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When Hisoka laughs, someone is bound to die. Fast, if they are lucky, with the card in the throat. More often – slowly and painfully, like a beast in a steel trap. Sometimes Hisoka doesn’t even let a prey realize that the end is nigh – the poor thing is struggling in blind despair, and it pleases him endlessly.
Kurapika knows how it is. Hisoka never fights seriously, only for fun: playing, teasing, manipulating. Drinks rage, fear, hatred, naive hope for rescue – greedily, right from the air. Most of those who dares to fight him he could have easily wiped out in a second, but he doesn’t stop until he is begged for mercy. On occasion he doesn’t stop even then.
When it’s finished, everything is drenched in blood. The body of a prostrate enemy is a disfigured broken doll; glass eyes are empty, staring at the abyss. Hisoka loses the interest as soon as their breath fades. Turns on the heels, fixes his hair in theatrical gesture, – if the opponent was strong enough to ruin it, – and goes away with that damn smirk on his lips. Leisurely, elegantly, triumphantly.
Kurapika can’t stand his smile, his laughter that bounces from the walls, tinkling under the ceiling or above the grass, wherever he decides to hunt. There is too much madness in him – seems like it is going to overwhelm Kurapika as well. Feverishly hot, burning in the ribs. It will scald his veins, turn him inside out. He sees it in Hisoka’s eyes – amber as the dark spirits from Kuruta legends; shimmers in his low, wolfish laughter when he takes away one more life.
Kurapika watches him in dread, afraid of becoming like him. He almost regrets making a deal with Hisoka – if his plans change, no one and nothing would protect him. Neither a promise nor a signature on a white sheet of paper, nor the chain piercing the heart. Kurapika would never admit that out loud, but Hisoka is dangerous, and Kurapika howls in agony when he is close. When he sees “I’ve got something for ya ~” on the phone screen; when another body, still warm, falls at his feet with a crunch; when Hisoka says cunningly:
“Here’s your little present, my darling”, and puts a list with the coordinates of the auction in his palm, almost intimately. Long nails scratch Kurapika’s wrist, as by accident, and he shivers, imagining how they rip the flesh – his flesh? – open.
“You’re so glum”, Hisoka grins. “We have plenty of time, don’t we? I’ll teach you to entertain yourself”
And caresses Kurapika’s face, leaving sticky bloody trail. Kurapika pushes him away, cursing under his breath, and doesn’t notice a bitter laughter with a metal taste on his own tongue.