Work Text:
Kurapika couldn’t recognize the person in the mirror. The person in the mirror’s shoulder length was brushed back and tucked behind jeweled ears. Long dangling earrings cascaded in gold with rubies dripping like blood. He didn’t wear much makeup, letting his freckles show, but hiding the dark circles beneath his eyes. The red shade on his lips matched the shiny red slip dress that clung the curves of his body he usually tried to hide. His shoulders were bare and the dress had slits up either side, revealing more thigh than he usually dared to.
It was a convincing costume, even without the wig.
When he was doing his reconnaissance, he learned that one of the men who purchased the Scarlet Eyes was a lecher with a taste for blondes in red. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, that was a niche that Kurapika could easily fill.
It didn’t feel like more of a costume than the suits he wore for his work in the mafia, and putting this amount of effort into his appearance fed the part of him drawn towards shiny things. Still, his preferred clothing was loose and covering enough to hide his breasts and his hips, and even the suits offered that security even if they lacked in other areas.
Kurapika turned, awkwardly assessing himself. He’d slip into the disguise seamlessly once he stopped thinking about it, but for a moment he missed the comfort of his traditional clothing. The weave wasn’t as gentle as the cool silk of the slip, but it covered his shoulders and his hips and hid the parts of him that others had categorized as feminine. His gender didn’t seem to exist in the common tongue, but masculinity fit the most comfortably most of the time. For a moment, wearing such extravagant clothing, he wondered if he deserved the comfort offered by his Kurta traditions.
He moved away from the mirror, throwing on a blazer last minute. It was enough to cover his shoulders, at least, and it added to the professional aesthetic he’d hope to maintain even with the scandalous slits in the dress. He huffed a sigh and slipped on his heels. It was one night. He’d wear different clothes and be called by pronouns that didn’t translate easily into his own tongue, and his efforts would bring him closer to his goals. He only had to hope he wouldn’t lose himself to the disguise.