Work Text:
Leorio slung his stethoscope around his neck and stretched, relishing the satisfying crack of his joints — the fatigue from his day shift left a pleasant ache in his body. A deep breath filled his lungs with the cool, slightly sweet air of the hospital hallway. The scent of antiseptic, mingled with the faint aroma of coffee from the nearby cafeteria, usually didn’t bother him, but today it grated on his nerves.
He remembered his last meeting with Kurapika a couple of months ago with painful clarity. Back then, he had noticed the slight tremble in Kurapika’s fingers, how his usually sharp, piercing gaze had turned hollow, stripped of its usual determination.
Even now, just recalling it, Leorio clenched his fists, feeling the familiar surge of irritation. He wanted to go back to that moment, punch Kurapika for his silence, grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he spat out the truth. To force him to explain what was happening, what was weighing on him, what made him hide behind that mask of calm. But Kurapika, as always, remained silent. That restraint, so typical of him, now felt excruciating to Leorio.
The quiet of the office, filled only with the rustle of papers and the ticking of the clock, now pressed down on him, amplifying his unease. Too much time had passed. Kurapika wasn’t texting, wasn’t answering calls. Leorio knew that Kurapika’s silence wasn’t just reluctance to talk — it was something deeper. Either a wound he couldn’t bare or a secret he wasn’t allowed to tell. And this uncertainty, this not knowing, gnawed at Leorio worse than anything. Sitting at his desk, he bit his lip, feeling the sharp fangs of anxiety chewing him up from the inside.
He hated this helplessness, this agonizing waiting. He hated the unknown, spreading like a sinister flower in his soul. Leorio desperately wanted to grab Kurapika by the collar and shake him until he stopped disappearing. Not for empty promises of "see you soon", but to yell right in his face: "I love you, idiot, even if you don’t deserve it."
A sharp, almost harsh knock on the door snapped Leorio out of his thoughts. He flinched, tearing his eyes away from yet another medical journal analysis, and before he could even say "come in", the door swung open, letting in a whirlwind of urgency and anxiety. The on-duty doctor blurted out:
"Leorio, third wing, now! New patient, unconscious, severe exhaustion..."
Leorio sighed. The thought of Kurapika, which had been tormenting him just moments ago, faded into the background, giving way to professional duty. Work. But damn, it’s hard to pretend someone doesn’t occupy ninety percent of your thoughts, that their face doesn’t haunt you, making it impossible to focus.
He stood abruptly, adjusting his white coat, and as he headed to the ward, he skimmed the patient’s chart. The overhead light fell on the pale paper, illuminating the sparse details: "Male, 20-25. Found unconscious. Severe exhaustion, signs of prolonged physical and psychological stress. No ID". Leorio snorted faintly. Another homeless guy, probably.
He stepped into the private room — the sterile white walls clashed with the twilight darkness by the window. Leorio’s eyes automatically scanned the monitors, tracking vitals: heartbeat, breathing, blood pressure. Everything pointed to a critical condition. He approached the bed where a figure lay beneath the white sheets. Leorio leaned down to examine the patient — and froze. From under the blanket peeked a familiar crown of bright, wheat-colored hair.
His heart hammered wildly. When the patient weakly turned his head, Leorio saw his face — pale, gaunt, hollowed out almost beyond recognition, but undeniably his. Kurapika’s eyes were closed, long lashes casting shadows on his pallid skin. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his breathing shallow and ragged. Leorio felt the ground drop beneath him. A sudden rush of fear and relief collided in his chest, leaving behind only emptiness and an overwhelming need to help.
His fingers trembled slightly as he reached toward Kurapika’s pale face. He wanted to grab him, shake him, force him to finally speak, drown him in a wave of care and anger all at once. But instead, his hands moved toward the medical tray, toward the sterile instruments.
"Well," Leorio hissed through clenched teeth, filling a syringe with clear solution. His voice was hoarse, thick with restrained fury. "Happy with yourself?"
The needle slid into Kurapika’s vein with frightening ease. Leorio’s throat tightened, tears burning in his eyes, blurring his vision. He unbuttoned Kurapika’s shirt to place the stethoscope. Kurapika’s ribs jutted out, his pale skin a canvas of old scars, bruises, barely healed scrapes.
"Did you even eat?" he whispered, pressing the cold disc to Kurapika’s emaciated chest.
Kurapika’s heart beat erratically, with alarming skips — like an old, worn-out mechanism on the verge of stopping.
When it was done — IVs set, monitors connected, necessary meds administered — Leorio took a step back. The doctor in Leorio, the cold, calculating professional, noted with satisfaction that the patient was stabilized. But the other Leorio, the one burdened with worry and tenderness, looked at Kurapika and didn’t see numbers on a screen, only him. The one who had always been stronger, sharper, seemingly untouchable. The one who now looked fragile, ready to vanish again at any moment.
Leorio sank heavily into the chair beside the bed, his gaze locked on Kurapika’s pale face.
"Listen," he began, his voice quieter than a whisper but filled with resolve. "When you wake up, I’m gonna kill you. I promise."
Silence hung in the room, broken only by the steady beep of the monitor, counting the weak but persistent beats of a heart still fighting. Leorio dragged a hand down his face, trying to wipe away the exhaustion of hours of tension. He knew there was still so much to do to bring Kurapika back. But for now, all that mattered was being here.
Consciousness returned to Kurapika slowly, leaving behind fragments of memories and the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. At first — just a faint tingling in his left hand. He tried to move his fingers, but his body was bound by a leaden heaviness. Turning his head took an immense effort — every muscle protested the motion — but he managed. He saw the IV drip. He tried to sit up, but his body refused to obey.
Memories crashed over him with terrifying force: scarlet eyes gleaming in the dark, the cold, unyielding floor beneath his knees, his own fingers clutching desperately at… what? Something unbelievably important. Something he’d been ready to die for. And then — nothing. Only an abyss of impenetrable black.
Slowly, with the meticulousness that commanded respect, he began surveying the room. A plain, functional hospital bed. Sterile monitors tracking his vitals. A window where evening gloom had already dimmed the daylight. Safe.
The door burst open — the metal handle must have dented the wall. On the threshold stood Leorio, his usually upright posture slightly hunched with exhaustion, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. Watching him, Kurapika felt a strange mix of emotions: relief, sharp pain, and an unexpected wave of something like… tenderness. This was the first time he’d seen Leorio in so long, and the sight of his friend — his savior, like some guardian angel — filled his exhausted heart with a peculiar warmth. In one hand, Leorio clutched a tray of food: a bowl of thick, fragrant soup, a plate of fruit. A simple meal, yet so desperately welcome.
"Three days," Leorio’s voice was hoarse with fatigue, but the anxiety in it was unmistakable. "Thought you were doing this on purpose — disappearing, then showing up half-dead. A real master of drama, Kurapika."
Kurapika blinked slowly. The harsh, clinical light stung his eyes, forcing a grimace of pain. But he still noticed the details: Leorio hadn’t shaved — stubble prickled along his jaw — and a dark coffee stain marked his sleeve. Kurapika knew: Leorio had been worried. Desperately so.
He tried to sit up, but a dry, wracking cough seized him, tearing at his throat and leaving the taste of blood — bitter and metallic — on his tongue.
Leorio quickly set the tray on the nightstand and moved to Kurapika’s side, carefully helping him upright.
Kurapika closed his eyes for a moment, gathering strength. When he opened them again, Leorio saw something startling — a flicker of regret. Something that made his own heart stutter.
"Sorry," Kurapika’s voice was barely audible, like a whisper of wind. "I… didn’t mean… to trouble you."
Leorio exhaled sharply through his nose, like an enraged bull releasing pent-up tension.
"Yeah? Well, congrats, you failed," he grabbed a glass of water and thrust it into Kurapika’s hands, steadying his weakened grip. "Drink. Slowly."
Kurapika took a few small sips, acutely aware of how every movement, every swallow, made Leorio tense further.
"Thank you," he finally breathed, his voice scarcely louder than a sigh. Not just for the water. For everything.
Leorio scoffed, looking away.
"Don’t. Honestly, I wanna strangle you," he muttered, but there was no malice — only weary, strained relief. Only the inexpressible joy that his friend was, against all odds, alive.
The silence in the room grew thick and sticky, like honey, wrapping the two men in an invisible web of tension. Only the monotonous beep of the monitor, counting the seconds, pierced the ringing quiet. Leorio sat in the chair beside the bed, knuckles whitening as he clenched his fists. His gaze was fixed on Kurapika — on the hollow cheeks shadowed with blue, the dark circles under his eyes, the thin, almost translucent fingers lying helplessly on the sheets. How could he have let Kurapika go this far? Why hadn’t he stopped him sooner?
Kurapika avoided his eyes. None of his usual certainty remained, just exhaustion and a strange detachment.
"Well?" Leorio asked, forcing sharpness into his voice, hoping to mask his own fear. "You awake enough to explain this circus?"
Kurapika leaned back against the pillows, gathering his thoughts. He looked fragile, like a broken figurine, and that fragility only deepened Leorio’s unease.
"Not a circus," Kurapika replied quietly, his voice weak but firm. "My mission."
"Mission?!" Leorio shot to his feet, fists trembling. "You call nearly killing yourself a mission?!" he gestured wildly at the monitors, their screens still flashing ominous numbers.
Kurapika pressed his lips together, his expression darkening. Something dangerous flickered in his eyes — that unrestrained fury he usually kept locked away.
"They desecrated my clan’s memory," the words hissed through clenched teeth, laced with venom. "Every day. For years."
Leorio froze, realizing he’d crossed a line. He knew the clan was a forbidden subject, a wound that ran deeper than anything in Kurapika’s soul. But he couldn’t stop.
"And what? Chasing those eyes — you let them finish you off instead?"
The room grew heavier, thick with tension. Kurapika’s breathing was labored — then, suddenly, the pressure eased. His shoulders slumped, as if an invisible weight had been lifted.
"I miscalculated," Kurapika admitted, his gaze drifting to the twilight beyond the window. "Overestimated my strength. Didn’t plan for…"
Leorio felt his anger ebb, replaced by worry and reluctant sympathy.
"Damn it," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You always plan for everything. What went wrong this time?"
Kurapika was silent for a long moment, staring into the distance.
"I… overlooked one factor," he finally said, his voice uncertain, as if even he was surprised by the mistake.
Leorio raised an eyebrow, waiting.
"And that was?"
Kurapika’s gray eyes met his — directly, unflinchingly, no mask, no evasion — for the first time since this conversation began.
"That someone would worry about me," Kurapika admitted quietly.
Leorio opened his mouth to retort, then closed it. Scratching the back of his head, he suddenly, unexpectedly, smirked.
"Of course! The great strategist Kurapika forgot to account for the human factor!" he leveled a glare at him. "Well, genius? Here’s the deal — I’m your new 'factor.' And if you ever..."
Kurapika, too, gave an unexpected half-smile, faint wrinkles crinkling at the corners of his eyes.
"You’ll strangle me with an IV line? I know."
Leorio snorted, but his expression sobered instantly. He leaned in closer, gaze softening — care and sternness warring in his eyes.
"Listen carefully," Leorio’s voice dropped low, almost threatening. "Next time — and I know there’ll be a next time — you take me with you. Got it? Otherwise, I’ll track you down myself and..."
"And?" Kurapika arched a brow, a flicker of interest in his eyes.
"...I’ll be so insufferable, you’ll beg to finish the job just to shut me up," Leorio finished, grimly satisfied. It wasn’t a threat — it was a promise. A promise of support, stubborn and relentless.
Kurapika let out a hoarse laugh — genuine, if weak. The sound was so unexpected, so disarmingly sincere, that Leorio froze for a second.
"Your threats are as terrible as ever," Kurapika noted, his voice thin but his eyes quietly conceding, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
Leorio huffed and reached for an apple on the nightstand. He sliced it methodically, movements deliberate, almost pensive.
"Here. Eat," he handed a piece to Kurapika. "So you recover faster and can sit through my hour-long lecture on your idiocy."
Kurapika accepted it, taking slow, careful bites. Leorio watched him, wiping his fingers on a napkin. His gaze drifted to Kurapika’s pale hand — the blue veins stark under thin skin, the lattice of faint scars across his knuckles, silent witnesses to battles he’d never speak of.
"Have you ever actually stopped to think that there are people who…" Leorio hesitated, searching for the right words, "...who care about you?"
Kurapika turned his face toward the window, where the first stars pricked through the evening sky. The view was beautiful, but it didn’t mask the quiet sorrow in him.
"I have," he murmured, barely audible, yet firm. "That’s exactly why...
"...why you decided to spare us the inconvenience?" Leorio’s bitter laugh carried an edge of hurt. "Thanks for the concern, but we’d have managed."
Kurapika clenched his fist, nails biting into his palm, leaving red crescents behind.
"You don’t understand..."
Leorio intercepted his wrist, gently but firmly prying his fingers open.
"Show me," he demanded, voice quiet but unyielding. "Even now, you’re still hurting yourself."
His thumb brushed over the marks on Kurapika’s palm. Then, before Kurapika could react, Leorio bent and pressed his lips to the center — a featherlight kiss, tender and wordless.
Kurapika went still. His fingers trembled but didn’t pull away.
"Leorio…" jis voice cracked, raw with something like a plea, a confession.
Leorio looked up, still cradling his hand.
"Every wound of yours is mine," he whispered, love and unwavering resolve woven into the words. "Got it? So stop..."
He dipped his head again, this time to the inside of Kurapika’s wrist, where his pulse fluttered beneath thin skin. His lips grazed the blue tracery of veins, the jut of bone — each touch light as a breath, yet they sent tremors through Kurapika, a mix of tenderness and frustration.
"I..." Kurapika tried to speak, but the words dissolved as Leorio met his gaze. His gray eyes were wide, questioning, startled by his own want.
"Just remember," Leorio laced their fingers together, a silent vow, an unbreakable tether. "You’re not alone anymore."
Kurapika’s grip tightened — first hesitant, then firmer, clinging to this anchor, this sudden, solid proof that he was seen. It was more than words. It was a promise.
Leorio’s touches, kisses, were slow, deliberate — each one steeped in tenderness, in fear of loss, in the certainty of staying.
"I don’t… deserve this," Kurapika rasped, throat tight.
The guilt in his eyes was laced with something new: vulnerability, a near-painful gratitude. He hadn’t expected this kindness, this care — it unsettled him with its honesty.
Leorio shifted, bracing his hands on either side of Kurapika’s head, caging him in the safest way possible. There was no force, only quiet strength.
"I didn’t ask," Leorio muttered, his voice quiet but firm, carrying unwavering confidence in his actions. Before pulling away, he dipped back down — this time to the sensitive spot behind Kurapika’s ear, drawing out a sharp, involuntary gasp.
Kurapika’s fingers tightened in Leorio’s hair, his breathing growing uneven. Leorio smirked against his skin, savoring the closeness. He loved that Kurapika was enjoying this. But when he tried to move lower, a slender yet strong hand stopped him.
"Enough," Kurapika’s voice was rough but resolute. "Not here."
Leorio pulled back, catching his breath. He could see it in Kurapika’s eyes — neither of them was ready for more, not in this place, not now. It wasn’t rejection, but mutual understanding — an unspoken respect for each other’s boundaries, a careful balance of desire and restraint.
Kurapika adjusted his shirt with trembling fingers, avoiding Leorio’s gaze. The guilt was still visible in his eyes, but now it was mixed with something new — gratitude, tenderness, the beginnings of trust. It was an admission of his own vulnerability, his need for support.
"You're too kind to me," Kurapika whispered, and in that confession lay more vulnerability, more sincerity, than in all their previous kisses.
Leorio caught his hand, pressing it to his own cheek, feeling the softness of his skin.
"It's not kindness," he replied quietly. "I’m just a stubborn fool too."
Their eyes met, and Leorio understood: Kurapika wouldn’t run anymore. He sensed it not as a simple assumption, but as a deep certainty — a subtle yet unmistakable shift in Kurapika. The lingering tension had eased, giving way to something new, something almost like hope. Now, he would turn to him — to Leorio — for support, because he had finally admitted to himself that in this world, there was someone who needed him.