written for leopikaweek2016 (gold/achievements, day 7)
the title is from a poem of the same name by stephen crane, because a) ash's persistent fondness of stephen crane's poetry has rubbed off on me and b) i find it vaguely fitting.
There's a documentary discussing the extinct Kurta clan on the television in the corner of the bar.
One of the regulars had changed it from a recap of that night's Heaven's Arena matches, and by virtue of his being seven feet tall and having biceps larger than most everyone else's head, the channel stays changed.
There's a documentary discussing the extinct Kurta clan on the television in the corner of the bar, panning footage of red eyes in glass beakers and flamed-out ruins in the Lukso Valley. The slick-haired, white-toothed, fake-baked host interviews a steady stream of conspiracy theorists and historians and experts Leorio is certain got their credentials out of a box of cereal and—
And Kurapika does not lose his shit. His eyes don't light up with the rage of the fallen or the spite of the survivor or whatever pseudo-poetic bullshit Leorio can come up with halfway through his third whiskey on a particularly soppy night. He doesn't challenge the channel-changer to mortal combat for insulting the Kurta name. Kurapika, in fact, does nothing more that shake his head, mutter "'haunted crimson orbs', honestly" at the show's host, and fiddle with his straw. His foot tangles with Leorio's under the table.
Leorio, who's not under any obligation to extract his friend—boyfriend, person who finally picks up his calls, person he's so terribly fond of kissing, something like that—from the fight-that-doesn't-happen or to patch up any brawlers, tangles his foot right back. They knock ankles and knees and Leorio ends up with his joints jabbing into the metal leg of the table but it's too much work to care about that when instead, he can reach across the table to skim his fingers over Kurapika's knuckles and Kurapika can finally, finally let him.
The unfairly tall regular—and honestly, can't Leorio have one thing in his life; he's pretty sure even the stuffed animal in the disused claw machine in the corner can kick his ass but now he can't even lord his height over all and sundry?—turns up the volume on the set and ah, they've reached the dramatic reenactment segment of the show. The screen reflects red and orange on the back of Kurapika's head and shoulders while actors die in the (alleged) fire from (supposed) stab wounds and hemorrhage (corn-syrup) blood from (confirmed, definite, Leorio has seen the eyes that belong in them himself, has nightmares about them but will never, ever tell Kurapika) gaping eye sockets.
"Leorio."
When Leorio tears his eyes away (haha, even his own jokes aren't that funny) from the screen, the look on Kurapika's face tells him this isn't the first time he's said his name. "Yeah?"
Kurapika's knuckles shift under his palm and he laces their fingers together. "How is it?"
Leorio doesn't want to spoil Kurapika's apparently worldly impression of him by explaining his benchmark for liquor is probably-not-rubbing-alcohol, so he scoffs and swirls his glass. "It's good, I guess."
As is his wont and his (hopefully unintentional) habit of catching Leorio in compromising positions, Kurapika doesn't speak until Leorio's got a mouthful of whiskey. "I meant the show."
Never has he had the pleasure of performing CPR on himself until this very moment, and Leorio leans away from the table to hack up a lung and wait for his heartbeat to pick back up. Kurapika doesn't let his hand go even as he straightens, tugs at his tie, and reaches for the untouched water at Kurapika's elbow. The back of Kurapika's head is grey now, the show's bloody climax giving way to shadowy figures skulking into the night with bags of Kurta eyeballs slung over their shoulders. "It's—" gods on high, what sin did he commit to warrant this exact moment? "It's sleazy, is what it is, and—and opportunistic and rushed. The blood looks fake and it's completely over-exaggerated."
Kurapika doesn't look over his shoulder to confirm, just takes Leorio's word for it and takes the water glass from Leorio's hand before he can spill it all over himself. "Mmhm."
"I mean, you of all people would be the one to know." Leorio stops. Leorio waits for the pits of hell to open up below him and swallow him for being the fucking worst. The pits of hell are not obliging. Fuck. "Kurapika, you know I would never—that's not what I—"
The hand in his squeezes and Leorio feels the suggestion of chains, not quite real yet but always waiting, against his knuckles. Kurapika is—smiling? "Leorio. Deep breath."
Leorio breathes deeply.
"Another." He holds it this time, until Kurapika arches an eyebrow and he lets the air whistle out from between his teeth. The hand in his doesn't budge, though Kurapika rolls his eyes. "Are you okay?"
By all accounts—Gon's, Killua's, Kurapika's, his mother's—Leorio is pretty dramatic, and if this were his reenactment he'd reach across the table and press his palm to Kurapika's cheek and tell him no, that he's not okay, that he's spent so much time preparing to be the man waiting at home that he doesn't know what to do now that Kurapika's come home from the war, that he's pieced together a relationship from phone tag and stilted voicemails and swallowing the knife in his throat at every unidentified patient that's shuttled into the ER, at every mob war skirmish that's reported on TV, that he still pauses every time Kurapika actually picks up the phone—
Instead, he asks, "You're not upset?"
Kurapika finally glances at the television behind him and Leorio waits for this hand in his to sprout chains, to bloom rage and vengeance because there's still blood under some of his nails days later, etched there like it's sunken beneath the skin to mock Leorio alone. Instead, Kurapika sighs, looks back at him, says, "I'm tired."
Oh. "We can—" The whiskey burns even when it's going down the right way. "We can pay and get out of here, if you want. Go and—" Leorio pauses. "Go and take a nap."
"I would like that."
Leorio would too.
There's a documentary discussing the extinct Kurta clan on the television in the corner of the bar, shitty camera footage of a burning warehouse from earlier this week, of ten bodies pulled from the wreckage all bearing remnants of the same tattoo—possibly gang-related, the host speculates as he's replaced on-screen with a glowing list of homes that were robbed of the Scarlet Eyes in their collections. There were reports of a pyre in the Lukso Valley yesterday, continues the voiceover.
Kurapika takes a sip of his drink and smiles. Leorio smiles back. The documentary ends.
i had the idea to write this after there was a solved murder in our area and literally the day after the case was closed, a bunch of true-crime documentaries were up and airing about it, complete with footage that had literally only been taken the day before. props of course to ash for reading this over and to vi for locking me out of the tumblr account (same username as here) until i finished it.