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(Later, Leorio thinks, in some distant corner of his mind, he’ll be thankful that it was sunny.)
At the moment though, Leorio is just a sleep-deprived resident who’s trying to take full advantage of his day off.
He’d crawled into bed with barely enough energy to change into sleepwear, and definitely not with enough mind to remember to pull the blinds down, and the result is this: it’s — he checks his phone, squinting blearily and rubbing at his eyes— seven thirty am and he is terribly, irrevocably, awake.
He should know by now that once he’s up, it’s too late, but he still lies back down for a good twenty minutes in the hopes that something will happen. Nothing does, except for maybe an increased awareness of the sheer amount of noise birds are capable of producing, so eventually he just gives up and peels himself off of his mattress to get ready for the day, grouching all the while.
When the doorbell rings, Leorio is halfway through making scrambled eggs and a quarter of the way done with his coffee. He’s considering not answering it when it rings again, more insistently, and then he considers that he should probably address whoever’s there before they wake up the entire floor of his apartment.
“Coming!” he yells, wracking his brain. He doesn’t remember ordering anything and he’s not expecting any visitors. In fact, he hopes very fervently that it is not a visitor. Leorio is going to enjoy his day, damn it.
It seems like the universe isn’t inclined to give him what he wants today, though. Dazed, Leorio realizes that he doesn’t know if he should complain about it or not.
“I didn’t expect you to be awake,” Kurapika says as a greeting, as if there’s anything normal about this situation at all.
“Neither did I,” Leorio says dimly, through the overwhelm, and invites him in.
Kurapika looks remarkably the same.
It’s not as if a few years would make a terrible difference in his appearance, but Leorio still looks for something physical to mark the time Kurapika’s been gone. His hair is a little longer maybe, face a bit more drawn. His Kurta clothing is of the same pattern it had been when Leorio had last seen him and it hangs a bit looser around Kurapika’s frame, but Leorio doubts anyone else would notice. He still carries himself with the same kind of annoying elegance. It’s frighteningly like no time has passed at all.
“You keep staring,” Kurapika says. He’d declined actual food but accepted coffee, and he’s sipping at it now as he sits across Leorio at the kitchen table.
Leorio stabs a piece of toast with more force than it requires. “I haven’t seen you in a while,” he says, which is the understatement of the century. He wants to yell, or scream maybe, about how unfair it is that Kurapika can just waltz in through his front door and back into his life so easily. Maybe Kurapika is waiting for it; there’s something expectant in the looks he keeps giving Leorio, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He can keep waiting, Leorio decides. He keeps eating his breakfast and Kurapika keeps drinking his coffee, and Leorio thinks he’s doing a pretty good job until Kurapika sets his cup down and opens his mouth like he wants to say something. There’s pressure building under Leorio’s skin, too hot and too cold at the same time, as he clears the cutlery away to the sink. Distantly, he registers that the silence they’ve settled into isn’t even all that uncomfortable.
Kurapika is looking at him when Leorio sits back down. He studies him carefully, eyes searching. “You know why I’m here,” he says, finally.
Leorio doesn’t know what it is that gives him away. There’s a wealth of emotion threatening to choke him. He works past it with some difficulty — it tastes like ash, which he’s beginning to think is what must be mourning. “Yeah,” he manages. “I do.”
Instinctively, he had known that something was off the moment that Kurapika had appeared. He hasn’t reclaimed all the Eyes yet (Leorio knows this because there’s never such a thing as too much information when it pertains to Kurapika) and he’s hardly the type of person to make social calls. Unless—
Leorio wants so desperately to be wrong.
“Well,” Kurapika says quietly, after a moment of silence. “That makes it easier.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” Leorio says. His head is spinning.
Kurapika smiles, wry and small and a little sad, and it’s like some unseen barrier between them cracks with it. He presses close to wipe Leorio’s eyes for him with tender hands. Leorio’s missed his smell; he’s surprised he still remembers it.
“I have to believe that it is,” Kurapika murmurs, fingertips wet, and it occurs to Leorio abruptly that he doesn’t know if Kurapika is here for him or himself. He doesn’t know if it matters. It all amounts to the same, in the end.
Leorio forces himself to at least try to smile, mostly because if he doesn’t he might end up crying again. It’s the least he can do. He’ll save his anger, and the tears, for when Kurapika doesn’t have to see it.
“Then it will be,” he promises, voice still a little thick, and Kurapika’s expression grows a little softer.
There’s an unspoken agreement, one that Leorio doesn’t know if he likes but understands is probably for his own benefit, to lay the matter to rest for now. They’ll talk about it later; there’s still time left, after all.
The day is still young after Leorio works on pulling himself together and Kurapika does the dishes, not quite noon, so Leorio asks Kurapika what he wants to do while they watch it get older.
“Anything,” Leorio says, feeling more like himself now that he’s committed to being normal today. Crying probably helped, admittedly. He tries for another smile and this time it feels better, less flimsy. “I’ve got the day off.”
“Anything,” Kurapika repeats, doubt and amusement present in equal parts. There’s a lilt to his voice, the kind that’s always there when he teases, that Leorio hadn’t heard for ages even before Kurapika was gone.
Leorio nods emphatically. “Anything,” he says, spreading his hands over the window like he’s revealing the buildings outside, and relishing in the exasperated laugh he receives. “The city is your oyster.”
“Oh my god,” Kurapika says. “That’s just— so bad.” He looks a little thoughtful though under the amusement, like he’s considering it, so Leorio doesn’t take it to heart.
They’ve moved to the couch in his living room, sitting closer than usually acceptable and not addressing it, when Kurapika says, “Whatever you want to do.”
“What?”
“Today,” Kurapika clarifies, catching his gaze. His eyes are faintly red, Leorio realizes. No contacts today. “Let’s do whatever you want to do.”
Leorio swallows, feeling suddenly solemn. “Are you sure?” he asks. The air feels heavier, made still under the trust Kurapika puts in him.
A faint smile makes its way onto Kurapika’s mouth. “Yes,” he says decisively.
“Okay,” Leorio says. And that’s that.
Kurapika likes sweet things, Leorio remembers.
He doesn’t remember exactly when he found out, only that it was sometime during the Hunter Exam, and that even then he found it horribly endearing. He had catalogued the detail away greedily then; now, he tucks it close to his bones.
There are all the other things he’s learned about Kurapika over the years too, precious things. He likes the sun, will get as close to stretching out under it like a cat as he can without sacrificing his dignity. He likes nature, Leorio knows, green things, because it reminds him of home. It’s a shame that he’s visiting Leorio here in the city, where the only things that are growing are skyscrapers and debt.
The closest thing to being in the woods is being in the park that’s fairly close to Leorio’s apartment, so he takes Kurapika there. He packs a simple lunch of sandwiches, makes them stop at the bakery, and finds a nice isolated patch of grass for the picnic blanket.
“It’s nice, right?” Leorio says, probably more proud than he should be.
Kurapika surveys their surroundings before taking a seat next to him, folding his legs neatly underneath himself. He rolls a tuft of grass in between his fingertips and huffs a quiet laugh. “If I didn’t know better,” he says, “I’d think you’re purposefully trying to do things I like.”
He looks relaxed, mellow. It’s a good look on him.
“That means it’s working then,” Leorio says, satisfied.
He reaches for the paper bag from the bakery and takes one of the tarts he’d bought out from its box. He holds it out in front of Kurapika in offering, curious to see what will happen.
Kurapika laughs again as he watches him. “You’re terrible,” he says almost fondly, eyes strangely intense, and then he leans in to take a bite. He’s looking at Leorio; Leorio’s looking at his mouth.
When Kurapika leans back again, there’s a new line of static in the air. Around them, the world continues, unnoticing: there’s light superimposed on shadow superimposed on light, tracing patterns over the folds of Kurapika’s clothes. There are birds chirping, though Leorio can’t make out any of them through the foliage.
“It’s good,” Kurapika says, swallowing. Under the sunlight his eyes are a soft, warm scarlet, and the sort of wistfulness he’s looking at Leorio with makes him feel like his emotions are written all over his face.
Leorio swallows too, because his mouth feels dry. “Not too sweet?” he checks.
“A little sweet,” Kurapika allows, tilting his head thoughtfully. “But I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”
“No,” Leorio echoes. “I don’t think it’s that bad at all.”
Kurapika finishes the tart but only half of his sandwich, so Leorio eats the rest.
He seems tired, not in the world-weary way he usually is but more just like his body hasn’t gotten quite enough rest, so Leorio nags at him until Kurapika agrees to nap. Leorio’s been trying to figure out what it is exactly, if it’s Emperor Time or something else that’s terminal, but he’s not having much luck. He guesses that’s the point.
Fatigue, smaller appetite, he catalogues in his head. Symptoms of the end of the world.
“Only for a bit,” Kurapika says, lying his head down in Leorio’s lap. “Don’t let me sleep for too long.” The set of his mouth as he blinks up at Leorio is wry; they both know Leorio doesn’t have the heart to do that.
“Of course,” Leorio says anyway, going through the motions, and Kurapika awards him by rolling his eyes before he closes them. Leorio threads his fingers through his golden hair, marveling at the softness, and it doesn’t take long at all for Kurapika’s breathing to even out. It’s all very picturesque, the bright of the sky and the green of the grass, and the way that Kurapika’s mouth relaxes into something that could be a hint of a smile.
It’s relieving to know that there are at least some places he doesn’t have to be in pain in.
The rest of the afternoon goes quietly like that, caught somewhere between languid and double time. Leorio tugs at the weeds around them, the ones that look like flowers, and puts them into Kurapika’s hair to pass it.
He takes a photo of his handiwork, because some things should be documented, and as if Kurapika can sense that Leorio’s doing something stupid he shifts a bit.
“What are you doing?” Kurapika mumbles, blinking open one red eye. He squints a little; the sun has been setting later recently, and though most of the afternoon has gone it’s still bright out.
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
Kurapika swats at him, jostling some of the flowers out of his hair. He picks one up and holds it above his face to inspect it, wrinkling his nose as a petal falls down. “Slept a lot. Didn’t I tell you not to let me do that?”
“You looked like you could use the extra time,” Leorio says, grinning as Kurapika swats at him again. He realizes too late the other implications, feels it as his face falls.
It takes Kurapika a moment longer to process, realization settling gently into his eyes. He curls his thumb over Leorio’s cheekbone, forgiving. “Maybe,” he acknowledges. “But here we are.”
He lets his hand drop, sits up properly, and doesn’t give Leorio time to mourn the loss of his warmth before he’s taking both of Leorio’s hands in his. Kurapika’s eyelashes are pale, longer than Leorio’s are, and Leorio can’t think about anything past how golden they are and how this is the closest they’ve ever gotten to holding each other in what must have been two years of missed phone calls.
“Here we are,” Leorio repeats, dimly, and Kurapika hums with something that could be satisfaction, quietly wistful.
“Come on,” he says, eyes aglow, tugging lightly. “Let’s go home. There are more things you wanted to do today, right?”
So they go back to Leorio’s place. The sunset doesn’t linger long; dusk settles in oddly quickly, but that’s almost more comfortable. They reach Leorio’s street just as the streetlights turn on and light up the curve of Kurapika’s mouth. He’s not smiling but he looks content, and Leorio wants for him to have that always.
They pack all the leftovers into the fridge and make tea — or rather Kurapika makes it while Leorio badgers him about what they should get for dinner.
“I want to get something you like.”
“I’ll like anything you get,” Kurapika says, which is a lie, but maybe he’s feeling generous today because it doesn’t take much more prodding before he sighs into his cup. “Fine. What do you have in your kitchen?”
Leorio has lots of things in his kitchen apparently, which is a surprise even to himself. He isn’t good at cooking, necessarily, and he didn’t think Kurapika was either, but Kurapika orders him around with some degree of confidence so Leorio figures it’ll be alright.
“What are we making again?” Leorio asks, chopping up a carrot obediently.
“What do you mean ‘again’? I never told you in the first place,” Kurapika says, scrubbing at one of Leorio’s pans that usually sits untouched. It was one of the housewarming gifts he’d gotten when he first moved in.
“Oh my god,” Leorio says. “Just answer the question.”
Kurapika’s laugh is light and oddly twisted. “My mother’s,” he begins, and then clears his throat. “An old recipe of my mother’s. I’m surprised I still remember it.”
He turns the sink on, eyes fixed on the stream of water and seeing things years in the past that Leorio probably won’t ever get to hear about. Things Kurapika probably wouldn’t mind telling him, if only there was the time and the place for it.
“It’ll be good then,” Leorio says, watching the shake of Kurapika’s hands carefully. His fingers are tinged pink when he turns the sink off. “For sure.”
A hint of amusement tugs the corner of Kurapika’s mouth up. “Well,” he says, meeting Leorio’s eyes, “I don’t know about that. It is us that’s making it, after all.”
“Edible, then,” Leorio amends. “How’s that sound?”
Kurapika’s eyes are still red. It occurs to Leorio that they’ve been some shade of scarlet the whole time he’s been here. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to make of that.
Kurapika tilts his head, considering. “Yes,” he agrees, “I think that sounds good.”
They finish cooking, and then they finish eating — Kurapika pronounces it similar to what his mother used to make, though not entirely the same, and doesn’t look displeased — and all of it takes longer than Leorio expects. Kurapika admits that he’s a little tired when everything’s cleared away so Leorio digs up a bundle of clothes he thinks will fit him and sends him to shower.
They don't discuss Kurapika staying here tonight. It seems to be a given.
Kurapika situates himself on the right side of the bed after he’s done, and after Leorio finishes preparing for bed himself, he finds that Kurapika’s wrapped his hair up in a towel. The glow of his phone casts a soft light over his face and Leorio’s old t-shirt swallows him up.
He looks up when Leorio walks in and pats the space next to him, as if it’s not Leorio’s own bed he’s welcoming him to. It makes Leorio feel more fond than it should.
“I’m making some arrangements,” Kurapika explains, without prompting, a wry twist to his mouth.
He doesn’t specify, but then again he doesn’t need to. It would be impossible to know everything about Kurapika, because he keeps nearly everything buried under layers of polite standoffishness when he can get away with it, but Leorio has always been privy to a little more of what Kurapika’s thinking than Kurapika himself probably realizes.
Other things about the end of the world: Kurapika does not want to die alone but he’s going to do it anyway, in a way he wants read as stubbornness but in reality is saying it’s hurting me and I’m not going to let it hurt you, too.
It doesn't seem fair that he should be planning his own funeral.
“Where?” Leorio says.
Kurapika finishes whatever line of text he had been typing out and sets his phone face down on the bedside table.
“I found a place where the Kurta used to live,” he says. “After this, I’ll go there. Someone will find me, when… when it’s time.” A pause, too nonchalant. “I’d like to be buried there, I think.”
He unwinds his hair from the towel and Leorio feels the bed shift as Kurapika gets off to hang it up in the bathroom. He turns the lamp off as he climbs back into bed, and the space is small enough that Leorio can feel the warmth of Kurapika’s weight next to him. He plucks Leorio’s glasses off with light fingers, setting them on the nightstand with gentle hands.
“Are you tired?” Kurapika asks. His hand finds Leorio’s under the covers.
“No,” Leorio says, feeling the slenderness of Kurapika’s fingers as they lace themselves with his. He’s staring at the strip of shadow on the ceiling because he’s afraid of what will happen if he looks at anything else.
“Then we should talk,” Kurapika says quietly, and a good-bad hurt swells in Leorio’s chest like affection.
“Yes,” he agrees. “We should.”
Kurapika tells him about what he’s been up to, in the time he’s been away.
He speaks in a measured tone of voice about things that sound like they should cut the soft of his mouth. There’s no vindication in any part of him, only a resignation that weighs his words down and curls his fingers tighter around Leorio’s.
“Was it worth it?” Leorio says into the dark.
Kurapika lets out an exhale that sounds more like a sigh. He takes a while to respond.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I never finished putting everyone to rest, in the end.”
Leorio stills. He’d known that this had to have been the case but it blisters more, hearing it now. “Do you—” he fumbles, “if I could help—”
Kurapika’s grip tightens. “No,” he says, firmly but not unkindly. “It’s cost enough already.”
He must sense where Leorio’s thoughts are heading because he adds, quietly, “Not my life. Other things. More important.”
It occurs to Leorio, in a way that’s more solemn than it ever has, that Kurapika must have had other dreams before everything happened. His skin feels too tight again and his eyes are hot.
“Like what?”
“Like you,” Kurapika says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world and not something Leorio has been waiting to hear for years.
“You’ve always had me,” Leorio tells him honestly, and Kurapika makes a sound like he might cry.
He lets go of his grip on Leorio’s hand, there’s another shift in the mattress as he turns on his side, and then there are hands tugging at Leorio insistently. Leorio goes easily, tucking his head under Kurapika’s chin and splaying his hands under Kurapika’s night shirt and over the ridges of his spine. He imagines that he can hear the sound of Kurapika’s heartbeat, quiet and present and as warm as everything else is. In the cavity of Kurapika’s chest must exist a place that is simultaneously the calmest and most restless place in the world.
“Not in the way that either of us wanted,” Kurapika says. A hand comes up to stroke his hair. “But maybe that’s just life.”
Leorio lets that settle into something he thinks he could come to terms with eventually. He swallows hard, chokes a little as he tries to ask. “Did you know that you were going to die?”
“Well,” Kurapika says, rueful. Leorio can imagine his expression: the edges of it more soft than hard, an odd intensity to everything in his face that’s more sad than anything else. “I always knew I was going to die young.”
He breathes in, deep, and Leorio breathes with him.
“I’m tired, Leorio,” Kurapika confesses finally, like a sigh.
I know, Leorio wants to say, or maybe You deserve to rest. It’s okay. He doesn’t think that’s what Kurapika wants from him.
“We should sleep then,” Leorio says. “You never sleep enough.”
Kurapika’s laugh builds from his sternum and works its way up. Leorio wants to bottle the sound up. “You’re right,” he says, and presses a kiss to Leorio’s forehead. “Goodnight Leorio.”
“Goodnight,” Leorio says, working around the shape of his heart from where it’s slipped from behind his teeth to lodge in his throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He won’t. Kurapika won’t put Leorio through this again, even if Leorio wants him to, and Leorio won’t ask him to. Leorio will wake up alone tomorrow morning, and Kurapika will be on his way to the Lukso Province, and it will be a very long time until they see each other again.
But Kurapika just sighs again, and this time it sounds almost content.
“Alright,” he agrees, and the world keeps turning. “See you tomorrow.”