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Summary
On nights like this, Kurapika's body is parred down to senses. The feeling of the leather seat against his back, the warm swathe of his hoodie. The dim lights of the dashboard like blue and green stars against the cut of blackness, the pale shadow of Kuroro's hands moving in the dark. He can hear his fingers drumming.
Then, Kuroro reaches out, bridging that tentative space between them, brushing aside a curtain of hair, and tucking a strand behind his ear.
OR, Kurapika is trying to escape into Kuroro, and Kuroro is indulgent.