nurture
They were running, sprinting full-speed through the accumulation of garbage and debris that stretched as far as the eye could see. Grime smeared across their skin with each step, their feet crushing dead leaves and scattering them in their wake. The waste grew thicker and denser and the day grew darker as they covered some distance, looking for things to keep.
Kuroro was a collector, hoarding in abundance and accumulating so many things in his room that he fell asleep surrounded by them. No one seemed to care, except for Pakunoda who sometimes looked at him as if he would drown in the things that he found.
Their pace slowed as they reached the hilltop. Kuroro caught his breath as he stood amidst the ascended dust, his eyes sweeping over their surroundings. He had picked up fragments of shells and tucked them into the left pocket of his pants. The right pocket was reserved for other trinkets, like the shiny stones that peeked out from underneath the heaps of garbage. They weighed down his pockets, the waistband of his pants digging into his hips.
At the foot of the hill, something shone ever so slightly. He slid down the hill with the heels of his shoes and leapt onto the ground. Pakunoda followed shortly, albeit in a more discreet and careful manner.
Kneeling to get a better look, he pushed away the mounds of dirt with his hands. Despite being masked by rubbish, small flowers rose triumphantly at his feet. It had been centuries since flowers had bloomed in this part of the city and yet, they chose to thrive here. As he reached forward, her next words stopped him in his tracks.
"These flowers shouldn't be plucked," Pakunoda said softly, standing behind him and peering over his shoulder. "If they are, then the wishes they carry will never come true."
"What wishes?"
His fingertips gently slid over the bright petals, slowly trailing down to the stem and leaves. The weight was as foreign as it was comforting. Such a sight was rare, so shouldn't he possess it and make it his? Wouldn't someone else discover it and clip it from the earth?
"If you wish on these flowers, your hopes will come true. How else are they able to grow here?" Pakunoda smiled with a girlish twinkle in her eyes. "They're the physical manifestations of dreams."
Kuroro frowned and looked at her incredulously. "That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard."
She shrugged. "Whatever you'd like to believe."
Sordid was how he would describe the polluted air of Meteor City, the lingering stench of blood and calamity. The wind was ever so generous, letting him breathe in the crisp scent. He found that it was neither brimstone nor gunpowder, but something much more pleasant.
He left the flowers and waited for spring to come.
metamorphosis
Kuroro had been born from nothing, sculpted from mud wet with blood, and given an unclear future by cruel hands unsuitable for creation. Nothing could have prepared him for when his body changed, the way his stomach caved and his insides throbbed with a dull sort of pain.
He stretched his legs with listless strides and swayed with each step, but he needed to continue moving. A call came from behind, but he could neither listen nor wait. He couldn't remember how long he spent walking, where he was exactly, but he couldn't stop now. His surroundings didn't stop moving with him, rising above his head.
He absently wondered where the ground came from. He frowned, trying to push himself up. There was the light click of heels and hands pushed at his shoulders until his back was on the ground.
"I shouldn't have left him alone—"
Body heat radiated next to his shoulders and through a pain-induced haze, Kuroro decided that she was trying to help him. Her voice was nearly inaudible, her words fading in and out.
"Not sure if I can—"
An ache in his eye sockets pulsated all the way through his skull. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the sensation. He slid his hands over his face and pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to ease the pain. When the voice ceased, he blinked once, twice, finally registering the halo of gold around her cheeks, the strong features on her face, her eyebrows furrowed with a careful concern.
As Pakunoda kneeled next to him, a light, unapologetically warm scent washed over him. He didn't think that she wore perfume, but that was the least of his concerns. She did her best to bring him to his feet, placing one of his arms around her shoulders and pulling him tight against her side, but his legs didn't feel like they were beneath him anymore.
He clenched his teeth as he was heaved into a more upright position, the movement overwhelming his senses with nausea. Another shift, and he slowly lifted his head, staring into cold eyes. They narrowed upon seeing him up close, tracing the arm he had around Pakunoda. Despite her hardened expression, her face had a softness to it, a blur around the edges as if he was looking at her through frosted glass.
"You are more trouble than you're worth," Machi spat, and Kuroro thought it was fitting that she smelled like crushed incense and flowers. "You aren't even Paku's mate."
The clarity of her features began to fade and he felt his eyes grow heavy. He opened his mouth to speak, but the rawness in his throat only made his voice crack. While it didn't particularly bother him that Machi resented him, he wanted to make it clear that he didn't intend to steal Pakunoda from her.
His arguments were smothered and all he knew was darkness.
unconditional
When he clawed his way back to consciousness, his limbs as heavy as lead and a hollow ache pounding through his head, the first thing he registered was Pakunoda and Machi leaning over him.
Pakunoda pressed a bowl to his lips to let him take a few gulps of water so cold that it made his teeth hurt. The water eased the sting of his parched throat, but it wasn't nearly enough. By the time she pulled the bowl away, he was twisting and turning on the makeshift bed, barely able to breathe through his constricted airways. Every sharp intake of air felt as if he was being suffocated from the inside out.
His next breath felt as if it was going to be his last with the way it choked off into a painful gasp. He curled in on himself, hands fisting in his hair, but Pakunoda seized his wrists and removed them. She replaced his hands with her own, running her fingers through his shaggy hair as soothing, meaningless words fell into a whisper around them.
There was something inside him, like a poison that would not stop spreading, but he could feel it seeping into his veins and making his entire being yearn for something that he knew he couldn't have.
soulmate
"I should have known that you would push yourself needlessly."
Sunlight filtered into the room as Pakunoda dipped under the blanket that covered the entrance. Kuroro smiled weakly at her, the skin of his lips cracking. Blood welled up in the corners of his lips and the tip of his tongue flicked out, tasting salt. She sighed and settled by his side, putting aside a basket of leaves and plants.
"When I left you this morning, you were covered in blankets."
She looked pointedly at how the fabric was spread on the side of the bed with rips, ragged cloth hanging from his clenched fists. Machi sat on the other side, silently stitching the blankets back together.
"Sorry." Kuroro gave her an apologetic look and shifted on the bed. His hair fell into his eyes, and he shook his head, before bringing his hand up to push his hair back. "I need to sit up for a little bit."
"Don't," Machi warned, her mouth thinning into a flat line, and he immediately stilled. "Rest, or I'm going to make you rest."
Pakunoda laughed. "I brought back some herbs to help with your exhaustion. Machi, can you make a compress?"
"Fine," she answered grudgingly.
Kuroro leaned back on the bed, watching as Pakunoda kindled a small fire. The gathered herbs went into a pot, along with an ample amount of water and various other plants that looked more like weeds than any kind of herb. As Pakunoda busied herself with cooking, Machi reached over his legs and grabbed a basin of water, not caring that it spilled on his lap. She dipped a thick strip of cloth into the water, her knuckles whitening as they wrung it dry.
He flinched as soon as the cold compress touched his forehead. "Are you taking your anger out on me?"
She gave him a challenging look. "Perhaps."
He frowned, but kept still and let her wipe his face. He blinked, lazily watching how the water trickled down the side of the pot.
"How much longer before this wears off?"
"One week, typically." Machi adjusted the compress on his forehead into place. "Maybe less since you're hardly an ordinary person. Consider yourself lucky that you're the same as Paku."
He didn't know if he was lucky. Presenting as an Alpha was supposed to be a sign of strength in this world. It meant living with the knowledge that his soul was created to fit another's and that would never do. He couldn't afford such foolish sentiment, not when he first and foremost needed to survive. Survival was the easiest thing to cling onto and he knew nothing else, refused to know anything else.
"Do you dislike being an Omega?" Kuroro asked quietly.
"Of course I hate it." She didn't even spare him a glance, but returned to work on her stitching. "But it feels right to be with Paku. I couldn't ask for anyone else."
There were books that mentioned it in passing, but Kuroro discovered that he could understand even without them. No matter how much he wanted to run, he would never be able to escape his desires for things that should have never been. They were an inherent part of him, deep-rooted and irremovable.
The very thought sent a confusing rush of feelings through him—curiosity, awe, and slight apprehension, because he could not understand who in this vast, bloodsoaked world was meant to be with him.
forbidden fruit
The narrow streets were dimly lit, lined with lanterns and people with questionable intentions. The merchants continued working their stalls until the sunset sky was accompanied by a sense of foreboding.
Two young women smiled at each other, their hands brushing as they picked out fruits, bright red in color. There was a light air about them, a sincere happiness that Kuroro had not experienced before. He swallowed thickly, his mouth going dry. He found himself standing there rigidly, unable to look away.
One of the women took notice of him and motioned for him to come closer. When he didn't make any effort to move, she walked to him and bent down to meet his eyes, holding out an apple. As he watched her curiously, the fruit was dropped in his hands.
"Why are you giving this to me?"
She smiled and looked at him expectantly, beckoning him to action. "You look like you have something that you desire."
After a moment's hesitation, he brought it to his mouth and bit into it, finding that he never ate with this much gusto when he had stolen a feast. The juice stained the sides of his mouth and his fingers, spilling all about until the seeds and core fell into his hands.
Her smile widened with such sweetness and ignorance that he chose to withdraw from other temptations.
hope
At night, Kuroro returned to the foot of the hill.
There was one thing he was certain to be true—a mate didn't suit his existence. Having a mate guaranteed emotion and emotion meant vulnerability. Somewhere out in the world, there was supposed to be someone who would be everything he ever wanted, someone who would make him happier than anything else.
Despite himself, despite everything, despite the foolish sentimentality that gave him hope, he closed his eyes, focused, and made a wish.
omen
The scent of blood was heavy in the air and he could taste it like a wash of copper on his tongue. He took one step and staggered. Another step, steadier this time, and he looked down, impossibly overwhelmed.
The body of a woman was stretched at his feet, cradled in the arms of another young woman. The look on her face was one Kuroro was all too familiar with. He had seen it in every person who faced the relentless loss of a life too early. Yet, his heart hardened even as it deflated.
She held back her sobs, when Pakunoda appeared next to him and pulled him away from the scene. She was saying something, but Kuroro couldn't hear. Only the sound of heightened blood rushed in his eardrums.
Pakunoda slapped her hands on his cheeks and held him there, forcing him to look her in the eyes and copy her breathing. She took slow, deliberate breaths and he tried to replicate that, stuttering with every inhale.
He came to see what became of mates when their other halves died. He saw people unravel at the deaths of their counterparts, the ones that made them whole.
the need to protect
There was a yell, high and strangled.
Kuroro spun around, his eyes fixated on the source, and hesitated.
Machi's face was against the ground, dirt dusted across her skin. The man forced her down by her neck, choking the air from her. She was strong, much stronger that Kuroro had been, and the sight that she couldn't hold her own made his instincts surge.
He no longer delayed, despite that it would be the first time in his life that he had fought for someone else, that he had deemed another life as important as his own. As he rushed forward, the man hurled Machi to the side and picked up a knife. Kuroro moved into position and caught the blade that came flying at him.
Kuroro tackled the man and he shifted with a groan, not before managing to connect the ball of his foot with Kuroro's stomach. Kuroro was sent reeling back, but he was steady enough on his feet to duck under an overhand swing. The stolen knife flipped in Kuroro's grip and the moment he centered his weight, he drove the blade forward. The man was too close to dodge properly and his own weapon took him in the chest.
Kuroro took a breath and straightened his upper body, yanking out the blade and stepping away. The body dropped to the ground with an empty thud. There was nothing of value on the body to filch, but Kuroro did notice the bandages wrapped around the man's neck.
He spared one last glance before he turned to Machi. The bruise on her cheek made him wish that he had taken longer to put her attacker to death.
"Are you alright?"
She sat up and cleared her throat in an attempt to regain her voice. Her stare flickered to the still body before she squared her shoulders and looked at him stubbornly.
"I'm fine. He didn't hit me too hard."
Kuroro may have believed her, but now that he looked at her properly, he could see another bruise stark against her neck, where hands gripped too tightly.
"He shouldn't have hit you at all," he said sharply. "Your status isn't a reason for people to hurt you."
Machi jerked, her blue eyes turning up to him, and Kuroro could read both confusion and protest within them. She averted her gaze and lapsed into silence. She was rarely injured, but Kuroro remembered the first time that he witnessed her dress her own wounds—a quick douse of water, bandages tied roughly, and if she had felt pain, she did not show it.
Silence stretched between them, and Kuroro's soft indrawn breath was all that was necessary to break it.
"Do you still hate me?"
She rubbed at her neck, though her voice was still hoarse. "Not as much as before."
She did not thank him, nor had he expected her to do so. He kneeled in front of her to hold out his hand, and she looked at it, eyes narrowed. He wriggled his fingers in invitation.
His lips curved into a small smile. "Let's go home?"
collection
Home was made of discarded things that the outside world had thrown away. Kuroro's largest collection was of books—old books had been left behind or stolen made their way into his hands and eventually onto the rickety shelves that lined the periphery of his room.
Kuroro belonged here, but a part of him wanted to see the world and never look back, craving knowledge more than any other sustenance. The feeling tugged at him that night, when they all sat together on a blanket and counted their belongings.
"We don't have to stay here." He emptied his pockets onto the floor, carefully separating the shells and stones by color and size. "We can go anywhere."
Pakunoda wanted to know the stories behind his new acquisitions. Luckily, Kuroro was so particular about them that he remembered them all. This shell was buried in the sand and that piece was from when he had walked barefoot for the first time, until that fragment dug into his feet and made him bleed.
"What's so great about them?" Machi interrupted, evidently growing bored. "They used to protect their inhabitants, but now they're just useless and empty."
Kuroro placed a pink spiral shell in her hand. She felt the weight in her palm, the rugged texture printing a pattern onto her hand. She examined it curiously, as if she was apprehensive that a creature would emerge from it.
"I keep them and make something new out of them. I make them a part of my home," Kuroro answered with a slight smile. "Do you two have anywhere else to go?"
"No." Pakunoda shook her head. She had collected memories and perhaps that was a larger collection than his own. "We hadn't planned on—"
"Then I'll keep you two as well," Kuroro declared, and it earned him incredulous looks.
"You can't collect people," Machi scoffed, but that was exactly what he did.
a leap of faith
In the years that he refused to spend his time waiting for a mate that might never come, he founded a family of sorts. It was a feat, how he was able to hold them all together.
His authority was irrefutable and his words were held above anything else. His words were law, these words that had saved them and breathed new life into them.
When three became thirteen, the Phantom Troupe was complete.
devotion
Kuroro sold off the last of his belongings and they knew that he was ready to leave.
Words could not express the expression on Pakunoda's face when he came to her, asking for something only she could give. To be able to offer something to a world that had no place for her—it was a kind of happiness.
He lead, and she reverently followed. She would follow him anywhere, through wild and darkness, into the deepest shadows, across the furthest sea. Not because she had to, not because the world depended on it, but simply because it was asked. She would place her heart and trust with him, and walk with him wherever he needed to go.
It was then that he began to understand why someone would give without expecting anything in return.
scarlet eyes
Kuroro no longer looked up, and Pakunoda no longer looked down. Their shoulders brushed against each other as they trod along the worn path, their shadows the same length. They had a destination but they had no intention of hurrying, choosing to meander in the afternoon light instead. Their surroundings were lush with verdant vegetation and life, ignorant of what would come.
It took them one night to burn the village to the ground, leaving a mass of decapitated bodies and charred remains in its place. And the entire time, Kuroro couldn't help but take pride in his comrades. They were going to follow him to the end.
They left their message behind, by the still corpses and burning ashes.
His collection was restored, only because so much had been taken from him already that it felt a little like getting even.
the path he walked
"You murdered them all."
Kuroro hummed, a noncommittal sound that touched his lips. It lent an aspect to the way the drink was decanted into his client's glass, flowing and free of restraints.
"You," he breathed, striving to keep control of his temper, "murdered them all."
Kuroro poured a measure of alcohol into his own empty cup. "Indeed."
His voice was breaking. "Why in God's name did you do it?"
There was a quiet rustle as Kuroro looked up at him, silent and indifferent. He waited for him to continue, sipping at the drink.
"One," he choked out. His hand wrapped around his cup, his grip strong enough to break the glass. "I asked you to kill one boy."
"You asked for one, and we gave you many," Kuroro replied smoothly, his lips against the edge of the cup. "If anything, you should be grateful."
god of death
It took a few more years before the past caught up with him.
There was a fresh bruise across his cheek. He had lashed out with a fist that Kuroro could not dodge, fingers encompassed by rings of chains, leaving a wound that was more severe than it appeared to be.
His gaze flickered and spun into what was considered to be the most beautiful color in the world. These were the eyes that had captivated Kuroro so long ago, that still ensnared him in, no matter how much he wanted to resist their pull.
He was a survivor and most of all—a force to be reckoned with. Kuroro had razed him of all humanity and left him with nothing but his hatred.
Kuroro was impressed, because hatred took nothing but diligence and concentration.
Hatred was a form of devotion in and of itself.
memory
"I have a duty to the Spider," Pakunoda once said, "but I swore myself first to you."
interlude
When Danchou became simply Kuroro, he eased into a life that he didn't know how to live.
He traveled from country to country for months and looked for meaning in the places he arrived at. He came back to the world and it took time for the world to adjust to him. It took time for him to sit across tables and note the empty chairs, absorbing silence and inhaling emptiness. He read books, took notes, observed people, because it would always help to be prepared when the time came.
Machi was the first person he called once the conditions of the chain were lifted. As he pressed the phone close to his ear, there was a sense of uneasiness.
"And Paku?"
Machi's voice was heavy on the end of the line.
"Paku's dead." He waited through a cold pause. "She's been dead."
Kuroro stood up from his seat, rushing out of the bookstore with a quickened pace, the easy walk suddenly longer than he remembered it to be.
ending
A funeral seemed needless when she had been gone longer than Kuroro had known, but he donned a suit and tried not to think about the night that she made her final decision. Thirteen candles flickered in her honor, bringing light into the darkness.
Seeing Machi's face rooted where he stood. He had seen her indifferent, seen her frustrated and angry, but never like this. There was a lack of tears upon her face when she lifted her gaze to meet his, but her expression was something indefinitely worse. There was no room for words just yet. Kuroro reached out to give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and he could feel the fragility of her bones, how her body shook with sorrow.
When she spoke, her voice was a mere whisper.
"We had to make sure that she came home."
Grief did not come to him the way it had used to. He remembered a time when he morbidly considered their deaths. He had assumed Pakunoda to be less likely to fall apart at Machi's death. When they became not only his friends but Spiders as well, he reassessed his earlier observation.
It became clear that Machi was the one with greater endurance and adaptability. Pakunoda would suppress her grief, until it became too much to manage that it critically weakened, at worst, break her. Machi would mourn for a time, but eventually improve when the grief wasn't as new.
But looking at her now, Kuroro wished he never had such thoughts in the first place.
"I'm sorry," was all he could say.
He could not console her, not because the dead was less important than the living, but because the living must continue living. He had almost expected her to resent him, but she felt anything but that.
Machi shook her head, as if he was the one who needed reassurance. Her eyes shone with determination and fierce, fierce loyalty.
The days they had shared together in their youth, of searching for treasure, stealing food to simply survive, staying up all night just to figure out the perfect way to execute their heists, smiling at nothing and hoping for everything came flooding back.
Kuroro crouched down, caressing the flowers that she had adored so much. He didn't know what to wish for and he had nothing that he wanted at the moment. The petals shone in the soft light and he decided that he didn't need to wish after all.
"I hope your wishes came true, Paku."
The flowers swayed in the breeze, in all their subtlety.
It was spring again.
red string of fate
When he was younger, he could not understand how souls could be bound together.
He knew better now. He realized that when he looked at Machi, he looked for Pakunoda as well. Even at times when he knew that Pakunoda was no longer here, still his eyes drifted, perhaps tracing that bond between them. Only now it led to a place where she could not be reached.
Though her death was a shift in their world, they weren't left in limbo.
Even if they had lost one, two, they would rebuild from there.
beginning
When the weightless scent of rain on sun-warmed, wet earth filled his nose in a rush, Kuroro stopped breathing. He didn't need to look up to know that his mate was there, beautifully alive, some distance before him. It could not have been anyone else.
There was a gentle heat that warmed his very being and let him take his first full, painless breath in what felt like years. He inhaled gratefully, greedily, letting air slide like silk down his throat.
Kurapika, he breathed.
His chest tightened so painfully that he didn't think that he could ever ignore it again.
control
Kurapika was still a sight to behold, dressed entirely in black. He was thinner somehow, the lines of his face firmer. There was an air of utter indifference and a sense of maturity as he conversed with one of the Kakin princes, seemingly without a care in the world.
Kuroro suppressed the rush of painful excitement as his heart leapt treacherously in his chest. He pulled Kurapika away from the crowd, towards the end of the long corridor where they could be alone. His tight grip on Kurapika's wrist loosened slightly, but Kuroro could still make out his stuttering pulse, mirroring the beat in his own chest.
Kurapika drew back, pulling his wrist from his grasp. Their eyes met and Kuroro found the raging fire contained within his eyes. There was grace in Kurapika's resolve, and that was nothing short of admirable.
With slow deliberation, he drew his gaze down the length of Kurapika's body. Kurapika swallowed thickly and watched the way he watched him, eyes tracing over the contours of his body. A heat settled deep within his chest at that.
Kuroro reached out and gently tugged his chin towards him. Kurapika resisted slightly and he put a bit more pressure on it. His wide eyes looked up at him, nearly too large for his face. His cheeks were flushed and his parted lips looked as if he had just been kissed—or perhaps that he wanted to be.
But he could clearly scent the undertone of apprehension in the air, faint but enough for him to step away from Kurapika.
He would come find him another time, when his mind was clearer and his judgment was less obscured.
destiny
It didn't surprise him when Kurapika let out a frustrated sigh, the violence of his emotions threatening to spill from his lips. "Aren't you tired of always forcing your way in and doing things of your own accord?"
Kuroro was silent for a tense moment. "I want to make things right between us."
"I don't want you to. My oath is inconceivable to you," Kurapika answered, "and this won't make it right."
"I want to try." When did he get this soft, when did his voice break simply from being in the presence of his mate?
"Why?"
Kurapika was not his redemption. Being with him would not absolve his sins, cleanse his hands of blood. It was because he was like everyone else, that he was starving.
"Because I want you," Kuroro murmured. He was cruel, only in the way that those who were gentle could be. "And you want me."
He could nearly withstand the look of heartbreak on Kurapika's face. If he had a heart of his own, perhaps it would break too. He was so weak for Kurapika and he never was for anyone else.
He didn't care if this had been decided for them or if they came to decide it for themselves.
possession
Kurapika had his back turned to him, shoulders bowed and attention fixed to the object in his palms. He cradled the canister in his hands, the Scarlet Eyes, akin to the blood of rubies. His expression was no longer that of a young boy's, innocent and carefree. In his face, Kuroro saw the anguished future he had imparted.
"You might have offered me all of the gifts in the world," Kurapika said wryly. "Instead, you would have the very thing that was stolen from my clan, returned to me."
There was a hardened pain in his features, in the tight curl of his fingers against the glass. Kuroro paused for a moment at the sight of him, at the knowledge of it, before he reached out to caress the back of Kurapika's hands and entwine their fingers together.
"They were yours to begin with. Never mine." It wasn't an apology, never that. "They could have never bound you to your quest for vengeance, were they not yours."
Though it wasn't an apology, there was a strange softening of his expression. At that moment, Kurapika could have asked him of anything in world and Kuroro would give it.
"What have I given you?" Kurapika asked, almost gentle as he turned to him.
Kuroro pressed his hands against Kurapika's own, the contents threatening to burn them both against the cool glass.
"Companionship."
Kurapika looked into his eyes and slowly smiled. It was a true smile this time, soft around the edges and filled with a tenderness that made Kuroro's heart ache. Kuroro gently set the canister down on the table and leaned forward to meet Kurapika's lips. Kurapika tilted his head and responded in kind, expectant.
Kurapika withdrew first and looked at him, eyes crimson with intent. It was one thing to wage war, to see Kurapika as an enemy who took the lives of his Spiders. It was another thing entirely to see that expression directed at him here and now, under such different circumstances.
A faint flush was visible across his cheeks, and something within Kuroro burned at the knowledge that he wasn't the only one affected by their bond, the only one who felt like his chest was stretched too tight to accommodate the yearning rising within it.
Kurapika closed his eyes, leaning towards Kuroro again until their noses and foreheads brushed together. Kuroro carded a hand through his blond hair, twisted his fingers ever so slightly, making Kurapika let out a sound that slid into a gasp. It was something new, something simple, rather than retracing and opening old wounds.
He could work with that.
Kurapika made a soft sound and wove his hands into Kuroro's hair to bring his head up and their mouths together.
"Being with you," Kuroro murmured against his lips, "is what I have always wanted."
"With me?" Kurapika huffed, effectively breaking the kiss. "That isn't much of a life goal."
"Not like this. I've wanted to be close to you, somehow."
"You didn't even know me back then."
He took Kurapika's hand in his, squeezing gently. "But now, I want to know everything about you."
He pressed against Kurapika's shoulders so that he lay on the couch, beneath him. He leaned down to nose at Kurapika's collarbone, breathing in everything that belonged to him. Kurapika was surrounded by death, but Kuroro found that he smelled much like life. Like the change in seasons, fragrant but not oppressively so. It felt as if he was falling, or perhaps coming home.
"I love your scent," Kuroro murmured, inhaling deeply. "I could never mistake you for anyone else."
Kuroro lay gentle kisses against his skin, until his mouth reached the softness of his throat. His movements were languid and slow, but he smiled when he pressed a kiss to the side of Kurapika's neck and felt him shiver.
He had never realized how prone he was to obsession until Kurapika was at his side. Kuroro had traced the length of his eyelashes, the slope of his small nose, the curve of his neck, and he could think of no other word for the way he felt but obsessed. It was like how he felt about books and artifacts, but it was more.
It was so much more, as he could barely look away when Kurapika's lips curved into that slight, nearly undetectable smile. It was beautiful and irreplaceable in its subtlety, and Kuroro loved it because it was a smile just for him. He had never wanted to keep anyone so much.
"I'm going to keep you," Kuroro said, licking at the mark on Kurapika's neck. "I keep everything and you are no exception."
There was a light blush across Kurapika's face, a prickling awareness and an undeniable knowledge of a shared bond between them. "Sometimes you don't get to keep everything that you want."
"But I'm selfish," Kuroro admitted, "and I want to have you."
"You already have a part of me," Kurapika answered, achingly soft. "Isn't that enough?"
"No." Kuroro continued mouthing at his neck, marveling at the red marks he left behind and wishing he could stain them with ink. "No, because I want all of you."
Kurapika hummed and brought one of his hands to brush through Kuroro's hair. Kuroro removed Kurapika's hand from his hair, choosing to hold onto it instead. He sat up to look at Kurapika properly, finding that there was a rush of tenderness, a swell of yearning at the way that Kurapika looked back at him.
After all these years, the restlessness inside of him had called out to Kurapika and Kurapika had answered in turn, only appearing to take possession of Kuroro's heart. That was fine, because he was sure that Kurapika's heart belonged to him too. He liked to keep things and he didn't mind being kept in exchange.
He was certain that this was contentment, heartened and terrified by the weight of it. It could be nothing else.
He wouldn't give it up for anything.
Not for anyone.
Between their interlaced fingers, their intermingled scents, the steady rhythm of their hearts, Kuroro couldn't deny that Kurapika was a mate worth waiting for.
Notes: Confused? Please read Nightshade first.
Still confused? This isn't the sequel to Nightshade, but a companion piece. I'll upload the sequel as soon as I finish editing it. I already have the first chapter completed, but I'm still proofreading and refining it.
I'm not sure why I insist on betaing for others but I need a beta myself. The sequel might have to wait until next month, depending on my academic workload.
I wanted to provide a series of snapshots on Kuroro's side of things, so I hope this was alright. It's not refined at all and very rough, but I still felt like sharing lmao. I'll be writing side stories like these in addition to the main story in the future.
Thank you for reading!