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It’s freezing on the rooftop--the sort of cold that cuts Kurapika clean in half, leaving his cleaved body frozen too solid even to bleed--and he relishes it.
He isn’t sure where it’s coming from, this need to punish himself, but it’s overwhelming and undeniable. The Troupe is dead. His quest for revenge is over before it began. So what purpose does he have now but to atone for the sin of his survivorship? What use can he be beyond trying to make a tribute of his suffering?
The cold is a decent punishment, at least. So is the hunger. And the deep, persistent ache beneath his sternum, hollowing him out so thoroughly he threatens to collapse in on himself like a dying star. That’s what he’ll do, then. He’ll spend the night awake on the rooftop, reciting every Kurta prayer for the dead he knows, and refusing himself the respite of sleep and the relief of crying. He’ll refuse himself any prayers for forgiveness, too. He’s long past deserving to ask for such a thing.
Kurapika begins the way he always does--fine, he hasn’t prayed in years, but his body still remembers how. Palms facing up in his lap, gaze raised to the night sky, and then a deep breath in, and--
The door to the rooftop slams open with a bang, and Kurapika starts violently, breaking his careful position, and turns around.
“I came as soon as I heard,” Leorio says, badly winded. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier, but you wouldn’t believe York New traffic.”
Kurapika merely stares. Lit from the glow of the stairway behind him, Leorio looks oddly like a gangly, out-of-breath angel.
“How are you holding up?” he continues, sitting next to Kurapika on the ledge. “I’d say not well, knowing you.”
Kurapika shoots him a withering glare.
“I’m doing just fine, thank you very much,” he snaps. “Better before you showed up, at least.”
Leorio merely laughs, good natured as always, even when it’s undeserved. But then he pauses, brow furrowing, and carefully takes Kurapika’s chin in his hand, tilting it gently towards the light.
“Your lips are getting blue,” he says quietly. “You must be freezing up here.”
Kurapika goes to protest, but then Leorio moves his hand up to cradle Kurapika’s cheek, which he knows must be cold as ice, so he imagines arguing won’t do much good. And, if Kurapika’s being fully honest with himself, the feeling of Leorio’s hand against his skin--warm, impossibly large, and equal parts rough and soft--has rendered him, if only for a moment, speechless.
“Here,” is all Leorio says before pulling off his suit jacket and throwing it around Kurapika’s shoulders.
“What’s that for?” Kurapika demands.
“You’ll catch your death up here.”
“You’re studying to be a doctor,” Kurapika shoots back. “You should know cold air doesn’t magically make you sick.”
“Yeah, but being really cold for a long time can weaken your immune system. Maybe it won’t give you the flu, but it’ll make it more likely you’ll catch it.”
“There’s no use arguing with me on this subject,” Leorio continues, taking Kurapika’s hands in his own to rub some warmth back into them. “I’ll win.”
Kurapika sighs, making a distinct point to sound as put-upon as possible, but in truth, he already feels himself warming from the inside out, and he’d guess it doesn’t have much to do with the jacket wrapped around his shoulders.
“But I’ll be honest,” Leorio says, tone suddenly soft, “I didn’t come up here to pester you about being too cold.”
“You exist for a purpose other than pestering me? I’ll alert the presses.”
Leorio merely smiles, sad and soft and far fonder than Kurapika has earned.
“I came here because I’m worried about you. I can’t imagine how you must be feeling right now, but I’d guess it isn’t very good.”
All at once, something fierce and defensive bares its teeth from deep in Kurapika’s gut. He doesn’t know why, and it doesn’t strike him as entirely fair to Leorio, but he’s powerless against it.
“Why wouldn’t I be fine?” he demands. “The Troupe is dead. Obviously I should be thrilled, right?”
Leorio says nothing, continuing to gently rub some warmth back into Kurapika’s hands.
“Why wouldn’t I be fine?” Kurapika asks again, voice cracking this time. “I should be happy. I should be relieved.”
Leorio stays silent.
“God fucking damn it, I should be happy!” he all but shouts, yanking his hands from Leorio’s hold. “Why the hell am I not happy?”
Before he realizes it, Kurapika’s on his feet, chest heaving up and down with frantic breaths. Something has wound its way around his ribcage, squeezing tighter and tighter until the air is pushed from his lungs in a sound very much like a sob.
“Kurapika.”
There’s so much tenderness and affection in that one word that Kurapika can’t help but sob again, despite his best efforts.
“Come sit down, alright?” Leorio says, still just as gentle. “It makes sense. It makes sense that you’re not happy. That you’re devastated, even. So just come have a seat and let me explain it, huh?”
Perhaps under different circumstances, Kurapika would snap at Leorio for being so presumptuous as to think he could somehow explain Kurapika’s own emotions to him. But not tonight. Tonight, Kurapika’s so desperate for any of this to start making even a hint of sense that he snatches up the offer like a life preserver thrown to a drowning man.
Unsure whether he’s shaking from the cold or something else, Kurapika stumbles on trembling legs to sit beside Leorio again, although he keeps his hands in his lap and out of Leorio’s reach. However much he longs for the warmth and steadiness of Leorio’s hands, he refuses to allow himself that comfort right now.
“Listen,” Leorio begins. “I’ve always thought that there’s this clarity to misery. It sounds backwards, but it’s true. When you’re miserable, you’ve got a purpose--get out. Just get out. Just make the suffering stop. You don’t have time to agonize over what you want or where to go or who you are, because you know. The only thing you want is for the pain to end.
“But eventually, the pain does end. And what then? There’s no longer that clawing desperation to get free. There’s no longer that frantic, raging fire of ‘please make it stop.’ And without that fire, you start to realize how cold you are. How cold you’ve been for so long. So you have to contend with that, first and foremost. As soon as you have a moment to breathe, you have to confront how awful things have really been. And then you have to grieve the loss of that clear, simple purpose you’d had. In a way, the relief can feel an awful lot like the pain.”
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
Leorio shrugs.
“Maybe I am.”
For a long moment, Kurapika holds still, and there’s nothing but the light of the moon overhead and the cold air on the rooftop and the kind, knowing glow in Leorio’s eyes. And then all at once, something inside him rents apart with a violent, growling sound, and he’s crying, hard and loud and utterly without control.
And in an instant, Leorio’s at his side, like he always is in times like this, wrapping his arms tight around Kurapika and holding his shaking body to his chest. Kurapika grabs tight to the front of Leorio’s shirt, likely wrinkling the fabric, and buries his face in his chest in an effort to muffle his sobs. Leorio smells like that exact same fragrant deodorant he always wears, and his body is so warm through the fabric of his shirt, and his heart beats so steadily in Kurapika’s ear, and all of it only makes Kurapika cry harder.
“That’s it,” Leorio soothes gently. “Let it out. You’re alright. I’m right here, so you just go ahead, alright?”
Amid stuttering, hitching breaths, Kurapika manages a single coherent thought--this is the first time someone’s held him as he cried since the massacre of his clan. Kurapika had cried plenty since that day, tucked beneath his blankets trying to stifle his sobs in the dark. Or shut in a bathroom stall, harshly commanding himself to get a goddamn grip. Or staring out a train window, angling his body just so to ensure none of the other passengers could see his eyes. But it’s different, crying wrapped in Leorio’s arms, feeling as much as hearing the deep rumble of his soothing words, relaxing slowly under the warm pressure of Leorio’s hand rubbing slow circles on his back. It feels restorative. Like he’s growing lighter, not heavier, with every sob. Like he’s undergoing some sort of rebirth.
Eventually, Kurapika calms, his breathing slowing and the grip of his hand loosening against Leorio’s shirt. Leorio doesn’t pull away until Kurapika does, and that simple gesture alone is nearly enough to bring tears to his eyes again.
“Better?” Leorio asks gently.
“That never happened.”
Kurapika tries for snappish, but the tremble in his voice has him missing it by about a mile.
“Of course, sunshine.”
For a long moment, they’re quiet. Kurapika isn’t cold anymore. Between the suit jacket pulled tightly around his shoulders and the strange, golden glow spreading from beneath his sternum and throughout his chest, the cold can hardly touch him anymore. But nonetheless…
“What do I do now?”
The words are out in a rush before Kurapika can stop them.
“Without the Troupe to hunt, I mean,” he continues. “That’s been all I’ve thought about for as long as I can remember. And that’s over and done with. So… what now?”
Much to Kurapika’s surprise, Leorio breaks into a wide smile.
“Anything!” he almost shouts, bright and delighted. “Kurapika, you could do anything you wanted. You’ve got a Hunter’s license, for one thing, but even without that, you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. And you’re so organized and methodical and you work so hard--there’s nothing that’s off limits to you. Not a thing. You can be anything you could dream of. Like… an anthropologist! You could preserve Kurta traditions for other people to learn about.”
Kurapika can’t help but smile as well--Leorio’s enthusiasm has always been infectious like that.
“Like anyone would want to learn about that. We were a tiny clan.”
Were. The past tense always threatens to choke Kurapika before he can get the word out.
“No, anthropology nerds love that stuff! The smaller, more obscure the culture, the crazier they go for it. So if you think it would make you happy, go for it. And maybe….”
Leorio trails off abruptly.
“And maybe what?”
“I mean, you deserve to be happy. After everything. So, I don’t know, if there’s any way I could help make you happy, I would. I will. In whatever way I can. If you need a friend, or a weekly phone call to make sure you’re still alive, or bail money, or…”
Leorio trails off again, and Kurapika’s pulse quickens, as if it knows something Kurapika himself doesn’t.
“Or?” he prompts.
Leorio takes a deep breath.
“I’d be good to you. You know that, right?” Leorio’s voice comes out soft and unsteady. “I’d do anything for you. I just… God, you see that big moon shining up in the sky? I swear you’re the one who put it there. And it wouldn’t have to be forever. It wouldn’t have to be anything more than what you’re comfortable with. I just--”
“Kiss me.”
Kurapika surprises himself with his hoarse, demanding urgency.
“What?”
“Kiss me,” he all but snaps. “Don’t make me ask you again.”
Leorio’s eyes grow so wide they seem to swallow the reflection of the moon whole, and then he’s leaning in slowly and carefully, as if expecting Kurapika to turn and run. Kurapika has no patience for it, not with the way his heart has expanded inside of his throat, threatening to suffocate him, so he grabs Leorio’s tie tight in his fist, yanks him close, and kisses him.
Kurapika wants it to be frantic and demanding. He wants to place an insistent hand on the back of Leorio’s neck and pull him down hard, kissing him with teeth and fire and desperation. But Leorio refuses. He won’t accept anything but slow and careful and gentle, kissing Kurapika as if he were something small and precious. In the cold night air, his mouth is as warm as a sun, and his hands, too, as they carefully trace along Kurapika’s cheekbones and through his hair. It’s overwhelming in the best way, and Kurapika wants to live in it forever. There’s no need for air--he and Leorio can stay like this forever, like he’s read about divers sharing a tank of oxygen. They’d never have to part. They’d never have to--
Leorio finally pulls back, and it’s all Kurapika can do not to whine audibly.
“You’re freezing,” Leorio murmurs, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to Kurapika’s forehead.
Kurapika’s ready to protest that he isn’t, that there’s no way he could be cold after a kiss like that, but he doesn’t have a chance to answer before Leorio scoops him up into his arms and heads towards the stairway down from the roof.
“What are you doing?” Kurapika grumbles, although it probably isn’t convincing, given the way he’s looped his arms around Leorio’s neck and has pressed his face into his chest.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” Leorio says, as if that somehow answers everything.
And perhaps, Kurapika thinks, it does.