Work Text:
"Hey, Kurapika! Sorry if you’re busy. I’m gonna be down in Yorknew this week for a lecture series, and I figure that’s where you’re still at, so if you have any free time I wanted to let you know you could drop by! I’ll text you the address to my hotel, I should be there most of the time, in the evenings anyway, but if I’m not just give me a ring. Alright, stay safe, hope to see you soon.”
Kurapika lets the message play in spite of himself. He can’t bring himself to delete them before listening, just in case. Not that he’d do anything if something bad happened, but he wants to know. Knowing couldn’t hurt.
They’d started dropping off in frequency after Gon got out of the hospital. Six months ago. Maybe Leorio was taking the hint, or maybe he was just busy with his own life. Sometimes the messages were angry, or sad, but mostly they were just like this. When can I see you again? How are you? Stay safe. Always, stay safe.
Kurapika isn’t safe and he laughs at the thought he ever will be again.
Leorio’s arriving in Yorknew tomorrow morning and the hotel is dangerously close to one of Nostrade’s, where Neon is currently. Kurapika can’t risk running into Leorio out on the street. There’re too many variables, and besides, he isn’t quite ready for it. He needs to see him on his own terms.
But he also can’t stay holed up in his hotel room for a week. He does, despite everything, have work to do.
This is how Kurapika ends up in a back alley of Yorknew city, in a time and a place he shouldn’t be.
He’s keeping off the main sidewalks and he needs to move quickly. He’s distracted and he knows it; he caught a peek of a man with jet-black hair and felt his heart leap into his throat until he realized the face was unfamiliar. Sloppy, of course, as he always was when it came to Leorio.
He slips quickly into the darkened shadow, barely a few feet across between two tall buildings. There’s a dumpster and a couple of old metal trash cans, and the stone smells of damp and rot. He presses his back against the brick to catch his breath, and before he can look up and catch a glimpse of the stars there are three figures surrounding him.
Their black suits match his own. Two are tall and muscular, the third wiry and short. They all flair with aura; a step above normal thugs. Kurapika tenses, calling forth chains as easily as breathing.
“It’s not personal,” is all the short one says before he’s lunging, and Kurapika rolls out of the way. He’s heading straight for the tall, dirty-blonde one and he smashes an elbow into the waiting ribcage. The force from his small body surprises the man, who stumbles backward. But not far enough.
The third one, tall with long, dark hair, boxes him in, trapping him against the wall. None of them are brandishing obvious weapons, and based on their assault he’d hazard to guess they’re enhancers. The short one is too quick to be natural, the other two acting defense to his offense.
They’re brutes. Kurapika uses his In to hide his chains. But they’re not spiders, so no Zetsu. No matter.
He kicks off the bricks and sails right over the head of the blonde one, smirking as his eyes go wide in surprise. He lets an invisible chain drape over the man, coiling around him and tightening. It flips his balance, sending him careening against the brick.
But as Kurapika is heading back to the ground, he doesn’t expect the short one to be on him so quick, or to leap through the air and tackle him before he’s even done falling. He hears his back hit the ground with a thud before he feels it.
He pulls his chain and drags the blonde one by the foot towards him, hoping to kill two birds with one stone. But the short one seems smarter than his friends; he ducks in time and presses his elbow deep into Kurapika’s solar plexus, pinning him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him. The blonde man smacks against the opposite wall with a sickening crunch, and he’s likely out of commission. The dark-haired one is rushing to the aid of his short friend, and not the broken heap across the way.
Kurapika uses his free hand to grab the elbow crushing the wind out of him, pulling against a surprising strength. He’s stronger, though, of course he is. He didn’t get this far without being able to take care of himself. He wrenches the elbow free, eyes flashing a dangerous red underneath his contacts as his chains begin to wrap around the man and fling him off.
He feels a hot pain in his side just before he tosses the short man away from him, sending him flying into the chest of his tall compatriot. A violent sting and then awful warmth, seizing pain as blood gushes out from beneath his ribcage and soaks into his shirt.
He sees the knife fly from the grip of the short man as he’s flung away. He feels anger course through him, overwhelming the pain, and he drags the two men towards him slowly, chains wrapped around their feet. He doesn’t know if he can stand, but he doesn’t need to.
“Leave,” he growls, and he sees a flash of fear across their faces, “And tell whoever you work for I’m killing the next ones.”
It gets the message across. The short one tries to bolt, but the chain snaring his leg keeps him taut and that’s a sprain he’s gonna feel for days. Kurapika lets him go.
The taller one scrapes their blonde friend off the wall before he makes his getaway. Honor among thieves, one supposes.
Kurapika turns to the situation at hand: the blood streaming from his open wound.
He presses his hand against it, hard, wincing at the sting and the feeling of sticky blood oozing between his fingers. The dress shirt, and the suit for that matter, are ruined; aside from the slash in the fabric, they’re soaked through with blood. Gravity takes its course, and there’s a pool forming on the rough stone, starting to leech its way into Kurapika’s pant leg.
There are a few options. Using Emperor Time is one, but not something he wants to resort to. He’s losing too much blood to stumble to the nearest clinic alone. He pulls out his phone, gracefully kept in the pocket opposite the stab wound, and hovers between two contacts.
Above, Melody. Below, Leorio. Soothing musical nen, no matter how great for the soul, is not actual medical care. Maybe the blood loss is making him light-headed. The phone starts ringing.
It picks up halfway through the second tone, and Kurapika holds it shaking to his ear.
“Kurapika!” The explosive voice is familiar, “Hey, buddy, I just got here last night. You know where I’m stayin’, right? If you wanna-”
“Leorio,” Kurapika says tightly, drawing in a shaky breath, “I need your help.”
“What’s wrong?” All the exuberance drops immediately. “Where are you?”
Kurapika thinks of the address Leorio texted him. It’s familiar, close. “About six blocks away from your hotel. Three blocks to the immediate right. Two left, then one to the next right.”
How does he say I got stabbed because I was being clumsy and avoiding you without sounding like a crazy person?
“I got in a bit of an altercation. I’m okay, but I’m bleeding rather badly.”
He can actually hear the sound of Leorio rushing out of his room, footfalls heavy against the ground and breathing picking up.
“Stay on the line. What kind of wound is it?” He sounds surprisingly calm.
“Knife. I don’t think it was serrated or anything, but it’s right below my ribs.”
“Does it hurt to breathe?”
Kurapika takes a deep breath. Yes and no. The stretch of the torn flesh hurts, but the actual expanding of his lungs doesn’t. “No, I don’t think it’s all that deep.”
“Apply pressure!” Leorio almost sounds like a nagging mother.
“I am applying pressure,” Kurapika says, but he squeezes tighter. He grimaces at the cooling blood squelching between his fingers.
“Alright now shut up! Just breathe, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Wait, are you inside? On the street or something?”
“I’m in an alleyway. There’s a red brick building, about four stories high. Right by that one.”
Sometimes Leorio ran like a champion sprinter. Maybe it was his legs. He could almost put Gon and Killua to shame with the record time.
Kurapika hears him coming far before he sees him, the heavy footfalls of dress shoes against asphalt and the ragged breathing of someone running for dear life. Leorio skids to a halt next to the alleyway and stares in, eyes locking immediately on Kurapika slumped against the wall with his hand clutching his side.
“Took you long enough,” he gasps, moving his hand and hissing at the pain.
“Jesus, Kurapika,” Leorio half-mumbles, scrambling forward and slinging his briefcase over his shoulder, “What the hell happened to you?”
“I got stabbed.” Leorio winces. His hands hover over Kurapika’s side, taking in the sight.
“I’m gonna have to cut these off,” he says apologetically. Kurapika nods in understanding, and then a small pair of medical scissors is working at the bloody clothing.
The thin dress shirt is stuck lightly to his skin, and Leorio peels a strip of it off carefully, tossing it to the side with the scraps of the side of his suit.
“It’s not bleeding that bad anymore,” Leorio says, “I can stitch it.”
And he’s reaching back into his briefcase, pulling on latex gloves. He wipes at Kurapika’s side with a soft cloth coated in disinfectant that leaves his skin stinging.
“It’ll hurt.” He says. Another apology, but without remorse behind it.
“It’s fine,” Kurapika says, squeezing his eyes shut. It takes only brief preparation before the needle is entering his skin. It slides through quickly, the stinging pain almost a nice distraction from the dull throb of the wound. Almost.
It’s too smooth, really, and with some thought he realizes the needle is coated in nen. He has to suppress a chuckle; leave it to Leorio to use everything he has for his craft. Such a clever man, despite his looks. It’s over as quickly as it started, and Leorio’s quietly securing a strip of gauze over his side.
“How do you feel?” His voice is much softer now, sliding back from caretaker to friend.
“Bad.”
Leorio narrows his eyes. “Well, no shit!”
“It’s cold,” Kurapika remarks, which isn’t a lie. The winters in Yorknew are bitter, and spring is still an odd month away. And his side is bare and still half-wet with blood.
“Help me out here! Are you dizzy? Can you stand? Does it feel like you have organ damage?”
“Not dizzy,” Kurapika says, and thinks. “A bit lightheaded.” He tries to stand up, pressing his hand against the ground, but his side shoots with pain and he slides back down.
“Alright,” Leorio sighs, sliding his suit jacket off. He drapes it around Kurapika’s shoulders, pulling it around him to block out the chill from the breezy night. “Get on my back.”
“What? Leorio, I’ll be able to get up in a moment, just give me–”
“Yes. I’m going to let you walk six blocks after getting stabbed.” He’s glaring back at him, but his eyes are glistening with concern.
Kurapika knows winning arguments with Leorio is an uphill battle on a good day, and basically impossible when it involves patient welfare. He swallows his pride and gags on the taste.
Leorio crouches beside him, and Kurapika reaches his arms up to wrap around his neck. Leorio grips tightly under his thighs and hoists him up with barely any effort; the sensation sends a swarm of butterflies through his stomach, like the sharp drop of a rollercoaster.
“Comfy?” Leorio asks, and there’s a hint of mirth to it.
“Hardly,” Kurapika mutters.
“If anyone asks, you’re too drunk to walk. Act passed out.”
Kurapika complies by burying his head in Leorio’s shoulder and letting his eyes close. The movement of the taller man’s walking jostles him with every step, irritating his tender skin. He can tell Leorio is trying to be gentle, but he’s a contraption of elongated bones stuffed into a suit, and elegant has never been the description that fit him.
The streets of Yorknew are never empty, but the biting frost and the late hour have kept most people away. Lone passersby pay the two men no mind as they make their way, much more slowly, back to the hotel.
It’s a welcome sight as soon as he sees it. He keeps slipping and Leorio’s bony fingers are dangerously close to digging into his ass. Shouldering through the revolving door is a slight production, but Kurapika has decided to poignantly play his part of the drunk by keeping quiet and doing nothing to help.
His eyes dart around as they enter the lobby, mostly empty except a tired-looking man at the receptionist’s desk.
“I’m on the fifth floor,” Leorio says quietly, which for him means he doesn’t abjectly shout. “You good?”
Kurapika nods. The elevator comes quickly, and the ride is smooth. The adrenaline has well and truly worn off, and exhaustion is starting to wash over his bones. His pain is dull and distant, but constant. He hears a door open and then he’s being unceremoniously laid on the floor.
“I don’t get the bed?” He mutters irritably, sitting up and taking in the room. Barely lived in; Leorio really had just gotten there. The bed is made, and a suitcase is sitting by the foot of it.
“Not until you get those pants off!” Leorio says.
Kurapika blinks owlishly at him.
“What—Oh, god, not like that, they’re covered in blood!” He waves his arm for emphasis, pointing at the smear of crimson from where he was holding Kurapika up. “I’m not getting blood all over the hotel sheets, I have enough problems, Kurapika, jeez! I thought you of all people wouldn’t have your mind in the gutter!”
Kurapika is still, he realizes, covered in blood. Maybe not covered; smattered, at least. Leorio’s crisp white shirt has a small red handprint on the shoulder, and the edges of the sections of Kurapika’s shirt that had been cut are still stained crimson.
He tosses Leorio’s suit coat to the side, then shimmies out of his own, and follows it with the ruined shirt. Leorio disappears into the hotel bathroom, and Kurapika feels slightly more comfortable and he strips off the pants. The thick fabric didn’t quite soak all the way through, and his boxers are untouched by the blood; a small mercy.
He feels remarkably naked. He thinks back, unsure if he’s ever even taken his shirt off around Leorio. The opposite was certainly true, and he remembers the other man being unfazed by others seeing his body. Kurapika didn’t consider himself shy, but something about the vulnerability made him uncomfortable.
It’s silly. Seeking back-alley medical care is a much more vulnerable position than taking one’s shirt off.
Leorio returns from the bathroom holding a slightly damp washcloth. Right, the blood. His hand is over his eyes.
“You’re not naked, are you?”
“No, Leorio,” Kurapika sighs. He gathers his blood-stained clothes in a loose heap, and he tries standing again.
It’s remarkably easier this time. The pain isn’t quite as sharp, and his legs have regained some of their sense. Leorio opens his eyes, which find him, and then quickly bounces off to the ground. He holds out the cloth.
Kurapika takes it gratefully and towels the drying blood from his left hand, his right side, the bits that oozed and smeared everywhere he’d accidentally touched.
“I have a bunch of sleep shirts, you can borrow one,” Leorio says after a few moments of awkwardly staring into the corner. “I don’t think any of my pants will fit you, but I’m tall enough that the shirt should basically be dresses anyway, so–”
“We can worry about it later,” Kurapika dismisses, because he really is too tired to worry about something so trivial. Leorio roots through his suitcase and tosses Kurapika an off-white T-shirt. He wasn’t lying when he said it’d be big; when he puts it over his shoulders he feels swallowed.
“You seem like you’re doing better,” Leorio ventures, a bit hopeful.
“Tired. But it doesn’t hurt as much anymore.”
“Here, you should take some painkillers. A normal person would be totally out of it.”
Kurapika isn’t quite sure what he means by that, but he supposes that he no longer counts as a “normal” person. Few people he knows do, anymore. Maybe Leorio considers himself one; he’ll have to ask sometime.
The thought of sometimereminds him, quite violently, that he has a job. One that expects him to be back sometime tonight, though they don’t particularly need him.
“I need to call Melody,” he says, out of the blue. Leorio looks up from where he’s taking a bottle of small white pills out of his briefcase.
“Oh? Yeah, I’m sure she’s wondering where you are. Go ahead, I’m getting water.”
Kurapika nods, and he dials her number quickly. She picks up after the first ring.
“Kurapika? Is something wrong?” Her voice is soft and the sound of it floods his system with relief on instinct. He’s always unsure if that’s part of her nen or just a personality trait.
“No,” he assures, then backpedals, “Only a bit. Somebody sent a few people after me, and I got injured. But Leorio is in town and I’m with him now. I’ll probably need to stay the night, or he’ll kill me himself.”
Melody chuckles, a soft sound like bells. “You sound okay, I hope it wasn’t too bad?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. Hold down the fort and I’ll be back in the morning.”
There’s an unspoken question on Melody’s lips, he can feel it. A short silence drags on.
“Thanks for telling me, Kurapika. Rest up.”
The line goes dead, and Kurapika stares at the phone. He sits on the edge of the bed, just as Leorio brings him a glass of water and presses two pills in his hand.
“They won’t work immediately, but give it some time, and you’ll be able to sleep through it. You usually sleep on your side, right? Try to stay on your back. And don’t move around too much, I’m gonna be pissed if you pop those stitches!”
Once he starts going, it’s like there’s no stopping him. Kurapika’s happy to listen to him talk.
“And Kurapika,” he says, going a bit quiet, “What have you been doing?”
“Work,” he says reflexively, placing the glass on the nightstand.
“Disappear off the face of the earth for six months kinda work?”
He hoped it wouldn’t come to this.
“I’ve been very busy,” he starts, and he sees Leorio bristle, “And being distracted is dangerous. It’s in everyone’s best interest I keep distant.”
“Or what, the troupe’s gonna get me? Please, Kurapika, I’m not scared of them!”
“You should be!” He shoots back, much louder than he means to. “I don’t need anyone to have more leverage. And it’s not just the troupe I’m worried about.”
“Is that all I am to you, leverage? You know other people can actually help sometimes?”
This is exactly the reason he didn’t want to call Leorio. He’s starting to regret the decision.
“I’ve always worked best alone.”
“Yeah, this is certainly some of your best work,” Leorio spits, gesturing at his side. Kurapika narrows his eyes, feeling a tickle of real anger curling in his chest.
“I didn’t come here to be lectured, Leorio, you can drop it.”
“I think I’ve earned the right!” He balls his fists by his sides, teeth clenched tight like a damn against the words threatening to spill out. “I’m the only one who’ll say it. You think Gon would yell at you? If you’re gonna apologize to anyone, it should be him!”
Kurapika stares, his gaze icy. His eyes are black and empty.
“He. Almost. Died. You do realize that, right?”
“I’m aware of the situation, and that he’s fine now.” Kurapika keeps his voice level, arms crossed. He’s torn between staring Leorio down and training his eyes on the floor, and his gaze keeps shifting.
“So you listened to all my voicemails, then? And that’s how you knew I was here! God, I didn’t even—if you have the time for that, surely you could send a text! Hey guys, I’m still breathing! Chrollo hasn’t cut my head off yet!”
“You didn’t need to know what I was up to–”
“But I sure fucking cared!” He throws his hands up, voice booming in the small hotel room. Kurapika feels small, and it’s not because of the height difference. He has no leverage here, sitting wounded in borrowed clothes, a borrowed room.
He’s one wrong move from making a pitiful walk of shame back to Nostrade’s hotel.
“It was just better like that. You didn’t need to worry about me.”
“And you didn’t need to worry about us, huh?” It’s pointed and meant to hurt. Knives may pierce Kurapika’s skin just fine, but not his mind.
“I knew you would be alright. I trusted you.”
Leorio flexes his fingers, and the veins are nearly bulging out of his forehead. “You know how much sleep I lose over you?”
“Stop trying to make it seem like I’m heartless!” His voice cracks on the last word, and his side shoots with pain as surges forward in anger. He ignores it.
“Then stop acting like it!” Leorio stoops down to look him in the eye, all unbridled fury, his arms thrown to the side like a bird puffing itself up before a predator. “Take a step down from your high and mighty act and indulge your friends who care about you and don’t want you to be dead! I know you care! And I know you’re killing yourself!”
Kurapika scowls, anger and hurt bubbling at once in his chest, and if it weren’t for the soreness he’d grab Leorio by the lapels and crack his skull open. “I am caring about you, by not getting you involved! If I die I don’t want you getting dragged into it!”
“Just try and stop me!”
“This is my fight Leorio, you have no part in it!”
“I have every part in it, you’re my fight!”
Kurapika recoils, and Leorio falters. There’s a heavy moment of silence.
“Leorio, what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I—I don’t know!” He crosses his arms and steps back, straightening back to his full height. Kurapika resents how he’s forced to look up to meet his eyes.
“You really just say things without thinking about them?” Kurapika scoffs.
“Yeah,” Leorio breathes, “I thought you would’ve realized that by now.”
Kurapika can’t help but chuckle. He feels the tension leaving his shoulders, and the anger replaces itself with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Leorio.”
“I’m not the one you need to apologize to.” He says it coldly, strained. “But I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have yelled.”
“I’d be concerned if you didn’t,” Kurapika mutters.
“What’s that supposed to mean!”
Kurapika laughs at him, light and airy, and it only hurts a little bit. “If you didn’t get irrationally angry at everything, I’d be worried you were being controlled.”
He deflates, then sits on the floor with his back to the nightstand. He’s tall enough that he’s still peering well above Kurapika’s knees, deep brown eyes murky. “I’m still mad.”
Kurapika sighs. “I suppose you have every right.” Admitting it makes him feel cold, and he absently pulls at the blankets.
“Get some sleep,” Leorio says, smiling faintly, “Stress tires you out.”
Kurapika opens his mouth to protest, but he sees the glimmer of teasing in Leorio’s eyes and thinks better of it. The crisp sheets are soft against his bare legs, and the blanket provides much-needed warmth. He almost rolls over to his side before remembering Leorio’s instructions. There’s a light discomfort that comes with sleeping on his back, but it’s quickly overtaken by the wave of exhaustion that rolls over him. He’s vaguely aware of the light clicking off, and the faint noise of footsteps, before he drifts to sleep.
Leorio turns the phrase over in his mind like a smooth stone, looking for imperfections, trying to understand.
What exactly did he mean? You’re my fight.
It makes sense on some instinctual level. He just feels it’s true, and Leorio has learned to trust his gut when it comes to things like this. Kurapika is on a knife’s edge and sometimes Leorio gets it in his head that he’s the only person that can keep him balanced. But it’s hard when he’s trying so desperately to take the plunge.
Seeing him asleep reminds him of the hunter exam. Even unconscious, he looks reserved and unreadable. There are bags under his eyes and a slight flush to his face. His hands curl tightly by his head, like he’s looking for something to grab onto. He’s skinny and tired and hurt, and god knows this isn’t the worst shape he’s been in within the last few months.
Leorio returns to his spot leaning against the nightstand, casting the occasional glance at the bed. If he can do anything, it’s take care of him. It’s what he’s here for, after all, his life goal, his purpose. And Kurapika needs someone.
Leorio is tired. Yesterday’s travel and the eventful night have left him exhausted, but he doesn’t want to risk going to sleep. It’s not an awful wound, but something could still happen, and he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if Kurapika got hurt on his watch.
So he holds his face in his hands and stares into a halo of golden hair, noticing how it’s almost long enough to brush his shoulders. His breathing is soft and high-pitched, and his sides rise and fall in an easy rhythm. It’s almost hypnotic.
Leorio feels himself starting to drift, and he shakes his head. He pulls his phone out to check the time; it’s nearly one in the morning. He’s not exactly a stranger to staying up late, or even pulling all-nighters, but that’s usually with coffee and textbooks and some type of purpose.
His eyelids are heavy. He rests his head on the side of the mattress, and his eyes flutter closed, for just a moment. For just a moment.
He startles at the feeling of falling, arms shooting out to grab anything he can get. One hand bangs painfully against the nightstand, and the other props against the mattress, slowing the momentum enough for him not to hit the floor. Shit, how long was he asleep?
The clock flashes just after 5am. So much for being a watchful doctor. He glances up and sees Kurapika still sleeping on his back, mouth open in a snore and face coated in a light sheen of sweat.
It isn’t terribly hot in here, he thinks, and on instinct he stands and places his palm against his forehead. It’s definitely warm, but not dangerously so. He makes a soft hmph, and is about to take his hand away when he sees Kurapika’s eyes flutter open.
They lock on him immediately, wide with fear, and Leorio realizes Kurapika had forgotten to take his contacts out, leaving his eyes dull and black. “What’re you doing?” He breathes, relaxing slightly once he realizes he’s not in immediate danger.
“I think you have a bit of a fever,” Leorio says softly, “How do you feel?”
“Sore,” Kurapika says, and he seems much more alert than he should be for just having woken up. “Cold.”
“Is the cut hurting?”
“A little bit,” Kurapika says, sitting up and dragging the back of his hand across his forehead.
“I’m going to change the bandage, and see if it’s irritated,” Leorio says plainly, grabbing a fresh white strip of gauze from his briefcase, “I really don’t think it’s infected, hasn’t been long enough. You get stress fevers, don’t you?”
“I do?” Kurapika says, cocking his head to the side.
“After you met Chrollo, you came down with one for two days,” Leorio says, “Scared the hell out of me. Chronic stress is bad for your body.”
Kurapika nods, though he looks a bit peeved. He starts as Leorio reaches for his side, pulling up his shirt.
This feels different.
In the alleyway, sticky with blood and half-delirious with pain, Kurapika had paid no mind to the way Leorio’s fingers felt on his skin. Now, he can feel every sensation with shocking clarity.
His hands feel lukewarm, and he thinks they’d be hot if his skin wasn’t so flushed. The touch is surprisingly soft. He finds himself holding his breath as Leorio deftly removes his bandage.
“Not too much blood, good job,” he mutters, then turns his eyes to the stitched cut. The skin around it is still red and tender, but the stitches are holding nicely. He ghosts a hand over Kurapika’s side, causing him to inhale sharply.
“Did that hurt?”
“No,” Kurapika says quickly, “Just...a bit ticklish.”
Leorio huffs a laugh, and he presses something cold against Kurapika’s side. “Antibiotic. Really, infections are nasty, you don’t want one.”
“I can imagine,” Kurapika says, averting his gaze. Watching feels too intimate.
After spreading the ointment, Leorio quickly replaces the bandage, taking care not to press too hard. It’s hard to believe that man is capable of being so gentle, but there’s barely any weight behind his hands.
“This should take the fever down,” Leorio says, handing him a chalky green pill. “I’ll get you some more water.”
Something squirms in Kurapika’s stomach. His voice is so soft, gentle and caring in a way he hasn’t heard in years. It feels foreign, and his heart rebels against it. Even scratchy with sleep, after sleeping on the floor, Leorio is so nice to him.
He returns with the glass-refilled, and Kurapika can barely swallow the pill with how dry his throat is. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth.
“You really don’t have to do this,” he says quietly.
Leorio quirks his eyebrow. “I do, actually. Hippocratic oath.”
“You’re not actually a doctor yet.”
“Kurapika,” Leorio says softly, “I want to. You’re my friend.”
“I missed you,” Kurapika says, barely audible, and he swallows thickly. He can feel tears sting his eyes, itchy from his contacts.
“I missed you, too. But you already knew that.” Leorio gives a dry laugh, and places his hand on Kurapika’s shoulder, looking into his watery eyes. “Hey, shouldn’t you take those out?”
“Holder’s in my pants pocket,” Kurapika mutters. Leorio fetches it for him, of course he does, and he places the black contacts in their solution.
When he looks back up at Leorio to give a gentle thanks, the man gasps softly. Kurapika realizes his eyes are glowing a pale pink.
Leorio takes a faltering step towards him, mouth opening without saying a word. He flounders for a few seconds, before saying, “I hate those things. Your eyes are beautiful.”
Kurapika blinks hard, and he wills them to return to their natural grey, wills the tears not to shed. “I suppose they are.”
Leorio sits down on the side of the bed, long fingers fumbling nervously with the edge of the sheets. “Kurapika, I don’t want you to leave.”
“I don’t—I don’t want to go. I don’t.” He clenches his fists, bunching the blankets until his knuckles are white. “Leorio, I missed you.”
He feels the tears sliding down his cheeks, and Leorio quickly cups his face, swiping them away with his thumb. “Hey, you know I’ll stick around. As long as you need me, as long you want. I don’t care what that means for me.”
Kurapika feels like his heart is disintegrating and drifting away. He feels like he’s trying to hold back the ocean by sheer force of will. He looks into Leorio’s eyes, and they’re so genuine it evokes the knife in his side, but he leans into the pain.
Leorio wraps his long arms around him and squeezes him gently into a hug, and Kurapika buries his tear-stained face into his shoulder, a small sob wracking his body. “Please,” he says hoarsely, in spite of himself, in spite of the complicated web of excuses he carefully crafted to avoid just this, “Please stay.”