Chrollo is eight when something akin to fire crawls along the nape of his neck, down the slope of his spine.
The pain is bearable—almost like needles pricking him just barely—but the slight discomfort is nothing compared to the awe that swells in his chest, fluttering and warm.
Time seems to slow to a crawl, yet his heart's beating at a million miles per second as he cranes his neck, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed. Chrollo is frantic in his excitement, desperate to recall the scraps of knowledge he had accumulated through what little he's read on the phenomenon. Legible books are a rare find around these parts, after all, let alone texts that specifically focus on the topic of soulmates.
But at the end of the day, he's a practical kid, if anyone were to ask. Chrollo isn't the type to blindly believe in fairy tales and legends, because children who don't grow up fast enough are often the first to go. Meteor City culls the weak, separates the lambs from the wolves—he can't afford to have his head in the clouds, even though he'd gladly choose a complete storybook over stale, moldy bread without an ounce of hesitation.
Yet when he finds a mirror shard amongst a pile of abandoned electronics, Chrollo nearly forgets about his ire because they're there, imprinted in faint, black ink against the pale expanse of his back. Tiny blossoms speckle his skin like stars, leaving a lingering burn in their wake.
He doesn't register the cuts that are forming on his fingertips as his grip tightens around the glass. Instead, Chrollo grins—large and boyish and peculiar-looking in a place where mountains of garbage means home.
But he allows himself to smile, if only for this moment, because no one's around to judge and there's something amazing about the flowers that adorn him, in watching myth become reality before his very eyes.
As he moves to touch a lone petal that sits atop his shoulder, Chrollo notes they're no wider than his thumb. Tattoos of this size, if he remembers correctly, indicate that his soulmate had just cried for the very first time.
—And that's when Chrollo freezes, because there's no way his soulmate is an infant. What can he even do with a child? He'll have to wait years before they can talk, write, read. Chrollo is far from impatient, he likes to think, but he isn't sure if he's okay with the fact that the one destined for him is nearly a decade younger. Would they share the same interests, the same dreams? Would they be kind, would they be cruel?
A particularly harsh gust of wind kicks up the dust around him, causing Chrollo to cough into the crook of his arm. He breathes in, ignores the faint odor of rot and feces, and before he can think better of it, he's on a collision course with cold, hard reality.
They could be halfway across the planet, living it up in some house with plenty of food and a family to call their own. Chrollo smiles bitterly to himself as he realizes that his soulmate is paired with someone who eats months-old scraps off the ground, someone who had plucked a cool-sounding name out of a book because he doesn't know if he'd been given one at birth. Chrollo had never questioned his upbringing before, but then he looks at the holes in his shirt that's two sizes too big, at his calloused, bruised feet, caked with mud and dried blood, and he can't help but wonder—
Would his soulmate have the heart to accept him for who he is?
It's not a train of thought Chrollo is familiar with. He knows how to disarm a man in three seconds flat, but he's still an eight-year-old boy (almost nine, if he'd counted his moons right), and his world's about as big as Meteor City is wide. There's someone out there who's meant just for him, someone who's supposed to know him better than anyone else.
The logical side of him scoffs—the chances of running into his soulmate here, of all places, are about as likely as winning the lottery (which says a lot, considering Meteor City doesn't even have a lotto), and he'd read enough sappy romances to understand that the hero isn't a scruffy, malnourished orphan whose favorite napping spot is the inside of an old refrigerator.
But the other side—the one that's a little more receptive to the glee that pools in his stomach—buzzes with anticipation each time he pokes at the fresh tattoos on his back.
His fridge is a poor mockery of a castle and he's no Prince Charming, but he's got time and a special kind of resolve that seems to run deeper than his eight-year-young heart can comprehend.
And surely, that must mean something.
Pakunoda is the fire to Machi's ice, all patient love and quiet determination. Now that he's older, more experienced, sentimentality's a bit of a foreign concept. But they're the dictionary definition of soulmates and Pakunoda's the gentlest warmth he's ever known, and Chrollo thinks he might just get used to having them around.
They're strolling past a pop-up marketplace when Pakunoda turns to Chrollo, fingers intertwined with Machi's lithe ones, and asks, "Do you know what your flower means?"
"It's not something I've actively researched, no," Chrollo says slowly, eyeing an assortment of cheaply-made jewelry, "but I'm assuming you're going to tell me...?"
Before Pakunoda has the chance to answer, Machi clicks her tongue. "The scabiosa. Unfortunate love," she interjects without sparing Chrollo so much of a glance. "I wonder, what exactly did you do?"
"Absolutely nothing," Chrollo huffs out like he's offended, "and the meaning doesn't necessarily reflect the nature of the bond."
He blinks against the glaring sunset, washing them in hues of oranges and reds. Chrollo's at least eighty-seven percent sure he hadn't encountered his soulmate yet. It's not like he knows what to expect, either—research journals are too objective in their approach, often avoiding initial meetings entirely in favor of pouring over the pseudoscience behind magical flower tattoos. Novels have the opposite problem with their dramatized adaptations, dripping with cliches, and at this point, finding his soulmate sounds more troublesome than it's worth.
—Yet, Chrollo can't quite name what compels him to keep going, why he hopes for the universe to prove him wrong. Maybe it's the adoration that shines in Machi's blues whenever Pakunoda speaks, or maybe it's the way they're perfectly complementary to each other despite their stark differences.
(Why he has such an ominous flower upon his back, he doesn't know. But Chrollo lets himself admit it, lets himself accept the fact that he yearns for a connection as profound as theirs.)
"I'm sure it's just a coincidence. You can't help what appears on your skin." Pakunoda shrugs, "Fate paired you with your soulmate for a reason. They're your other half, whether you like it or not."
A frown's pulling at his lips, but Pakunoda's right—as usual. "Either way, there's no point for me to dwell on this any further. I don't even know where they are." And it's out of Chrollo's mouth before he considers the pros and cons: "How did you—?"
"You'll know," Pakunoda murmurs, stroking her thumb against the back of Machi's hand, "just trust me, okay?"
"Look at this. They're called the Scarlet Eyes." Chrollo gestures at the heavy tome that's sitting on his lap. Dust flies when he taps on a page. "Beautiful, don't you think?"
Shalnark whistles, low and impressed. "Whoa. Creepy." He's teetering on the edge of his seat, chewing on the end of a ballpoint pen when he tilts his head curiously and mutters, "Do they really glow like that?"
"Do we have to kill a magical beast or somethin' again? What a pain in the ass..." Phinks groans from the other side of the room, earning an amused snort from Feitan. "Sucks when they're endangered, too. Not 'cause I feel bad. It's just, those activists are fucking nuts."
"Actually, the Scarlet Eyes are a human trait. The Kurta Clan, specifically." Chrollo's barely paying attention when he responds—he's already picturing himself with a pair in his hands, rubies that thrum with life. They'd be one of his more macabre conquests, but the simple image has this pull to it and he's powerless against its allure, weak to the impulses that whisper in his ear.
It's nothing complicated; the Eyes are rare, treasured artifacts, and as an—avid appreciator of said rare, treasured artifacts, it's only natural for his interest to be piqued. Every priceless painting, every glittering, golden trinket he'd ever held were never enough, are never enough, because the hot triumph that runs through his veins always simmers down to drab, unfulfilling disinterest. He'd probably describe the perplexing feeling as an insatiable black hole, gnawing at his insides with each successful heist.
(Pakunoda had offhandedly mentioned that finding his soulmate is sure to solve the problem, but the Spider is bigger than him, bigger than his insignificant desires, and Chrollo just finds the idea a little ridiculous, now. He doesn't need a distraction from his priorities, and he's—
—he's fine with that.
—Truly.)
"Humans, huh?" Uvogin's toothy sneer glints with something feral as he growls, "I'm in."
But Nobunaga's unaffected by Uvogin's blatant killing intent, so he kicks Uvogin's shin, wincing the moment his toes meet hardened muscle. "The Boss hasn't even said anything yet. You don't get to call missions—"
"I want them." He tries to imagine their indescribable color, flecked with shades and hues most common men had never seen before, and he's sold. "I want them," Chrollo repeats, firm in it as if he's attempting to convince himself, too.
He won't search for his soulmate, but there are a plethora of smaller, beautiful things to make up for the one treasure he can never have, and he's fine with that.
Truly.
The sharp tang of iron and smoke lies thick on Chrollo's tongue as he strolls past decimated huts, feeling nothing as he silences an elderly woman's piercing wail with a quick dagger to the larynx. Trampled grass and bloodied clothes crumple beneath his boots with each slow, calculated step.
He's careful to avoid severed limbs and decapitated heads—he'd rather not trip in a manner similar to Phinks, if he can help it—and he tries not to roll his eyes when his heels meet the ground with a sickening squelch. Mud is bad enough, but cleaning off viscera is a tad more tiresome.
Chrollo simply wipes his shoes on the back of a child's corpse, and that's that.
Franklin's at the center of the village conducting a final count of the Scarlet Eyes they'd deemed decent enough for processing. It's not as many pairs as he'd like—too many were lost to trial and error, because coaxing defeat out of a warrior's heart is a feat easier said than done. Some caved after losing a finger or a leg, but most were stalwart in their courage, often fighting to the bitter, inevitable end. Even the children took up arms against their assailants, flailing their wooden swords with deadly precision despite the tears that ran down flushed, sweaty cheeks. Their spirit was admirable, really, even if it did make the job last longer than he'd hoped.
But when he rolls a lone eyeball around his palm, glowing more brilliantly than the fires that rage around them, Chrollo inhales deeply, revels in the smell of blood and victory, and smiles.
Two weeks later, a few minutes before midnight, Chrollo awakens with a strangled gasp. His hand instinctively reaches for his left shoulder blade, and he bites back a moan of agony when a wave of searing heat tears through his body.
There's an inferno ripping through his arm, shooting straight for the bone beneath. This is a new, unfamiliar type of pain, and when he shines his phone's flashlight on overheated skin, it takes him a few seconds to realize that the blotches above his heart aren't actually bruises.
Large, fist-sized flowers trail from his upper chest to his wrist, darker than night, hot to the touch. Chrollo almost expects them to bleed from how sensitive they are to even the slightest bit of pressure.
He winces as he shifts to his side to properly examine each petal, marking him like some sort of brand. Chrollo hates seeing them that way, too—he should be the one controlling his own destiny, not the other way around.
Sleep doesn't claim him until much later, but it gives him time to lie in bed and ponder over what could've possibly made his soulmate hurt so keenly.
The flowers stop blooming after a couple of years. Not completely, of course—they're smaller, mostly, and probably the result of a minor injury. But the big, nasty tattoos cease to trouble him, and Chrollo would be lying if he said he wasn't thankful for the momentary stretch of peace.
Their well-being doesn't concern him enough to warrant more than a passing thought, yet it's difficult to not feel proud when his soulmate's growing stronger with each day, without him.
Every plan has its risks. Chrollo knows this, he's locked in a never-ending dance with death. But he hadn't prepared to lose a member so suddenly, and it's a lot like getting the wind knocked out of your lungs.
They will recover, they will succeed.
And in the end, they win—they're billions of jennies richer, and they have a bit of beer to celebrate with, too—but it still feels like they've lost, in more ways than one.
Chrollo vaguely remembers crying in front of the girl as he read his fortune, confirming Uvogin's fate. His soulmate will have a new tattoo when they wake up in the morning, because just as their worst moments are etched into his skin, so are his on theirs.
That night, he refuses to dwell on whether or not his tears had inconvenienced his partner, but he whispers a quiet apology to the stars above, anyway.
Chrollo isn't afraid.
He's a cog in the machine, a part of a grand whole, and the Chain User's delusional if he believes that kidnapping him actually means anything. Chrollo doesn't blink when they shove him into the back of a car, zooming off right as the traffic light turns red. He doesn't yell when the Chain User lashes out at him like lightning, landing a mean left-hook that surely must've knocked out a tooth or two, and he doesn't beg for help when his captor's on the phone with his Troupe, negotiating his fate as if he's the one being sold in an auction.
It's kind of ironic, but the humor in his situation doesn't change the fact that he's probably going to die tonight.
And that's okay.
The Spider will live on without him. They've come so far, gone through so much—his team won't let him down. They'll follow his orders and come out victorious.
He's got nothing to be afraid of.
He laughs at something the Chain User says, earning him another ruthless punch, this time aimed at his eye socket, and he decides that he'd actually welcome death, because he really doesn't have anything to lose.
But then the burning starts out of nowhere, first scorching his lower back before slithering around his waist—and he chokes on his own saliva.
Not because the pain is excruciating, no—but because the Chain User's eyes are sparkling with unshed tears, fists furling and unfurling with unreleased frustration. Chrollo should've felt proud of himself for such an accomplishment, but then he watches as a lone drop slides down the other's cheek, down his neck—and suddenly, Chrollo is eight-years-old again, exhausted and lonely as he dreams about a life outside of Meteor City. A life with his soulmate, the one meant just for him.
It could be a cruel coincidence. His soulmate could have terrible timing, crying while he's toeing the line between surviving and dying, for all he knows. Yet—something deep inside hums with recognition, and his throat's too dry for him to utter a single word.
The Chain User can't possibly be his soulmate.
Chrollo isn't afraid of meeting his end, but he'd never truly figured out how to squash his juvenile desires.
And for the first time in decades, his nerves are doused in ice.
Uvogin's murderer is smaller than he expects, but Chrollo supposes that's what makes him even more dangerous. Kurapika draws his strength from his sheer thirst for vengeance alone, and while it's flimsy on paper, he's got enough pent-up rage to last ten lifetimes.
They're blanketed in silence as Kurapika tugs on the rest of his tribal attire, leaving his disguise in a pile on the floor. He'd refused to leave Chrollo's side to change—something about "not letting you escape" was muttered before Kurapika shoved him into a corner and smothered his face against the wall, rendering Chrollo temporarily immobile as he'd undressed.
Chrollo would've retorted if Kurapika's fears were unfounded. To be completely honest, he did want turn his head and sneak a peek at Kurapika's bare chest, if only to placate whatever's making his insides churn with emotions he's too afraid to acknowledge. But the uneasiness in his gut intensifies twofold when Kurapika gives him permission to face forward once more, granting him the quickest of glimpses of the other's shoulder.
Delicate, round petals, clustered around the center like a pincushion. They're not as large as the ones that grace his own skin, but his heart simultaneously soars and sinks when the familiarity of the design hits him.
Scabiosa.
"Your tattoos," Chrollo manages to rasp out, smirking despite the chains that are digging into his arms and legs, "I like them."
Kurapika scoffs as he smooths out the wrinkles in his tunic. "Be quiet. I won't tolerate any nonsense from you."
"I'm just saying, your body has good taste." Chrollo hums thoughtfully, gaze focused on a tiny blossom that's partially hidden by Kurapika's collar, and remarks, "It must if you have the same flowers as I do."
He doesn't respond for a moment; Kurapika's too busy frowning and looking at everything but him. "You're lying." is Kurapika's eventual answer, "And even if that's true, it's just a coincidence. There are billions of people on this planet; types are bound to repeat."
"You can check if you'd like. I've got nothing to hide." Chrollo tilts his head backward, challenging Kurapika to come closer.
"I don't need to check. You're not my soulmate."
"Humor me," Chrollo shoots back, and it takes everything in him to bite back his laugh as Kurapika takes one subconscious step forward.
He can't do more than watch as Kurapika examines his feet, then his face, then the area above his collarbone. There's fire in his scarlet irises, burning with the intensity of a thousand suns, but—
Chrollo knows better.
He doesn't need their bond to notice the self-doubt that swirls behind Kurapika's faux-iron resolve.
"You. Are. Not. My. Soulmate," Kurapika affirms—whether his voice shakes due to anger or uncertainty, Chrollo can't quite discern.
But then Kurapika's next words are swallowed by Chrollo's mouth because he'd lunged forward (how could he not when Kurapika's less than a foot away), capturing the other in a sudden, harsh kiss without so much of a warning.
He commits it to memory, how Kurapika tastes of coffee and spearmint, how Kurapika had initially frozen up before hesitantly responding with the lightest of nips. When Chrollo dares to open his eyes, Kurapika's features are flushed with the strangest mixture of fury and arousal.
Kurapika's inexperienced in his movements, awkward and afraid, yet the heaviness of his exhales speak the truth when Kurapika can't. He's melting into Chrollo, drowning in the kiss whether he's aware of it or not, and that's interesting. Because he'd undoubtedly never kissed anyone before, but each careful press is growing more insistent, and Chrollo has to wonder if Kurapika's truly as gone as he'd originally thought.
He isn't complaining, though. The contact is intoxicating, and Kurapika's sober enough to know what he wants.
(What he might complain about later, however, is the traitorous heat that simmers below, telling him to lean a little closer, kiss a little harder.)
Seconds feel like an eternity as Kurapika jerks his head to the side. Chrollo tries not to think about his disappointment when Kurapika blinks the haze away, cloudy desire giving way to clarity. Kurapika's lips are swollen now, parted and glistening prettily under the artificial lighting.
The sight nearly makes him wish they had met under different circumstances.
"What the hell was that?" Kurapika breathes out, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
Chrollo attempts to shrug. "An experiment." Any questions he might've had were answered by their kiss. He's reminded of Pakunoda, of the certainty in her gaze whenever she looks at Machi.
He's not sure why he hadn't figured it out sooner.
"You—!" Chrollo doesn't, can't fight back when Kurapika grabs him by the collar and knocks the back of his skull against a metal panel. "I should kill you right now!"
"But you won't," Chrollo says flatly. "I know it, you know it—empty threats don't suit you, Chain User. We can't win against fate, so you might as well accept it."
He growls menacingly, murder in his eyes, but the faint tremor in his grip is honest and all Kurapika can spit out is, "Over my dead body."
Mere moments later, the door opens with a squeak; the petite woman from the car is peering at them worriedly, knuckles white around her flute. He imagines she's scrutinizing their disheveled appearances, or perhaps she'd heard the entire exchange from the other room. Either way, Kurapika is stunning with the blush that dusts his cheekbones, and if he doesn't distance himself soon, Chrollo might just chase him down for an encore.
His joints are stiff from being constrained for so long, but his heart's featherlight as he chuckles. "Well, would you look at that," Chrollo murmurs, licking his lips, savoring the lingering hints of blood and Kurapika on his tongue, "we actually agree on something."
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