Kurapika is tired.
It's a bone deep fatigue, a heart-heavy sigh and bags etched beneath his eyes. It's weighted shoulders and grim thoughts, hands stained red deeper than soap can remove. It's his calloused hands and sore feet and the sort of melancholy that covers you entirely, completely, leaving no part unscathed.
It's not a tired that he can sleep off. He can't eat a full meal and rest and be up again, good as new.
It's a deep weariness that he's just learned to live with.
Searching and chasing and fighting – that's his life. Searching for his brethren's eyes. Chasing the Phantom Troupe. Fighting against them, picking them off one by one. It's all he's wanted for so long, long enough that he barely remembers wanting anything else.
Barely.
He can remember wanting other things, of course – he remembers it like it was yesterday, reading with Pairo and planning their travels, hearts light and futures bright and seemingly nothing in their way. He can remember the happy anticipation he had felt imagining himself on such adventures.
He looks out the window of his current boss' room. Rain pours down in torrents and the wind howls.
He wishes he could return to that time. Simple goals and simple pleasures.
But he's not there. He's in an unfamiliar room with an unfamiliar person who he has to put before his own life, and that's what he's chosen for himself. He has nothing to complain about, nothing to regret about those choices.
But he still can't help but long for the love and care of others.
He has Leorio, of course, and Gon and Killua – he knows they're there, waiting for him, even if he takes some time.
Kurapika is tired – oh, so tired, bone-deep and aching – but he knows that when the time comes to rest, he'll have a home to go to.