Hello Everyone! I promised that I would be back for the Hunter X Hunter Big Bang, so here I am! This fic is Leopika, and can be seen as a direct prequel to Uncertainty if one chooses, however it is NOT necessary to read that in order to understand this. Chapters mirror each other (like in What You Don't See).

Art for this fic was done by echolein and alicatsartcorner on tumblr: links are on my tumblr!

On reviews: Please be respectful in your comments; this time I will not tolerate any negativity. If you do not like what you're reading, do not read it. If you do not like my characterization, do not read it. I welcome input that is constructive and about the writing itself, but remember that this is fanfiction and I am allowed to take whatever liberties I wish with it. Also, please remember that fanfiction is not an entitlement; I do this for fun, so please try not to ruin that for me. (If you're confused about why I feel the need to state this, please see my note of Indefinite Haitus on The Uncertainty of Breath)

The Crux: Leorio

He can pinpoint the moment it happened, the moment when the boy inside him died.

In truth, it hadn't been when he'd learned of his clan's death, nor when he put them into the ground. That had been traumatizing, yes, heartbreaking and partially maddening by all means, but it had not killed him. When they'd first met, Kurapika had been very much alive - truly enraged at the horrors of his past - but there had been more to him than that. He'd been still, at least somewhat, a child at heart. He'd still held wonder for the world, for parts of it: if not for what he already knew (which was much, but not as much as he pretended) then for what he still had yet to learn. He'd been dynamic then, more of a person than the average person, a treasure of healthy personality to go alongside his drive.

He can pinpoint when that boy died, had his life forcibly choked out of him until his eyes faded to milky clouds. He'd seen it - not the exact moment - but the moments just after. He'd watched as the other pretended to be alive, pretended to be relieved at the news that the Troupe was dead, pretended just to be. He'd watched, and not knowing how to turn back time and stop it from happening, he'd quietly walked away from him.

Or, not so quietly.

The confrontation had happened before his death in a contrived effort to prevent it, but he'd not been as sure as he was of what its outcome would be then. He'd known, no one who had overheard the shouts and saw the blond after could rightly attest otherwise, but he hadn't been entirely aware of the consequences of letting it happen. Maybe he had. Maybe it was hope that had kept him from physically stopping the other, hope that they could both get what they wanted if he didn't stand in his way.

Obviously, that was impossible. A person didn't just come back from those kinds of things.

There was no doubt in his mind that Uvogin was a waste of human life. The man deserved to die. He deserved to rot in one of the more creative hells that he'd heard of throughout his travels - perhaps the one where swords rained down upon the inhabitants with every breath and were unavoidable, despite aptitude for fighting. Leorio could think of a thousand variations on a fitting punishment, none quite horrid enough, but that didn't mean he approved of the way he died. Far from it. If anything, Leorio mourned the death of Uvogin similarly to the way he'd mourn the death of a friend, because that day he'd lost one.

That day, Kurapika came back different.

He knew that the other hadn't wanted to do it, despite what he had said, all harsh, biting words. He knew that Uvogin had figured that out in all likelihood, had probably forced his hand in the matter as a final gesture of victory. If anything, a killer knew another killer by the look on his eye, and Kurapika hadn't been that. He hadn't been until Uvogin made him one. That, if anything, meant Kurapika had lost.

They'd argued over it before he left. Kurapika had been animate about his conviction not to kill Uvo unless it was the only option, but equally as committed to the idea if he had no other choice. As his friend, that's what had scared him: the idea that Kurapika would take this on alone and still feel as if he was being forced. No one was making him do it, no one was stepping down from their role as executioner without other options. He'd been vehement about going alone - it was, after all, his vendetta and no other's. It was his cross to bear, his punishment to take. He'd not wanted to share it, and in doing so had sacrificed his soul.

Leorio had begged him not to go. He'd pleaded, on the verge of tears, and Kurapika had turned his back on him.

And, of course, he'd come back wrong.

Thinking back on it, Leorio wondered if there was anything he could've done to stop it. Even if he had kept Kurapika from going, would that mean he'd have kept him from killing Uvogin entirely? Would he have been able to keep Kurapika's insatiable need for blood vengeance when the next opportunity arose? Would he, in forestalling the end of one Troupe member, be speeding up the next's? How would this simple act of saving the life of his beloved friend alter the course of his life?

He likes to think - no, he doesn't like to; even in the best of cases it was not something he enjoyed having to debate about - that if he had prevented it, Kurapika would still be the boy he had met years ago. He'd still sit and read when given the option instead of training insanely, he'd still joke with nonchalance instead of replacing humor with stratagems. He'd still have hope for a future in which happiness was an option, because it had never entirely been lost.

Given the chance, he'd choose this moment over all of the others to go back to and try to prevent. Over of everything. Over Pietro.

He doesn't think about that either. He just doesn't want to think.

At times like these, Leorio finds himself reaching for his phone. He never calls, not anymore, but he indulges the option for a bit. Eventually, he'll put the phone down in favor of something else, knowing Kurapika would never pick up anyway. Instead, he goes over to his bookshelf and picks up a paperback, an old, worn novel. He remembers how the blond had commented on it during their time in Trick Tower and tries to smile fondly, but fails, the curvature of his mouth unable to change its downward trajectory. He sits down, unhappy in his reality that is, and turns to the last dog-eared page to continue where he left off last time he'd come across the thought of Kurapika as the boy he used to be.

He reads, and misses the boy that was.