A/N: This story is set roughly one year or so before the start of the HXH series. It is going to be a MATURE story, though not explicitly so. Please take note. Lastly, opinions stated by any of the characters in this story do not necessarily reflect the opinion of the author.
Disclaimer: I do not own HXH, or any of the other works cited in this story, including works by Heidegger and Walter Benjamin.
A Series of Beautiful Contradictions
It all started because Kuroro Lucifer needed a place to crash.
It was not because York Shin City had no hotels, or that Kuroro did not have the money to afford it. There were always places open to someone of his financial status, but he did not want to stay in a hotel, was not in the mood for a hotel. The cold, uniformity of hotels depressed him. The friendly but polite smiles from the serving staff, the absolute sterility of the rooms, the lack of human scent, irked him. He did not want to stay in a hotel. That night, he had been too lonely for that.
In between missions with the Ryodan, and with nothing better to do on his hands, Kuroro had been bored – bored and lonely. He knew that there were Ryodan members in the sprawling metropolis, but it was not their company he craved. They were too familiar, too close for him to feel at ease with them. He could read their every quirk, knew their every mood, and he did not need that now. He needed company he could fade into, company that did not know who he was, company that would not look upon him for… decisions.
So he had decided to break into an empty flat.
As he stood on the ledge of the twentieth floor, heading for the pent house at the top of the building, he realized how contradictory his desires and his actions seemed. However, this was something he often did when he was lonely and needed a place to stay. Entering a place that was lived in was… different. There was no one there, but the scent of occupancy was everywhere – the pile of clothing in the corner, the collection of books and music, the contents of the fridge, even the scent on the bed. When he craved company, Kuroro enjoyed living in such places. He would explore the house, guessing at the particulars of the person, the occupation, gender, even sexual orientation. It was a lot less lonesome than living in a hotel, and without the tiresome job of holding polite conversation.
At the floor just below the penthouse, Kuroro paused and sent his senses out. He could not sense the latent nen that everyone carried, could not sense the presence of any living organism. The house was empty.
Glad that he had not just wasted the seconds needed to scale a fifty story building, Kuroro slid the large glass windows (big enough to be glass doors really) open, and quietly slipped into the room.
He found himself standing in what had to be the living room of the place. It was a vast, sprawling place, filled with the most tasteless of furniture. He eyed the bright orange couch and the clashing green loveseat with a raised eyebrow. A person who could afford a penthouse could surely afford something better than the monstrosities before him. Gingerly, he pressed a wary hand against couch and was surprised at how soft and comfortable it was.
Someone who chose comfort over aesthetics then. It was not something a man who spent months living in empty, damp warehouses just for the sake of obtaining beautiful artifacts could understand.
Abandoning the furniture, his eyes roamed to the next thing captured his attention. Books. Lots and lots of books. Books on massive bookshelves that spanned walls. Books that were piled haphazardly on the ground. Books that covered table tops. Interestedly, he ran a practiced eye over the books. Books on trashy vampires who fell in love with nubile teenage girls lay side by side with books on psychoanalysis, cultural studies and hermeneutics. Plays by Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde were piled next to a collection of action-hero comic books. A larger collection of DVDs ranging from films from the French New Wave to modern day blockbusters had collapsed over boxes containing make-up. Loads and loads of makeup. Eyeshadow and lipstick in shades Kuroro, who almost always stuck to black or navy blue, never knew existed.
Ah. A woman or a transvestite then with excellent and horrid taste in books, and excellent and horrid taste in makeup. How curious.
Curiously, he wandered out of the living room and into the dining area, or what would have been the dining area. Instead, the whole area was filled with musical instruments. A beautiful but worn grand piano, guitars of varying types, a saxophone, violins, cellos and even a string instrument Kuroro recognized as a guzheng. In a corner were a pile of CDs. Classical music lay next to techno dance tunes. Kuroro forced himself not to wince.
A woman or a transvestite with excellent and horrid taste in books, makeup and music. A classy, elegant person who was also trashy and had no sense of beauty. How very curious.
Moving from the dining area, he entered the kitchen. It was startling clean and neat, compared to the rest of the house. Unable to stop himself, Kuroro peeked in the fridge. Vegetables, fruit, Low-GI grains sat next to chocolate, microwave pizza, soda and processed chips.
Straightening up, Kuroro pursed his lips. A woman or a transvestite, with excellent and horrid taste in books, makeup, music and furniture, who was both a health freak and a junk food addict.
Curious, very, very curious.
Absolutely intrigued by the resident of the house, Kuroro wandered into the nearest bedroom – and discovered someone there.
Kuroro froze at the doorway of the bedroom, staring at the still lump lying under a messy pile of sheets. For a moment, he was utterly convinced he had walked in on a dead body. There was no aura, no nen radiating from the lump. It had to be a dead body, or he would have sensed it long before this.
The dead body raised its head and looked straight at him. "Hi," it said in a groggy, feminine voice.
"Hello," Kuroro replied politely.
The head raised further as the person on the bed propped herself up on her elbows and stared at him. It was a… normal face. There was a mass of dark curls, pale skin covered in certain areas by large patches of red, infected acne, and a rather non-descript face overall. Kuroro was disappointed. Somehow, he had expected the owner of this wonderfully contradictory flat to be a little… odder.
Then he noticed the bright feverish eyes and the flushed cheeks – and that he could sense the person's presence now.
"Sorry I'm not up greeting you," the person said in a slurry voice. "I'm not feeling that well, down with dengue." She smiled apologetically, though the effect was spoiled by a translucent trace of mucous dripping from one nostril. "Is there something you needed?"
"Not much really," Kuroro replied. "I was just looking for a place to crash and I thought your flat was empty." He paused, wondering why he had told the truth.
The person nodded as if it explained everything. "Okay," she mumbled, her voice already starting to fade. "Sheets in the cupboard. Couch is good for sleeping. Food in the fridge. Mmm.. give me… another hour…" She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
And he couldn't sense her aura again.
Kuroro observed with figure with interest. A woman (or a transvestite, he had to admit), with the absolute best and worst taste in anything, and who automatically went into Zetsu during sleep. She wasn't just a nen-user; she was someone who was used to sleeping in places she would not want to be discovered in with her guard down. She was a hunter, a predator.
Just like him.
Kuroro ended up making tea in the kitchen. It was difficult because he could not find a pot. Then he realized that the woman, whatever her name was, probably just dunked a teabag in a cup. He did the same and found the tea too strong for his liking. Still, it was a cold night and the tea was warm so he drank it anyway.
He settled down on the hideous orange couch, which turned out to be wonderfully comfortable to sit on, and picked up a book at random. Heidegger. He had read it before but he flipped through again.
A clock ticked by somewhere (he later found it in one of the makeup boxes). The night grew colder. At exactly twelve midnight, the woman emerged from the bedroom, wrapped in a thick, fluffy bathrobe that was pure black.
For a moment, Kuroro wondered if the woman had invited him to stay because she was feverish and had thought he was someone else. He wondered if she was going to jump at the sight of him and attack him.
When she stepped into the living room, he smiled at her and she smiled absently at him and wandered into the kitchen. Two minutes later, she emerged with a cup of tea of her own and settled in the green loveseat opposite the couch.
A strangely companionable silence fell over them before Kuroro broke it by saying, "You are awfully calm for a woman who has just discovered a strange man in her house."
She smiled at him again. "My name is Midoya. You?"
Kuroro smiled back. It came a lot more naturally than he thought it would. (At the back of his mind, his subconscious was thinking, "Ah, so she is a woman.") "Kuroro."
Midoya nodded at him. "Now you're no longer a strange man." She smiled as if that settled everything and leaned back in her seat.
"Oh," Kuroro replied, bemused.
"Did you climb up the side of the building?" she asked as if she were asking about the weather.
"Yes," Kuroro replied and then felt compelled to add, "The security on the east wing is terrible. No CCTVs, no security guards except on the first floor, and anyone scaling up the sides of the building can't even be seen from the main street."
"Mmmhmmm," Midoya replied absently. After a minute of caffeine consumption, her dull, feverish eyes grew more alert and she looked at him with renewed interest. "You're the most highly skilled hobo I've ever met," she commented. She reached over and fingered the fur on his coat. "Most well-dressed too."
"I'm not a hobo," Kuroro told her, feeling oddly unoffended. "I just needed a place to stay in and your place seemed nice." He paused and added, "You seem pretty highly-skilled for a rich little girl too."
"I am," she replied, no arrogance in her voice, just a firm confidence. "Though I'm not really a little girl. I'm going to hit twenty-five in a month."
"I'm twenty-six," Kuroro offered and then wondered why he did.
Yet again, she smiled at him. He was starting to like the smile. It wasn't a pretty one, her teeth were slightly crooked, but it was sure and confident and genuine. "You don't look it," she said generously.
Another comfortable silence fell over them and Kuroro found himself looking the woman over. Now that he could get a better look at her, he realized she was not as unusual as he had originally thought. She, like her house, was a wonderful study in contradictions. Patches of skin on her face were scarred with red acne, but the areas that weren't were porcelain, fine and so translucent they glowed in the orange light. Her body was short, plump and soft-looking, almost maternal-looking, but she radiated the poise, grace and strength of a skilled fighter. She sat in utter stillness, so still he couldn't even see her breathing, but her hair, wild and messy, moved in the breeze as if it had a life of its own.
Kuroro smiled to himself, his interest piqued again. This was more like it.
"You can stay for as long as you like," she said suddenly. He realized she had been watching him as much as he had been watching her.
"Oh?" Kuroro questioned in a non-committal way.
Midoya shrugged. "It's okay if you want to stay," she reiterated. She paused and looked around the room with an expression Kuroro recognized immediately. "It's lonesome living here by myself."
"It is," he agreed.
There was another long silence and then he said, "Pleased to meet you, Midoya."
She nodded gracefully at him and replied, "Please to meet you, Kuroro."
They fell into a routine so quickly it almost bothered Kuroro. In the morning when he woke up, Kuroro would make breakfast for the both of them. He would bring it to her bedroom, as her fever had not subsided. Then he would sit and read till lunch, which he again prepared for the both of them. Then there was more reading until dinnertime, when she would emerge from the bedroom to sit with him.
He enjoyed sitting with Midoya. She was comfortable sitting in absolute silence next to him while they read or brooded. She never asked him where he came from, how he got so proficient at breaking into other people's houses or how long he intended to stay. In return, he never asked her why she had a gun in every room of her house or why some of her clothes had large patches of dried blood.
When they did talk however, it was often fascinating and insightful.
Once, he asked her, "How does one like both classical music and techno?" He gestured to the music discs in question and raised an eyebrow at her.
Midoya frowned slightly as she thought. Her eyes were still bright with fever, and she was shaking in pain under the blankets she had carried out with her. Dengue was nicknamed "bone-crushing fever" for the intense pain the infected suffered from. But she still sat, perfectly poised and thoughtful. "Why is it so impossible?" she asked finally.
It was Kuroro's turn to think. "One would imagine," he said, "that classics such as Beethoven's music are considered skillful, hand-crafted masterpieces while techno music is mass produced music created by technology."
"Is that such a bad thing?" Midoya asked, smiling. "Classical music is played using musical instruments. Techno is played using technology. Both music genres use tools to create pleasing sounds. Why is one so different from the other?"
Kuroro paused. His tastes tend to run towards the past, the old, the antiqued, what has been lost and found again, and he did not understand the delight taken in new trends. "I see," he said reluctantly. "But I fear I shall never enjoy said artiste as much as you do."
Midoya inclined her head in respect of his opinion. "Fear not, Kuroro," she said cheerfully. "While you stay, we shall play naught but the classics. My poor, diseased head cannot take the thump of electronic bass now, as it is."
Silence, as was the norm, fell over the pair again.
It was the most comfortable he had ever been in a while.
Then he discovered the Hunter License in her bathroom.
It had been lying by the side of the bath tub all this while, but Kuroro had never noticed it till then. He simply had not thought that he would find an invaluable, priceless object that people lost their lives to obtain mouldering next to the soap bar. After he zipped up his pants and considerately washed his hands, he picked up the license and turned it over in his hands.
Two stars. Interesting.
The door to the bathroom opened and Midoya wandered in yawning. "Oh," she said upon seeing him. "Sorry." She moved to leave but he held out the license to her. "Oh," she repeated and took it. "I had wondered where I left it. Last I remembered, I was using it as a bookmark, but I couldn't remember which book I left it in. I wonder how it got in here. Oh well, thanks anyway."
"What sort of a Hunter are you?" Kuroro asked before she could leave.
"A Blacklist Hunter," she replied.
But of course. Oh dear. "My full name is Kuroro Lucifer," he said. "I am the head of the Genei Ryodan."
Her feverish eyes blinked in recognition. For the first time, the silence between them felt tensed. But not uncomfortable, he realized. Part of him was amused at the sight they made, standing stock still in the bathroom with the toilet between them. Part of him was regretful that he was going to have to leave this fascinating house with its fascinating owner.
"Are you here as a Ryodan member?" Midoya finally asked.
"No."
"Do you intend to harm me?"
"No."
"Do you intend to use me against the Hunter organization?"
"No."
"So you were telling the truth when you said you were only looking for a place to stay in?"
"Yes." Kuroro paused, and again, the truth slipped from his lips before he could stop it. "I'm planning something in York Shin, but we're… the Ryodan, we are in between missions now."
"Well then," Midoya said with a shrug. "I don't see a problem. You're not here as a Ryodan member, and I've never had the intention of hunting the Genei Ryodan. Nothing changes."
And nothing had changed for her, Kuroro realized as he stared at her face. She was already thinking of something else, having dismissed the issue at hand as unimportant.
"I need to pee," she said apologetically. "Do you mind…?"
"Not at all," Kuroro murmured, feeling something in his chest clench.
At that very moment, with the toilet between them and with her aching to pee, Kuroro Lucifer had fallen in love with her.
Love was too strong a word, he decided. It wasn't love he felt for her. It was an odd mixture of fascination, admiration and bewilderment. Perhaps a good dose of obsession as well. But it wasn't love. He was not 'madly in love with her', he did not wish to marry her or have her bear his children, he did not want to take her out to dinner, and he most certainly did not want to ride off into the sunset with her. She was just… Midoya. She was comfortable and interesting to be with, attractive and shocking at the same time.
Currently, they were sitting in the living room reading, he on the couch and she on the loveseat. He was holding an old classic by Walter Benjamin and she was reading the latest Science Fiction novel. Her fever had subsided earlier in the day, but from the way she sniffled, she still had a blocked nose.
"What do you think love is?" Kuroro mused out loud.
Midoya's eyes flickered to his face over her book. "Strange to be thinking of love when you're reading about art in the age of mechanical reproduction," she said wryly. "But then, love has always been art's favourite niece." Kuroro remained silent, waiting for her answer, so she put her book down (the cover screamed "Aliens Impregnated Me!") and pursed her lips in thought. "I think," she said finally. "That love is a sensation generated by a series of chemical reactions in our body."
Kuroro blinked, surprised at the simplicity of her answer. "You sound like you do not think much of love," he said finally.
Her eyes flickered to his face again and she smiled. "Tell me, Kuroro," she said. "Why do you feel hunger?"
Unsure of where she was going, Kuroro replied, "I have but a layman's knowledge of why. As I understand it, my body requires nutrition to continue functioning, and so my stomach sends a message to my brain which then triggers the sensation of hunger so I will feed."
"Is that not a vital series of chemical reactions?" Midoya asked gently. "If I took a person and took away his ability to feel hunger, he would starve to death because he would not realize his body lacks the nutrients required to survive."
Now he got it. "You think it is the same for love?" he asked, though he knew the answer.
"I think," she replied, her eyes already back on her book, "that if our bodies did not need it, it would not induce us to feel it."
It was a fascinating thought, to equate love and hunger, one so often seen as an indulgence while the other so often seen as a necessity. Kuroro touched his lips in thought as he mused over the concept.
"How about you?" Midoya asked, her eyes still on her book. "What do you think love is?"
"I think love does not exist," Kuroro replied immediately. "Everyone has a different definition of love. It is so subjective you might as well be define it as 'whatever you think is love, is love'. If there can be no logical definition for love, we might as well proclaim love does not exist at all."
"Hmm. Interesting," Midoya murmured and returned to her book.
One of those comfortable silences that so often existed between them fell – and was promptly broken by a loud buzzing sound. Kuroro lifted his eyebrow in query while Midoya got up and made her way to the lift. "A visitor," she said, fingers already entering the code that would allow her guest to come up.
Kuroro got to his feet. "Shall I vanish?" he asked.
"No stay. It is quite alright." She paused, frowning thoughtfully. "Unless your face is on the Hunter webpage? That would be quite disastrous. The person coming up now is a Blacklist Hunter too."
"Not that I am aware of," Kuroro replied honestly (staying with Midoya was destroying his pride as a bandit). He was quite certain Shalnark would have said something if their faces were all over the Hunter website.
The lift made a soft, pleasant chiming sound and the doors parted to reveal a young man standing in it. "Pepeka," Midoya greeted warmly.
"Midoya-sensei," the man, presumedly Pepeka, replied with the kind of overenthusiasm and adoration Kuroro usually associated with young teens meeting their idols.
Sitting quietly and unobserved, Kuroro eyed the new arrival curiously. Standing to next Midoya made them a study in contrasts. While Midoya was short and plump, Pepeka was tall and buff; while Midoya was almost sickly pale, Pepeka was tanned with perfect skin. And while Midoya projected the calmness, stillness and confidence of a leopard, Pepeka radiated the energy, restlessness and eagerness of an overgrown puppy.
"What are you doing here?" Midoya was asking. "Last I heard, you were hunting a bounty somewhere in East Anchansi."
"Oh I was!" Pepeka replied, his voice loud and expressive. "I caught my bounty and came back, only to hear that sensei was sick, so I just had to…" He trailed off suddenly when his large, earnest blue eyes caught sight of Kuroro. Kuroro offered him a small smile and the young man flushed over in embarrassment. "I didn't realize you had a guest!" he spluttered. "I am so sorry for interrupting, Midoya-sensei. The doorman said you were alone so I presumed…" He stopped suddenly and eyed Kuroro warily. "How did he get here past the doorman?"
The suspicion in his tone made Kuroro raise his eyebrow. It seems the 'doorman' of this building was not to be trifled with.
"That's Kuroro," Midoya said carelessly. "He climbed in through my window."
"Oh," Pepeka replied as if that explained everything (evidently Midoya had some very interesting friends). Obviously still flustered, he made his way over to Kuroro and grabbed his hand in a bone-crushing handshake. "Pleased to meet you," he boomed. "I'm Pepeka Timbal, Blacklist Hunter and ex-apprentice of Midoya-sensei."
Kuroro eyed the powerful handshake, the challenging body language and the bright, aggressive smile, and raised his eyebrow. It had been a while since he had last faced such explicit machoism. How… quaint. "Kuroro," he replied, resisting the urge to squeeze back hard. "But a mere acquaintance of your esteemed sensei."
"Oh?" Pepeka questioned, the belligerence obvious in his tone. "Whatcha doing here in sensei's house? I didn't know sensei's been giving out her address to mere acquaintances."
Out of the corner of his eye, Kuroro saw Midoya rolling her eyes. It was the first time he had seen any expression of annoyance from the usually calm and collected woman. "I'm staying here," Kuroro said, the corners of his mouth curling upwards in what could, with patience and practice, become a smile someday. "Midoya-chan has most kindly offered to let me live here while I complete some business in town." He had to smile at Pepeka's expression, one of shock, horror and soul-rending disappointment. He had obviously drawn the most obvious and most incorrect conclusion.
The young man sank wordlessly into the loveseat opposite Kuroro, his face deathly pale. Kuroro watched him for a further response but none came. With an inaudible sigh, Kuroro returned to his book. These alpha male types were so easy to deal with it made him feel like a bully picking on them.
Midoya returned from the kitchen and sat cups of hot coffee in front of them. Black coffee for Kuroro, and coffee mixed with chocolate for Pepeka; she had memorized his preferences just a few days into their acquaintance. She sat down next to Pepeka and looked at Kuroro with an expression of amusement on her face. Obviously having witnessed the exchange, she inclined her head to him in acknowledgement of his victory. Kuroro nodded back, the corners of his lips turning up in a more genuine smile. Pepeka missed the whole exchange.
"Being a Blacklist Hunter sounds like an interesting job. How long have you been doing it?" Kuroro asked, feeling the slightest tinge of pity for the poor kid wallowing in despair.
Jolted out of his misery, Pepeka scrambled to fix his face into a calm, blank mask (he failed on all three accounts). "Just over a month," he confessed. "I finished my nen-training half a year ago."
"Ah," Kuroro said, his tone light and friendly, and entirely unlike his usual manner of speaking. "You don't look much younger than your sensei. How amazing Midoya-chan is, being a nen-master at such a young age." He beamed sunshine at her, and she smiled back, an amused and knowing smile. It looked good on her; it made her look like a Spider.
"Midoya-sensei is amazing," Pepeka agreed, his voice rising with idolization. "There's no criminal in the world she couldn't capture. Even the Genei Ryodan wouldn't be a match for her. Bet you she could capture all of them, if only she weren't so lazy about hunting them down."
"Oh? How fascinating." Kuroro smiled at Midoya again, and she smiled back. There was a gleam of excitement and interest in her eyes, and he knew she could see the same in his. They were predators, fighters; the idea of the hunt naturally excited them, even if they weren't going to actually go on one.
"Maybe I will try one day," Midoya conceded in a soft, cool voice in direct contrast with her eyes which were glittering with anticipation. "I am sure it will be… fun." Her smile widened just a little, and a thrill ran down Kuroro's spine.
"What do you do anyway, Kuroro-san?" Pepeka demanded, breaking the moment. "Are you a Hunter too?"
"Oh, heaven forbid," Kuroro replied immediately. "I quaver at the sight of blood. No, I am afraid my occupation is a lot less exciting."
"What is it?"
"I am a director of pornographic films." Kuroro beamed more cancerous UV rays as Midoya snorted laughter that she tried to disguise as coughs and as Pepeka turned a colour that was a cross between purple and a very rotten tomato.
"You are a WHAT?" the younger man exploded.
"I was looking for actors in York Shin," Kuroro went on, leaning his elbows on his knees and pressing the tips of his fingers together. "And then, I ran into beautiful Midoya-chan with those lovely legs of hers. I immediately thought, 'Yes! This woman must be in my newest picture!'. Now, I find she has a young apprentice, a strapping young man with the most arousing biceps. What say you, young man? Would you like to star in a porn film?" What a story; he had obviously been associating much too often with Hisoka. Paku would faint if she heard him talking like this.
Pepeka choked on nothing and jumped to his feet. "I will never degrade myself to that level!" he howled furiously. "And don't you dare try to coerce Midoya-sensei into acting in your vile films! She…"
"Pepe-chan," Midoya said patiently, making Pepeka wince. "Kuroro is pulling your leg." She looked at Kuroro pointedly and he hid his smile. Aww, now he had to come up with a new lie. He had quite liked that one too.
"Indeed I am," Kuroro said agreeably. "I trade in antiques, mainly old books. That's how I met your sensei of course." He quirked an eyebrow at Pepeka's furious and suspicious glare. "Fear not. I do not intend to reduce your sensei to a mindless sex object. Quite frankly, I doubt there is any man on earth with the power to do so."
Pepeka stood there for a while, face red and sweaty with fury, before he turned and stomped towards the bathroom. As soon as the door slammed shut, Midoya leaned across the coffee table and murmured, "You are having too much fun at the expense of my dear disciple."
Kuroro leaned over as well and whispered back, "And you're not?"
Midoya's lips curved in a fleeting smile. "Pepeka has always been easy to tease, but I must admit you draw the most entertaining reactions out of him."
"It helps that he thinks I am your… what's that term normal people use… ah, I remember. He thinks I am your 'lover'."
"He can't help it," Midoya replied, her eyes twinkling with glee. "Here you are, sitting on my couch with your hair mussed up and your eyes looking all smoky and dreamy, looking like you just recovered from the post-coital bliss of awesome sex. My poor disciple never had a chance."
"Hmmpmm," Kuroro acknowledged, with the slightest tilt of his head. "Speaking of the little death, I wonder who would win," he mused suddenly, "should the two of us fight." They were leaning so close together their noses were almost touching.
Midoya's head tilted in thought. "We don't know what each other's abilities are like," she said softly. "It is hard to judge." Her gaze on him was sharp but not aggressive. "Do you think I could take on a member of the Genei Ryodan, theoretically speaking?"
Kuroro looked back at her calmly. "I don't know your abilities; it is hard to judge, but if I had to make a guess, I would say yes. I think you could take on a Ryodan member." He smiled. "But we have a truce, no?"
"A truce," she agreed. "I don't hunt the Ryodan and the Ryodan do not rob me blind and murder me in my sleep. This way you get to continue staying here for free while I continue to enjoy your esteemed company."
"Yes."
"A pity though," Midoya murmured. "It would be fun for us to have a little… competition."
It would. Another thrill ran down his spine. Before he could reply, Pepeka came out of the bathroom, took one look at their close proximity to each other, jumped again to the most incorrect of conclusions and started stammering like a clown on drugs.
It was a good thing he did; Kuroro had almost, almost stabbed Midoya in the neck with his Benz knife.
And she had almost stabbed him in the face with the dagger that had magically appeared in her hands.
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