Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mornings after a show were hard, but mornings after opening night were harder.

There were always the accompanying flashbacks of mishaps, mistakes made on stage, the lingering traces of stage makeup in your hair, in your eyebrows, sore muscles, raspy throats, and, if you were truly unlucky, notes for what to improve upon by your director, as well as the scorn of your castmates.

It was even worse when the first show of the run fell on a Thursday, which yielded a dismal audience output; lack of enthusiasm, failure in connection, flat jokes, scattered applause, but there was always the promise of the Friday afterward. A Friday were the audience was there.

Kurapika had plans to be a part of such audience.

Go to the play. Support his friends. Maybe meet up later for pancakes.

Then, he had gotten a text asking if he would be up for coffee that afternoon when everyone was well and awake, at the café most of the cast worked at. He had ducked in after class, mind still trailing after his notes, shaking the light rain off his coat, when he spotted Melody and Neon sitting at a booth in the corner, an order of coffee set out on the table, but—

Neon had her legs set up on booth beside her. Ankle wrapped in a brace.

"What the hell happened to you?" Kurapika asked, none too gently and Melody pulled him into the seat beside her. He felt chastened, for a moment, then curious.

Neon was a newcomer to their little theater group, loud and plucky, but talented. She had gunned after the part of Columbia with vigor and, being her first show, Kurapika was still surprised Palm had not exiled her to ensemble. Although, it might have had something to do with Kurapika withdrawing from the show.

Her luck, however, had turned when during the last scene where the main characters gathered for "Rose Tiny My World," Neon had slipped in her platform heels.

She had handled it beautiful, Melody assured. Brushing off the fall like a well-seasoned actress, but once she limped off the stage after her character's tragic demise, she had revealed that she had rolled her ankle.

Neon sniffed. "I feel so bad. I knew I had to be careful, but when it was my time to fall, I just went—" Neon made a tipping gesture with her hand. "I went to see a doctor this morning. They said I have to stay off of it for a couple days."

Kurapika felt a pang of disappointment.

Neon had worked so hard. She had been so excited. Now, she could only sit out and watch her part be played by someone else. At the beginning of the run too. "Palm really liked you as Columbia." Melody said gently. "I'm sure she'll let you reprise the role next year."

Kurapika reached out, touching her hand. Neon smiled at him. "I'll be fine. Really."

"Do you know what they're going to do tonight?" Kurapika asked. When their expression went blank, Kurapika wondered if he had misspoken, but after a moment the silence seemed deliberate. He slowly began to put the pieces together: the smiles, the coffee, the way Neon was warming up her puppy-eyed smile. His tone took a severe right turn. "No."

Neon was the first to break with a whine, "But you know the part—!"

"No."

"Please Kurapika, you're the only person I know who can tap dance."

"That's not a requirement."

"Debatable," Melody intoned, skeptically.

Neon chimed in, "Besides, wouldn't it be fun to reprise your old role before you leave us for academia forever?" Which is a less subtle jab, but still laden with guilt-trip he had come to associate with his theater friends. Kurapika frowned. "I, uh, sorry."

Annoyed, Kurapika turned to look at Melody.

"Palm hates me."

Melody rolled her eyes. "Palm knows you—"

"—oh, well, thanks."

"—not that. I mean, she doesn't hate you. She just hates that you had to pull out of the show because of school." Melody explained. "If you take the part for this weekend, maybe she'll stop blowing up the Facebook page."

Kurapika glared at her. He already felt bad enough about having to leave the show after the casting went up, but he had dealt with the brunt of it when he sent Palm an articulate email, and blocked her on everything shortly after. She was a wonderful director, albeit heavy handed and vaguely threatening. Kurapika could deal without the stress.

That didn't mean that he did not miss it, however. He had been doing shows with the Hunters' group since he was in high school. He had put in hours, gained seniority. When he left, he had his pick of the roles and he had his eyes firmly set on Columbia until the rehearsal schedule clashed with his class schedule.

It was the hardest thing he had done all year to pull out of Rocky Horror in favor of being awake during his grad classes.

Kurapika took a measure of his friends, their pleading eyes and gentle smiles, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had better not regret this. "Okay, fine."

The table erupted into cheers. Neon threw her arms in the air. "Yes! I'll text Palm right now!"

He supposed it wouldn't be too bad on his schedule. It was a long weekend; he could work on his papers and keep on track. He could put up his shifts at the diner in his work groupchat. Reschedule a study date. Despite the reworking timetable in his mind, filling the long list of things to do, he found himself smiling.

As cheesy as it sounded. He did miss the stage. He missed acting.

"Should I text Abengane and let him know?"

Neon's gaze flickered up from her phone, curious. "Let him know what?"

Kurapika lifted his mug to his mouth. "That I'm playing Columbia."

Melody stared at him for a moment, setting her phone aside. Her expression suddenly pensive. "Kurapika, Abengane had to drop out. He couldn't commit to the schedule."

Kurapika's brow knitted and he went through the cast in his head. Palm always had a vision. It was a sharp vision, bright and brilliant, but consistent with her tastes. He knew he had been out of the loop these past few weeks, but not that much. "Who's playing Eddie then? Leorio is your Brad, right?"

At his confusion, he watched the girls deflate and exchange looks before their heads bowed, seedy realization setting in.

The silence was broken by Leorio making his way over, apron knotted and a five o'clock shadow shading his jaw. He was oddly chipper for morning shift, especially the night after a show, and his smile only widened when he stopped in front of their table, lifting a pitcher of water. "Hey, anyone need a refill or—?" Kurapika snapped his gaze to him.

"Who's playing Eddie, Leorio?"

Leorio's expression turned flushed. "Oh! Uh, you agreed to take Columbia then?" His words titled with a nervous lit, stumbling into each other. "Oh." Kurapika narrowed his eyes at him.

"Who?"

Silence.

"Leorio."

"Kurapika," Melody sighed and held her hands up, beseeching as Leorio hurried away, nearly knocking into another server as he went. Melody's expression was strained. "Just remember that we already texted Palm."

Kurapika did not care.

Palm could reign down Heaven and Hell, and he would stand among the wreckage unscathed. His stomach knotted as he narrowed his gaze at the person, he had thought was his friend. When he spoke, each word was hissed through his teeth, "Who—is playing—Eddie, Melody?"

Melody matched his stare for a moment, but then she too looked away, chin dipping against her collarbone. Speechless.

Kurapika prickled.

"Who?"

It was then that Neon lifted her gaze, her eyes flinting from his ear to his eyebrow before she met him head-on. Her blue eyes were calm and intense, a sea before a storm. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, then parted, somehow ominous, "It seems like you already know, Kurapika."

Kurapika sucked in a breath.

"Are you fuckin' kidding me—!?"

"Well, this is unexpected." Kurapika shot a glare at the face above his in the mirror. Kuroro's pale face was split with a grin. "I'm a little flattered. I didn't think you would ever get back on stage with me again."

Kurapika made a noise. "Oh, please. I left because I had to focus on school. It had nothing to do with you." He turned back to his face in the mirror, trying to keep his hands steady as he touched up his foundation. He looked to check his reference photo taped up on the glass and found Kuroro watching him, smiling still. "Could you get out of my mirror? I'm trying to do this right."

Kuroro withdrew, but turned to sit on the makeup table beside his. "You know, you could ask Hisoka for help," he offered, slightly, "but he's been on a power trip since he got Frankenfurter."

"That seems like him." Kurapika agreed, still not looking. How did Kuroro always find him when he was alone? He did not want to entertain him, but the part of his mind that kept saying, leave it, leave it, leave it alone, got quieter whenever Kuroro was around. "I'm guessing you wanted that part?"

It sounded too conversational for them, too—chummy.

"Mm? Oh, no. I went for Eddie and I got Eddie." Kuroro said, easing back against the opposite mirror. It was a bit interesting how Kuroro could make himself fit anywhere. Kurapika selected a mascara from his makeup bag, not paying attention to him. He ran the bristle across the top, cutting off the excess. It was about build up. The false eyelashes would make his eyes really pop.

His gaze cut to Kuroro in his periphery. Watching.

Leave it, leave it, leave it—

He sighed, bringing the wand up to his eye. "Why?"

"Because I knew you would be Columbia."

Kurapika blinked down hard on the mascara wand and scowled. "Fuck." He grabbed a tissue from the counter and pressed it under his lashes, gently so not to ruin all the work he had already done. After a stinging, burning moment, he peaked at his eye in the mirror—red, but not damaged.

Kuroro was staring at him with cool amusement. "You good?"

His teeth grit. "Lucilfer, I swear, if you mess with me right now, I will cut your dick off." A normal person might comment on the anger issues, but Kuroro merely laughed. As he always did whenever Kurapika got wound up, especially when he was the one doing the winding.

"There you are." His smile was a full blossoming grin now, boyish and sweet. Kurapika pressed the issue harder against his eye. "Everyone knows it's a good show when Kurapika is ready to murder someone with a mascara wand."

"That's just you."

"Maybe," Kuroro shrugged and slid off the counter. "But its true right? All our best shows happen when we fight before." The lit in his tone was full of implication that Kurapika did not want to deal with right now.

Kurapika snorted. "Is that why you're trying to rile me up?"

"I've missed you." Kuroro had circled back around, until he was looming behind him in the mirror again. The bright, bright lights making him stand out like a specter in all that black. The cords of his forearms bunching. "I do like hearing whatever you come up with just to talk about my dick."

Kurapika could feel the shift in his chair as Kuroro placed his hands on it, leaning down until his face was floating above his. Kurapika drew a deep breath, temper cooling.

Kuroro met his eyes in the mirror. "So, I suppose we're doing same rules as last time then?" His expression was entirely somber. An intense sort of focus coming over him.

Kurapika felt his breath stutter in his throat. His lips tightened, "Yeah."

He was a little too proud of himself that his voice did not wavier when he spoke.

"Good to know." Kuroro said. "Since we won't have time to practice." There was something teasing and coy in his tone that made Kurapika want to turn around and look at him, but he merely stared at his own face in the mirror—white parlor, dramatic brows, dash of blush. He could see Kuroro's hands gripping the chair over his shoulder, defined knuckles, long fingers, not touching.

"Just pull my hair if I go too far."

Then, he withdrew just as Melody and Leorio come parading into the dressing room with tea. He was always good about finding Kurapika when he was alone. Kuroro wagged his fingers at them as he passed, slipping through the door.

After everyone was in makeup and partial costume, Palm gathered them up in the auditorium to go over notes from last night. It was a brief meeting, noting his return to the stage, then asking for someone to get a handle on the red markers they would use for the audience later. Afterward, Palm beckoned him over with a crooked finger.

And Kurapika went reluctantly.

Palm Siberia was a person who wore her emotions in how she styled her hair. During casting, it was a flowing sheet of chestnut, dark and lacquered like fall leaves, and it would change in disarray the closer and closer they drew to opening night. During techweek, her hair was frazzled and frizzy, either hanging in her face or twisted up into a bun least she yank it out when someone forgot a line or missed a step.

It was up now. Speared through the center with a hair stick. Kurapika approached cautiously as she eyed him, fingers locking together in a nervous knot around a cold cup of coffee. "Kurapika, good to have you back. Did you and Kuroro get a chance to practice your dance?"

"Yeah," he lied and not feeling the least bit guilty for it. "Yeah, we got it down earlier."

"Good, good, good." She worried her hands together, eyes sweeping over the cast. Her brow puckered. "Lucilfer's still not in makeup. The rat." She looked opt to go off, vein pulsing in her brow, but then a blond head appeared at her elbow.

Bisky Kreuger, her partner in theater as well as life.

"Phinks is doing it for him." Bisky informed her while handing Palm a tea to trade for the coffee. She shot one of her best soothing smiles, hand touching the bend of Palm's elbow. "I put your notes in the sound booth for you. Knuckle said he's ready with the tracks whenever you are."

Palm seemed to exhale under Bisky's hand, flashing her a small smile as she turned towards backstage without another word.

Kurapika felt his shoulders fall and he spared Bisky a look, grateful, "Thank you, Bisky."

"No problem." Bisky flapped a hand. "She knows it's going to be a good show, but she worries." Bisky shot a smile his way, bumping her shoulder against his. "And welcome back, kid. We've missed you around."

Kurapika found himself smiling back. As harebrained and bitchy as the theater could be, it was home to him. He had done all his best therapy here. He had proofread nearly all his college papers between scenes. He had slept dog-tired and worn out on the folded chairs after days that lasted forever. "I've missed you too."

Bisky glanced to the side after a moment, confirming that Palm was in the sound booth before she stepped closer, brow furrowing. "Hey listen, I know this is sudden and no one told you Kuroro was playing Eddie, but I got to know now—did you and Kuroro actually have a chance to practice your scene for 'Bless My Soul'?"

He was tempted to lie.

Like he had to Palm.

But under Bisky's intense stare, he could not help but be honest.

"No. Yes. Not with Kuroro, but Melody and Leorio walked me through the blocking this afternoon—" Bisky was shaking her head. "We can do it. I promise."

Bisky's brow furrowed deeper. "It took me two weeks to get that choreography down with him and Neon. You're telling me you can do it after seeing it once?"

"I can make it work." He shrugged.

Bisky put her forehead in her hands, groaning. "God, what do you have against Kuroro?"

Kurapika balked, words choking up in his throat. "I have nothing against Kuroro—"

"Mh. Honey, no one believes that." Bisky hummed and turned to snap her fingers over his shoulder, making a beckoning gesture. "Kuroro! We're gonna run the barebones of the 'Bless My Soul' in a minute. I'll need you."

Kurapika glanced over his shoulder to find Kuroro lingering by the stage in sweats, stretching with the rest of ensemble. He nodded once, his eyes glazing over Kurapika before he rose to the stage where everyone was setting up for the opening act: a wedding and a funeral.

The stage looked cavernous for having so many props and people suddenly moved aside. So many eyes.

"Bisky—"

She held up a hand.

"I'm not letting you sabotage my show. Palm and I worked too hard."

And that was that.

Kurapika felt nothing but dread as he climbed on stage. It was barebones. Neither of them in costume yet. Bisky playing the music from her phone. She gave direction and corrected Kurapika on where to stand, where to put his arms, and then the rest was up to him. So long as he hit point a, got to point b, and kissed point c, he was golden.

Even as they walked through the scene, it felt off. He and Kuroro did their best work in the moment: line delivery, placement, touch—it was all so much more believable when someone wasn't readjusting their hands or giving notes. Kuroro and him got the chance to surprise each other, make it real.

But not. Because it wasn't.

And every interruption reminded him of that.

But Kurapika was a professional. He could be profession. It was not that hard.

He rubbed his hands over his arms in an effort to calm himself.

The outfit for Columbia they had on hand was as close to the original as the theater could manage and, due to the sudden casting shift, Neon and Bisky had gone rummaging through the costume closets to find some pieces that would substitute as needed, but the basics were still there—a sequined corset with a pair of glittery shorts, sheer tights with black fishnets and the aforementioned tap shoes.

He had brought his own gold-sequined jacket and matching top hat set from last year.

Kurapika tapped his foot, toe-to-heel, toe-to-heel, humming as he went over the steps in his head.

Neon had taken the initiative of going his hair for him while he went over lines, shellacking his hair back. Kurapika could not help but think it looked a little how Kuroro used to wear it when he first started coming to the theater, drawn in by Paku and Machi. He dismissed the thought quickly and focused on the blocking for each scene.

By the time Bisky called five, Kurapika felt like he blinked and woke to the scene of Leorio and Melody dancing on stage as Brad and Janet—a couple so naïvely in love with the idea of each other. The rest of the cast in their drabber disguises lingering throughout the scene as Leorio twirled Melody around for "Damnit Janet."

When the scene broke, it was to thunderous applause and laughter.

A Friday night crowd indeed.

Kurapika was so caught up in the thrill of the energy around him, the quick costume changes, the shift in scene, the swell of music, he had not realized that someone had come to stand beside him.

Kuroro was quiet in the darkness, eyes set on the same sliver of curtain as him. He glanced up at him as Pakunoda introduced the starting notes of "Time Warp” and glared through the slant of darkness where Kuroro's face was.

The strobe lights revealed Kuroro's smile. The liquid shift of his too wide eyes. "What?"

"Nothing," he said, eyes skating back to the stage. Pakunoda and Machi had found each other on the floor and were tangled together in a dance. His gaze shifted back after a moment. "You just look excited is all."

Kurapika had nothing to say to that.

"Aren't you supposed to be in makeup?" He whispered.

"It's drying." Kuroro answered, thought Kurapika could not really see but the faint shadow on Kuroro's face, his dark hair swept back. Sunglasses perched on top of his head.

They stood together as the music swelled and Kurapika disrobed, tossing his housecoat over a chair as he rolled his neck. He could feel the excitement knotting in his gut. The panic that made his mouth taste dry and the back of his tongue too wet, stomach churning—

"Break a leg." Kuroro whispered, snapping him out of his reverie. "Or even just a toe." His voice was silky, full of snark and sarcasm, and it made the bridle of anxiety that had been riding his nerves snap.

"I'll break yours first." Kurapika threw back, flashing a vicious smile, before turning back to the space between the curtains, pulling his top hat on. He caught the flash of Kuroro's smile and it made him pause.

There was always a stiffness in his spine whenever Kuroro was around; a part of him that stood up straighter, made his tongue a little sharper, made his defenses a little rougher. It made him think about what Kuroro said earlier, that all their best shows were done when they fought before and as much as he hated it, he knew it was true.

Kuroro made him competitive. Made him want to prove himself.

Prove himself to him—

His cue—

He heard the thrill of the crowd when he appeared on stage with a sashay and a glimmer of sequined gold. He heard the shout of his name—Colombia's name, at least—and it spurred him on, grin going wider as he threw himself into the dance, singing along to the backdrop.

The part came to him so easily.

It reminded him why he loved doing this. The strobe of the lights, the songs, the dancing, he loved the way he felt when he sunk into a role. Especially one as popular as Colombia. He was fulfilling a fantasy, making someone's night.

It felt like he never left.

He caught sight of an edge of shadow from stage left. Kuroro creating a ghostly outline, watching him.

The rest of the number tied up quickly, their Brad and Janet thoroughly terrified of the mansion they have come across.

Then, Hisoka made his entrance.

He had managed to stay out of Hisoka's way since he arrived this afternoon, not wanting to get caught up in conversation, and the affect was somewhat startling. Hisoka with his teased hair, heavy glam makeup, thigh garters and corset vest under his glimmering cape.

He ate up Frankenfurter.

There was not much for Kurapika's character in this scene other than being a groupie for Frankenfurter, dancing with him, fawning over him, which did require some work. He didn't dislike Hisoka, but he didn't exactly like him either. Hisoka was a great actor, but he made intimate scenes awkward with so many comments.

Kurapika was instantly glad Bisky hadn't asked him to block a scene with Hisoka.

When Hisoka eased back in his chair, Kurapika had to fall to his knees in front of him with Machi and Paku. He schooled his expression, pretending to stare hungrily at Hisoka's junk, which he was sure the perv enjoyed way too much and he met Machi's gaze over Hisoka's stockinged thigh. She pulled a face and Kurapika fought back a laugh.

Illumi would probably be leaving passive aggressive notes on their cars later. He never missed a performance and never missed a move. But, the scene ended, the iconic entrance slated with a flourish as Hisoka disappeared in a cloud of glitter and guitar riff.

Applause thundered through the auditorium.

The tension bunched at his shoulders.

Kurapika went through the motions of his speaking role. The high falsetto of Columbia paired with some comical overacting. He got a few laughs when he threw Brad and Janet's wet clothes back at them, but as he manhandled Melody into the prop elevator anticipation began snapping at his spine.

The scene was coming.

And he would not be out done.

Uvogin, as it turned out, had supplied his own golden spandex for the birth of Rocky Horror.

A fact that, much to Kurapika's own hilarity, caught only wolf-whistles and shouts from the audience. Possibly Shalnark and Nobunaga who always took up the front row during shows like this. Their excitement only fed their own and Uvogin took the stage with his psychedelic solo, flexing for Hisoka and flirting with Melody in the same breath.

Hisoka laving him with attention and Uvo just having to take it. Hisoka's solo number ending with him crawling over Uvo's prone form—

Kurapika did not have much time to focus on the details when a rumble of a motorcycle echoed behind him and then, Kuroro appeared in all this glory breaking through the tissue-paper ice wall. Hair slicked back, bare chested, leather-clad and astride a motorcycle—

How did Palm get that approved by the theater? He wondered.

"Eddie!" Kurapika shrieked as he ran to his lover's side. He got a better look at what he couldn't see in the dark earlier. Phinks had outdone himself with the special effects' makeup this time around. The hack-job scar carved into his forehead to curve at his eye socket, puckered and bloody. Frost painted on the side of his face and hair. He certainly looked like he had been knocked out and kept in a freezer.

And Kuroro wore it well.

The music started up and he tossed his sunglasses into the crowd.

As Kuroro dismounted the motorcycle, Kurapika jumped on. He made himself comfortable, reclining back against the leather seat, ankle draped over the handlebar. Adore me, his eyes seemed to say. Kuroro glanced at him, then turned back to the audience.

This scene was a quick one.

He could do this.

Melody had led him through the blocking for the scene earlier that day, using two chairs for the motorcycle, as Leorio acted out Kuroro's part and he was not surprised to note, Kuroro played it to a T. For how annoying he was, Kuroro was good with notes, he was good with direction, but given enough space to do his own thing, he was often opted to go off the rails, if not against them.

Kuroro sang along with his backtrack, pestering the other characters on stage and dancing with Uvogin before he turned his sights on him. His lips curving upwards.

This was the moment.

Kurapika leaned up on the bike, arms open. Finger beckoning.

Kuroro was never one to pull punches. He did every scene like he meant it, full energy, every time. And when he crossed the stage to Kurapika, he was his forlorn lover, kept apart for too long. And when his hands seized his waist, pulling Kurapika hard against the line of his body, he felt it. The desperation, the want, he felt dizzy with it as he draped his arms around Kuroro's shoulders.

Kuroro used the bike to his advantage, leaning in close, hands moving across his waist to his hips to cradle his back. Becoming his center of gravity. Kurapika locked up a slight inch, fearing for his safety as Kuroro bent him over the bike, but Kuroro took that as a challenge, leaning into him and pressing his face against the crook of his neck, his hot breath fanning against his skin as he sang along.

Bastard.

Kurapika flushed and did his best to keep his expression doe-eyed and adoring, not wanting to be out done. A note from Palm was sad. A smirk from Kuroro was just cruel.

Two can play that game. Kurapika arched from his seat to meet him, leg hitching high on Kuroro's hip, making sure Kuroro had time to appreciate the sight of his stockinged thigh in the high-riding shorts as he ran an open palm down the length of Kuroro's torso.

Kuroro's abdomen tightened reflectively under his touch. As he dragged his hand down, down, down, Kuroro pressed against him, hovering, breath hot against his mouth, until Kurapika wrist hit the cool metal of the belt buckle before going up, a stark contrast in heat, lips closer than before—

When Kuroro pulled away, Kurapika felt like he took all the heat with him. The solid wall of smooth, rippling muscle pacing away from him across the stage. He stumbled, just barley, but played it off with a mimed gasp and frustration of being jilted as embarrassment burnt a fiery trail down his chest. He could never win against Kuroro.

Kuroro was antagonizing Hisoka, who was pretending he did not want the attention, but before long Kuroro's eyes locked with his again and Kurapika planted his feet on the ground.

Challenge flashing in those depths.

And Kurapika rose to meet him.

The cavernous stage that had seemed so hollow before seemed to shrink around him. All the world narrowing on those eyes, those lips—

They made their way towards each other, Kurapika not even having to count the steps for his mark, too preoccupied with the music. Kuroro crossed the stage much quicker, meeting him in two short steps before scooping under his arms and lifting him with an ease that made Kurapika's stomach bottom out.

His mind was awash with notes, the lights, the music, the hard dig of Kuroro's fingers, but once he was airborne and grappling at his shoulders for balance, it felt different. The energy, higher; the touch, softer; the moves, easier.

It was a simple maneuver, Kuroro swinging him onto his left hip and then his right, all to the beat of the music, Kurapika smiling brilliantly down at him. The ensemble singing behind them, gyrating to the music.

Then, he felt time slow down when Kuroro lifted him the third time and he swung back towards him, Kurapika opened his legs to catch Kuroro's waist and collided against him. His thighs tighten, ankles locking behind his back to get some leverage other than Kuroro's hands.

This was the part he and Leorio had left out. The part Bisky had not blocked.

Leaving the imagination for later.

Kuroro caught him easily, which Kurapika was thankful for, but when Kuroro's hand landed on his ass, he was considering murder by stiletto until Kuroro lifted him up before sinking to his knees. Kurapika wrapped his legs around him tighter, feeling the gravity of his own body as he shifted down. Dimly, he heard a wolf whistle from the audience and made plans to find the son of a bitch that was egging Kuroro on—

But as Kuroro settled him onto the floor, Kurapika remained wrapped around him, fingers carding through Kuroro's nape.

He did say pull his hair if he did something he didn't like. Such were their rules.

Kuroro climbed over him once he was situated, one hand cradling the back of his head as Kuroro settled him on the ground which was uncharacteristically thoughtful and it caught Kurapika off-guard. Kuroro's hands moved over him in pantomime, face tucked against his neck. Kurapika arched his hips up as he threw his head back in mock-ecstasy, letting out a loud moan that he had done on other shows, with other people. But with Kuroro? Never.

There seemed to be a moment, between one sax riff and the next, that Kuroro paused, but it was only a moment, a second where Kuroro stilled against him before he placed one long, open-mouthed kiss against his throat.

The contact lasted for the entire beat of the next hook, the dancers shaking the stage beneath them, the hardness of the floor, the dig of Kuroro's fingers against his hips growing insistent, and the heat flooding through him against the hot roll of Kuroro's lip against his skin.

The noise it choked out of him didn't even sound human.

Kurapika's grip tightened reflexively, hips bucking, and when Kuroro's mouth withdrew, he felt cold where the kiss lingered against his pulse. A hand dragged up his nylon clad thigh to grip his knee.

Kuroro winked at him, tugging Kurapika's loosened blusterier strap over his shoulder. He leaned back, eyes in the distance and Kurapika unhooked his legs as Kuroro scrambled back, mock-horror etched clear on his features.

Hisoka loomed at stage left. Icepick in hand.

A seedy, terrifying promise of murder glinting in those gold eyes. Kurapika shivered.

Hisoka was too good an actor at times, but when he began the chase scene to cut his lover down, Kurapika did his best to time his mortification with the Columbia on screen and not shoot out his own voice.

Nothing like a murder to kill the mood.

"Wow, Kurapika, you really outdid yourself." Machi said a touch too loudly during intermission. Kurapika stopped outside the dressing room, water bottle to his lips and shorts riding high, he eyed Machi and Kuroro, skeptically. Kuroro was leaning against the makeup table beside her, leather jacket long gone as he sat shirtless in the changing room.

And Kurapika quickly discerned what Machi was getting at and nearly choked.

Under the white makeup lights, Kuroro's shirtless torso was scored with scratches. Sequin scratches. His scratches. Rubbed raw and pink at the spaces where Kurapika had moved against him.

"Th-that, that can't all be me." Kurapika gaped, suddenly wobbling in his high heels. He glared, accusatory. "You did the same scene with Neon last night."

"Yeah, but Neon didn't really sell the part like you did, Kurapika." Pakunoda sung as she passed by. She had adapted Riff Raff's costume to have the shirt unbuttoned down her breastbone. Despite the jab, her smile was kind. "You really went for it out there, kid. I'm proud of you."

Kurapika flushed.

It was no secret that intimate scenes weren't his strong suit.

In truth, it was why he liked musicals so much. No matter how hot the scene, nothing usually ever got heavier than a kiss. Brief, fade to black. End scene.

Which didn't really help to explain his odd history with Kuroro. Every time he got a part with a romantic interest, Kuroro would do his best to play opposite of him. Some would say happenstance. Kurapika would say rigged. Although Palm and Bisky would never admit to it, he knew it was because the two of them played well off each other. They did bickering well, they did fighting well, they did romance equally well.

His first kiss with Kuroro had been during an obligatory Shakespeare. A Midsummer Night's Dream. Kuroro dressed in the regalia of King Oberon and Kurapika in the tights and leafy greens of Robin Goodfellow. He had been mid-speech, tongue rolling with the rhythm of iambic pentameter when Kuroro had seized him by the hips, bending him backwards in a deep, deep kiss.

A kiss that had been scripted less passionately, less forcefully, but Palm had revised with notes.

It had been the beginning of their rivalry.

And the hair pulling.

Pakunoda lifted her chin. "Babe, do you have anymore tape? That last scene nearly had me showing more than I'm getting paid for." Machi nodded and the two of them shifted to the corner mirrors, bent over Machi's makeup kit.

With the flurry of motion around him, and the sound of the fake orgasm contest resounding from the auditorium, Kurapika found himself crossing the space of the dressing room to stand beside Kuroro. Despite the busy-bodying around them, their proximity felt quiet, private.

He eyed one of the cuts on Kuroro's pectoral; the angry, bleeding red.

He was not sure why he was always expecting it to be awkward after a scene with Kuroro. Part of him always wondering if it might be this scene or another that might make the uneasy tightrope between them snap, but no matter who kissed who, or who felt what, Kuroro was always cucumber cool when he got backstage. And Kurapika was always in tune to follow his lead.

But, he had never hurt Kuroro before. Unintentionally.

When he found a way to meet Kuroro's eyes, he exhaled, "I'm sorry about your chest."

"Oh, it's nothing." Kuroro assured, though his smile was faint. "Machi's just giving you shit. I put something on it."

Kurapika nodded, thumb picking at the label on his water bottle. His mind kept playing over the scene in his head. The lift, the floor, the lights, the kiss, the kiss, the kiss—

"Hey," Kuroro's voice drawled out a low note, curiosity piqued. "Did I go too far?"

"No, no," He assured and found himself reaching for his neck, anxious. Kuroro didn't leave a mark, he had checked in the mirror, but he could still feel it like a brand against his skin. His fingers itched for the spot. "You just surprised me is all."

Kuroro nodded, but he still wore his somber expression. Kurapika hated that more than the teasing. He could handle Kuroro being an asshole. He could match him when he was challenged, but he never knew what to do with himself whenever Kuroro got serious.

"Did you like it?"

The question caught him so off-guard, Kurapika had no time to put up any walls. Red flushed against his neck. Burning the place where he has kissed. It was all the answer Kuroro needed.

He was not sure what he was expecting. Kuroro's laughter, a giddy grin, some tease and taunt about their stage chemistry, or whatever, but Kuroro was silent. His expression was as stunned as his own.

The moment stretched between them delicate and fleeting, before dissolving once again.

Kurapika was the first to break eye contact, but he did so as Kuroro turned to grab his shirt from the counter, turning away to pull a black tee over his head. Kurapika's fingers drummed against his bottle, thankful for the moment to school his expression.

"So, um, what are you doing now?"

"Stage crew. Bisky has a long, long list of things for me to do before I can go."

Kurapika felt an unpleasant shudder at the thought. "You're leaving?"

"I'm gonna go home and shower before the party tonight. You coming to that?"

Kurapika had not even thought of it. He hadn't even brought clothes to change into beside his sweats and he was far beyond the times when he would go to bars in full costume anymore. It wasn't really a party anyway, that was for the last show. It was more of a chance to eat and get drunk before pouring into bed for the next night. Nonetheless, it was tradition.

He shifted his weight, looking up at Kuroro. "Are you going?"

Kuroro's mouth pulled. "Well, I'm asking if you are."

"I'll go if you go."

There were times, few and far between, that Kurapika was able to surprise Kuroro and have him show it. It was those times between one quip and the next, something particularly clever might make Kuroro crack with laughter, or simper and sulk. However, the look that flashed across Kuroro's face read as true surprise. Soft, full of awe.

It married a strange blend of nerves and nervous against his spine, making him stand a little straighter.

Kuroro smiled. "Then I'll go too."

The rest of the night past in a flurry of motion; costume changes, songs, dances. Kurapika felt a strange sense of dissonance when he had to sing about his relationship with Eddie and then his horror at the reveal of his dead body—another prop, courtesy of Phinks. He caught flashes of Kuroro throughout the night, collecting props and moving set pieces, catching Hisoka's whip when he flung it at him.

No divas was Bisky's creed for every show and she kept everyone humble with a chore or a note, regardless of seniority.

The last he saw him, Kuroro was ducking out of the back stage door, and their eyes met briefly.

Kurapika was in his heavy makeup and costume for "Rose Tint My World." Blessings for his ankles falling to his feet. He could feel Kuroro’s eyes lingering in the length of the dark.  

Kuroro smiled, teeth caught in the lights before his hand lifted. Goodbye.

Melody took his elbow and pulled him out onto stage, taking a statue position before the curtain went up, Hisoka walking down the line of his captives with a grin.

One thing Kurapika knew he would miss this season was the end of the night dinners with the cast. Since high school, he loved piling into one car after a performance, sweaty and elated, before driving off somewhere to get food while they boozed over their performance, stage makeup still on, knowing Palm and Bisky might kill them in the morning.

Kurapika had forgone his costume and his sweats in favor of running home after the show to shower, washing off the grease paint and the running colors to find his face beneath.

He wanted to be himself tonight.

But as the hot water poured down his back, he felt a nervous ripple pull through him. Kuroro would be there tonight. Kuroro was coming for him.

He felt it in the way his hands shook when he picked out his outfit. The way his eyes snapped when a text appeared on his phone, confirming the bar.

He was excited.

Excitement bright as a wild fire rolling down an evergreen hill.

The group had reconvened at a bar that served food till late; tables and chairs crammed into the corner while one of the cast members, younger, newer, asked if they could do the choreo from Rent. Kurapika rolled his eyes and turned to promise Melody through his teeth that if enough people agreed that he would leave. Melody had wrapped an arm around him, holding him snug. "You can't escape it. You used to be the same way."

And he was.

He found himself glancing around once they were seated, noting Machi and Paku had made their way to the corner, first to arrive and looking somehow as if they weren't on the second day of a weeklong show. Kuroro notably absent from their private corner.

His attention was broken by Leorio dropping a menu in his lap. "Hey, Kurapika, start looking now. That waiter was ready to kill you last time." Kurapika stuck his tongue out at him and a bell chimed over the door.

He looked up again, nothing, but when his gaze fell back to the table, Kuroro was there, as if by magic, beside Machi and Pakunoda. He paused beside them for a moment, catching up and handing Paku a set of keys before his gaze lifted to Kurapika.

There was no time to prepare. No time to put his guard up. They had not decided what exactly they would do when they met later at the bar. Just that they would meet.

Still, he felt a strange calm wash over him as Kuroro approached his end of the table. Somehow it felt inevitable. Kuroro would give him no time to get wound up or antsy, just go for it.

Kurapika snorted when Kuroro drew closer, half turning in his chair to get a better look at him. He was wearing his Eddie jacket over a white tee shirt. "Palm is going to kill you when she finds out you took a prop."

Kuroro winked. "She'll have to catch me first."

It was oddly charming. Kuroro was oddly charming. His dark hair falling across his brow, the light glinting off his earrings, his hands tucking in his pockets. He had had time to go home and shower after his performance, skipping out on clean-up and notes, but Kurapika could yell at him for that later.

He felt a strange desire to reach out and touch Kuroro, even just to tap his finger on one of the pins that riddled the jacket's lapels, and he almost did it. The boundaries of touch were so often open to them, on-stage, but here, in the real world, he was hesitant.

The moment lapsed between them with an awkward crush of silence, Kurapika caught Leorio's eye in his periphery. His wide eyes tipping over his circle-rimmed glasses.

Kurapika looked away, confidence wavering.

"Hey," Kuroro's voice was very close to his ear and he caught a memory, that moment on stage where Kuroro was bowing over him, hot breath dragging against his neck. Kurapika stiffened at the feeling of him being so close again. "Do you want to get a drink at the bar?"

The request rung an odd tune in the back of his head.

It was a way to get him away from the crowded table. Away from his friends.

Kurapika's stomach dropped with heavy deliberation as he cast a glance around him—his fellow cast members and friends—all caught up in their own drinks and drama. Stage makeup still on, half dressed to the nines and the half in sweats and makeup. There was a crush in the space around him, too loud and too quiet, and Kurapika hovering in the middle, Kuroro at his shoulder, the weight of possibilities and everything between them.

This was a night to change things.

All the delicate balances between them of professionalism and rivalry hung over his head.

"Sure." He said and turned his head just as Kuroro pulled away. He was grinning.

"Alright, let's go."

Kurapika grabbed his phone from the table and contemplated grabbing his water glass too, but decided against it. His hands were shaking too hard. He might drop it.

He followed Kuroro through the crowd, side-stepping through bodies. He caught the inquisitive look of Melody, hair still fluffed and curled as Janet, and then the even more panicked look of Leorio, still in his Brad getup because he refused to wear any suit Palm offered him. He mouthed something and Kurapika mouthed a, "shut up" in response.

He turned his back to them, least he second-guesses his choice, but a knot of anxiety was curling in his stomach. Doubt seeping in.

Kuroro's hand caught his wrist, pulling him over to the lower level. "You can get food here too if you're hungry." He was saying, voice too kind for his frazzled thoughts.

"Not really."

The crowd was thicker down here. Full of a run off from Friday night and the foot traffic. They were crushed together instantly, shoulder to shoulder as Kuroro led him through, hand still wrapped around his wrist.

It felt intimate.

Kurapika stuck close to Kuroro's side and, before he could think better of it, he pulled his hand free and wrapped his arm around Kuroro waist, hand peaking under his jacket. Kuroro answered him by settling his arm across the back of his shoulders, pulling Kurapika closer into the scent of his skin and cool leather pressing against his cheek.

It felt too easy. Like they had been doing this for years already.

And, in a way, they had. His heart thundered in his chest.

"What do you want?" Kuroro asked, flagging down the bar tender.

"Gin and tonic."

The thing about emotions was that Kurapika was slow to start.

He was the stewing type. He liked to meditate on things, hold on to things, but then he had an impulsive streak, something that got him into this mess in the first place, but emotions were tricky. Hard to pin down. Harder to name.

And then there was acting.

Acting upon feelings, and for that Kurapika was much worse.

Two drinks in, Kurapika was feeling more confident, a pleasant buzz humming under his skin from the burn of alcohol and the brush of Kuroro's hand on his shoulder. They had played it safe at first, chatting about nothing while they stood together, unable to find a seat, existing in each other's proximity.

They wound up talking on the roof of the bar, sitting among the scattered iron-wrought chairs and folded umbrellas, abandoned but for a few stray beer bottles and cigarettes smoldering in their ashtrays. The whip of the wind coming up from the side of the building giving them a clue as to how they lucked out in finding a space alone.

Away from the prying eyes and litany of texts from their friends. They had held hands when they walked together, fingers tangled as they wound up the wooden staircase, but Kuroro had dropped his hand when they reached the top, clearing two seats for them where they could sit and watch the city lights, but Kurapika felt hesitant to move.

Kuroro noticed.

He dropped onto the bench behind him, eyeing Kurapika as he sipped his drink. "You've looked like you've had something to say all night."

And maybe he had. Maybe he had since the time he first kissed Kuroro as Robin, as Juliet, as Columbia though he could not feel the shape of his mouth. Kuroro's kisses on stage were too long and too fleeting, butterflies chasing away with the memory. All that remained was feeling, something real and risky to boot.

The cool autumn air threatened to numb his fingers and curled into the folds of his jacket, finding a home against his skin. It wouldn't be long before they would have to go back in, back to the bar, back to the way things were, and Kurapika was quickly loosing nerve when faced with Kuroro's inquisitive stare.

He set his drink aside on a high table, ice cubes bumping in the glass and sighed, looking at Kuroro. His hands fell akimbo to his hips.

"I want you to kiss me again." He said, words seeming louder in his head. Kuroro stared up at him, surprise clear on his face. Those eyes peering through the dark at him.

Kurapika tightened his hands on his hips.

"Where?"

"Where," he echoed, a scoff caught in his throat. A high-nervous laugh. "Where do you think?" he didn't add because insulting Kuroro would not get him what he wanted. Kuroro was still watching him with those eyes of his, assessing, folding back. Kurapika felt naked in his own skin. Bashful for asking.

Regretful.

Then, Kuroro lifted his hands, beckoning. Kurapika stepped forward and felt a reedy thrill of nervousness when Kuroro's hands found his waist, pulling him in. He dropped his hands on his shoulders, adjusting to the strange feeling of being so close, being able to reach out and feel those shoulders without having a note telling him to do so.

Kuroro's face tipped up towards him, a smile forming on his mouth.

"Well, I could kiss you here." Kuroro began, voice low and soft as a whisper. He touched against the pulse of his throat, exactly where he had kissed him earlier. Fingers wet from his glass, drawing a trail across Kurapika heated skin to the wing of his collarbone. "Or, I could kiss you—"

His finger drew a line down, following the buttons of his shirt. Kurapika's throat went dry.

"Never mind." He said, cheeks burning. He lifted his hands from Kuroro's shoulders, but even as he withdrew, the distance between them was minimal. He threw his hands up, stepping back. "Forget I said anything."

Kuroro scrambled after him, leaning up out of his seat.

"Wait, wait, wait, Kurapika—" There was laughter in Kuroro's voice as Kuroro hauled him back, fingers hooking into his hips and pulling. Kurapika tried not to yelp, but he must have. He obviously did. Kuroro was smiling. His hands grasping for Kurapika's waist, thumbs hooking against his beltloops. His expression was undeniably fond. "You're cute."

Kurapika fixed his best unimpressed look, crossing his arms over his chest. He was pouting. He knew he was pouting, but he couldn't help it. Kuroro was stupid and embarrassment was burning at the base of his throat. "A couple hours ago you didn't think I was very cute."

"A couple hours ago you were half-dressed and hot as fuck."

Kurapika snorted. "You're a terrible at flirting."

"Really?"

"Really." Kurapika leaned back, feeling the pull of Kuroro's hands supporting his weight. "If you're not going to be serious, then I'm going back in." His eyes flickered back to the door Kuroro had propped open with a brick. The rooftop was dark, string lights casting scattered prisms of starbursts. He felt suddenly exhausted, the weight of the show and his own anxieties. He would much rather be done with it.

He closed his eyes, head tipping back. "I never know if you're serious or not."

"About kissing you?"

"About me." Kurapika felt the crack in his voice, not tears, but anger, unchecked. He could feel the tension bunching under his skin, steeling, building up walls. He opened his eyes, not meeting Kuroro's. "I mean, do you want to kiss me? Do you just like fuckin' with me, or—?"

He felt then, the brush of lips against his chest. Kuroro's mouth against his sternum. His heart stuttered a jolted tune, but when he looked down at him, brow furrowing in confusion and Kuroro was peering up. "Kurapika."

Kuroro stood up slowly as if fearing he might frighten him, the cool tip of his nose touching Kurapika's cheek, eyelashes brushing, breath catching, waiting—

He had kissed Kuroro before.

In shows. In costume.

Pantomimed and under spotlights, painted up and in clothes he would never wear on his own. On stage, night after night and with feeling, with more, but this was different. He was not kissing Kuroro as a character. He had no cues, no direction—just feeling. And his chest was full.

Kurapika dragged in a breath as Kuroro pressed his mouth to his. His lips were cool, plush, and so infuriatingly right Kurapika felt himself unbricking under the weight of him. His mouth remembered his, the corners and the way his lips curled. The gentle push and pull like a tide crashing over him, drowning his anxious mind. He found himself leaning towards Kuroro, into him, asking for more with parted lips and insistent hands—

It was over too soon.

And Kurapika clung to him, shuddering as Kuroro's lips skimmed over his jawbone. Dropping a kiss on his cheek.

"I do like you." Kuroro said, voice low in his ear as he caught his breath. "I like you a lot."

His words seemed to reverberate with a heavy pulse I like you I like you I like you a lot.

Kurapika was convinced he liked Kuroro more but couldn't find the tongue to say it.

"You have a weird way of showing it." Kurapika muttered, hands falling to the lapels of Kuroro's jacket again. His finger closed around the edge of a pin and he felt vindictive. His gaze tipped from Kuroro's chest to his neck, cheeks burning.

Kuroro made a noise like a laugh, short and rumbling. "Well, you make me nervous."

His eyes narrowed. "I make you nervous."

"Yeah," Kuroro nodded, hands smoothing against his waist. He couldn't believe it. The one who said 'just pull my hair if I go to far' was nervous over him?

"You're lying." Kurapika accused.

"Is it that hard to believe?"

Kurapika remembered the look on Kuroro's face when he curved up to meet him on the motorcycle. His hand on his chest, the slow progression of tightening muscles and anticipation pebbling his skin. The look in Kuroro's eyes, the way he tensed against him like Kurapika had, surprised that he had the gall.

He felt powerful. Desired.

Kurapika carded his fingers through his hair and Kuroro made a little sigh. "Could you sit down for me?"

Kuroro did so without question. He sunk back into the bench behind him, hands still firm on Kurapika waist as he pulled him into the space between his legs. He tipped Kuroro’s face, hand in his hair, making him look up. The distance between them was minimal, but with Kuroro sitting, Kurapika had the more obvious advantage.

He shifted his weight, placing his knee against the edge of the bench, between him and Kuroro.

If Kuroro noticed, he didn't bother to question. Just kept his eyes on Kurapika before he leaned down close to his cheek. "Do I make you nervous now?"

Kuroro's eyes were bright, amused by the question.

"What kind of question is that?" He asked, voice pitching low when Kurapika pressed his mouth against his neck; teeth grazing against the cord of his throat. Kuroro rewarded him with a shiver, lips parted as Kurapika leaned in, he put his knee up on the bench, brushing against the front of Kuroro's pants and easing him back as Kurapika bent over him. He shifted, slightly and Kuroro made a breathy noise in his ear, fingers digging against his back as Kurapika peppering his neck with kisses.

He heard a mumbled swear, then the elongated vowels of his name, hissed between teeth.

He liked this Kuroro. Flustered and quiet, except for the cut off enticing little hums Kurapika could hear from his throat. He liked the look of the flush on his cheeks, his waiting mouth. He liked the feelings of his steady hands, the yield of his body beneath him.

He liked the way Kuroro was looking at him most of all.

Zeroed in. Pupils blown wide.

Hands tightening around his waist.

"You still haven't told me how I make you nervous." Kurapika reminded him, teasing his tone as he ran his finger across one of his blossoming kisses. The blood pounding in his ears echoed in the pulse under his finger. Kuroro was looking at him, stars in his eyes.

"You make me want to be better. You put so much of yourself into your performance, it's so interesting—riveting to watch. And you're smart, you're so smart. I miss doing Shakespeare with you. I could never get a leg up on you when it came to remembering lines." Kurapika pecked the corner of his mouth, indulging him.

"And you're so pretty. I want to kiss you all the time." Kuroro hummed, preening when Kurapika slid his fingers through his hair, nails dragging against his scalp. "After I saw you on stage the first time, I had to know you." Kurapika leaned into him again and this time Kuroro was ready.

His tongue was liquor sweet, the burning nip of rum against the slip of sugar, but his kisses were filthy. He had been holding back before, but he was giving his all now.

Kuroro's hands bracketed his hips, sliding lower over his backside and pulling him closer, higher. He groaned against Kuroro's mouth, tracing the vibration of Kuroro's own moan pitched low. Kurapika broke the kiss with a gasp. "I brought my car—"

"Kurapika," Kuroro tutted as if he were scandalized. Breathless, he drew back to lift his brows at him. "The back of your car?"

Kurapika rolled his eyes. "I live alone."

Kuroro's eyes shone with a strange light and Kurapika wondered for a moment if he had misread, had asked too soon, but Kuroro smiled, leaning in to place a kiss on his eyebrow. "I would love to."