in lingering silence, it dawned on Kalluto with horror that Kurapika was waiting for them to eat, to take that first bite. Kurapika had cooked after all, and now they waited for approval. 

It's then that Kalluto realizes that they do not want to disappoint Kurapika-- and yes, it was a strange thought coming from them who, just mere hours ago, couldn’t shake the thought of Kurapika as something vicious, like a wild wind pulling down bitter daylight with it's claws, or a comet tearing the sky open.

But Kurapika is not so scary anymore, because there is something precious shared between them now. Something precious and glittering and soundless that planted itself around their private space in the spaces of time before this moment.

“Thanks for helping me cook lunch,” Kalluto’s voice is the first to break the silence. They fidget at the corner of their sleeve, imagining that all the smog unlucky enough not to be tricked outside into the coarse summer atmosphere had spun rebellious into the linen of their kimono, clinging volume with the beading sweat to plaster fire hazed skin.

When they finally force themselves to look at the burnt bread, it's with great difficulty.

'This is...' Kalluto cannot help but think. 'Uniquely nasty. What have we done?'

"I get it," Kurapika finally spoke to Kalluto's surprise. "We're forgetting condiments."

Kalluto considers that statement. Decides they don't like it. "Condiments… for bread ?"

"Absolutely," Kurapika does not skip a beat as they stand. 

Kalluto can only stare, thoroughly perplexed, just long enough to see them pluck a jar of nutella from the cabinet. And when Kurapika returns to the kitchen table, Kalluto is on the verge of trembling. 

'I feel like I'm being held hostage ,' Kalluto thinks, in that split second of witnessing Kurapika boldly unscrewing the lid.

“Hungry?” Kurapika asks. Kalluto opens their mouth to protest, and promptly shuts it only to watch, disconcertingly, when Kurapika takes a knife, silver and glittering, and shamelessly laves a rich portion of nutella over the brick of a garlic bread.

After witnessing that, Kalluto really wonders if it's possible to have an appetite anymore.

___

Kurapika attempts to start a conversation over lunch, and Kalluto appreciates the sentiment but they also really do not , because Kalluto is good at a great many things. For instance, the correct angle to slide their fingers into a man’s chest to shatter it right open and stammer the feeble lulling timbre of a heart ( they’re not too proud of that one ), or how to snap open a fan so quickly that it could tear through meek flesh, or how to trail silently behind someone without even making so much as a sound.

See, Kalluto is good at a great many things. Excellent at them, even. 

But never with words.

“I usually leave the cooking to Leorio.” Kurapika begins, “But you’re not so bad yourself, Kalluto.” Kurapika’s face comes unbound with a rare smile then, one that frolics from the rose pink corner of their lips to the roundness of their cheeks and tugs at their features with affectionate attention. Kalluto’s heart skips a beat. They’ve never seen a smile on Kurapika before-- it is as often and as frequent as a blue moon, they should think. And they want to say it looks odd sitting there, but with a smile that slow and easy and warm , directed at them of all people, it looks so right . 

Kalluto is struck with the sudden realization that they would like to see such a smile again. Maybe make it not so rare anymore. 

“It was fun making bread with you.”

Kalluto is speechless for a few vulnerable moments. When they find the strength to speak again, their voice is woodenly.

“Well, I could say the same for you, but let’s not make a habit of it, okay?”

___

Kalluto cannot bring themselves to shun their shared handiwork, so for a while they end up nibbling the edge of a garlic bread baked beyond recognition, not really tasting anything but the ungodly flavor of ash. And not soon enough after, not having the stomach for it, Kalluto relents trying to eat entirely. Kurapika, on the other hand, somehow never halts, continuing to munch loudly and noisily, the sound only sound in the living room even as the two lapse into speechlessness.

But Kalluto knows Kurapika's need for conversation in the parallel of clamped hands and the conjunction of brusque shoulders, and this time it is them who speaks and shatters that tender atmosphere.

“If you don’t mind me asking… why nutella?”

“Nutella makes everything better.”

“If we hadn’t ended up ruining the garlic bread… would you still have put nutella over it anyways?”

Kurapika pursed their lips to a fine line. Eyed the garlic bread-- what little left of it.

Lunch never before looked so much like the inconvenience of the century. How defeated it were, with skin spoiled and flaked by scarlet heat, reduced to a dark scab left moping on the plate.

If Kalluto were ever to feel sorry for an inanimate object, this would be it.

And yet--

Kurapika lifts it to Kalluto's line of sight, bewildered. 

“What do you mean ‘ruined?’”

It takes all of Kalluto’s willpower not to keep their bottom jaw from falling open.

___

“Earlier today. You slept in for a bit,” Kurapika notes, pulling at an especially chewy part of the garlic bread with bared teeth, a grimace and no small amount of effort.

“I did?” Kalluto blinks, then restarts. “I suppose so. Maybe my dreams keep me down for longer than they should.”

Kurapika’s eyebrows raise for the second time that day. “And what did you dream of last night?"

In my dreams, I'm older now, and my skin gets caught on the edge of paper cuts and pin prick needles.

I dream of change. They are dreams born from too many nights of staring into the bathroom mirror and thinking 'I Am I Am I Am.'

Dreams born from staring at my hands and These hands are my own now. My mind is my own and I will not give up my body to web of generational shackles nor my history to the puppeteer and the acute edge of needles I will not I will not.

I don't think I'm the same person I was before.

"It's difficult," Is all they can say, and it comes out stilted.

"I see," Kurapika says, picks at one corner of the burnt bread.

"Why are you still eating that?" Kalluto asks.

"Because we made it together."

Perhaps Kurapika Kurta was never as bad as they made them out to be.

___

It is evening, and Kalluto has no idea how long the others have been gone.

It's evening still, when Kurapika finally stands and pushes their chair from the table with a screech. Kalluto follows likewise, though they feel wasteful as they do so, because their own plate has yet to be emptied.

Kurapika tells them it's okay still.

“I know you’re probably still hungry,” They amend. Kalluto has to watch the guilt slink it's way, coy, to the furrow of their brow and collect weight to the junction of their lips. “Lunch wasn't nearly filling enough. That was my fault.”

“Does that mean you’ll call a Domino’s?”

Kurapika snorts, a noncommittal sound that buzzes in their throat. “Maybe.”

Kalluto could say many things. But they wither, and die a quiet death right there.

So Kalluto doesn't say. They ask instead, and they chase the one thing that hasn't left their throat yet.

"That language you spoke earlier. What was it?" It's a simple question, and it surprises them. It surprises them because when it touches Kalluto's lips, it feels like coming back to an old part of them self. Like revisiting what it meant to be a daydreamer, a wanderer. Soft hair. Big eyes. Eyes made for dreaming and head tucked in nimbus clouds.

This was who they were before poison and whip-- before they learnt the sound of life splitting chests and bird thin rib cages right in two. Who they were when they were waiting for the world to be hand fed to them on the glinting curve of a silver little spoon, and handing out questions as if they were little packaged, bow wrapped gifts.

And Kalluto suddenly understands. That this isn't just a quaint little house for the six of them, but that this is a place of rebirth too.

"It's Kurta language, my native tongue."

Kalluto struggles for words. For sound.

Then Kalluto tries. Tries for the things that the them of Yesterday knew that Kalluto of now had forgotten, reaching for that kind of old wisdom of what made them exactly who they were. 

"Could you teach me, maybe?"

Kurapika smiles again for the second time this day. It is not a modest murmur of a smile. It is big and beautiful and unabashed, a tiny miracle unto itself, and Kalluto feels as if they are being thawed by the sun.

"Of course," Kurapika says. "Of course."