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You always suspected your overly serious, no-nonsense friend had at least one eccentric hobby hidden away. It was a quiet certainty, a little game you played in your head.
But never, not in a million guesses, did you expect him to harbor a burning obsession with scented candles.
It began the day you somehow convinced Kurapika to go out for lunch with you. You still have no idea how you managed it or why he accepted in the first place. Sure, he insisted on paying — as stubborn as ever — but he still, by some miracle, came out with you.
Even luckier, you talked him into walking around the city afterward. The air was warm with the faint tang of street food, a dozen shop signs catching sunlight at odd angles as you strolled past.
That’s when you spotted it: a small boutique tucked into the corner of the street. Through the front window, glimmers of gold and glass caught the light. The sign above, etched in gold ink over deep velvet, read:
Eternal Flame Atelier
“Hey, Kurapika? Why don’t we check that shop out?” you asked, pointing at the ornate storefront.
He didn’t even glance. “You told me we were going for a walk, not on a shopping spree.” His voice was flat, like the concept of “fun” was a language he’d never learned.
“Oh, come on. It looks fancy. Besides, I’m tired from walking,” you said, eyebrows raised in mock pleading.
Your relationship with scented candles was perfectly normal and sane. You liked sniffing them once in a while, sometimes laughing at the weirder and more pretentious scent combinations. You were not a collector. And definitely not a passionate, obsessed connoisseur.
Kurapika crossed his arms. “We’ve been walking for five minutes.”
Wow. Heavy on the sass today, you thought, narrowing your eyes.
You gave him a long, heartfelt, weaponized glare - the sharpest one you could manage. He stared back, unyielding.
Kurapika could easily be called a master of glaring, but you refused to lose this staring contest.
Finally, his shoulders sank. “…Very well.”
You grinned. Sweet, sweet victory.
You practically skipped toward the shop. Kurapika followed at a pace that could only be described as begrudging and extremely disinterested.
The moment his gaze lifted to the sign above the door, however, you caught it — a flicker in his eyes. Excitement?
No. Couldn’t be. Kurapika, excited over a shop? You must have imagined it.
While you processed that, you realized you were suddenly alone in the doorway.
“Where did he go?” you muttered, stepping inside.
Crossing the threshold was like stepping into a different century. The air was thick with layered scents. Honeyed florals, earthy woods, a faint prickle of spice that tickled the back of your throat. Crimson carpet with gold-thread patterns softened your steps. Chandeliers glimmered overhead, catching warm candlelight that pooled across marble-white shelves. Soft classical music drifted from hidden speakers, dreamy enough to make you feel both enchanted and underdressed.
Browsing the displays, a label caught your eye:
“Aphrodite’s Whisper — gardenia, sandalwood, and an air of unattainability.”
Another:
“Vanilla Noir Absolu — bourbon vanilla, smoked amber, and arrogance.”
You stifled a giggle. Clearly, this was less a candle shop and more an overpriced sanctuary for pretentious noses.
Then you remembered why you were here. Kurapika.
You wove through the aisles until you found him in the back, holding a gold‑lidded jar like it contained the meaning of life. Its label read:
“Guardian’s Oath — bold cedarwood, deep rose, and warm amber.”
Kurapika held the jar reverently in both hands, eyes slightly glazed, lips parted like he was in some kind of trance. He took another slow inhale. “This… smells of a heart driven by vigilance. By justice for the less fortunate,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent.
Huh?
“It is steady,” he went on, gesturing like a poet lost in his own work, “like a vow kept at all costs.”
You stared, jaw slack.
Before you could process that Kurapika had just given a candle a moral character profile, his expression darkened.
“This is atrocious,” he hissed.
You followed his glare to a display shelf. “What is?”
“Who in their right mind puts rose next to mint?” His tone scandalized. “They are from two completely different botanical families.” He lifted the rose candle. “The delicate top notes here are being brutalized…” Then he gestured dismissively at the mint. “…by the aggressive camphor of this one. They collide, creating an olfactory clash that destroys the scent balance.”
You were officially too stunned to speak.
Within seconds, he was at the counter, two candles in hand, fixing the poor man behind it with a stare sharp enough to cut glass.
The clerk — young, neatly suited, and deeply alarmed — scrambled for composure.
“Welcome to Eternal Flame Atelier! How may I—”
“Explain this,” Kurapika interrupted.
“I… I’m not sure I—”
“Rose. Next. To mint.” He enunciated each word like a judge delivering a verdict. “Do you not know their scent profiles are fundamentally incompatible? This undermines the candle’s aromatic integrity. How can you call yourselves a high‑quality establishment when you commit such amateur errors?”
Three other customers, rich‑looking and pretending not to watch, were absolutely watching.
Maybe an ancient spirit would be kind enough to whisk you into another dimension.
“This,” Kurapika said, jabbing a finger at the offending display, “is an insult to candle craftsmanship.”
You could have sworn his eyes flashed scarlet.
Scarlet eyes? Over candles? That wouldn’t happen… right?
The clerk, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, looked like he’d been drafted into a war he hadn’t signed up for. He’d probably wanted a quiet job answering pretentious questions and arranging fragile jars — not fielding a full‑scale ethics inquiry.
“This is utterly unprofessional,” Kurapika concluded, voice low but loaded, then snapped, “(Y/N). We are leaving.”
As he swept to the door, You slipped a 5,000 jenny note onto the counter with a sheepish whisper. “I’m so, so sorry. He’s… very passionate about candles.”
You were still reeling from the revelation of your friend’s passion as you hurried after him, desperate not to become collateral damage to his candle-fueled fury.
The “Eternal Flame incident,” as you’d later call it, eventually faded from memory. Maybe he’d been in a weird mood. Or maybe, just maybe, he’d acted out to punish you for dragging him into that shop.
Either way, you weren’t prepared for what you found a few days later when you visited with Gon, Killua, and Leorio.
The moment you stepped into his living room, you stopped short.
The room was lined with shelves - and on those shelves, bathed in soft afternoon light, stood candles. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Glass jars, ceramic pots, metal tins. Some sleek and minimalist, others so ornate they looked like stolen treasures from an emperor’s tomb.
So that… hadn’t been a joke.
“Wow! You have so many candles!” Gon said, eyes wide, smile wider.
“Like… way too many,” Killua added flatly. “Setting a small country on fire kind of many.”
“What are you all staring at?” Kurapika’s tone turned sharp, almost defensive. “These are my prized possessions.”
Leorio blinked. “Huh. Who knew Kurapika was into weird collecting? And you have the nerve to make fun of my hobbies?”
“These scents are far too complex for you to appreciate, Leorio,” Kurapika said coolly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
While they bickered, your gaze drifted to the desk in the corner. There, in the far right, sat a massive black leather notebook embossed in gold:
The Great Candle Ledger.
It looked ancient, the kind of artifact people fought wars over.
You didn’t dare ask. Some things are better left unknown.
“Did you collect all of these yourself?” Gon asked cheerfully, defusing the tension.
“Yes.” Kurapika’s expression softened at the boy’s innocent curiosity.
Killua squinted at the shelves. “Wait… are these labeled by usage count, acquisition date, and… what months you’re supposed to burn them in?”
Leorio snorted. “Should I be impressed or concerned?”
“Why don’t you show us some?” Gon suggested.
This could only end badly, you thought.
“Of course.” Kurapika approached the shelves with the solemnity of a museum curator and lifted a sleek silver jar.
“This is Salt Water Drizzle. It smells like an afternoon at the beach on a rainy day. Wet sand, seashells, and just a hint of vanilla ice cream from a shop nearby.”
The group stared.
“It smells… complex,” Gon said politely.
“It smells like salt,” Killua muttered.
Leorio eyed it as if expecting it to lunge at him.
You sniffed. Somehow, it really did smell like his description, which was… concerning.
“And this is Whispering Garden,” Kurapika continued, holding out a pale green jar. “It smells like a quiet day at a cottage, surrounded by wildflowers and unseen magical creatures.”
“I like this one!” Gon beamed.
“It smells like someone turned a flower shop into a candle,” Killua said.
Leorio still couldn’t decide if he was impressed or deeply unsettled.
You caught chamomile, lavender, honeysuckle. Lovely.
“Do you have one that smells like candy?” Gon asked.
“Yes, but it’s of inferior quality.” Kurapika retrieved a brightly colored jar labeled Caramel Explosion.
“It smells really yummy!” Gon said immediately.
“I wonder how it tastes,” Killua mused.
Kurapika’s glare was answer enough.
After everyone had a turn, you inhaled — sweet, sticky, a faint edge of burnt sugar and… regret.
“Well, it’s not notable in quality or design,” Kurapika said, “but someone must keep record of even the inferior ones.”
The wax was half‑burned. So much for “inferior.”
Killua shrugged. “Guess Kurapika’s found new friends.”
“Wait, I actually have candles for you three,” Kurapika said, moving to a different shelf.
Three jars stood together, and just off to the side, in its own glass case, sat a fourth.
He handed a jar to Gon first. “This is First Light.”
“Wow, it really does smell like me!” Gon grinned.
Killua, returning from an unfruitful kitchen raid, frowned. “And how would you know that, huh?”
The candle smelled of lemongrass, wild mint, sea breeze. Bright and restless, like someone who’d drag you up a hill and never lose his smile.
“This is Killua’s,” Kurapika said, passing him a sky‑blue jar.
Killua grinned after a sniff. “Smells like a candy shop. Now we’re talking.”
You caught cotton candy, candied orange peel, and something faintly electric, like static in the air. Playful, but cool.
“And this is Leorio’s,” Kurapika said, placing a rich amber jar on the table. “Hearthlight.”
Leorio inhaled. “Cinnamon, spiced amber… cedarwood?” He clapped Kurapika on the shoulder a bit too hard. “Never knew you could be so thoughtful, buddy!” He puffed up. “Warm and comforting, just like me.”
“Enjoy it in moderation,” Kurapika said dryly. “It can become overwhelming. Just like you, Leorio.”
“Hey!”
By the end of this “candle presenting ceremony,” the apartment smelled somewhere between a luxury spa and a very judgmental bakery.
The afternoon slipped into board games, teasing, and occasional threats to ban Leorio for blatant disregard of “candle etiquette.”
When the others left, the living room grew quiet, the mingled scents still curling lazily through the air.
You lingered, eyes drifting to a section of shelf - two candles set apart, with a careful space between them.
“Hey, Kurapika?” you asked, as he tidied the table.
“Mm?”
“What are those?” You nodded toward the isolated display.
He paused. For a moment, something in his expression shifted - softer, slightly distant. “Those are… very special.”
You watched him cross the room and lift one of the jars, a reddish‑brown glass that caught the light like polished earth. The label read: Echoes of the Valley.
“That’s specific,” you said, gently.
He returned and set it in your hands.
You inhaled slowly. Damp earth after rain, wildflowers in bloom, cypress wood, and the faintest thread of smoke, like a bonfire’s last ember fading into cool night air.
“This reminds me of home,” he said quietly. “On rainy days in my village, the air was heavy with earth and wood. Sometimes, when I burn this, I can almost see it again, me sitting by a fire after the rain.” His gaze dropped, bangs shadowing his eyes. For a heartbeat, red flickered there, a thin seam of grief.
You stayed silent. The moment felt like glass. Beautiful, easily breakable.
He set the jar down and reached for the other, its dark copper glass catching the light. “This one is Bonfire.”
You took it from him. The scent was familiar. Mint threaded through candied orange peel, anchored by cinnamon, with just a hint of lavender.
“When I need to stay in the present,” he said simply, “I burn this.” His thumb traced the rim, as if reminding himself where he was. “It helps sometimes.”
Then his gaze shifted to the glass case you’d noticed earlier. He hesitated, thumb resting on the latch. When he opened it, he didn’t lift by the lid; he cradled the base, as if it were irreplaceable.
“This…” His voice was quieter. “This is your candle.”
“My… candle?”
You’d felt a quick, silly pang of sadness earlier, thinking you didn’t have one. You’d dismissed it. Apparently, you shouldn’t have.
The jar was a rich, elegant purple — Lavender Solace. When he passed it to you, his fingers brushed yours. Warm, steady, lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if ensuring the jar - and maybe you - wouldn’t slip.
You breathed it in. Lavender, wildflowers, a trace of honey, pale cedarwood. Grounding and comforting — the kind of scent that invites you to stay. The wildflowers danced; the lavender held everything together.
“I like the lavender,” you said, smiling.
“Lavender is a symbol of protection,” Kurapika said softly.
Something eased in your chest. The room felt warmer. He showed you a few more—some laughably pretentious, others quietly sentimental. Eventually, he lit a few, claiming it was for the “full sensory experience.”
And you didn’t argue.
A week later, you visited again.
You didn’t expect the door to be unlocked.
Pushing it open, you stepped into quiet stillness. Papers littered his desk and spilled onto the floor. Research notes, half‑finished maps. It was clear he was on another mission to recover a stolen pair of eyes. The air held ink and cold coffee.
Kurapika was slumped forward, asleep, head pillowed on folded arms. Strands of hair fell across his face, softening the shadows beneath his eyes.
A small flicker glowed on the desk. A candle — your candle — burned beside him. The jar was nearly empty, the wax a shallow pool.
You picked it up and breathed in. Lavender. Wildflowers. Honey. Cedarwood.
You felt warmth in your chest… and something else.
A quiet dread.
The thought of this candle going out, and how that – for some reason - threaded itself to the possibility of losing him, settled heavy in your chest.
No. You wouldn’t let it happen.
You set the candle down and went for a blanket. You draped it over his shoulders, tucking it in lightly, and slid a small pillow under his head so he wouldn’t wake with a crick in his neck. Ink speckled his sleeves; you brushed it away with the side of your hand.
Then you wrote the candle’s name and notes on a slip of paper, locked the door behind you, and set off.
The part of town you ended up in was… less than comforting. Faded street signs. Air that smelled faintly burnt and metallic. People with wolf‑bright eyes watching a lost lamb.
You wished you’d brought someone.
Not Gon — too innocent.
Not Killua — your lifespan couldn’t handle the teasing.
Definitely not Leorio - the haggling alone might start a riot.
Maybe coming alone was best. If you perished, at least your last act would be noble.
Then you spotted it: a squat building wedged into a narrow alley, its sign flaking in tired red letters:
The Smoke Hole.
This was your only hope.
Inside, the shop looked like a cross between a pawn shop and a back-alley clinic. Shelves sagged under dusty jars. A lone bulb flickered like it was running on borrowed time.
Behind the counter, a burly man with gray hair and a beard leaned back in his chair.
“Hey, kid. What’re you lookin’ for?” His voice was rough, but not unfriendly.
You scanned the labels: “Death by Fudge,” “Cotton Candy Monsoon,” “Grandma’s Purse.”
Not promising.
Still, you slid the slip of paper over. “Do you have a candle called Lavender Solace?”
He glanced, then grinned. “Fancy stuff, eh? Not the usual crap I sell to tourists.”
“It’s for a friend,” you said, choosing to ignore the rest.
“Must be a hell of a friend.”
“Yeah. Do you have it?”
“You’re lucky.” He heaved himself up and vanished into the back. You braced for a gang with matching leather jackets. Instead, he returned with a pristine purple jar, wax‑sealed. He dropped it onto the counter with a dull thud that made you wince.
If Kurapika had seen that, he would’ve had an aneurysm.
“Thanks. I didn’t think you’d have it,” you said, smiling despite yourself.
“Oh, I got all kinds. Even the fancy ones.”
You paid quickly, ready to leave, but the man insisted you try a few others. Against your better judgment, you sniffed one labeled Marshmallow Inferno. It smelled exactly like roasting marshmallows by a fire… if someone had cranked the scent to maximum volume.
You bought it anyway. Maybe it’d be a gag gift for Kurapika. Or maybe his candle obsession was contagious.
On the walk back, you shuddered at the thought of admitting where you’d found the replacement. You could already imagine the scarlet glare and the lecture about “unsavory establishments” versus “true artisanal craft.”
Still, you’d gotten the candle. And you’d survived.
Back at the apartment, he was still asleep at the desk. You unwrapped the new jar and set it carefully in the glass case where the original had been. A small note, taped to the front, read:
Saw your candle was almost gone. Bought you a new one. Thank me later.
You relit the old one beside him, letting its gentle glow spill across the desk. The blanket still rested on his shoulders.
Your fingers brushed his hair back, lingering a moment in the candlelight before you smiled softly.
You wouldn’t let this candle burn out. You wouldn’t let him fade, either. You’d be there, to ground him when the world grew heavy, to light even his darkest days, to protect that rare, genuine smile.
Because lavender means protection.
Before leaving the apartment, you whispered a promise — to him, and to yourself.
“This candle will never run out. Just like I won’t.”