Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The moonlight, veiled by thick, brooding clouds, casted a faint glow over the drenched landscape, barely enough to outline the puddles that gathered and expanded with each passing moment as the rain fell harder. The relentless pitter-patter of droplets against Chrollo's umbrella blurred into white noise, interrupted once in a while by the slick ground beneath his boots squelching. He moved steadily forward, the chill in the air biting through his coat. His gaze flickered occasionally downwards to the small flip phone in his hand, its dim screen glowing faintly. If the coordinates displayed were correct, he was on the right path—threading his way through the towering trees, their thick branches drooping under the weight of collected rainwater.

Chrollo, however, paid no mind to the atmosphere. His focus was sharp, his purpose unwavering. Somewhere ahead, hidden within the drenched and thick forest, lay what he sought out for. An ability, the perfect tool for the hunt he was preparing to undergo. His target, the maniacal clown, required precise power to take down Hisoka after his revival. Chrollo was determined to acquire the one ability that could ensure his victory, putting that cockroach of a man on his deathbed once and for all.

The further Chrollo walked, the more the forest began to dissolve around him. The dense trees gave way to open stretches for tall grass and fields of wheat that swayed gently under the weight of the rain. The scent of damp earth was replaced by a faint, sweet aroma carried on the cool breeze, though it did little to alter his pace or purpose.

The hill ahead was by no means any difficult to trudge through, but its incline scattered itself with shallow puddles that carved into the dirt. Chrollo moved with precision, stepping carefully to avoid the deeper patches of water that threatened to further soak his boots. As he crested the hill, a small wooden house came into view. It stood tall against the gray sky and flat terrain, its weathered frame and simple design blending seamlessly with the muted tones of the landscape.

The porch moved with subtle movement despite the storm. A swing, its chains rusted and creaking, swayed faintly in the wind. Rain dripped steadily from its edges, pooling in the sagging cushions. Scattered across the platform were potted plants, their leaves glistening with moisture. Some had been tucked carefully into the corners of the porch, protected from the heavy rain, while others remained exposed.

Chrollo approached in an attempt at silence, his steps soft but firm as he ascended the wooden staircase. Each step erupted a faint groan from the planks beneath his boots, a sound that contrasted sharply with the rhythmic patter of rain on the roof. Reaching the porch's platform, he paused, taking a moment to observe his surroundings. His eyes scanned the front windows, curtains closed, revealing little of the house’s interior.

Instinct told him to break in—his usual approach in situations like this—but something restrained him. Chrollo decided, for once, to knock.

He stepped to the door, raising a hand. The knock came harder than he intended, the sound reverberating through the stillness of the storm. The echo lingered for a moment before fading into silence, broken only by the rain. Chrollo lowered his hand, waiting with quiet patience. If someone was home, they would answer soon enough.

If not, the door would still open—one way or another.

Behind the door, Chrollo heard faint, deliberate footsteps approaching, each one muffled slightly by the sound of the rain. He tensed, his sharp senses on high alert, ready for whatever—or whoever—waited on the other side.

What he hadn’t expected, however, was to see the chain user standing there, dressed in, what he assumed, simple pajamas, his hair slightly disheveled and his expression one of utter disbelief.

Guess the chain user hadn't expected Chrollo Lucilfer to show up at his doorstep either.

Kurapika’s eyes narrowed instantly, a flash of scarlet threatening to break through his otherwise calm demeanor. He didn’t bother hiding his irritation, nor the fact that Chrollo’s presence was an unwelcome intrusion. “The fuck are you doing here?” he barked, his voice low but venomous, one hand gripping the edge of the door as he pulled it partially shut, leaving only his face visible.

Chrollo, for his part, appeared unbothered, even amused. “Never thought it’d be you,” he replied, his tone as smooth as ever, though his eyes glinted with something more calculating.

“That didn’t answer my question,” Kurapika snapped, his patience already fraying by the second. "Answer it, or leave.” His grip on the door tightened, and he began to push it closed by another inch.

“Wait.” Chrollo raised a hand, gripping the top edge of the door, his fingers brushing over the ridges of the weathered wood. He met Kurapika’s glare with a composed smile. “I have a compromise.”

Kurapika’s expression flickered with confusion before hardening into a look of pure skepticism. “What makes you think I’d ever work with you ?” he demanded, his voice sharp as he kept the door firmly where it was

Chrollo leaned casually against the doorframe, his grip still unyielding. “Because I have something you want, and you have something I need.” His words were measured, his tone annoyingly confident.

Kurapika let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s far too late for your cryptic shit, Lucilfer. Spit it out.” He pushed against the door, trying to close it further, but Chrollo didn’t budge

“I know where the rest of the eyes are,” Chrollo said, the words slipping out with almost casual indifference, as if he were discussing the weather.

Kurapika froze. His expression hardened, but the scarlet blaze of his eyes betrayed the storm of emotion brewing beneath the surface. “What makes you think I couldn’t get them myself?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “And what could you possibly want from me?”

Chrollo’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew, a subtle challenge hidden in the curve of his lips. “Let me get there first,” he said, his tone maddeningly calm. “In return, I need your nen ability.”

The sheer absurdity of the demand made Kurapika laugh—a cold, humorless sound. “You’re insane if you think I’d ever give it to you willingly,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “Get lost, Chrollo. And don’t ever come back here.”

This time, Kurapika put all his strength into the door, pushing it firmly against Chrollo’s grip. But Chrollo didn’t resist. He allowed the door to close slowly, his smile lingering as if he had already anticipated Kurapika’s response.

As the lock clicked into place and the sound of retreating footsteps faded behind the door, Chrollo turned, his expression unreadable.

Kurapika stormed through the hallway, every step heavy with irritation. God, was Kurapika enraged at that fucker. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, nails biting into his palms as he replayed the audacity of Chrollo Lucilfer showing up at his doorstep. The nerve to propose some absurd truce with him out of all people. The thought alone made Kurapika scoff. The very idea of working with that man was laughable—no, insulting. He would much rather having Hisoka be the one to show up at his door step.

But as Kurapika reached the end of the hallway, he heard it. The unmistakable sound of light footsteps padding toward him from the living room.

You’ve got to be kidding me, Kurapika groaned inwardly, his stomach twisting.

He turned slightly, his breath catching as his worst fear was confirmed. Standing there, bold as ever, was Chrollo. His damp black hair clung to his face, water dripping steadily from his soaked boots onto the floor, forming a small puddle beneath him. That infuriatingly composed sly smile was plastered across his face.

Kurapika swallowed hard, his eyes narrowing. His voice was sharp, cutting through the air. “I told you to fuck off . Are you seriously this desperate?” He fully turned to face the older man, his shoulders squared, his body tense like a coiled spring.

Chrollo tilted his head slightly, his gaze calm and unreadable. “You want the eyes,” he said, his voice even, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Kurapika’s jaw tightened. “And why is my nen ability so important to you?” he shot back, his tone brimming with barely-contained frustration. His crimson eyes flared, burning like embers threatening to ignite into a full blaze.

Chrollo stepped forward, just enough to close the distance between them, his movements unhurried and deliberate. “Because,” he began, his voice as smooth as silk, “your chains are the only thing that can bind what I’m after.”

Kurapika’s breath hitched for a moment, but he didn’t let it show. His lips curled into a sneer. “Do you think flattery is going to convince me? I’m not stupid, Chrollo.”

Chrollo’s smile grew wider, seemingly amused by Kurapika’s anger. “I don’t need to convince you,” he said calmly, his voice soft yet commanding. “I only need you to listen. And deep down, you know you’re tempted.”

Kurapika’s chest tightened. He hated the way Chrollo’s words wormed their way into his mind, planting seeds of doubt and curiosity where there should have been none. His instincts screamed at him to shut the conversation down, to kick the man out of his home and never look back.

But his desire to recover the Scarlet Eyes—to reclaim what had been stolen—burned brighter than his hatred. And Chrollo knew it.

“Are you talking about the Black Whale?” Kurapika snapped, his voice laced with disdain. “I’ll have you know I’m perfectly aware of the man who currently possesses the eyes. I don’t need your help.” He wished every second of this encounter would end, his patience wearing thinner with each passing moment.

Chrollo tilted his head slightly, his calm demeanor never faltering. “You don’t know Tserriednich well enough,” he said, stepping towards the kitchen. His boots left damp marks on the carpet, much to Kurapika’s annoyance. “He is far more evil and cruel than you think. Far more than you could handle.”

Chrollo walked casually toward a white wooden chair by the kitchen. Kurapika’s eyes twitched as he watched droplets of water seep into the fabric of the carpet beneath the older man’s feet. I’ll have to clean that up later, he thought with a grimace.

“Don’t dare to make yourself at home,” Kurapika barked, crossing his arms as the cold air from the open hallway bit at his exposed skin. “The talk surrounding Tserriednich is enough to give me insight into the kind of man he is.”

Chrollo leaned against the matching white table near the chair, his gaze falling on a vase of striped carnations that sat neatly in the center. He toyed with one of the petals, his fingers tracing its delicate edge. “I don’t think you fully grasp how difficult it will be to get to him,” Chrollo said, his tone casual but sharp. “He’s not like the other mafia men you’ve dealt with. Accessing him will require more than brute force and luck.”

Kurapika had enough. He stormed over, swatting Chrollo’s hand away from the flowers with more force than he intended. The vase wobbled slightly, but he steadied it, glaring at the intruder. “Don’t touch them,” he hissed, his voice low and furious. “Just—what do you want, Chrollo? All you’re doing is repeating what I already know.”

Chrollo straightened, his expression calm as ever. Then, with deliberate clarity, he said, “I’m after Hisoka’s head.”

The words hung in the air. Kurapika froze, unable to hide his shock. He quickly masked his dumbfounded expression, but not quickly enough. “Didn’t you kill him already?” he asked, his tone tinged with skepticism.

Chrollo’s lips curled into a faint, almost amused smile. “Avid watcher of Heaven’s Arena?” he asked, his head tilting slightly. The faint moonlight streaming through the window outlined his gray eyes, giving them an almost ethereal glow.

Kurapika huffed, crossing his arms again as he leaned against the oak counter across from Chrollo. “No,” he muttered. “I just hoped he could’ve gotten the job done. It was unfortunate watching the light leave his eyes.”

Chrollo raised an eyebrow. “You felt sad when he died?” he asked, his voice free of mockery, though Kurapika couldn’t help but interpret it that way.

“You’d wish,” Kurapika snapped, rolling his eyes. A pang of sympathy might’ve stirred in him when Hisoka died, but that feeling had come from a place of resentment toward the man’s opponent, not affection.

Chrollo gestured to the chair he’d nearly claimed earlier. “Why don’t you sit down?” he offered, his smile devoid of warmth.

Kurapika’s glare sharpened. "You're getting far too ahead of yourself. You want my ability just to take out Hisoka, am I right?" His teeth clenched as he forced the words out, the very idea of such a request absurd to him.

“Correct,” Chrollo said simply, his tone unflinchingly even.

Kurapika let out a bitter laugh. “There is no way in hell I’m agreeing to your compromise,” he spat. “Now get the hell out of my house.”

He pushed off the counter, his feet thudding against the wooden floor as he crossed the kitchen toward Chrollo, his intent clear. If Chrollo didn’t leave willingly, Kurapika would make him.

“Wait—” Chrollo’s attempt to diffuse the situation went to shit the moment Kurapika swung at him, his fist aiming straight for Chrollo’s nose. He managed to tilt his head just in time, sparing his nose but not his cheek, which took the full brunt of Kurapika’s punch. The sharp impact forced Chrollo’s head to snap to the side.

He sighed, irritation flashing across his usually calm demeanor. So much for maturity, he thought. He had genuinely believed Kurapika had grown to better regulate his temper over the years.

Guess not.

Without hesitation, Chrollo caught Kurapika’s wrist mid-swing as another punch came flying. His grip was firm, unyielding, as he twisted the arm sharply behind Kurapika's back, forcing the younger man to stumble forward. In one fluid motion, Chrollo maneuvered him against the table, pinning him down with an ease that betrayed just how much stronger he was. Kurapika let out a startled yelp, quickly biting down on his lip to stifle it. Chrollo's free hand snaked around to push the back of Kurapika's head downward to the table. His cheek pressed hard against the cold wooden surface, and in the commotion, the vase of carnations teetered over the edge before crashing to the floor, shattering into countless shards.

Chrollo’s breathe was warm as he leaned closer. “It’s either we come to an agreement now, or I leave here with what I came for—by force, if necessary. Your choice.”

Kurapika squirmed beneath Chrollo’s grip, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His mind raced with curses, rage boiling in his chest. If given the option, he’d gladly choose death over surrendering to this man. But no, Chrollo hadn’t offered him that mercy. He was forced to face a decision he despised with every fiber of his being.

Kurapika struggled briefly, testing the strength of Chrollo’s hold, but it was no use. “Let go,” he growled, his tone venomous.

Kurapika could feel his eyes blazing with scarlet hues. His pride screamed at him to refuse, but the thought of losing his nen to Chrollo— to Chrollo of all people—would surely haunt him for the rest of his days.

Kurapika hissed through gritted teeth, his voice muffled by the table. “The vase is broken because of you fucker. ”

Chrollo glanced at the floor, his gray eyes scanning the scattered shards glinting in the dim light. His lips curved into a faint smirk, but his tone remained sharp. “Should I consider that a yes or a no?” he asked, loosening his grip slightly on Kurapika’s head.

Kurapika let out a frustrated growl, his pride and reason locked in a vicious battle. Finally, he muttered, barely audible, “I have no other choice, do I?”

Chrollo’s smile widened, this time tinged with satisfaction. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said smoothly, releasing Kurapika’s wrist and stepping back.

Kurapika pushed himself off the table, his shoulders tense as he rubbed his arm, the ghost of Chrollo’s grip still lingering. His eyes flicked to the shattered vase, and his rage simmered just beneath the surface.

“You’re cleaning that up,” Kurapika spat, his tone venomous, every word dripping with barely contained rage. He gestured sharply to the shattered vase on the floor. “Now get out of my house.”

Chrollo tilted his head slightly, unfazed by the hostility. “Ah, well,” he began, his voice light and almost teasing, “I had hoped you might have a room to spare.” He spoke as if he truly believed Kurapika would ever willingly lend him a place to sleep.

Kurapika froze for a moment, his eyes narrowing in disbelief before scoffing. “Sleep outside for all I care.” He turned sharply on his heel, heading toward the arched entrance to the hallway, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Not even on the couch?” Chrollo huffed, feigning exasperation. He glanced toward the modest living room as if praising its comfort. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“I don’t think I could ever sleep with you in the house,” Kurapika snapped over his shoulder.

Chrollo raised an eyebrow, his calm expression faltering just enough to reveal a glimmer of amusement. “You want me to sleep on the swing outside?”

Kurapika spun around, his scarlet eyes blazing as he jabbed a finger toward the door. “ Out, ” he hissed, his voice low and threatening.

Chrollo sighed dramatically, running a hand through his hair as he glanced toward the rain-soaked porch visible through the window. “You really have no hospitality, do you?”

“None for you,” Kurapika bit back. His jaw tightened, and his hands clenched at his sides. “You’re lucky I haven’t thrown you out by force already.”

Chrollo stepped toward the door with deliberate slowness, his boots clicking softly against the floor. He paused just before crossing the threshold, turning to meet Kurapika’s glare with his usual composure. “You’ll come around,” he said smoothly, his tone maddeningly confident.

“Don’t count on it,” Kurapika growled.

Chrollo gave a small, infuriating smile before stepping out into the rain, the door clicking shut behind him.

Kurapika stood there for a moment, his chest rising and falling with anger-fueled breaths. His gaze shifted to the broken vase on the floor, and he let out a low, frustrated growl.

Of all people, why did it have to be him?

The swing itself wasn’t stiff or uncomfortable by any means. In fact, the rhythmic patter of rain against the roof had lulled Chrollo to sleep far easier than he anticipated. The only real downsides were the damp spots soaking through the cushions beneath him and the biting morning breeze creeping under his clothes.

Birds chirped cheerfully, and sunlight filtered through the small crevices of the porch roof, warming his face. Chrollo stirred awake, squinting against the golden rays until a passing cloud cast everything back into a muted gray. With a groan, he stretched his cramped limbs, his joints popping as he untangled himself from the swing’s narrow confines.

Rising, he blinked the sleep from his eyes, already deciding he’d had enough of the outdoors. He wasn’t one to suffer discomfort longer than necessary, and his hunger had begun to gnaw at him. He casually headed toward the front door, intent on breaking in— again.

But to his surprise, the door was unlocked. Chrollo hesitated briefly, masking his confusion with practiced ease. Strange. Quietly, he pushed the door open, slipping inside and closing it behind him.

The rich scent of bacon sizzling in a pan hit him instantly, filling the modest house with a warmth that contrasted the chill outside. His gaze flicked toward the kitchen, where Kurapika stood at the stove, his back to him. Chrollo’s eyes briefly scanned his appearance—simple but neat, dressed in a crisp button-up shirt and black dress pants.

Kurapika, clearly distracted by his task, didn’t seem to notice him at first. But when the faint creak of the floorboards gave Chrollo away, Kurapika stiffened slightly, turning his head just enough to acknowledge the intruder.

“I’m surprised you didn’t break the lock to sleep on the couch,” Kurapika said, his voice dry and unimpressed.

Chrollo rolled his eyes at the jab. As if I’d let myself get caught making that much noise, he thought, but he simply replied, “What are you making?” His gaze briefly shifted to the floor, where the shards of last night’s vase still lay scattered.

“Bacon and eggs,” Kurapika replied curtly, flipping a piece of bacon with a practiced flick of his wrist. A brief silence stretched between them before Kurapika added, almost as an afterthought, “For myself.”

Chrollo smiled faintly, crouching to gather the broken shards. “Not that I expected you to make some for me,” he said smoothly, though it was a bold-faced lie. Some part of him had, for a fleeting moment, entertained the idea that Kurapika might have a change of heart.

Even if Kurapika had caught the lie, he didn’t bother pointing it out.

“Good. At least you’ve stopped expecting miracles.” Kurapika’s tone was clipped as he grabbed a plate and set it on the table.

“You’re oddly generous with your insults this morning,” Chrollo remarked, sweeping the last few shards into his palm.

Kurapika didn’t respond immediately, pouring himself a glass of orange juice with deliberate calm. “I already have a ticket for the Black Whale,” he said abruptly, shifting the conversation toward business. “No need to steal or fake one.”

Chrollo chuckled to himself, amused at how quickly Kurapika redirected their interaction. “Of course you do. You planned ahead, didn't you?”

Kurapika set the juice carton back in the fridge, his movements efficient. “I was offered a bodyguard position,” he said, a faint bite in his tone.

Chrollo rose, brushing off his hands as he discarded the shards. “Fair enough,” he replied smoothly. “We should be leaving by—"

He froze mid-sentence, his expression darkening as a realization dawned on him.

Kurapika, oblivious, glanced at the clock on the wall. “Leaving by 10, I’d assume?” he said. “It’s 8:42, so you’ve got time to—”

“We’ve got the time wrong,” Chrollo interrupted, his voice suddenly sharp.

Kurapika stilled, the glass of orange juice halfway to his lips. “Excuse me?” he asked, his tone carrying equal parts irritation and disbelief.

“The Whale leaves in less than twenty minutes,” Chrollo said evenly, his posture stiffening as he stepped into the space between the table and counter.

Kurapika stared at him, eyes narrowing. “You’re joking,” he meant to think to himself.

Chrollo had once again found himself outside, the swing swaying gently beneath him as the cool breeze passed by. Kurapika, in a fit of irritation, had kicked him out— again . It had been an impulsive move, one Chrollo had anticipated but still found amusing. He had considered pushing back, but there was a certain charm in giving Kurapika his space, in observing how long the younger man could tolerate his presence before snapping.

The chill of the morning air wasn’t unpleasant. If anything, it cleared his head. As much as he would have preferred the warmth of the house, the quiet solitude outside provided a different kind of comfort. It gave him time to think, to piece together the scattered fragments of his plans and calculate his next steps.

His mind wandered briefly to his troupe—his spiders. How would they act without him aboard the Black Whale? He had no doubt in their abilities; each of them was more than capable of handling themselves, even in the chaos that was sure to unfold on that ship. But still, he couldn’t help but feel a nagging unease. Hisoka was unpredictable, a wild card that refused to be controlled. Would the magician back off, realizing Chrollo wasn’t there to confront him, or would he escalate things in his absence?

Chrollo furrowed his brow, frustration bubbling beneath his calm exterior.

Damn it , he thought, his fingers tightening on the armrests of the swing.

The scenery around him provided a welcome distraction. The landscape was serene, almost picturesque, with the grass swaying rhythmically in the breeze and the leaves whispering softly as they danced on the branches. It was a stark contrast to the tension that constantly surrounded him, a world away from the blood and chaos he was so accustomed to.

It was easy to see why Kurapika had chosen this place. It had a stillness that seemed to seep into the soul, quieting even the most turbulent thoughts. For a brief moment, Chrollo allowed himself to simply exist in that peace, his sharp mind momentarily dulled by the beauty of his surroundings.

But it didn’t last. His thoughts inevitably drifted back to Kurapika. The chain user was an enigma, a constant thorn in his side yet an intriguing puzzle all the same.

What am I going to do? Chrollo mused, his gaze shifting to the horizon.

The threats and vendettas that tied the two men together were now sailing away on the Black Whale, leaving them stranded in this strange, temporary truce. It was an unusual position for both of them. Without the looming factor of the scarlet eyes or the chaos of the troupe, what could they do now?

Chrollo crossed his arms, his mind racing with possibilities. Staying here for a while wouldn’t hurt, he decided. A faint, almost mischievous gleam shimmered in his eyes. If nothing else, it would be entertaining to see how long Kurapika could tolerate his presence before kicking him out again.

What else did Chrollo have to lose?

Kurapika huffed as he sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. How had he misread the fucking date? The realization gnawed at him, the sheer stupidity of the mistake fueling his frustration. His scarlet eyes threatened to burn through, but he forced himself to keep them at bay.

The eyes. He had let the eyes slip through his grasp, now stranded on that cursed ship. A ship in a succession war, no less. The thought of them—those precious remnants of his people—being out of his reach made his chest tighten painfully.

How long would he have to wait to retrieve them? Months? Years? What if the ship sank? What if the eyes were lost to the depths of the ocean forever?

Endless scenarios ran through his mind, each more catastrophic than the last. Paranoia seeped into his veins like poison, clouding his judgment.

And then there was Chrollo.

What was he going to do about that bastard?

What could he do? Kurapika clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The forced truce between them had been tenuous at best, born out of necessity rather than any genuine desire to work together. But now? Now, with the Black Whale gone and their shared purpose seemingly evaporated, what was the point of maintaining it?

Did he even owe Chrollo anything anymore?

The more he thought about it, the more the idea of civility between them felt like a cruel joke. Without the ship, without Hisoka, without the eyes as leverage, what reason did they have to keep this fragile peace?

Kurapika took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. His eyes, now dimmed back to their usual brown, scanned the room absently. He let out a weary sigh, his shoulders slumping as he tried to collect himself.

Chrollo was probably gone by now. Kurapika told himself that over and over, willing it to be true. It made sense. What purpose did Kurapika serve to Chrollo now? Hisoka was on the ship; Chrollo wasn’t. What use would he have for Kurapika’s nen ability now?

And yet, deep down, a small, nagging part of him doubted it. Chrollo was nothing if not unpredictable, just as Hisoka. The man thrived on manipulation, on staying ten steps ahead. What if he had a reason to stick around?

Kurapika gritted his teeth and pushed the thought away. He needed to focus on his next move. Wallowing in hypotheticals wouldn’t bring the eyes back, and it wouldn’t get Chrollo out of his life

But still, the uncertainty lingered. If Chrollo hadn’t left… what the hell was he planning?

Chrollo sat on the swing, fingers idly brushing against the leaves of a neglected plant beside him. The porch was simple and unassuming, a reflection of the man who owned it. The potted plants scattered across the space seemed like an afterthought, their leaves tinged with brown, some curling at the edges from lack of care. Chrollo wasn’t surprised, given Kurapika’s nature. The chain user likely spent more time chasing shadows and ghosts than tending to something as mundane as a plant.

A place like this, rooted in stillness and routine, didn’t suit someone like Kurapika. The chain user was a man consumed by his revenge, driven by vengeance. A quiet life with plants to tend to didn’t seem to factor into his plans.

Chrollo let his thoughts wander as his fingertips ghosted over the semi-dry leaves of one plant. He could feel the brittleness, the faint crackle of dehydration.

Lost in the rhythm of the swaying leaves and the distant rustling of trees, Chrollo’s thoughts wandered. He wondered how his Spiders were holding up on the Black Whale. They were resourceful and strong—he’d handpicked them for those qualities—but something gnawed at him. He wasn’t there to protect lead them, and with Hisoka’s shadow lurking on the ship, things could spiral quickly. Hisoka was patient, calculating, and utterly unpredictable. Chrollo’s brows furrowed as he mulled over every possible scenario.

For the first time in a long while, he felt... removed. It was strange to think of them moving forward while he stayed behind.

He didn’t hear the door open.

Kurapika froze in the doorway, his sharp gaze locking onto Chrollo’s form on the swing. The sight of the man lounging there, as if he belonged, set his nerves on edge.

Why the hell is he still here? The question screamed in his mind, and before he could temper his irritation, the words tumbled out.

"Why haven’t you left?"

Chrollo blinked, startled out of his inner monologue. His head whipped around, meeting Kurapika’s fiery glare. For a brief moment, he looked genuinely surprised—an expression Kurapika wasn’t used to seeing on him. Then, as quickly as it came, the mask of calm amusement returned.

His eyes flicked over Kurapika, taking in the change of clothes. The white t-shirt paired with a leather jacket, jeans ever too slightly big for him, and scuffed boots, was a far cry from his usual polished look. Chrollo’s gaze lingered on the outfit for a moment before his curiosity got the better of him.

"Where are you going?" Chrollo asked, his voice calm, though his question carried a hint of genuine interest.

Kurapika narrowed his eyes. “I asked you first,” he said firmly, crossing his arms.

Chrollo’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “And I asked you second. Your point?” he retorted, his tone almost childish in its response.

“You—” Kurapika bit back the string of insults bubbling in his throat, exhaling sharply. Don’t give him the satisfaction, he told himself. He shifted his weight, his boots scraping against the wooden porch. No, he wasn’t going to waste energy arguing with this man. He let out a frustrated sigh and continued “Somewhere. Not that it’s any of your concern.”

“It is,” Chrollo replied after a beat, his gaze steady.

Kurapika’s temper flared. “Excuse me? Hold on,” he said, taking slow, deliberate steps toward Chrollo.

His posture was tense, and the air between them felt heavy. “Let me make something very clear. I only "agreed" to a truce because we needed something from each other on the ship.

Look at us now—not on the ship. The truce is meaningless. So get the hell away from here.”

Chrollo’s smirk grew as he rose to his full height, towering over Kurapika. The shift in their dynamic was palpable, the tension between them crackling in the air. His calm demeanor was maddening Kurapika, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. "I mean," he said, his voice smooth, "We never actually established that the truce was limited to the ship,” he said, his voice measured and even. “You just assumed.”

Kurapika narrowed his eyes, stepping closer to close the already shrinking gap between them. "Don’t twist my words, I assumed because it was the only thing that made sense," he spat. "The truce had a purpose, and that purpose is gone. You don’t get to twist the terms now just because it suits you."

Chrollo’s lips curved into a faint, infuriating smile. "I’m simply pointing out that you never clarified. I didn’t realize you were so careless with your agreements, Kurapika." His tone was light, almost playful, but there was a sharp edge underneath.

Kurapika’s hands curled into fists at his sides. "You’re impossible," he muttered through gritted teeth. "I don’t owe you anything anymore, and I’m not about to play host to you. Whatever you’re trying to gain by staying here, you can forget it."

Chrollo tilted his head slightly, as if studying Kurapika’s anger like it was some sort of rare, fascinating artifact. "I’m not trying to gain anything. I’m simply… enjoying the quiet." He gestured vaguely to the surrounding landscape, the wind brushing through the trees. "It’s rare to find a place so serene. I can see why you chose it."

Kurapika scowled. "Don’t try to romanticize this. You’re not staying here. We’re done. You’re done."

"Am I?" Chrollo asked, tilting his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

Kurapika clenched his fists. "Yes. You’re done. You have no reason to be here. You’ve overstayed whatever nonexistent welcome you thought you had."

"And yet," Chrollo said, stepping closer, his voice calm and deliberate, "I’m still here."

Kurapika let out a sharp breath, his patience wearing dangerously thin. "You have no reason to be here. The truce is over, the ship is gone, and I don’t have time to patience to deal with whatever game you think you’re playing."

Chrollo leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. "You seem to think I’m playing a game. I’m not. I simply see no reason to rush off when there’s no urgency. Unless you’d rather resort to violence again to make me leave?"

Kurapika’s jaw tightened, and he pointed toward the path leading away from the house. "I’m giving you one last chance to leave on your own. If you don’t, I will make you leave."

Chrollo’s smile stayed in place. "You’re free to try, but we both know how that will end."

Kurapika stared at him, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but he knew better than to give Chrollo the satisfaction. Instead, he took a step back, shaking his head. "Fine," he said coldly. "Stay. But don’t expect me to entertain you or tolerate your presence a second longer than necessary. Don’t expect me to feed you either. You’re on your own."

Chrollo didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he let his gaze drift back to the plants, his fingers brushing over the leaves once more. "This really is a beautiful place," he said softly, almost to himself. "It suits you."

Kurapika turned on his heel, not bothering to dignify the comment with a response.

"Where are you going?" Chrollo called after him, his tone curious.

Kurapika didn’t bother looking back. "None of your business," he said sharply.

Kurapika stormed down the dirt path leading away from his house, his boots crunching against the gravel with each determined step. His mind raced, his frustration bubbling over. He couldn’t stand the thought of Chrollo lingering around, invading his space, making himself at home as though they were anything but enemies forced into a temporary truce. The air in the forest was crisp, the earthy scent of damp soil and leaves filling his lungs, but even the serene surroundings did little to calm his temper.

Behind him, Chrollo watched Kurapika’s retreating figure. The chain user’s rigid shoulders and brisk pace betrayed his annoyance, and Chrollo couldn’t help but feel amused. He stood in place for a moment longer, allowing Kurapika to put some distance between them.

As Kurapika disappeared into the forest, Chrollo began following at a leisurely pace, his boots treading softly against the dirt. He let the quiet sounds of the forest envelop him—the chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves in the breeze, and the occasional snap of a twig beneath his feet.

Despite his casual approach, he soon realized that Kurapika’s pace had quickened, the gap between them widening

Chapter Text

Chrollo sighed softly, his amusement deepening. Did Kurapika really think he could outrun him?

Picking up his pace, Chrollo weaved through the trees, his movements fluid and precise. He wasn’t in a rush—no, that wasn’t his style—but he also wasn’t going to let Kurapika think he could escape so easily. The forest grew denser the further he ventured, the canopy above casting dappled shadows across the path.

Kurapika, meanwhile, had noticed the faint crunch of footsteps behind him and clenched his jaw. Of course, the bastard was following him. He didn’t bother turning around, he knew who it was. Instead, he kept his focus ahead, trying to ignore the irritation clawing at his chest.

"You’re persistent," Kurapika finally said, his voice sharp and cutting through the quiet of the forest.

Chrollo didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch between them as he closed the distance. When he was close enough to match Kurapika’s stride, he spoke. "I was curious where you were headed."

"Curiosity doesn’t suit you," Kurapika snapped, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

"Do you even know where you’re going?" Chrollo asked after a while, his tone light but with a hint of curiosity.

Kurapika didn’t respond, his pace quickening as if he could outrun Chrollo. But no matter how fast he walked, Chrollo remained a shadow at his side, unshakable and ever-present.

Kurapika gritted his teeth. "Yes. Away from you."

Chrollo chuckled softly. "An idealistic goal, but not a particularly realistic one."

Kurapika stopped, this time exhaling sharply as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why are you doing this? What do you want from me now?"

Chrollo stepped closer, his expression softening into something almost contemplative. "What I want," he began, his voice low and deliberate, "is simply to understand you."

Kurapika’s eyes narrowed. "You’re lying."

"Perhaps," Chrollo admitted, tilting his head slightly. "But does it really matter?"

Kurapika didn’t respond. Instead, he turned and continued walking, this time slower, as though he had resigned himself to the fact that Chrollo wasn’t going to leave him alone. Chrollo followed in silence, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, his gaze steady on Kurapika’s back.

The silence between the two men grew heavier, pressing down on them like a tangible weight as they trudged along the damp dirt path. Their footsteps were muffled by the occasional leftover puddle from the previous night’s rain, which both carefully avoided without a word. The rhythmic crunch of gravel and the rustle of nearby leaves filled the void, yet the tension remained thick and unbroken.

Chrollo glanced at Kurapika out of the corner of his eye, wondering where exactly the chain user intended to go. The urge to ask lingered on his tongue, but he decided against it. Kurapika’s temper was already at its, objectively, highest, and Chrollo wasn’t in the mood to test its limits—not yet, anyway. Instead, he followed silently, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets as they descended a slight incline.

The forest grew denser for a moment, with beams of sunlight piercing through the gaps in the canopy. Small specks of dust floated lazily in the warm light, casting a fleeting glow on the otherwise shadowed path. Chrollo found his attention drifting, the beauty of the scene briefly distracting him from his current predicament.

Kurapika suddenly veered to the right, stepping off the main path without hesitation. Chrollo stopped for a fraction of a second, his brow furrowing as he watched the blond disappear down a narrower, less-paved trail. He resisted the impulse to question the detour and followed without a word, carefully navigating the slope as the ground dipped downward into a small valley.

The sound of their steps changed as they reached flatter terrain, the dirt path giving way to softer soil. The forest canopy above thinned out, and within moments, they emerged from the dense trees into open sunlight. The brightness was blinding at first, forcing Chrollo to squint as his eyes adjusted.

When his vision cleared, he noticed Kurapika moving quickly ahead, stepping into a tall, vast wheat field that seemed to stretched endlessly before them. The golden stalks swayed gently in the breeze, their tops glinting in the sunlight. The field seemed alive, swaying with each gust of wind, and for a moment, Chrollo paused, taking in the scene with quiet admiration.

Kurapika, however, didn’t slow down. He pushed forward with purpose, his movements sharp and deliberate as he waded through the tall stalks. Chrollo quickly followed, weaving through the field to keep up.

"Care to explain where we’re headed?" Chrollo finally asked, his voice calm but laced with curiosity.

The field seemed to stretch endlessly, the horizon blending seamlessly with the sky in the distance. The breeze carried with it the faint scent of wildflowers and earth, a stark contrast to the tension between the two men. Chrollo’s steps were deliberate as he followed Kurapika, his gaze flicking occasionally to the blond’s rigid posture.

For what felt like an eternity, they trudged through the endless wheat field, the golden stalks brushing against their sides with each step. Loose pieces of wheat occasionally snagged on Chrollo’s coat, the itch beginning to irritate him despite the heavy fabric. He resisted the urge to swat at them, instead letting his thoughts wander to the increasingly bizarre journey Kurapika seemed to be leading him on.

"You’re not the type to wander aimlessly, either" Chrollo said after a long silence. "So what’s the destination?"

Kurapika didn’t turn around. "You don’t need to know," he said curtly, pushing aside the stalks of wheat that blocked his path. His tone made it clear he wasn’t in the mood to elaborate.

Chrollo hummed thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Kurapika’s back. "I suppose I don’t," he conceded, though his tone suggested otherwise.

The two men continued walking, the only sounds being the rustling of the wheat and the soft crunch of dirt beneath their boots. Chrollo's mind churned with theories about their destination, but none of them made sense. Kurapika’s refusal to answer only added fuel to his curiosity.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Kurapika pushed apart the final stalks of wheat, revealing a larger dirt road stretching out before them. Across the road lay yet another wheat field, just as expansive and unrelenting as the one they’d just emerged from.

Chrollo’s brows furrowed in frustration, his patience beginning to wane. Where in hell was this boy taking him? His irritation simmered beneath his otherwise calm exterior, but he remained determined to see this through.

As they stepped out onto the dirt road, Chrollo’s sharp eyes caught sight of a few small houses in the distance. Their exteriors blending into the rural landscape. The faint wisps of smoke curling from a chimney indicated that at least one was occupied.

"Are we going to someone’s house?" Chrollo asked, his voice sharper than before as he stopped in his tracks to take a closer look at the distant buildings.

"No," Kurapika said quickly, his voice clipped.

The response made Chrollo pause. He turned his head just in time to see Kurapika several feet ahead, already halfway across the dirt road. The distance between them snapped Chrollo back into motion, and he hurried to catch up, falling beside the blond.

That was the closest thing to a hint Kurapika would give, Chrollo thought to himself, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

As they trudged up the gentle incline of the earth, the golden expanse of the wheat fields finally began to give way. The view ahead opened up, and Chrollo caught sight of a barn, its weathered red paint standing out against the soft greens of the surrounding grassland.

Is this seriously what Kurapika was worked up about? A barn? Chrollo’s thoughts brimmed with skepticism. He couldn’t reconcile the chain user’s secretive and intense demeanor with this seemingly mundane destination.

Their path shifted from the dirt road to the soft, untamed grass as they approached the barn. The closer they got, the more Chrollo noticed an uncharacteristic change in Kurapika. The blond’s pace quickened, his steps light and eager. When they were mere feet from the barn doors, Kurapika almost skipped ahead, his movements betraying a rare and unexpected excitement.

Chrollo raised an eyebrow, caught slightly off guard. He had never seen Kurapika display such unguarded emotion, not over something as trivial as this.

Kurapika fumbled with a set of keys, his fingers moving with haste rather than precision. The lock clicked, and with a forceful push, the barn doors creaked open just enough for Kurapika to slip through. He didn’t spare Chrollo a glance, clearly uninterested in whether the man was following or not.

Chrollo sighed, walking up to the partially open door and pushing it wider. Unlike Kurapika, his frame didn’t allow him to simply squeeze through. The old wood groaned as the door swung further open, revealing the barn’s interior.

It wasn’t grand nor cramped, but it was certainly better maintained than Chrollo had expected. The space was neat and orderly, with clean straw spread across the ground and a faint, earthy smell that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Sunlight filtered through cracks in the wooden walls, casting golden beams across the interior.

The stalls housed four horses, their clean coats and calm demeanor suggesting they were well cared for. Their large, dark eyes followed Chrollo as he passed, though he paid them little attention. His focus was on locating Kurapika, who had vanished deeper into the barn.

From the outside, he heard the faint sound of movement, the rhythmic scrape of something heavy being dragged across gravel, then grass. Following the noise, Chrollo rounded the corner to find Kurapika on the far left across the barn, bent over two large buckets.

The blond was hauling the buckets toward a pen on the opposite side of the barn, where a few pigs were already stirring in anticipation. Their soft grunts grew louder as Kurapika approached, their excitement palpable.

Chrollo leaned against a nearby post, arms crossed as he watched the scene unfold. Kurapika was focused, his movements purposeful despite the weight of the buckets. There was a subtle ease in the way he worked, a familiarity that made it clear this wasn’t his first time tending to the animals.

“Well,” Chrollo finally said, breaking the quiet. His voice echoed slightly as he slowly parted his way towards the pen. “I must admit, I wasn’t expecting this.”

Kurapika didn’t look up, pouring the contents of one bucket into the trough. “I didn’t ask for your expectations,” he replied sharply, though there was no real bite in his tone.

Chrollo smirked faintly. “A barn. Quite the contrast to the image of vengeance and chains you’ve worked so hard to achieve.”

Kurapika straightened, brushing his hands against his jeans before grabbing the second bucket. “I don’t need your commentary, either.”

“And yet, here I am,” Chrollo said, gesturing vaguely at the barn.

Kurapika paused, his back to Chrollo. For a moment, it seemed like he might retort, but instead, he simply resumed his work, dumping the second bucket into the trough. The pigs eagerly crowded around, their happy grunts filling the silence.

Chrollo watched in silence for a moment, his curiosity piqued. He still didn’t fully understand why Kurapika had brought him here, but the glimpse of a different side to the chain user—one that wasn’t consumed by anger and obsession—was fascinating in its own right.

Chrollo stepped closer, his boots crunching against the loose straw on the barn floor. He stopped a few feet from Kurapika, his gaze drifting from the pigs to the blond, who was now leaning against the edge of the pen, his expression unreadable.

“So, is this your escape?” Chrollo asked, his tone laced with nothing but genuine curiosity. Leaning his back against the fence.

Kurapika glanced over his shoulder, his brown eyes sharp as ever. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” Chrollo gestured around the barn, his hands sweeping through the air. “A quiet barn in the middle of nowhere, animals to tend to, fields to wander through. It’s a far cry from the world you’re usually immersed in. Revenge, bloodshed, all that kind of stuff.”

Kurapika’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, Chrollo thought he wouldn’t answer. But then the blond straightened, brushing off his hands as if shaking away the weight of the question.

“It’s not an escape,” Kurapika said, his voice steady but quieter than usual.

“It’s… necessary. Something to remind me of what I’m fighting for.”

Chrollo raised an eyebrow. “You’re fighting for pigs and horses?”

Kurapika shot him a glare. “ No . I’m fighting for the ability to have something like this. Peace. A place where I don’t have to look over my shoulder every second.”

Kurapika bit at his lip, already feeling immense guilt and anger infest deep in him for spilling far too much. Much less to anyone, but to Chrollo Lucilfer. He could feel his elders rolling in their graves.

Chrollo tilted his head, studying him carefully. “And yet, you brought me here.”

Kurapika crossed his arms, laying them on top of the fence “Don’t flatter yourself. I didn't bring you here, you followed me.” His expression hardening.

Chrollo chuckled softly, his amusement genuine. “Guess I did.”

Silence settled between them again, the sounds of the animals filling the void. Chrollo let his gaze wander around the barn, noting the careful arrangement of tools, the neat piles of hay, and the faint scent of earth. More fields of pure grass seemed to go on endlessly. He could also spot more pens for different animals scatteted around the plot. He could feel the sun rays burning at the skin underneath his coat.

“If you’re going to stay, then you might as well make yourself useful,” Kurapika said abruptly, his voice cutting through the quiet. He didn’t look at Chrollo, instead letting his head rest between his arms propped on the edge of the pen.

“Useful?” Chrollo echoed, his tone laced with mild amusement as he cocked his head. “You make it sound like I’m some sort of freeloader.”

Kurapika finally lifted his head, his sharp eyes narrowing. “That’s because you are. Go feed the horses,” he ordered, straightening and dusting off his hands. “I still need to take care of everything else.”

Without waiting for a reply, Kurapika began walking toward the barn. Chrollo trailed after him, his long coat swaying lightly in the breeze. “You seem quite comfortable giving orders,” he remarked, his tone teasing. “Is this how you treat all your temporary employees?”

Kurapika ignored the jab and stepped into the barn, the shade offering a brief reprieve from the sun’s unrelenting glare. He headed toward a stack of supplies in the corner, pulling out a heavy bucket with a grunt of effort.

“Alright,” he said, placing the bucket on the ground with a dull thud. “We’re out of the pellets we usually give the horses, so you’ll have to feed them hay for now.” He gestured toward a nearby pile of neatly bundled hay bales.

Chrollo raised an eyebrow. “We’re out of pellets?” he repeated, latching onto the phrasing. “ We ? I didn’t realize you were so invested in this place.”

Kurapika exhaled sharply, clearly unimpressed with Chrollo’s wordplay. “I don’t own this farm, if that’s what you’re implying,” he said briskly, reaching for another container. “I’m far too busy for that.”

Chrollo leaned casually against the wooden arch separating the horses’ stalls from the rest of the barn. “Then why bother? Surely you have more pressing matters to attend to.”

Kurapika hoisted the second container onto the ground, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “A while back, the woman who owns this place ran into me—quite literally,” he explained, his voice softening slightly. “She offered me the job after that. I come here when I can.”

“Does she pay you?” Chrollo asked, his curiosity piqued.

Kurapika shook his head. “She tries to, but I always decline. I’m already grateful enough for the eggs and milk she gives me in return.”

Chrollo studied him, noting the lack of bitterness in his tone. There was no trace of resentment, only genuine gratitude. It was... unexpected.

“Does she live nearby?” he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the fields outside. “Those houses are quite a distance, even yours.”

“She lives around, yes,” Kurapika replied, crouching down to inspect the contents of the containers. “But she’s away on a trip right now.”

Chrollo tilted his head, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “So, you were just going to leave her animals to starve until she came back?”

Kurapika shot him a withering glare as he stood. “She’s coming back tomorrow,” he snapped.

“What did I tell you? Go feed them hay.”

Chrollo opened his mouth to retort but stopped himself, catching the edge of Kurapika’s fraying patience. With a theatrical sigh, he turned and headed toward the hay bales. His shoulders slumped exaggeratedly, and his head hung low, resembling a scolded child. “Yes, sir,” he muttered under his breath.

Kurapika didn’t respond, already preoccupied with hauling another container toward the chicken pen. The faint sound of his boots crunching against the dry grass faded as he disappeared around the corner.

Chrollo trudged back into the barn, the muted sounds of his boots against the dirt floor blending with the soft rustle of hay. A small smirk tugged at his lips despite the exaggerated slouch he had adopted moments earlier to amuse himself. There was something about Kurapika’s sharp, commanding tone that lingered in his mind longer than it should have. It stirred something strange in him. He couldn't help but find Kurapika's bossy tone... attractive for lack of better word.

What the hell? I need to get my mind straight , He caught himself mid-thought, his smirk faltering. The realization made him stop in his tracks, shaking his head.

Left alone in the barn, Chrollo glanced at the horses, their large, dark eyes watching him expectantly. He tugged at his gloves, a bemused expression on his face. “Looks like it’s just us,” he said, his voice light. Grabbing a pitchfork, he began to pull hay from the stack, tossing it into the horses’ stalls with measured movements.

“You’re more welcoming than your caretaker,” Chrollo muttered to the mare as he slid open the stall door. She snorted in response, nudging his shoulder with her muzzle as if urging him to hurry up.

He further broke apart the bale, spreading the hay evenly in the corner of her stall. The mare immediately began to eat, her chewing sounds filling the quiet space. Chrollo moved to the next stall, repeating the process, all the while feeling a strange sense of calm settle over him.

Outside, Kurapika was busy tending to the chickens, his movements precise as he scattered feed across the ground. He glanced toward the barn briefly, a flicker of irritation crossing his features.

Despite his earlier frustration, he couldn’t entirely ignore the strange sense of ease that Chrollo’s presence brought. It was annoying, really.

With a sharp shake of his head, Kurapika focused back on his work. The animals weren’t going to feed themselves, and the last thing he needed was to dwell on whatever game Chrollo was playing.

For now, there was peace—and neither of them dared to disturb it.

His observations were interrupted by the sound of Kurapika’s boots crunching against the gravel outside. Chrollo turned his head to see the blond emerging from the chicken pen, wiping his hands on a cloth. His expression was focused, but there was a hint of satisfaction in the way he carried himself.

“Done already?” Kurapika asked as he approached the barn, his tone skeptical.

Chrollo pushed off the stall door and crossed his arms.

“You underestimate me,” he said smoothly. “The horses are fed, and they seem to like me more than you.”

Kurapika rolled his eyes, though there was a flicker of something in his expression—perhaps mild surprise or reluctant approval. “Don’t humor me. They’d eat anything you threw at them.”

“Maybe,” Chrollo said, stepping closer to meet Kurapika at the barn’s entrance. “But they didn’t try to kick me, so that’s something.”

Kurapika huffed, clearly uninterested in continuing the banter. He glanced around the barn, his sharp eyes scanning the stalls. “Fine. Since you’re so capable, you can help me clean out the chicken coop next.”

Chrollo’s smirk faltered for a split second. “The chicken coop?”

Kurapika didn’t bother hiding his smirk this time. “You wanted to make yourself useful, didn’t you?” Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and headed back toward the pen.

Chrollo sighed, casting one last glance at the peaceful horses before reluctantly following Kurapika. The walk to the chicken coop was short but tense. Chrollo trailed a few steps behind Kurapika, observing how the blond carried himself with purpose. His movements were brisk and efficient, his boots kicking up small puffs of dirt as he strode toward the pen. It was clear this routine was second nature to him.

Kurapika stopped at the entrance of the coop and glanced over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at Chrollo, who was lingering a bit too leisurely for his liking.

“You don’t seem thrilled,” Kurapika remarked dryly, his hands moving to unlatch the coop’s gate.

“I didn’t expect you to involve manual labor,” Chrollo replied, his voice tinged with mock complaint. He stepped forward, hands in his pockets, and peered into the coop. “What exactly am I supposed to do in there?”

Kurapika rolled his eyes and pushed the gate open, revealing a small enclosure bustling with activity. Chickens clucked and flapped their wings as they pecked at the ground, completely unbothered by the new arrivals. The smell hit Chrollo immediately—earthy and pungent, with a hint of something unpleasantly sharp. He wrinkled his nose but said nothing.

“You’re going to help me clean it out,” Kurapika said, grabbing a rake leaning against the fence. “The straw needs replacing, and the droppings need to be removed. There’s a compost bin around the side of the barn where you can dump everything.”

Chrollo raised an eyebrow. “Sounds glamorous.”

Kurapika thrust the rake into his hands, clearly unimpressed with his sarcasm. “You wanted to stay. This is what staying entails.”

Chrollo took the rake reluctantly, studying it as if it were a foreign object. He glanced at the chickens, who were now eyeing him with vague curiosity. One particularly bold hen strutted closer, her beady eyes locking onto his boots.

Kurapika smirked faintly at Chrollo’s hesitation. “You're scared of... chickens ?”

“Everybody has fears, chain user,” Chrollo muttered, completely ignoring the laughs of mockery spilling from kurapika, and stepped into the coop with exaggerated caution. The chickens scattered at his approach, clucking indignantly as they darted to the far corners.

Kurapika watched him for a moment, his laughs dying down, before stepping in as well. “Start raking the straw into a pile. I’ll grab the new bedding.”

Chrollo sighed and began dragging the rake through the straw, the motion awkward at first but gradually becoming smoother. The chickens darted around his feet, occasionally pecking at the disturbed ground. He kept one eye on them, half-expecting an ambush.

By the time Kurapika returned with a fresh bale of straw, Chrollo had managed to gather most of the old bedding into a somewhat respectable pile. He leaned on the rake, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “You do this every day?” he asked, his tone almost incredulous.

“Every other day,” Kurapika corrected, dropping the bale onto the ground with a thud. “And it’s not that bad once you get used to it.”

Chrollo shot him a look. “I’m not sure I want to get used to it.”

Kurapika shrugged, grabbing a pitchfork and starting to spread the fresh straw around the coop. “No one’s forcing you to stay.”

“Except you,” Chrollo countered, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “Your disapproval is a powerful motivator.”

Kurapika paused mid-motion, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Chrollo. "You’re insufferable.”

Kurapika shook his head and resumed his work, pointedly ignoring him. The silence that followed was broken only by the rustling of straw and the occasional cluck of a chicken. Despite the menial nature of the task, there was an odd sense of rhythm to it, a quiet camaraderie that neither of them acknowledged aloud.

By the time they finished, the coop looked significantly cleaner, and the chickens seemed content with their refreshed surroundings. Kurapika leaned on his pitchfork, surveying their work with a small nod of approval.

“Not bad,” he admitted grudgingly.

Chrollo leaned against the fence, brushing a stray piece of straw from his coat. “High praise coming from you.”

Kurapika rolled his eyes but didn’t respond. Instead, he turned toward the barn, his posture relaxing slightly now that the chore was done.

“Come on,” he said over his shoulder. "There’s still more to do.”

Chrollo groaned dramatically but followed without protest, his curiosity piqued.

As Chrollo fumbled with the hay, his movements uncharacteristically clumsy, he managed to pour far more than necessary into the cows’ bucket. He straightened, brushing stray strands of hay from his coat, and cast a quick glance toward the barn door, wondering how much longer this impromptu farmhand routine would last. The golden light of the setting sun spilled across the fields, painting everything in a warm glow, though the weight of the day’s oddities hung heavily in the air.

Meanwhile, Kurapika was busy refilling the water buckets for the animals. The repetitive task offered him a rare moment of solitude, but his thoughts were anything but calm. Each time he passed by the barn, catching brief glimpses of Chrollo as they crossed paths, an unsettling mix of emotions churned in his chest.

The silence between them had stretched longer than he expected—no bickering, no taunts, no passive-aggressive remarks. It was... unnatural. Kurapika gritted his teeth, the metallic clink of the bucket handle against the spigot grounding him.

This dynamic, this strange ceasefire, confused him to his core. How could he, of all people, be working alongside him ? How could he tolerate even a moment of this quiet coexistence with the man responsible for his clan’s annihilation?

Kurapika tightened his grip on the bucket handle as he carried it back toward the chicken coop. The weight of the water felt lighter than the weight of his thoughts. I can’t let this continue. I can’t let him think for a second that we’re on good terms because of some stupid truce.

His resolve hardened as he reached the coop, the chickens scattering as he approached. He needed to remind Chrollo of what he truly was—of what he’d done. Kurapika’s family, their memories, and their eyes were not something he could ever set aside.

But then why, Kurapika wondered bitterly, did his anger feel muted in the face of this odd peace? Why did his resolve falter every time Chrollo offered an unexpected comment or even the faintest trace of a smile?

Kurapika slammed the bucket down harder than necessary, startling the chickens. He couldn’t let himself forget. He couldn’t let Chrollo’s calm demeanor lull him into some false sense of security.

Wiping his brow, Kurapika glanced toward the barn. The faint silhouette of Chrollo moving among the animals caught his eye. His figure was framed by the barn’s open doorway, bathed in the soft orange glow of the setting sun. For a brief, fleeting moment, Kurapika’s thoughts betrayed him—wondering not about vengeance, but about why the man looked so oddly at home in this setting.

Kurapika clenched his fists, shaking the thought away. I need to be crueler. Harsher. I can’t let this continue.

As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, the sky turned hues of deep blues, casting long shadows across the fields. Kurapika finished with the last of the water buckets, setting it down near the coop with a sharp exhale. He wiped his hands on his pants and straightened, his gaze once again drifting toward the barn.

Chrollo was still there, moving with an unhurried ease as he adjusted the hay in the horse stalls. Kurapika couldn’t tell if the man was genuinely trying to help or simply passing time in his own cryptic way. Either way, the sight irritated him.

He marched toward the barn, each step heavy with determination. His boots kicked up dust as he approached, the cool evening air doing little to temper the heat rising in his chest. He couldn’t allow this strange truce to stretch into something more tolerable—more dangerous.

Chrollo looked up as Kurapika entered the barn, his dark eyes calm, almost curious. He leaned casually against the stall door, his sleeves rolled up slightly, a strand of hay dangling from his hand.

“You’re done already?” Chrollo asked, his tone light, as though they were simply two acquaintances discussing the day’s work.

Kurapika’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t a game, Chrollo.”

Chrollo tilted his head, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “What are you on about?”

Kurapika stepped closer, the barn’s wooden floor creaking beneath his boots. “Don’t mistake my silence for forgiveness. I don’t care how helpful you’re trying to be right now. You’re still the same monster who destroyed everything I've cared about.”

The words hung heavy in the air, their weight amplified by the quiet sounds of the horses shifting in their stalls.

Chrollo’s smirk faded, replaced by a more neutral expression. “I never assumed otherwise,” he said evenly. “But I didn’t think you’d need to remind me.”

Kurapika’s eyes narrowed, his gaze hardening as he glared at Chrollo. The tension in the air was palpable, thick with the weight of unsaid words and unaddressed emotions. His fists clenched involuntarily, fingers curling around the fabric of his jacket, a futile attempt to ground himself before he lost control.

“I don’t need—whatever. You’re sleeping here tonight,” Kurapika muttered, his voice strained, his words coming out in a clipped tone. He wasn’t sure what was worse: the fact that Chrollo had become a part of his life once again, or that he found himself still caring enough to be irritated by his presence. He should have pushed him away completely, kept him at arm’s length like he had done so many times before with others.

But now, here they were—trapped in each other's presence.

Chrollo paused, the hay in his hand slipping to the ground, unnoticed. He dusted his palms off slowly, his expression unreadable, but the hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed the calm façade.

“In the barn?” he repeated, his voice low and curious, as though the idea didn’t faze him in the least. The absurdity of it didn’t seem to register in his mind. He had been in far stranger situations than this, and somehow, this moment felt like a challenge.

Kurapika’s patience, already spent from the long day of chores and forced proximity to Chrollo, snapped. “Don’t you fucking dare show up at my door,” he hissed, his voice rising with barely contained fury. The words spilled out, raw and unrestrained, as though they were the only thing that could stem the tide of anger bubbling in his chest. His breath hitched, and his body tensed, his mind scrambling for control.

A cold silence settled in the barn, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Chrollo’s eyes remained on Kurapika, watching the subtle twitch of his clenched fist. There was something about the younger man’s anger that fascinated him, a rawness that Chrollo had long forgotten.

Kurapika’s hand tightened, his nails digging into his palm as he fought the urge to lash out, to push Chrollo away once and for all. He could feel the anger pulsing in his veins, threatening to overtake him. But what good would it do? It wouldn’t change anything. Chrollo would remain, an unwelcome shadow, a constant reminder of everything Kurapika hated about his past, his family’s destruction, and the vengeance he ached for.

His teeth ground together, the frustration too much to bear. He could feel his control slipping, and with it, any hope of maintaining composure. Without another word, he turned sharply, his boots scraping against the floor of the barn as he stormed toward the exit. His back stiffened with the weight of his emotions, but he didn’t look back.

Not this time.

The cool evening air hit him like a slap to the face, a sudden shock to his senses that did little to calm the storm raging inside him. The crisp breeze tugged at his short-blond locks. He walked briskly, grass crunching under his boots as he moved away from the barn, away from Chrollo’s presence that still lingered in the back of his mind.

Kurapika’s breath came in shallow, controlled gasps, his chest rising and falling with the effort of keeping himself together. The familiar landscape stretched out before him, the fields bathed in the shadows. It should have been peaceful, tranquil even, but it only served to amplify the turmoil swirling inside him. Every step he took away from the barn felt like a small victory, yet a small part of him wanted to turn back, to confront Chrollo once again.

But no. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

His nails, still deep into his palm, started to sting—the pain grounding him. He needed space, time to think, time to figure out what he was doing.

Why did he even care that Chrollo was still here?

The silence of the evening, broken only by the distant calls of birds settling for the night, filled the air. Kurapika fastened his pace, his breath never quite evened out, the tension in his body remained. The weight of his emotions, the frustration, the anger, and the confusion—none of it was going away. It all swirled together, making it hard to not see red.

He had to keep moving, keep going.

Chrollo wasn’t leaving, and Kurapika had a feeling that he wouldn't any time soon.

The cold wind breezed through the field, and with a deep, steadying breath, Kurapika was finally evenend his breath, his mind swirling with questions he couldn’t yet answer.

Chrollo rubbed his eyes, groggy from the night of makeshift sleep on the hay. The thick, uncomfortable bales served as a poor substitute for his usual bedding, and he couldn't help but feel the strain in his back from the awkward position. The night had been long, and the quiet moments in the barn—when Kurapika had finally left him alone—had allowed his mind to wander. He couldn't quite explain why he was still here, why he had agreed to stay, why he hadn't broken into Kurapika's home.

He sighed, watching as the flame flickered in the cool night air. The warmth it offered felt far too distant compared to the lingering chill in his bones. He couldn't understand it. The night had passed uneventfully, and yet his thoughts were filled with questions about Kurapika.

But the tranquility didn’t last long.

Chrollo was abruptly woken by something soft yet surprisingly dense hitting him square in the chest. His eyes snapped open, his body reacting instantly to the disturbance. He sat up quickly, only to find Kurapika standing in front of him, arms crossed, staring down at him with a judgmental look.

Chrollo blinked, momentarily disoriented. Before he could even muster a response, he glanced down at the object Kurapika had tossed at him.

Clothes.

He unfolded the pile, raising an eyebrow at the items. An off-white plaid button-up shirt, a desaturated blue undershirt, a pair of faded navy jeans, and a dark jacket, its neckline torn and worn. It was a simple outfit, nothing extravagant, but it would work. He looked up at Kurapika, still processing the situation, his mind moving sluggishly from the haze of sleep.

Kurapika's voice cut through the quiet of the barn. "You stink."

Chrollo couldn’t help but let out a small, dry chuckle. “Charming as always,” he muttered under his breath, though his expression remained impassive. His gaze flickered back to Kurapika, who was dressed similarly to yesterday—this time in a loose red turtleneck, a black jacket, and those same well-worn boots. His desaturated navy jeans looked freshly put on, but they still bore the same look of practicality.

“What do you want me to do about that?” Chrollo asked, lifting his eyebrows, his tone casual. “I can’t exactly walk into your house.” Chrollo slowly steadied himself on his feet.

Kurapika didn’t even flinch at his remark. He already had a plan in mind. “Use the hose,” he said simply, as if it were the most logical solution.

Chrollo’s eyebrow quirked up in disbelief. “I don’t have shampoo.”

Kurapika didn’t respond with words this time. Instead, three bottles were thrown at him in quick second.

Shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.

The labels on the bottles were as plain as the items themselves, the minimalist design doing nothing to ease Chrollo’s growing amusement at the absurdity of the situation.

“You little shit,” Chrollo scoffed under his breath, though the smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips betrayed his annoyance.

Kurapika’s expression remained stoic as he gave a dramatic pinch to his nose. “Get on with it. I can’t bear to smell you any longer.”

It was a simple command, but the irritation in Kurapika’s voice was unmistakable. He didn’t wait for a response, and with that, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Chrollo to deal with his morning routine.

Chrollo stood there for a moment, contemplating his next move. There was no denying that Kurapika had made his point clear—he was to wash up, or risk becoming even more of a nuisance. With a sigh, Chrollo reluctantly began searching for the hose. He hadn’t even realized how badly he smelled until Kurapika pointed it out, but the sting of his bluntness was something Chrollo wasn’t about to let slide.

He turned the corner of the barn, expecting to search for a bit longer, but was immediately startled when he saw Kurapika standing there, leaning casually against the wooden structure, as though waiting for him. Chrollo stopped in his tracks, caught off guard by how close he had come to being outmaneuvered. He narrowed his eyes, the sudden realization dawning on him.

"It's over here," Kurapika stated, his tone matter-of-fact, as if he had been anticipating this exact moment.

Chrollo, though slightly unnerved, couldn’t hide the surprise from his face. He nodded silently, then followed Kurapika’s lead toward the hose. Despite his earlier annoyance, he couldn’t help but feel a small spark of curiosity towards Kurapika. What was it about Kurapika that kept him on edge, yet strangely intrigued?

Chrollo stood under the cold stream of water, letting it run over his body. The sensation was sharp and invigorating, yet his mind remained elsewhere, lost in a mix of confusion and something else—something unfamiliar. The water was a stark contrast to the warmth the sun, and the steady presence of Kurapika just beyond his sight.

The water, now warmer against his skin, mixed with the faint scent of soap. The shampoo Kurapika had thrown at him wasn’t anything special, but it was enough. The thought of Kurapika, standing just outside the barn, watching him wash, made Chrollo’s brow furrow in irritation. How had he gotten so comfortable with this situation?

How had he gotten so comfortable with Kurapika?

As Chrollo finished rinsing, he grabbed the towel Kurapika had left for him. It was rough and scratchy, the fabric unkind against his skin, but it did the job. He wiped himself down quickly, not bothering to be gentle. His thoughts returned to the previous night, to the awkward quiet between them after they had settled into the barn.

As he finished drying off, he noticed Kurapika still hadn’t moved from his position by the corner of the barn. The blonde had been waiting, sitting on top of the overgrown grass. His eyes were focused on something in the distance—his arms hugging his legs together.

He looked so young and tiny from this angle, it looked nothing like the chain user he was so used to hearing about. Chrollo couldn’t help but stare at him, his mind still reeling from the night before. There was so much he didn’t understand about the chain user.

Chrollo stood there for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on Kurapika’s figure. There was something disarming about him—his fragile appearance, the way he carried himself with such intensity, like a coil wound too tight. It made Chrollo question everything he thought he knew about him. The man who had once been nothing more than a name, nothing more than a survivor to a tradegy caused by his own hands, now felt different. Vulnerable, even. The way Kurapika held himself now wasn’t the way Chrollo had expected—there was no air of invincibility, no pride in his posture.

Instead, he was just a person .

When Kurapika’s voice cut through the air, it snapped Chrollo back into the present.

"Grab me the baskets I left near your bed."

Chapter Text

Chrollo blinked, a frown pulling at his lips. The intensity in Kurapika’s eyes wasn’t lost on him. There was no room for negotiation, no hesitation to his demand. And though it was clear Kurapika was trying to hide his own discomfort, the way his voice shook slightly betrayed the underlying tension he felt. Within his pride, there was a crack in his usual composure.

Without a word, Chrollo grumbled in annoyance, though the action felt strangely natural. He walked over to the corner of the barn where he had slept earlier and spotted the baskets. They were simple, woven baskets—nothing extravagant, but still functional. The kind of thing that suggested someone had made them with care. Chrollo reached for them, his fingers brushing against the rough edges as he hefted them up, their weight surprisingly heavy for something so small.

He carried the baskets back toward Kurapika, who now stood in the same spot, his leaned against the barn's wood, his usual gaze seemingly returned. Chrollo’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary, his thoughts swirling with unspoken questions. Both had silently agreed for them to go unspoken.

"Here," Chrollo said, his voice low and steady, betraying none of the thoughts swirling inside him. He watched Kurapika take the baskets, his movements precise.

Kurapika took the baskets without a word, his expression stoic. He didn’t thank Chrollo, didn’t acknowledge the gesture in any way. But Chrollo didn’t expect him to

"Where are you taking me?" Chrollo grinned, swinging the mood around them.

"I'm going to go pick strawberries." Kurapika retorted back to their usual banter, seemingly forgetting about their fight.

Chrollo understood it would be for the better if everything went unsaid. "They grown strawberries around here?"

"Yes now hurry up before it gets too dark." He turned on his heel and began paving the way left.

"Wait—Are we coming back to feed them?" He pointed at the barn with his eyes.

Kurapika raised an eyebrow at Chrollo's fast attachment to the animals. "The lady's back home already, she'll take care of them just fine." Kurapika turned his back.

"My clothes?"

"Are you going to keep asking me questions or are you coming?" Kurapika growled, clearly impatient with the amount of questions he was being asked.

Chrollo chuckled, the playful glint in his eyes not fading. He couldn’t help himself—Kurapika’s frustration, despite his usual cool demeanor, was oddly amusing. “Alright, alright. I’m coming,” he said, stretching out the words with exaggerated reluctance.

“Yes,” Kurapika replied curtly, his pace never slowing. “They're a bit out of season, but there are still a few left. You’ll see.” He glanced over his shoulder briefly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t tell me you’ve never picked strawberries before.”

Chrollo raised an eyebrow. “I’ve picked my fair share of things, but I can’t say I’ve ever been this invested in strawberries.” His tone was teasing, but there was a glimmer of something else in his eyes, a deeper curiosity about this side of Kurapika that he hadn’t expected.

The two walked in comfortable silence for a while, the path leading them further from the barn and into the woods. The landscape was peaceful, with the trees around them standing tall and serene. Chrollo noticed the faint chirping of birds, the rustle of leaves underfoot, and the distant hum of insects. It was strange how calm it all felt, as if the world had paused for a moment.

Finally, they arrived at a small patch of land, nestled in a clearing. A modest strawberry patch spread before them, the rows of plants lined up in neat, organized rows. The strawberries that remained were ripe and red, dotted here and there among the green leaves.

Kurapika crouched down without a word, starting to carefully pick the ripest strawberries, his hands moving with practiced ease. Chrollo watched for a moment before following suit, bending down in-front of Kurapika to pluck a few berries from the plants. He noticed how delicate Kurapika’s movements were, how focused he was, and for the first time in a long while, Chrollo felt a sense of quiet contentment settle over him.

“Don’t take too many,” Kurapika suddenly said, breaking the silence. “We need them for later.” His voice was as sharp as ever.

Chrollo smirked. “I’ll take as many as I want. You never said there were limits.” His playful tone back in full force.

Kurapika shot him a glare but didn’t say anything else. Instead, he returned to his task, his fingers gently brushing the strawberries free from their vines and placing them in a basket at his side.

“Didn’t expect you to actually pick strawberries,” Chrollo said, breaking the silence, his voice low but amused.

Kurapika glanced over the plant, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And what did you expect? That I’d just stand there and let you do everything?” He said with genuine offense.

“No, but I figured you’d find a way to make it more difficult than it needed to be.” Chrollo grinned, continuing to pick off the reddest strawberries he could find.

Kurapika didn’t respond immediately, instead choosing to gather the strawberries into the baskets, his fingers quick and efficient. It was almost as though he was lost in thought, his mind somewhere else. Chrollo observed him quietly, noting how different he seemed in these moments of solitude, away from the burdens of his past and his duties.

“So,” Chrollo started, his voice softening as he leaned closer, “you never really told me much about why you do this. Taking care of it, feeding the animals. Seems like a lot of work for someone who is stuck in revenge.”

Kurapika paused, his hands stilling as he placed another strawberry into the basket. He didn’t look up, but Chrollo could see the subtle shift in his posture, the way his shoulders tightened ever so slightly.

“It’s... something to do,” Kurapika said finally, his voice quiet, almost reflective. “It keeps me busy. And it’s... it’s not so bad, taking care of them. The animals, I mean. They don’t ask for much. Just food, water, and care. In return, they’re loyal. They don’t judge you, and they don’t want anything from you.” He paused, glancing over at Chrollo. “Not like people.”

Chrollo didn’t say anything at first, letting Kurapika’s words settle between them. It was obvious those jabs were directed at him for the annihilation the Kurta clan, but there was something raw in his dialogue. Something he hadn’t expected to hear from someone like Kurapika, who usually kept everything locked tight.

“I didn’t know you cared so much about animals,” Chrollo said, his tone thoughtful

"They're simple. They don’t carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. They just... live. And sometimes, that’s all I want to do. Just live.”

Chrollo’s gaze softened, a strange feeling settling in his chest. He had never seen this side of Kurapika before—the vulnerable, almost lost side. It felt too forbidden and almost sinful for Chrollo to hear this. Chrollo was the one who made him into who he is today, he was the pure reason why Kurapika sought for any revenge.

He's never felt bad for the people who avenge their lost ones, nor for those who try to take down the group. Trust him, he's encountered plenty. They all shared the same desperate fire, the same thirst for revenge. Yet, none of them had been able to make him feel any sort of pang of sympathy. To Chrollo, it was always the same—a fool's mission, a lost cause. They could scream and rage, fight and burn, but none of them could reach him. He had seen them all break, seen them all fail, and in the end, they all fell to the same fate.

But Kurapika? Kurapika was different. There was something about him that lingered, something about the weight of his pain that made Chrollo pause. In all his years, he had never encountered someone whose sorrow felt so raw, so visceral. And in that moment, they were just two people, standing there picking strawberries. They were just two people, standing on common ground, for the first time in what felt like forever.

"I—I don't know why I'm telling you this," Kurapika's voice faltered, but he continued, his words carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. "You've ruined my life, Chrollo. You've made it a living hell."

The words were heavy, more of a statement than a confession. Despite the cracks in his voice, despite the faint tremor that ran through his hands as he picked the fruit, Kurapika’s expression remained impassive. He had long ago learned to hide his emotions, to bury them deep where they couldn’t reach the surface. But Chrollo could see the truth in his eyes.

This wasn’t just about vengeance. This was about something far deeper. Something that Chrollo knew he would never truly understand, no matter how much he tried.

"You killed me that day," Kurapika continued, his voice flat, yet the anger simmered just beneath the surface. "I am now a former shell of that boy. You ripped him out of my grasp and killed him. You killed him and I'll never get him back."

The words struck Chrollo like a physical blow, sharper than any blade could be. The cruel reality of what he had done settled in his chest, tightening with each passing second. He could feel the weight of Kurapika’s words, heavy and suffocating

Chrollo said nothing. He didn’t need to. It was true. He had killed Kurapika. Not physically, not in the traditional sense, but the boy that Kurapika had been—the one who had dreams, hopes, and a future—had died that day. And it was Chrollo who had pulled the trigger. He had no defense. No excuse. The truth was as simple as that.

Kurapika’s gaze darkened as he looked at the strawberries, the red hues of the fruit growing more vivid in his mind, more intense. His grip tightened around the basket as his breathing quickened. He was holding back his fury, his rage, but Chrollo could see it. The fire burning just beneath the surface, scarlet seeping into his brown eyes.

Chrollo wanted to say something, anything, but the words caught in his throat. He had no idea how to respond. What could he possibly say to a man whose life he had destroyed? What could he offer that would make up for the years of suffering, the bloodshed, the endless grief? There was nothing. No words that could undo the damage he had caused. And in that silence, Chrollo’s own guilt festered, raw and unrelenting.

But then, before Chrollo could even begin to formulate a response, Kurapika’s voice broke through again, cutting through the heavy silence

"You ask too many questions," Kurapika said, his tone sharp, yet there was a flicker of something else in his eyes. Something like determination. "I think it's only fair if I ask some."

Chrollo’s gaze flickered down to the strawberries once more, his mind elsewhere, his eyes inspecting the fruit absentmindedly. He nodded sheepishly, not wanting to push Kurapika any further. He had asked enough questions for one day.

"How did you find me?" Kurapika’s eyes were piercing, and his words held an edge that made Chrollo’s stomach tighten. There was no escape now. He would have to answer.

Chrollo hesitated for a moment, his mind racing as he searched for the right words. "Nen," he finally said, his voice steady but quiet.

Kurapika paused, confusion flickering across his face. "What?"

"Nen," Chrollo repeated, his voice a little more matter-of-fact. "I have an ability. It’s a way of matching with your perfect partner."

Kurapika blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Perfect partner?" His voice cracked slightly, and there was a hint of desperation clawing its way out of his throat.

Chrollo didn’t miss it. He saw the flicker of fear in Kurapika’s eyes, the realization settling in that there was more to this than he had originally thought.

"I needed someone with the best ability to help me defeat Hisoka," Chrollo continued, his tone flat. There was no need to sugarcoat it. The truth was what it was.

The weight of his words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Kurapika’s expression faltered for a moment, his hands stilling as he processed the information. He didn’t say anything for a long while, and the silence stretched between them, thick with tension. Chrollo could feel it too, the unspoken understanding that had always existed between them, the knowledge that there was no going back from here.

Kurapika’s fingers twitched, the basket in his hands now feeling like an anchor. The air between them was thick with all the things that had been left unsaid for so long. Chrollo could see the struggle to remain composed, to keep his rage from spilling over.

The silence stretched on, suffocating, as the evening light began to dim. The last traces of the sun flickered through the trees, casting long shadows across the ground. For a moment, Kurapika just stood there, his eyes cast down at the strawberries, the ripened red fruit seemingly mocking him.

Chrollo could see the clenching of his jaw, the tension building in his shoulders. He knew that Kurapika was trying to process everything, trying to come to terms with the harsh truth that Chrollo had laid bare. There was no hiding from it now.

Kurapika scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “You didn’t want to hurt me? You killed my family, Chrollo. You took everything from me.”

Chrollo’s throat tightened, but he remained silent. What could he say to that? There was nothing he could say that would make the pain go away, nothing that would erase the damage he had caused. All he could do was listen, and even that felt inadequate.

Kurapika continued, his voice breaking. “I had a family. I had a future. And you… you took it all from me. You didn’t just kill my people. You killed the person I was. And I can never get him back.”

The words hit Chrollo like a physical blow, each one sinking deep into his chest. The weight of them was crushing. He could see the brokenness in Kurapika’s eyes, the hollow ache that he had carried with him all these years. An ache that mirrored his. He knew how'd it felt to be stripped away from something you love. He knew the pain and burden, followed by the fury and anger. He knew it all too well, it's what shaped his cruelty into what it was today.

“I don’t want your apology,” Kurapika said, his voice low and steady, eyes glued onto the grass beneath his boots. “It won’t bring them back. It won’t undo what you’ve done.”

Chrollo nodded slowly, accepting the truth of those words. “I know.”

They stood in silence again, the weight of everything hanging in the air. Some rays of the sun painted purple and pink hues across the sky, leaving them in the soft glow of the sunset. Kurapika’s hand tightened around the basket of strawberries, his fingers still trembling slightly.

“Hate me,” Chrollo said, looking up to interlock eyes with Kurapika. “You should hate me. You have every right to.”

Kurapika looked at him then, his expression unreadable. “Maybe. But I don’t know if that will ever be enough.”

The words hung in the air, unanswered, as Kurapika turned and began walking back toward the house. The sun finally setting above the horizon, dark blue hues replacing the purples and pinks. Chrollo followed him, the weight of their conversation still heavy on his chest.

Once Kurapika's humble abode came into view, a sense of relief washed over him. The familiar sight of his small, simple house felt like a safe haven after today. His limbs ached from the hours of labor, both physical and emotional, and all he could think about was rest. The weight of the conversation with Chrollo still lingered in his chest, but for the moment, it was pushed to the back of his mind. The warmth of his home, the quiet, the solitude—it was all he needed.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his keys, his fingers stiff and numb from the chill in the air. With a quick twist, he unlocked the door, the soft click of the lock echoing in the stillness of the evening. As he stepped inside, the familiar smell of wood and warmth enveloped him, a comfort that only his home could provide. The dim light from a single lamp cast a soft glow over the room, and for a moment, he allowed himself to stand there, breathing it all in.

The night air was crisp as Kurapika unlocked the door, the faint click of the lock echoing in the silence between them. He didn’t look at Chrollo again, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a response. His body ached, both from the weight of their conversation and the physical exhaustion that had been building over the last few days. But as he stepped inside, the familiar warmth of his small home wrapped around him, and he let out a sigh of relief.

Chrollo, on the other hand, made no move to enter the house. His eyes lingered on Kurapika's back for a moment, but when Kurapika gave him that dismissive gesture, Chrollo simply nodded and made his way to the swing. The motion of his feet against the ground was languid, as if he had no intention of going anywhere anytime soon. The swing creaked slightly under his weight as he settled, eyes half-lidded as he stared out at the star-filled sky

Kurapika closed the door behind him with a soft click. He leaned against the door for a moment, shutting his eyes to block out the weight of everything. His mind replayed their conversation. It was strange, Kurapika thought. All this time, he had hated Chrollo with everything he had. And now, with the raw truth between them, he wasn’t sure how to feel.

The soft creak of the swing outside reached his ears, pulling him back to the present. He took a deep breath, rubbing a hand over his face. The house was quiet, the only sound the soft rustling of the wind outside.

Kurapika moved to the kitchen, pulling out a glass and filling it with water. The coldness of it did nothing to cool the heat still simmering in his chest. As he drank, his thoughts drifted back to Chrollo. His words had been raw, unfiltered, but the man’s usual smugness had been absent. In its place was something softer. Something that Kurapika didn’t know how to handle. He had always been able to categorize Chrollo—an enemy, a monster, a murderer—but now? Now he was something more complicated.

He'd become more human .

Kurapika shook his head. He couldn’t afford to let himself humanize Chrollo. He couldn’t afford to forget what Chrollo had done. What he had taken from him. The boy who had been killed, the family that was gone. The life he had once dreamed of, shattered beyond recognition.

Kurapika set the glass down with a soft thud and moved to the window. He kneeled on the sofa to peek through the curtains, just enough to see Chrollo sitting on the swing, his posture slouched in a way that made him look even more vulnerable than usual. His face was tilted upward, as if he were contemplating something too deep for words.

For a moment, Kurapika wondered what Chrollo was thinking. Was he feeling guilt?

Regret?

But then, just as quickly, the thought was gone. It didn’t matter.

He had better things to focus on.

Kurapika turned away from the window and made his way upstairs, the fatigue of the day finally catching up to him. He collapsed into bed, pulling the covers up over his head as though they could shield him from the weight of his thoughts. Sleep came slowly, as it always did, but when it finally took him, it was a deep, dreamless rest.

Meanwhile, outside, Chrollo remained on the swing, staring at the stars. The cool night air washed over him, the quiet serenity of the moment offering him a strange sense of peace. But the words Kurapika had spoken echoed in his mind, and the silence around him felt amplified.

For now, though, he remained on the swing, lost in thought, the night stretching endlessly before him.

Chapter Text

The morning greeted Kurapika not with the golden hues of the morning sunlight he'd come accustomed to, but with a sky blanketed in heavy, grey clouds. They loomed low, stretching across the horizon, holding weight that promised no rain, only a gloom. It matched the way he felt perfectly—muted and drained.

He stared up at the ceiling, the rough wooden beams above seeming more distant than ever. His body felt heavy, his mind sluggish. The thought of facing the day, let alone dealing with Chrollo, made his chest tighten with a familiar ache. He didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to see him. Not yet. Not when the weight of everything still sat so firmly on his shoulders.

Dragging himself out of bed, he made his way to the bathroom. The cold tiles under his bare feet jolted him awake slightly, though not enough to chase away the numbness that had settled over him. He turned on the shower, setting the water to icy cold. When it hit his skin, it was like a thousand needles piercing him at once, the chill so sharp it almost burned. He welcomed it. The shock of the cold was better than the suffocating weight of his thoughts.

Minutes passed, and he finally stepped out, water dripping from his hair and pooling around his feet. He didn’t bother wrapping himself in the towel immediately, instead standing there, letting the cold air of his bedroom cling to his damp skin. His reflection in the fogged-up mirror was as tired as he felt—hollow eyes, pale complexion, and a slight tremble in his hands. He shook his head and grabbed the nearest set of clothes he could find in his near-empty drawers. A simple tank top and an old pair of pajama pants hung loosely on his frame. He really needed to buy new clothes. The thought was fleeting, gone as quickly as it came.

Kurapika stepped back into the bathroom, searching through the clutter for his hairdryer. He searched through the drawers and cabinets, only to come up empty-handed. His patience, already thin, snapped with a frustrated sigh. 

"Forget it," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his damp hair. It could dry on its own.

The stairs creaked softly under his weight as he made his way down to the main floor. His gaze flickered toward the small window beside the front door, and an idea struck him. I should check on Chrollo. The thought was begrudging, more out of duty than genuine concern. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to find Chrollo there or not.

Peeking through the thin curtain of the window, Kurapika froze. The swing where Chrollo had been sleeping was empty. The makeshift bed of hay and blankets was still there, but the man himself was gone. His heart stuttered for a moment, a cold spike of panic shooting through him before logic took over. Maybe he’s finally left. Maybe he’s gone for good.

The thought should have brought relief. It didn’t. Instead, an unsettling mix of emotions churned in his chest—relief, anger, confusion, and something he couldn’t quite name. Shaking his head, he tried to convince himself it was for the best. Good riddance. Let him leave. I don’t need him here, anyway.

Still, a restless energy lingered in his veins. He reached for the pack of cigarettes and lighter sitting on the small shelf near the door. The pack was worn, the edges frayed from being shoved into pockets and tossed onto countertops. He slipped one between his fingers and stepped outside, letting the cold morning air wash over him.

The swing creaked slightly as he sat down, the wood familiar beneath him. He lit the cigarette, the flicker of the flame bright against the dull backdrop of the grey sky. Bringing it to his lips, he inhaled deeply, letting the burn of the smoke fill his lungs and claw its way down his throat. The sensation grounded him, if only for a moment.

He leaned back against the swing, one arm wrapped around his legs while the other nursed the cigarette. The smoke curled into the air, dissipating quickly in the cool breeze. The swing rocked gently with his movements, a rhythmic creak accompanying the stillness of the morning. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply exist in the quiet, letting the grey sky and the faint taste of nicotine dull the edges of his thoughts.

He took another long drag, the burn in his throat keeping him grounded. It was a small comfort, one that felt familiar amidst his emotions. He leaned back, letting his head rest against the worn wooden slats. His hair, still damp from the shower, clung to his skin in cold strands.

He hadn’t expected to feel anything when he realized Chrollo was gone. The small jolt of panic that had struck his chest caught him off guard. It wasn’t like he needed Chrollo around. Hell, his life would be infinitely easier without him lurking in the background, poking at old wounds. Yet, there was something unsettling about the sudden absence.

Kurapika exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it dissolve into the air. Maybe it was the lack of closure, or maybe it was the fact that Chrollo’s presence, as much as it irritated him, had become something of a constant. A maddening, unshakable constant. And now, he was left alone with his thoughts, with no one to deflect them onto.

He’s gone. Let it be. Let him stay gone.

The cigarette burned down to its halfway point, and Kurapika let his gaze wander across the field. Everything seemed too still, too quiet. His chest tightened at the thought of being left alone with this silence for too long.

Just as he was about to take another drag, he caught movement in the distance. A figure emerged from the edge of the property. 

Chrollo.

Kurapika’s grip on the swing tightened, his knuckles whitening. He told himself he wasn’t relieved, that he didn’t care. But the truth was harder to swallow. The sight of Chrollo, with his usual calm, unhurried stride, stirred something he couldn’t name.

Relief.

Chrollo approached slowly, his hands in his pockets, as if he hadn’t just disappeared without a word. His face was as unreadable as ever, though his gaze softened slightly when it landed on Kurapika.

“I thought you’d still be asleep,” Chrollo said, his voice low and smooth, breaking the silence between them.

Kurapika didn’t respond immediately. He took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke in Chrollo’s direction as if to create a barrier between them. “Where were you?” he asked flatly, his tone devoid of the concern he refused to admit he felt.

Chrollo stopped a few feet away, tilting his head slightly. “I went for a walk. I didn’t think you’d miss me.”

Kurapika scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter. “You'd wish. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t off causing trouble.”

Chrollo’s lips curved into a faint smile, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he gestured toward the cigarette in Kurapika’s hand. “I didn’t take you for a smoker.”

Kurapika flicked the ash onto the ground, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Chrollo nodded, accepting the statement without argument. He took a step closer, his gaze fixed on Kurapika, who still refused to look directly at him. “Maybe not. But I’d like to.”

The words hung in the air, soft yet weighted, and Kurapika felt his chest tighten again. He didn’t know if it was anger, discomfort, or something far more dangerous. He wanted to lash out, to push Chrollo away, to remind him that they were enemies and always would be. But instead, he took another drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke fill the silence between them.

“Don’t,” Kurapika said finally, his voice low but firm. “Don’t act like this is something it’s not.”

Chrollo didn’t respond immediately. He simply stood there, watching Kurapika with an expression that was maddeningly calm. “I’m not acting,” he said quietly.

Kurapika clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the cigarette. He didn’t have the energy for this, not now. Not after everything. He stood abruptly, the swing creaking in protest, and stomped out the cigarette on the ground. Without another word, he turned and walked back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

God, why did he have to be so infuriating? Kurapika's hands clenched into fists, trembling with frustration, before he gave in and yanked at his own hair. The dull ache of his tugging did little to soothe the simmering rage boiling beneath his skin. Hurting himself wouldn’t solve anything. Hurting him wouldn’t solve anything either. It wouldn’t make Chrollo go away. It wouldn’t make anything go away.

With a sharp exhale, Kurapika released his hair, his fingers trembling as they fell to his sides. He needed a distraction, something to drown out the noise in his head. Breakfast. That was something simple, something mundane. He stalked toward the kitchen, his steps deliberate and heavy as if grounding himself with each one.

His back was to the rest of the house, searching through cabinets for cereals. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to believe he was alone.

Chrollo had other plans.

Slipping past Kurapika like a shadow, Chrollo treaded lightly down the hallway, peeking his head into various rooms in search of the laundry room. It didn’t take him long to find it, tucked at the end of the hallway. The small space was cramped, with a single machine and a shelf stocked haphazardly with detergent and other cleaning supplies. Chrollo wasted no time slipping out of his damp shirt and tossing it, along with the rest of his clothes, into the washing machine.

Just as he reached for the controls, a sudden, unyielding force constricted his body. The unmistakable sensation of chains wrapping around him made his movements halt instantly. He glanced over his shoulder to find Kurapika standing in the doorway, his wet hair plastered to his neck and framing his face. His eyes were alight with fury, his voice low and biting.

“What do you think I mean when I say out?” Kurapika growled, his tone sharp enough to cut through steel.

Chrollo’s grin was wide and unapologetic, his expression infuriatingly casual. “Woops,” he said, as though he hadn’t just been caught red-handed.

Kurapika’s response was swift and unforgiving. Without hesitation, he slapped Chrollo across the cheek, the sound echoing sharply in the small room. Chrollo’s head snapped to the side, but his grin didn’t falter, even as a red mark began to bloom on his pale skin.

“Don’t ever fucking sneak in again,” Kurapika spat, his voice dripping with venom.

Ignoring the stinging pain radiating from his cheek, Chrollo allowed himself to be yanked out of the cramped laundry room. The chains biting into his skin as Kurapika shoved him forward, across the hall towards the entrance, with an unyielding force. Propelling him onto the swing on the porch. He sank onto the swing with practiced nonchalance, his posture relaxed, as if he hadn’t just been manhandled out of the house.

“I had to clean my clothes,” Chrollo remarked flatly, his tone betraying neither irritation nor apology. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the kind of calm that only served to further stoke Kurapika’s simmering irritation.

Kurapika spun on his heel, his back rigid as he headed back inside. “I would’ve cleaned them,” he snapped over his shoulder.

Chrollo’s voice followed him, calm and infuriatingly amused. “You would’ve burned my coat in a heartbeat.”

Kurapika paused for only a second, his fingers tightening briefly on the doorknob before he spun around to face him. "The only thing you’ve gotten correct about me,” he called, his voice carrying a sharp edge of truth.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and disappeared back into the house, the screen door creaking slightly as it swung shut behind him.

For a moment, the porch fell silent save for the faint rustle of the wind through the trees and the soft creak of the swing beneath Chrollo. He leaned back, his bound hands resting lightly in his lap, the faint sting in his cheek a reminder of Kurapika’s unrelenting hostility. The chains around his wrists glinted faintly in the morning light, the cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth of the sun.

Minutes later, the door groaned open once more, and Kurapika emerged onto the porch. This time, he carried a bowl in his hands, the faint clink of the spoon against the ceramic breaking the quiet. Without sparing Chrollo so much as a glance, he stepped forward, his movements measured and deliberate. He placed the bowl in Chrollo’s lap with a sharp, calculated motion before retreating to the other end of the porch.

Chrollo’s gaze shifted down to the bowl now resting in his lap, then back to Kurapika, who had seated himself on the steps. “Eat,” Kurapika said, his voice devoid of any warmth.

Chrollo tilted his head, the corner of his lips curling upward. “I thought you said you wouldn't feed me?,” he replied.

Kurapika’s glare was brief but sharp, a warning in its own right. "I’d rather not have a corpse rotting on my porch,” he snapped, his words carrying a finality that left no room for argument. 

Chrollo allowed his smile to linger, though it never quite reached his eyes. He glanced back down at the bowl of cereal, a simple meal. The hunger gnawing at his stomach won out, and he picked up the spoon, the chains around his wrists dissolving into nothingness as Kurapika’s nen released him.

The food was a welcome distraction, but it did little to ease the restlessness brewing within him. His mind drifted back to the troupe, the spiders he had left behind. The image of them—fractured, vulnerable scattered without him—haunted the edges of his thoughts. Gnawing uncertainty of their fate clawed at him, but he refused to let it show. He had to trust them. They were strong, skilled, and resourceful. They could hold their own, even against Hisoka. He repeated this to himself, willing himself to believe it.

But the truth was far more complicated. Chrollo wasn’t just their leader, he was their friend. And while the spiders might pledge their loyalty to the spider, he knew many of them were bound to him, not the ideal he represented. It was a weight he carried silently, a responsibility he never spoke of but always felt. He hated the distance between them now, the inability to protect them directly. It was a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge.

He let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening slightly around the bowl. He wouldn’t let his thoughts spiral any further. There was no room for fear or doubt. Hisoka was unpredictable, yes, but the troupe was a force to be reckoned with. They were survivors. They would endure.

Chrollo’s gaze lifted, his eyes drifting toward the horizon as he tried to focus on the gentle sway of the trees in the distance. The faint sound of Kurapika moving around inside the house reached his ears, grounding him in the present.

Kurapika opened the cabinet with a sharp pull, retrieving a second bowl with the same calculated precision he applied to everything else. The idea of feeding Chrollo had grated against him from the start, a concept he had fought tooth and nail in his mind. It felt like a surrender, a small but significant crack in his resolve. Chrollo was supposed to earn his keep, suffer for the inconvenience of his presence. But after the laundry room stunt and the pang of annoyance it brought, Kurapika decided otherwise. If giving Chrollo the bare necessities kept him out of his way, then so be it.

He poured the cereal with quick, efficient movements, the sound of the flakes hitting the bowl oddly loud in the quiet kitchen. When he reached for the milk, his eyes caught on the small ice pack left abandoned on the counter. It was meant for Chrollo’s bruised cheek—a gesture Kurapika had initially dismissed as unnecessary. But now, standing there with the milk carton in hand, his gaze lingered on the ice pack longer than he intended.

His lips pressed into a thin line as he picked it up, the cold surface numbing his fingertips. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before turning to the freezer. With a sharp motion, he tossed the ice pack inside and slammed the door shut. He doesn’t need it, Kurapika thought, trying to shake the unwelcome twinge of guilt that lingered at the edges of his mind. He could handle a little pain.

He finished preparing his cereal quickly, his movements stiff. As much as he hated to admit it, Kurapika had been relying on his chains less and less lately. There was a time when he wouldn’t have hesitated to use them to bind, punish, or even heal. But now, he found himself pulling back, choosing mundane methods over the ever-present weight of nen chains controlling his every move. It felt liberating in a way, but also disconcerting. He had always been defined by his vengeance, his chains. What was left of him without them?

Shaking the thought away, Kurapika grabbed the second bowl and headed toward the back porch. Sliding the screen door open, he stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The soft hum of cicadas and the rustling of leaves greeted him, the calm opposed with the irritation that churned in his chest. He placed the bowl on one of the small glass tables and unfolded a chair for himself with a quick snap.

Kurapika sat down stiffly, the chair creaking faintly under his weight. He leaned back, resting his bowl on his lap as he stared out at the expanse of trees surrounding the house. His brows furrowed as he picked at his cereal absentmindedly. I’ve been getting too soft with him, he thought, his jaw tightening. It wasn’t just the food, the medkits, or the fact that he hadn’t retaliated as harshly as he should have for Chrollo’s constant boundary-pushing. It was the subtle shifts, the fleeting moments of tolerance.

Kurapika hated it. He hated how easily Chrollo had begun to worm his way into his space, his routine. It felt like a slow erosion of the walls he had so carefully built, and he wasn’t sure if it was anger or something else entirely that made his chest tighten at the thought. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. He had to reassert control, to remind himself—and Chrollo—of the lines that shouldn't be crossed.

As the wind brushed past him, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and earth, Kurapika let out a slow breath. His grip on the bowl tightened slightly. No more leniency, he decided, his resolve hardening.

Once Kurapika’s faint silhouette through the lace curtains dissolved into the blur of the outside world, Chrollo saw his chance. The itch of curiosity gnawed at him, persistent and impossible to ignore. The house, though modest and unadorned, held an intrigue of its own. There was something revealing about the spaces people occupied, and Chrollo was eager to uncover the small, telling details Kurapika might not even realize he left behind.

With a practiced silence, he turned the doorknob, careful to avoid any sound that might alert Kurapika to his intrusion. He stepped inside, his footsteps light against the oak floor. The house greeted him with a stark simplicity. The white walls stretched blankly toward the ceiling, broken only by a few generic paintings hung without much thought or care. A staircase with matching white railings led to the second floor, its presence commanding yet unremarkable. The absence of personal touches was unsurprising. Chrollo doubted Kurapika had much time—or inclination—to fuss over home decor.

He allowed his gaze to wander, taking in the space with calculated curiosity. To his right, an open dining area seamlessly connected to the kitchen. From a small window above the sink, Chrollo could just make out a glimpse of Kurapika’s golden hair. The blond was seated on the back porch, likely lost in thought or consumed by the silence of the morning.

Chrollo smirked to himself. He had no intention of disturbing Kurapika just yet. There was more to see.

He turned left, stepping into the living room. It wasn’t large, but it was cozy in its own way. The walls alternated between white and a deep, rich forest green, a color that seemed almost out of place in an otherwise neutral house.

Two of the walls were dominated by towering bookshelves, their dark wood stretching almost to the ceiling. The shelves were packed with an assortment of books, their spines worn and their genres varied.

In the center of the room, a square wooden table sat as the focal point. The table bore a collection of candles, their wax long melted and frozen down their sides. Surrounding it were several couches arranged in a way that they were angled towards the fireplace that loomed grandly against one wall. 

The corners of the room were dotted with tall lamps and thriving plants, their green leaves catching the faint streams of sunlight filtering through the windows. The plants, oddly healthy and vibrant, suggested that Kurapika made time to care for these plants.

Above him, a chandelier hung motionless, its delicate crystals catching the light in tiny bursts. The space was far more curated than the rest of the house, as if this was the one room where Kurapika allowed himself a measure of comfort.

Chrollo’s attention was drawn to the bookshelves. His fingers itched to skim their contents, to learn what stories or knowledge had caught Kurapika’s interest enough to keep them close. He approached the nearest shelf, his footsteps silent on the floor, and began scanning the spines. Titles leaped out at him—some familiar, some foreign. He spotted texts on philosophy, law, and strategy, nestled alongside literature that spoke of vengeance, morality, and loss.

Skimming through the rows of books, Chrollo noticed an odd but undeniable overlap between their literary preferences. Many of the titles spoke to themes of morality, justice, and the fine line between hero and villain. He reached out, his fingers brushing over the spine of a particular book. The gold-embossed letters on the worn cover read A Tale of Two Cities. A faint smile ghosted across his lips as he pulled the book from the shelf.

He opened it with care, his fingers delicately flipping through the brittle pages. He barely had time to savor the poetry of the words before a familiar voice shattered the quiet.

"Chrollo."

The single word, sharp and commanding, echoed through the room. Chrollo didn’t flinch but felt the weight of it settle over him like a heavy cloak. Slowly, he turned to face the source. Kurapika stood at the opposite end of the room, his arms crossed and his gaze unwavering. His golden hair, now dry, had curled slightly at the ends, softening his otherwise rigid appearance. His eyes, though lacking their fiery scarlet hue, were no less piercing.

Chrollo offered a faint smile, undeterred by the tension radiating from the blond. “Big fan of Charles?” he asked, his tone casual as he returned his attention to the book in his hands.

Kurapika’s footsteps echoed against the oak floor as he made his way across the room, his every movement deliberate and controlled. He stopped beside Chrollo, close enough for his presence to feel oppressive but not quite touching. “Get out of my house,” he said, his voice low but laced with unmistakable authority.

Chrollo tilted his head slightly, feigning curiosity as he glanced up from the book. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said, his voice smooth, almost teasing. He turned another page, his gaze lingering on the words even as he felt Kurapika’s growing irritation beside him.

Kurapika reached out, snatching the book from Chrollo’s hands with an almost vicious speed. The action was followed by a loud snap as the book closed, the sound reverberating through the room. “I said,” Kurapika repeated, his voice cold, “get out.”

Chrollo’s smile widened, a glint of amusement sparking in his dark eyes. “You know,” he began, leaning back slightly against the bookshelf, “you and I share more similarities than you’d like to admit. Our choice in literature, for instance.” He gestured toward the book now clutched in Kurapika’s hand. “Dickens. A man who wrote about sacrifice, duality, and redemption. Rather fitting, don’t you think?”

Chrollo didn’t move. He stood in front of the bookshelf, letting his fingers graze the spines of the neatly arranged books.

“I have to say, your collection is, unexpected to say the least,” Chrollo remarked, his tone light but tinged with curiosity. He plucked another book from the shelf, this one bound in deep green leather. Crime and Punishment. His fingers brushed the embossed title as he glanced back at Kurapika, clearly reluctant to engage but equally unwilling to ignore him.

Kurapika exhaled sharply, his patience wearing thin. “You’re still here,” he said, his voice low and clipped.

Chrollo turned the book over in his hands, as if he hadn’t heard Kurapika’s comment. “Dostoevsky,” he said, almost to himself. “A man who understood the weight of guilt and the lengths one would go to for redemption. Do you see yourself in this one, Kurapika?”

Kurapika stiffened, still facing Chrollo. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Lucilfer,” he warned, his tone biting.

Chrollo’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I’m merely making observations,” he said smoothly. He returned Crime and Punishment to its place on the shelf and reached for another title. 

The Count of Monte Cristo. His expression shifted, a glimmer of recognition sparking in his eyes. “Ah, now this one,” he murmured, “this one feels personal.”

Kurapika turned sharply at that, his eyes narrowing. “What are you implying?” he asked, crossing his arms.

Chrollo held up the book, the cover facing Kurapika. “A man consumed by revenge,” he said simply, his tone devoid of mockery. “You must have felt a connection to Dantès. His relentless pursuit of justice, or vengeance, depending on one’s perspective.”

Kurapika snatched the book from Chrollo’s hands, his grip firm. “I don’t need you to narrate my life,” he snapped, his voice sharp. “You don’t know me.”

Chrollo’s gaze didn’t waver. “Don’t I?” he asked softly, his voice laced with something unreadable. “You think you’re unique in your pain, but the themes of your life are written all over these shelves. Sacrifice. Loss. Justice. They’re universal. You just happen to embody them more vividly.”

Kurapika’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling around the edges of the book. He wanted to throw it at Chrollo, to wipe that calm, knowing expression off his face. But instead, he turned his attention to the book in his hands, his eyes skimming the cover.

Chrollo watched him closely, his gaze softening. “You chose these stories for a reason,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “They resonate with you. They remind you of who you are or who you were.”

Kurapika’s grip on the book slackened, and for a moment, he looked down at it as though it held the answers to questions he didn’t want to ask. “And what about you?” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less sharp. “Do you see yourself in these books? Or are you just here to pick me apart?”

Chrollo smiled faintly, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Oh, I see myself,” he admitted. “Perhaps too much. I see the villain, the manipulator, the man who justifies his sins with grand ideals. But I also see the one who’s lost, searching for something he can’t name.” He gestured to the shelf. “Books are mirrors, after all. They show us what we want to see—and what we’re too afraid to face.”

Kurapika stared at him, his expression unreadable. The weight of Chrollo’s words hung heavy between them, pressing down like the silence of the room. Slowly, Kurapika placed The Count of Monte Cristo back on the shelf, his movements deliberate.

Kurapika’s eyes flicked to Chrollo, his gaze sharp. “You’re not as insightful as you think you are,” he said coldly.

Chrollo chuckled softly, the sound low and unthreatening. “Perhaps not,” he said, stepping back from the bookshelf. “But I do know one thing.” He met Kurapika’s gaze, his expression serious. 

“You can’t run from yourself, no matter how many books you bury yourself in.”

Kurapika didn’t respond, his silence a shield against whatever Chrollo was trying to unravel. After a moment, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Chrollo standing alone amidst the bookshelves.

Chrollo watched him go, his gaze lingering on the spot where Kurapika had stood. Then, with a quiet sigh, he turned back to the books, his fingers tracing the spines once more.

Chapter Text

The clouded sky darkened as the sun behind them went down, yet Kurapika was still nowhere to be found. Chrollo glanced out the window, the fading light casting long shadows across the empty porch. He assumed Kurapika had gone to the barn, his usual retreat, and felt no urgency to search for him. The house was quiet, save for the faint creaks of the wooden floor beneath Chrollo’s measured steps.

The gnawing hunger in his stomach eventually demanded his attention. With a sigh, he wandered into the modest kitchen, his gaze sweeping over the sparse shelves and nearly empty cabinets. It became apparent that Kurapika’s food supplies were far from abundant. Chrollo opened and closed each cabinet, his movements growing more deliberate as he searched for something edible. Finally, he found a small sack of rice tucked away in a corner.

The process of cooking was simple yet oddly grounding. He boiled the rice in silence, the bubbling water filling the void of the empty house. The faint aroma wafted through the kitchen, and Chrollo found himself leaning against the counter, arms crossed as he waited. When it was ready, he served himself a modest portion, eating quietly at the counter. The rice was plain but satisfying, the warmth spreading through his chest and momentarily dulling the ache of solitude.

Once his hunger was sated, Chrollo cleaned up after himself, leaving no trace of his presence in the kitchen. He drifted back into the living room, where the air was still and heavy with the scent of old books and wood polish. His fingers instinctively found themselves on the spines of the books, trailing over their textured. His hand paused on a title he didn’t recognize. Pulling it free, he glanced at the cover, The Master and Margarita. Intrigued, he carried it over to one of the couches, settling into the cushions with an almost lazy grace.

The words on the page pulled him in. Chrollo read with quiet intensity, his brow occasionally furrowing in thought. The room grew darker as the sun disappeared, leaving him bathed in the soft twilight that seeped through the windows. Before long, his eyes began to droop, and the book slipped from his hands. He curled up on the couch, his body instinctively seeking comfort in the stillness of the room. Sleep claimed him, soft and unbidden.

When Chrollo woke, the room was shrouded in darkness, save for the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the curtains. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, before pushing himself upright. The book lay open on the floor where it had fallen, its pages crumpled slightly at the edges. Chrollo picked it up and set it back on the coffee table, smoothing the cover with a delicate touch.

The absence of Kurapika gnawed at the edges of his awareness. The silence felt heavier now, pressing against his chest. Chrollo rose from the couch and crossed the room to turn on the lamps in the corners. Their warm, golden glow bathed the room in a soft light, illuminating the shelves and casting faint shadows on the green walls.

The house was filled with traces of Kurapika, yet it felt devoid of life, as if its owner carried the weight of its emptiness within himself. Chrollo returned to the couch, sitting on the edge with his hands clasped loosely in his lap. The silence pressed in again, but this time, he welcomed it, letting it wrap around him like a familiar cloak.

Walking into the open space of the dining room, Chrollo’s eyes caught the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the lace curtains. Through the faint patterns, he could make out the familiar blond locks peeking just under the window frame. A strange sense of calmness washed over him, the sight of Kurapika's presence grounding him in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

The realization startled him. When had this feeling crept in? Why did he feel this way? Much less towards Kurapika? The chain user was his captor, his enemy. This quiet comfort wasn’t supposed to exist between them. Shaking his head as if to rid himself of the thought, Chrollo moved toward the cabinet. He grabbed a small glass, filling it with water from the tap. The sound of the running water echoed faintly in the otherwise silent house.

Once he was done, he slid the back door open, the screen rattling softly as it moved. The night air greeted him, cool and crisp, carrying with it the faint smell of grass and the smoke from Kurapika’s cigarette.

Kurapika sat at the edge of the porch, his posture relaxed yet guarded. The glowing tip of the cigarette between his fingers cast fleeting shadows on his face as he turned his gaze toward Chrollo. His sharp eyes caught the faint glimmer of surprise in Chrollo’s expression before it vanished, replaced by his usual calm demeanor.

Neither of them spoke as Chrollo set down his glass on the table and unfolded a chair for himself. He sank into it, his movements unhurried, and rested his elbows on his knees.

The silence between them was palpable yet not uncomfortable. It was a shared solitude, one neither sought to break immediately. The distant hum of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves filled the void, creating a soothing rhythm against the backdrop of the night.

The distant hum of crickets filled the air, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the soft breeze. Kurapika exhaled a thin stream of smoke, the wisps curling and dissipating into the night sky. His voice, when it finally broke the quiet, was low and deliberate.

“Are you scared for your Spiders?”

The question hit Chrollo like an unexpected wave, its bluntness catching him off guard. He stiffened slightly, his composure faltering for just a fraction of a second. Of all the things Kurapika could have said, this was not what he had anticipated.

“No,” Chrollo replied after a beat, his voice calm but lacking its usual conviction. “I know they are capable.”

Kurapika turned his head slightly, his sharp eyes studying Chrollo’s face with a precision that felt almost surgical. With a flick of his finger, he tipped the ash off his cigarette, watching it fall and scatter in the breeze. “You’re scared,” he said, his tone blunt.

 “You’re scared to admit that you’re afraid, aren’t you?”

Chrollo’s grip on the armrest of his chair tightened ever so slightly. The accusation hung in the air between them, heavy and unrelenting. He met Kurapika’s gaze, the faint glow of the cigarette reflecting in his dark eyes.

“Am I the one being psychoanalyzed now?” Chrollo asked, his lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a hint of laughter in his tone, but it was hollow, devoid of any real humor.

Kurapika’s expression didn’t change. He took another drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring once more before dimming. “At least now you know what it feels like,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet edge.

Chrollo leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the horizon where the stars shimmered faintly. The two men sat there, bathed in the faint glow of moonlight, their shared solitude no longer marked by animosity but by something far more complicated—something neither of them was ready to name, nor would ever want to.

A long silence stretched between them, the kind that felt like it could last forever if neither chose to break it. The distant rustling of leaves from the trees filled the stillness, a soft backdrop to the unspoken thoughts hanging in the air. The moonlight cast pale shadows over the porch, illuminating the faint outlines of their faces as they sat in quiet contemplation.

Chrollo’s eyes shifted toward Kurapika, studying the faint furrow of his brow, the slight tension in his jaw. He cocked his head to the side, a small, mischievous glint sparking in his gaze. “Shotgun?” he asked suddenly, his voice smooth and casual, breaking the stillness.

Kurapika blinked, his expression shifting from neutral to puzzled as the words registered. It took him an embarrassingly long moment to realize what Chrollo had just said, and when he did, his cheeks immediately tinted a light pink.

He turned his head sharply to glare at Chrollo, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Why would I ever shotgun with you? You’re fucking insane,” he snapped, his tone laced with incredulity and irritation.

Chrollo’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, one that only served to infuriate Kurapika further. He leaned back in his chair, resting an arm lazily on the armrest as though he hadn’t just proposed something utterly absurd. “Am I? Or are you just afraid you might enjoy it?”

Kurapika let out a scoff, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the ridiculous suggestion. He brought the cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag to calm the heat rising in his face. “I wonder if you hit your head when you went on that walk,” he muttered, exhaling smoke as he turned his gaze back to the dark horizon.

Chrollo chuckled softly, the sound low and almost teasing. “It’s just a cigarette, Kurapika. Don’t make it out to be more than it is.”

“Don’t act like you’re offering it for just a cigarette,” Kurapika shot back, his tone sharp. His eyes flicked to Chrollo, catching the faint amusement lingering in his expression. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

Chrollo tilted his head, feigning innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied smoothly, though the slight curve of his lips betrayed him.

Kurapika rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath that Chrollo couldn’t quite catch. The blond stubbed out the cigarette against the ashtray beside him with more force than necessary, as though extinguishing his own flustered thoughts.

Kurapika kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, his jaw tight, the tension rolling off him in waves. The silence between them grew heavy again, this time carrying an unspoken challenge that neither seemed willing to voice.

Chrollo watched him closely, his sharp eyes catching every subtle movement—the way Kurapika’s fingers drummed faintly against the wood of the porch, the way his shoulders stiffened every time the silence stretched just a little too long.

“Do I make you nervous?” Chrollo asked suddenly, his voice low and deliberate.

Kurapika’s head snapped toward him, his glare immediate and piercing. “What kind of question is that?” he demanded, his voice colder than before.

Chrollo leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his expression calm but probing. “You seem on edge,” he said smoothly, tilting his head as if examining a puzzle. “And not just tonight. I wonder why that is.”

Kurapika scoffed, shaking his head as if dismissing the idea outright. “I’m not on edge,” he snapped, though his tone betrayed him, the defensive bite too sharp to be casual. “Maybe it’s just the fact that you’re here—alive and breathing, despite everything you’ve done.”

Chrollo smirked faintly, his eyes narrowing in quiet amusement. “Ah, so my mere presence unnerves you? I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Kurapika shot back, his voice laced with venom. “It’s not fear. It’s disgust.”

Chrollo’s smirk widened, though his tone remained light. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a faint air of satisfaction.

Kurapika’s fingers twitched, his temper barely held in check. He wanted to lash out, to say something cutting, something that would wipe that smug look off Chrollo’s face. But he knew that’s exactly what Chrollo wanted—to push him, to get under his skin.

Instead, Kurapika forced himself to take a deep breath, feeling a burning sensation creep up his eyes. “You’re nothing but a murderer, Chrollo. No amount of poetic bullshit will change that.”

Chrollo’s gaze softened slightly, his eyes flickering with something almost unreadable. “And yet, here we are,” he repeated, his voice quieter this time. “Two murderers, sitting on a porch, pretending to be anything else.”

The words hit Kurapika like a blow, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. The weight of Chrollo’s statement settled over him, heavy and suffocating.

“I’m nothing like you,” Kurapika finally said, his voice barely above a whisper, but the conviction in his tone was unwavering.

Chrollo didn’t respond immediately, his eyes searching Kurapika’s face as if looking for something. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost reflective. “Perhaps not. But you’re not as different as you’d like to think.”

The air between them was electric, the tension almost palpable as Kurapika’s chest heaved with barely restrained fury. His eyes glowed like rubies, the scarlet hue cutting through the cool blue of the moonlight that bathed the porch. His anger was a living thing, clawing its way to the surface, daring to explode.

Chrollo remained seated, his expression unreadable, as if daring Kurapika to do his worst. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move—he simply waited, his calm demeanor only serving to fan the flames of Kurapika’s rage.

Kurapika growled, “Don't you dare compare me to you. We are not the same.”

Kurapika shot up from his chair, the cigarette he’d been smoking left forgotten in the ashtray. He loomed over Chrollo, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His breaths came in shallow, furious bursts, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might restrain himself.

But then, without warning, Kurapika’s fist shot forward, colliding with Chrollo’s cheek with a force that made the latter’s head snap to the side. The impact echoed in the stillness of the night, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet. Chrollo’s cheek throbbed, the sting from Kurapika’s earlier slap flaring up anew.

Kurapika growled, his voice low and trembling with barely controlled rage. “Don’t you dare compare me to you. We are not the same.”

Before Chrollo could even think to respond, another punch landed, harder than the first, sending him tilting further back into the chair. His lip split, the metallic tang of blood sharp against his tongue. Still, he didn’t fight back. He didn’t even raise a hand to defend himself. He simply stared at Kurapika, his dark eyes fixed on the blazing scarlet ones before him, waiting.

Kurapika’s fist raised for a third blow, but this time Chrollo moved. His hands shot up, catching Kurapika’s wrists mid-swing. In one fluid motion, he pulled Kurapika forward, dragging the younger man off balance. Kurapika let out a startled yelp as he stumbled, his knees hitting the edge of the chair before he tumbled into Chrollo’s lap.

The awkward positioning forced their bodies uncomfortably close, Kurapika’s legs bent awkwardly, his torso pressed against Chrollo’s. His wrists remained trapped in Chrollo’s grip, held firmly but not painfully, as though Chrollo had no intention of letting him go just yet.

“Let go of me,” Kurapika snarled, squirming against the hold, his voice trembling with frustration and something else he couldn’t quite place.

Chrollo didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his gaze roamed over Kurapika’s face, lingering on the vibrant glow of his scarlet eyes. There was something almost reverent in his expression, a quiet awe that made Kurapika’s stomach twist uncomfortably.

“Your eyes,” Chrollo murmured, his voice soft, almost hypnotic.

Kurapika froze for a moment, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in Chrollo’s tone. But then his anger flared anew, his teeth bared in a snarl. “You bastard. All of this—just to see my eyes light up?”

Chrollo’s lips curled into a faint smile, though there was no malice in it. “They’re even more beautiful when you’re angry,” he said simply, as though stating a fact.

Kurapika’s body trembled with fury, his hands twitching against Chrollo’s grip. “You’re disgusting,” he spat, though his voice wavered slightly. He could feel the heat of Chrollo’s breath, the way his steady grip sent an unsettling warmth through his arms.

Chrollo finally loosened his hold, letting Kurapika’s wrists fall free. But before Kurapika could retreat, his hands shot up to Chrollo’s throat, his fingers wrapping tightly around the pale column of his neck.

“I should kill you,” Kurapika hissed, his voice low and venomous. “Right here, right now.”

Chrollo didn’t resist. His hands rested lightly on Kurapika’s hips, as if to steady him, but he made no move to push him away. Instead, he met Kurapika’s gaze with unnerving calm, his dark eyes unwavering.

“Then do it,” Chrollo said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “If that’s what you truly want.”

Kurapika’s fingers tightened instinctively, but he hesitated. He could feel the pulse beneath his fingertips, steady and unyielding, a reminder of Chrollo’s infuriating composure. His hands shook, the anger that had fueled him beginning to falter.

Chrollo’s free hand moved slowly, deliberately, reaching for the forgotten cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray. He brought it to his lips, taking a long drag before exhaling the smoke in a controlled stream. Then, without warning, he leaned forward, his face inches from Kurapika’s.

Kurapika blinked, startled, as Chrollo exhaled, the warm smoke brushing against his lips. The action was deliberate, intimate in a way that made Kurapika’s breath hitch. Intimacy that shouldn't be shared between either men.

“You’re pathetic,” Kurapika growled, his voice cracking as he fought to maintain his composure. But his hands slackened around Chrollo’s throat, his resolve slipping through his fingers like sand.

Chrollo murmured, his voice low and smooth, “You haven’t let go.”

The words struck a nerve, and Kurapika’s hands fell away as though burned. He stumbled back, his chest heaving as he glared down at Chrollo, who remained seated, calm and unshaken.

Chrollo watched Kurapika disappear into the house, the screen door sliding shut with a faint click. The faint smile on his lips lingered as he leaned back in the chair, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the cigarette between them. His cheek still stung from the earlier punches, but the ache felt distant, almost irrelevant compared to the moment transpired between them.

The tension in the air had been palpable, the kind that lingered long after words had been exchanged. Kurapika’s anger was fiery, consuming, but beneath it, Chrollo had caught something else—a hesitation, a crack in the wall Kurapika so carefully maintained. And for some reason, it left him feeling amused. No, intrigued.

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he extinguished the cigarette in the ashtray. Kurapika was a contradiction, a storm of fury and restraint, strength and fragility. Chrollo had seen many emotions in his life, but none quite like the ones Kurapika wore so openly, even when he tried to hide them.

Inside, Kurapika paced the kitchen, his mind racing. His hands gripped the edge of the counter as he leaned forward, trying to steady his breathing. The image of Chrollo’s calm expression burned in his mind, his words replaying like a taunt.

"You haven’t let go."

Kurapika clenched his fists, the anger from earlier bubbling back up. But there was something else there too, something he didn’t want to name. He hated the way Chrollo’s presence affected him, how it made him question himself. The way those dark eyes seemed to see through him, stripping him of his carefully constructed defenses.

“Damn it,” Kurapika muttered under his breath, his knuckles whitening as his grip on the counter tightened. He felt like he was losing control, and that terrified him.

Chrollo, meanwhile, hadn’t moved from his spot on the porch. He leaned back in the chair, tilting his head to look up at the sky. The moon hung high, its silver light casting a serene glow over the grass fields. Despite the physical pain from Kurapika’s punches, there was a strange sense of peace that settled over him.

The silence was broken by the sound of the screen door sliding open again. Chrollo glanced over his shoulder, watching as Kurapika stepped back onto the porch. His expression was carefully blank, but his eyes betrayed the turmoil swirling within him.

“You’re sleeping outside,” Kurapika said, his tone clipped.

“Where else would I go?” Chrollo replied with a mock in his tone, gesturing around the yard.

Kurapika folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re not my prisoner. You’re here because you want to be.”

Chrollo’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Curious, isn’t it?”

Kurapika’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. He hated how easily Chrollo could get under his skin, how he always seemed to have the upper hand, even when he was the one being restrained.

The silence between them stretched thin, as if the very air held its breath, waiting for one of them to break. The dim light from the corner lamp cast long shadows across the room, illuminating the sharp angles of Chrollo’s face and the simmering tension etched into Kurapika’s stance.

Chrollo tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied Kurapika. His expression was calm, but there was a flicker of something behind his gaze—curiosity, maybe even amusement. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and smooth, like the soft hum of a distant storm.

“Why don’t you let me sleep on the couch?” he asked, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t a demand, not quite, but the question carried a weight that made it feel like a challenge.

Kurapika’s eyes didn’t waver from Chrollo’s, his expression as sharp and unyielding as a blade. He could feel his irritation bubbling just beneath the surface, but he forced himself to remain steady. “You think I’d feel safe with you in my house?”

The words were clipped, cold, but there was a subtle tremor beneath them—an edge of frustration that Chrollo didn’t miss.

Chrollo leaned back slightly, the faint smirk still lingering as if he found Kurapika’s defiance more intriguing than insulting. “I think,” he began, his voice measured, “that safety is relative. If I wanted to harm you, I wouldn’t need to wait until you offered me a couch.”

Kurapika’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “You have a lot of nerve,” he said, his voice low and venomous, “acting as if you’re harmless when we both know exactly what you’re capable of.”

Chrollo shrugged, the motion almost casual, though his gaze never left Kurapika’s. “Yet, here I am,” he said, spreading his hands slightly as if to prove a point. “Unarmed, bound by your rules, and completely at your mercy. Tell me—what exactly do you think I’m going to do? Steal your bookshelf?”

The faint hint of humor in Chrollo’s tone only served to stoke the fire in Kurapika’s chest. He took a step forward, his scarlet eyes blazing with barely contained fury. “You think this is funny?”

Chrollo’s smirk faded slightly, replaced by a more serious expression. “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t. But I also think you’re wasting a lot of energy hating me for something you’ve already decided to control.”

The words hit harder than Kurapika wanted to admit, but he refused to let it show. Instead, he squared his shoulders, his glare cutting like a knife. “Control has nothing to do with it,” he said, his voice steady but laced with bitterness. “It’s about making sure you can’t hurt anyone else. Not now. Not ever.”

For the first time, Chrollo’s gaze softened, though it was so subtle that Kurapika almost missed it. “And yet, you let me live,” he said, his tone almost contemplative. “Why is that? What is it about me that makes you hesitate?”

Kurapika’s breath hitched, the question striking a nerve he hadn’t expected. He wanted to snap back, to throw Chrollo’s words back in his face, but instead, he found himself frozen, caught in the weight of Chrollo’s gaze.

“I don’t hesitate,” Kurapika said finally, his voice quieter but no less firm. “I make choices. And keeping you alive was one of them. Don’t mistake that for mercy.”

Chrollo nodded slowly, as if considering Kurapika’s words. “Fair enough,” he said after a moment. “But choices have consequences. You know that as well as I do.”

The tension between them was palpable, a charged current that neither of them seemed willing to break. Kurapika’s chest heaved slightly as he forced himself to hold Chrollo’s gaze, refusing to let the man see even a sliver of doubt.

“You’ll be sleeping outside, and that is final,” Kurapika said, his voice low, sharp, and brooking no argument.

Chrollo’s smirk didn’t falter, though it softened into something more subdued, almost amused. “As you wish,” he replied smoothly, rising from his seat with an unhurried grace that seemed to mock Kurapika’s simmering frustration. Each movement was deliberate, calculated, as if Chrollo was fully aware of the effect he had and relished every moment of it.

Kurapika’s scarlet eyes tracked him like a predator watching its prey, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. He hated how Chrollo moved as though he owned the space, even in a home that wasn’t his.

Chrollo stopped just in front of him, close enough for Kurapika to catch the faint scent of sandalwood clinging to him, an infuriatingly calm and familiar presence. He leaned in slightly, his dark eyes glinting with something Kurapika couldn’t—or wouldn’t—define.

“Sweet dreams, chain user,” Chrollo whispered, his voice low and smooth, almost intimate in the way it slid past Kurapika’s defenses.

The words were simple, but the way Chrollo said them felt like a challenge, like he knew he was taking up more space in Kurapika’s mind than the blond wanted to admit.

Kurapika didn’t respond, his body tense as a coiled spring. His nails dug into his palms, grounding himself against the unsettling pull of Chrollo’s presence. Without a word, he reached for the screen door and slammed it shut in Chrollo’s face with more force than necessary, the sharp sound echoing in the quiet night.

For a moment, Kurapika stood there, staring at the closed door as if it could shield him from the lingering tension Chrollo had left behind. The glow of his scarlet eyes dimmed slightly, but the rapid beat of his heart betrayed the storm raging inside him.

Only when he was certain Chrollo had moved out of earshot did he let out a shaky breath, his chest heaving as he tried to steady himself. His body trembled—not from fear, but from a volatile mix of anger and something else he refused to name.

His hands unclenched slowly, leaving faint crescents imprinted in his palms. Kurapika’s gaze shifted to the dim reflection of himself in the glass, the faint outline of his glowing eyes staring back at him. He hated how Chrollo could push him to this edge, how his words seemed to burrow under his skin and stay there, festering.

“Bastard,” Kurapika muttered under his breath, turning away from the door and back into the dimly lit room. But no matter how much distance he put between himself and the man outside, he couldn’t shake the lingering sensation of Chrollo’s voice, soft and insidious, whispering in the back of his mind.