Chapter Text
Chrollo would never dare to call himself a romantic.
Not because the concept repulsed him—romance, like most things, simply failed to hold his attention long enough to matter. His gaze wandered where interest demanded it: beautiful things, dangerous things. Strong Nen. Weak Nen. Nen in its rawest form. Certain tattoos. A fondness for animals. Patterns. Symbols. Objects imbued with meaning.
Never people.
He loved his friends. That much, at least, he had settled after years of doubt and quiet examination. He loved them in his own way—without ownership, without hunger. He would die for them without hesitation, but he refused to bind them in a circle of blind loyalty that stripped them of choice. Everyone in the Spider was replaceable.
None of them were forgotten.
Hisoka, at first, was merely… new.
Not his Nen. If anything, that should have bored him. Chrollo could acknowledge its power—elastic, aggressive, inconvenient—but it refused to resonate with him. It was too bright. Too sticky. Too difficult to manipulate. Annoying. Much like the man himself.
And yet—whenever Hisoka used it, Chrollo found his attention lingering.
The neon pink became less offensive with time, especially against pale skin. Fire-red hair burned brighter beneath it. Gold eyes gleamed with manic delight. Even the outlandish clothes—an offense to Chrollo’s black-lined wardrobe—began to blur into something cohesive. A deliberate clash. A spectacle.
It irritated him.
Chrollo filed the thought away with growing displeasure. He did not like variables that refused classification.
⸻
“Should we kick him out?”
Chrollo made the question sound idle, casual. Machi didn’t look up from her sewing.
Her eyebrow rose—precise, unimpressed.
They held eye contact. Eventually, Chrollo exhaled.
“I’m not blind. His presence disrupts our balance. His loyalty belongs to himself, and he doesn’t even bother disguising it. I fail to see the value in keeping a time bomb for the sake of—”
“—principle,” Machi cut in, setting the needle down. The scarf in her hands was bright red. Chrollo looked away before the association finished forming. “We have one. With each other.”
“He isn’t one of us,” Chrollo said flatly.
Machi’s eyes sharpened.
“He is. He followed the rules. He killed his predecessor and took the place. Rightfully. Being solitary doesn’t erase that. Disliking him—hell, hating him—doesn’t give us the right to break what we stand for. You know that.”
She studied him then, really looked. The calm mask. The hollow gaze. Machi knew better.
“You’re being unfair,” she said quietly. “And that’s the only thing about you I don’t respect.”
She left without another word.
The scarf remained.
Chrollo touched the wool absently. It was warm.
⸻
The matter was tabled. Machi was right. Hisoka had earned his place. Removing him without blood or consequence would violate everything the Spider was built on.
Cruelty, yes. But structured cruelty.
And yet—
Hisoka dimmed.
The face paint appeared less often. Pale cheeks replaced white, freckles dusted faintly beneath tired eyes. His hair lay flatter. The outfits remained offensive, but the spectacle dulled. Meetings were skipped. No one insisted otherwise.
When he did appear, he sat above them—by windows, by ledges. Watching. Barely present.
Chrollo remembered the first time it unsettled him.
Hisoka was two hours late.
Tension curled through the room. Teeth clenched. Feitan radiated violence. Even Chrollo’s composure strained—he had insisted they wait, citing Hisoka’s usefulness for the upcoming heist. He’d asked Machi to relay the message. The irony was not lost on him.
Footsteps finally echoed behind them.
The silence that followed was wrong.
Chrollo turned.
For a moment, recognition failed him—and that disturbed him more than anger ever could.
The red hair remained. The features were the same. But oh so different
White combat gear. Tactical. Boots without heels. Two neat braids woven into loose hair. No paint. Just exhaustion. The heart earrings still dangled—more of them now.
“I apologize for being late,” Hisoka said lightly. “I’ve been… busy.”
No explanation. Half an apology.
“A new look?” Machi offered.
“An old one,” Hisoka replied easily. “Revisiting. What did I miss?”
“You missed nothing,” Feitan snapped. “We were waiting for you.”
“It was out of my control,” Hisoka said, smiling—too sweet, too false. “When Machi called, I couldn’t resist.”
Chrollo disliked that smile intensely.
“We’ve wasted enough time—”
“My, my. Are you angry, Boss?”
“Do not interpret me,” Chrollo warned.
The smile widened. Dimples surfaced, uninvited.
“Did I annoy you? I’m terribly—”
“I said don’t interrupt me.”
His fist struck the table.
The sound cracked through the room. Silence followed—absolute.
Chrollo froze.
Hisoka’s amusement collapsed into shock. For a fraction of a second—fear.
The sensation thrilled him. He hated that it did.
“You’ll be useful,” Chrollo said, voice measured again. “So stay. Then leave. Do as you please.”
Hurt flickered across Hisoka’s face.
“Done,” he replied coolly. “Try not to rupture something.”
The heist went flawlessly.
Chrollo almost wished it hadn’t.
Now, the past echoed at his doorstep.
Hisoka stood soaked, uniform torn, boots muddy. Shorter without heels. No paint. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once.
“I’m staying here tonight.”
A pause.
“Just tonight.”
Chrollo nodded.
The unspoken truth lingered:
He has nowhere else.
“Is it always this empty?” Hisoka asked, freshly showered.
“This isn’t the main hideout,” Chrollo replied. “It’s usually just me.”
Color rushed into Hisoka’s face.
“There’s more than one?”
Regret flickered immediately. “Not that I asked. I— I’ll go.”
Chrollo’s hand closed around Hisoka’s wrist before he could disappear down the hall.
The contact was brief. That was the intention.
It didn’t matter.
Hisoka still reacted like he’d been burned.
His shoulders went rigid first — spine locking beneath Chrollo’s palm — then a sharp inhale through his teeth, breath catching just enough to betray him. His pulse jumped immediately, frantic against Chrollo’s thumb, skin cold despite the steam still clinging to him from the shower.
“Wait.”
Hisoka stilled. Then, deliberately, he slipped his arm free, step by careful step, as if disengaging from a wire trap.
He turned.
“What do you want, boss?”
The word boss had an edge to it now — thin, irritated, scraped raw. Not playful. Not teasing. Defensive.
Chrollo watched him for a moment too long before speaking.
“Have the others never told you about the hideouts?”
Pathetic. Cruel.
He knew the answer already.
Hisoka’s aura flared at once — sharp, reflexive — a flash of pressure that scraped against Chrollo’s senses before being dragged back under control.
“I told you already,” Hisoka snapped. “I never asked.”
The way he said it — clipped, precise — like the consonants didn’t quite sit right in his mouth when he was angry. Chrollo noticed it before he could stop himself.
“Would they have answered?” Chrollo asked, softer now. Prodding. Testing.
Hisoka scoffed, turning away half a step.
“Like I fucking care. Look, if this is some kind of power play—”
Chrollo cut him off by grabbing him again.
Harder this time.
He pulled Hisoka close, closing the distance until they were nearly chest to chest. His free hand pressed firmly into Hisoka’s back, fingers splayed where the spider tattoo should have been — the place where belonging was supposed to live.
Hisoka stiffened instantly.
Every muscle locked. His breath hitched again, sharper this time, and he sucked it back like it was a mistake. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening, nails digging in as if grounding himself.
“I don’t care about your hissy fits anymore,” Chrollo said evenly. “You asked to join. You succeeded. They accepted you.”
Hisoka’s spine trembled under his palm.
“This is a death pact,” Chrollo continued, voice low, controlled. “So you will ask them. And they will answer.”
For a moment, Hisoka didn’t move.
Then Chrollo released him.
Hisoka stumbled just slightly catching himself on the wall before straightening, cheeks flushed bright with humiliation. He didn’t look back.
a shame, Chrollo thought distantly, almost offended by the sudden absence of response.
Maybe this would shatter the illusion he’d built around the man.
It didn’t.
Pain exploded across Chrollo’s face.
He hit the floor before his mind caught up — cheek throbbing, vision swimming. For a split second, the world narrowed to pressure and heat and the metallic taste at the back of his throat.
Hisoka stood over him.
Not smiling.
His expression was cold now, stripped bare of theatrics. Something sharp and terrible had replaced the playfulness — eyes bright, posture lethal.
“If you ever thought,” Hisoka said, voice low and shaking with restrained fury, “that you had any power over me—then I’m terribly sorry to burst your bubble.”
He leaned down slightly, enough that Chrollo could see the tension vibrating through him.
“I don’t give a damn if you get off on playing people like puppets. I’m not one of them. The only fantasies I’m willing to indulge are my own.”
Every word landed with intent.
“I’m selfish,” Hisoka continued. “And unlike you, I don’t dress it up as loyalty.”
The blow wasn’t physical — not this time.
For the first time in years, Chrollo felt it:
his ego buckling.
Hisoka turned sharply and stormed toward the door.
“Where the fuck are you going?” Chrollo snapped, forcing himself upright, already summoning nen. The lock clicked shut instantly.
“None of your business,” Hisoka hissed, pacing like a caged animal. “Let. Me. Out.”
Chrollo’s mind raced.
Hisoka hadn’t used Bungee Gum. Not once.
Not even in retaliation.
Realization struck cold.
“Why can’t you use your nen?” Chrollo demanded.
“It’s not your—”
“I swear to god if you say it’s not my business—”
“Will what?” Hisoka snapped back. “Trap me in your fucking diary—”
A knock cut through the air.
Three sharp raps.
They both froze.
Since when did anyone knock?
“Hello?” came a deep voice from the other side. Thick. Heavy. Accented. “Is someone there?”
Hisoka stopped pacing.
He backed away from the door entirely.
Not fear — Chrollo recognized that instantly.
This was something worse.
Embarrassment.
Before Chrollo could speak, Hisoka clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide, frantic.
Don’t say anything.
“I know you’re in there,” the voice continued. “I will apologize for the door later.”
Chrollo gently removed Hisoka’s hand.
“No need,” he called. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
A pause.
“Хорошо,” the man replied. “It’s been a long day. Маленький котёнок — I can hear you pacing. Don’t worry.”
Hisoka stared at the floor like it might swallow him.
The doorknob rattled.
Hisoka shoved his phone into Chrollo’s chest.
He is going to beat you up the second you open the door ^<^
The door burst open.
“Get away from my son.”
The man was massive — broad shoulders, thick arms, beard wild and untamed. A soldier’s stance softened by a father’s fury.
“Soka,” he barked. “Get behind me.”
Hisoka stared at him flatly.
“From what?”
A gloved finger pointed at Chrollo.
“Him.”
“He isn’t hurting me,” Hisoka said coolly, as if the idea itself was offensive.
The man squinted. Then his expression darkened.
“Oh. I know this look.”
“Прекрати это прямо сейчас.”
“Stop what?” Chrollo finally managed.
“You are the man my son has been staying with ”
The man hit the floor before Chrollo could blink.
Silence.
“…Did you just knock your dad out?” Chrollo asked.
Hisoka honest to god hissed at him.
“Explain,” Chrollo said weakly.