Sex and Self Hate: Kurapika
He pretends not to know why he did it; he's familiar with lying to himself like this. It isn't really a lie he tells himself - guilty of it again- if he can avoid the answer by not considering it. So he doesn't consider it and pretends not to know, pretends that the day had been any other day and that the night had been uneventful.
But that's a lie, too.
It had been a bad day, as simple as that. Not that all of his days were good, not even most of them could be by any normal person's judgment considered alright even, but that one had been undeniably bad. Kurapika's delineation of bad usually had to do with his perception of failure, and though this had not been the kind of mistake that ended up with blood smeared across the floor, it had not been good either.
He hadn't been in the mood for criticism when he'd received it, and from an old friend no less. Senritsu had only heard the sound of his voice over the air waves to know exactly what was wrong and she'd snapped, choosing to give him a lesson in self care and discipline. It had been her mistake to do so over the phone - she'd only gotten started (and would have ended on a much gentler note at that) but he'd heard enough and ended the call faster than she could say his name.
The mistake had not been grave, it had not ended in death, and he did not need unsolicited advice on the matter. Why he even called, he did not know.
Or so he says.
It doesn't really matter - either way, his day ended as it did and he can't deny his actions, though he may toy with the idea of wanting to forget them. He doesn't really - want to forget that is - but that doesn't make it a positive experience. All it makes it is a point on his personal timeline, one to think back on if the need ever arises (which he thinks it won't) and one to ignore if it suits him better. He'll probably do the latter, but not just yet.
The day had been bad, the blond had been irritated, and he had gone out. Usually in the case of extreme frustration like he was experiencing at the time he'd lock himself away to train or meditate, anything that would help him regain his center and focus on his overall goal. This, though, had been different. This had been something that exercises and concentration couldn't ward away, and it had been building for quite some time.
He'd worn his suit out, not really caring that he'd been in it all day and that the combination of the sun and his physical exertions had left him feeling somewhat less than freshly pressed. His hair, even, was somewhat disheveled from an earlier tousle but it didn't seem to matter at the time; he'd wanted what he'd wanted and being in an untidy state wasn't about to stop him. Not much did, when he was as determined as he was then.
The club had been a point of interest in his mission that turned out to be a bust by all appearances; the lead he'd had taking him there was less than reliable as the other three places he'd visited had been devoid of anything resembling a clue. He only ended up there because the address had been on the forefront of his mind, as any similar kind of establishment could have probably suited his needs. The night was halfway over, less than ideal for scouting out hidden gems of useful information, but he didn't much care. He was only there for the drinks, anyway. That's what he told himself, anyway.
The old him would have laughed at himself for being such a cliche, but not even an ounce of the current him gives a damn.
He was in and at the bar before anyone noticed a movement, hailing the bartender and ordering something strong and dark. The whole place teemed with life, more so in the room further down that held the dance floor. The establishment was neatly divided in two, the front section a place for drinks and more reserved conversation - though by the looks of it it was more of a place for after hours business dealings and somewhat more private pre-coital rituals than in the second half. There were two semi walls cutting the room in half, jutting out for a few feet and then letting some supporting columns do the job, leaving the floor plan relatively open. Kurapika could see most of the dance floor from his spot on the far side of the bar, nothing particularly special about it. If anything, the whole situation had left him feeling out of place. Before he'd given himself the opportunity to deeply inquest on his actions he'd downed what was in his glass and moved on, making his way into the hustle and bustle for a closer look.
There were eyes on him, he'd felt it the moment he'd passed the middle columns. The pair belonged to another young man: dark hair, dark eyes, about the same in height as him, with a slender build. Figures drifted in between them, a swirl of colorful movement mixing with the thumping of beat-driven music. They'd made eye contact but Kurapika didn't stop wandering, working his way in a careful arc from one side of the dance floor to the other until he'd made his way to the opposite end of the bar. Athlete, but not by trade, he'd profiled, creating a checklist of attributes in his mind. Approximately twenty-two, perhaps give a year or so. Seeking something unknown to him as of now.
Though he didn't quite let the thought take form, Kurapika knows he'd wanted to be that something.
Kurapika is aware that he's attractive - at least he is now. Back then, well, he had some sort of idea that others were attracted to him. Dealing with said attraction was something he'd done mostly through feigning ignorance and using his heightened intelligence as a deterrent, never acknowledging someone's feelings unless they were blatantly forced on him. He'd had a bad habit of blushing at even the worst of invitations as a younger teenager, but that didn't seem to be an issue anymore. When the urge had overtaken him, it had come with the palpable need to see desire in another's eyes. He'd seen it then, and this time his choice to ignore it had been more strategic then anything else.
He'd been ordering another drink when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"You," he'd heard spoken carefully, from someone far too intelligent to be looking for a meaningful partnership in a place like that. "You and I don't belong here."
Kurapika had been downright captivated by how dark the young man's irises were, close to the color of tar. Despite not knowing each other, Kurapika felt as if this had the potential to be one of fate's meetings. He'd gazed unblinkingly into the other's eyes and in them his own wants were reflected. Don't ask me, the stranger's look said, burning yet strangely pleading, don't try to find out my story, and I won't ask yours. Don't think too deeply - you know we're both guilty of that. Don't say no because you are better than this - you are not. I am not. We are one and the same, you and I.
Kurapika had heard every word.
There was a part of him (mainly the dead part, but that isn't something he admits to either) that mourned what was being wasted in such an encounter. There's no doubt in his mind, even now, that the two of them could have had some sort of future together if they'd given it a chance. The stranger had been clever and polished, shadows draped heavily over his heart in a way that only someone with a matching fabric of their own could identify, looking for the same escape that he'd been seeking. Kurapika knows he's not capable of loving someone the way they deserve to be loved, and he thinks that the young man probably wasn't either. They'd have made an interesting pair, even if only to challenge each other's lies, even if only for a while.
He knows all of this, but still decided to kiss him.
It was by no means pretty, and certainly not practiced, but it got the job done. Kurapika remembers the initial shock of feeling someone's hand in his hair, grabbing roughly, but pulling him closer instead of ripping him back. He'd not bothered being disturbed by the action, instead pouring all of his heat and desperation into that one kiss while hoping it would be enough to get the other back to his room. Drink forgotten, the young man had growled his request to depart into the blond's ear and Kurapika had led him by the hand out the door.
The journey back was messy- a mix of running and stopping for violent assaults on each other. Kurapika had almost gotten turned around at one point after nearly losing all control in a side street, the need overwhelming as kissing advanced to fully clothed thrusting against each other's arousal. They bit and scratched at each other, impatient while clothes still hung off their bodies, barely lasting before Kurapika's keys scraped the hole below his doorknob.
What came between their entry and the removal of the blond's shirt is a fuzzy memory - lots of tripping over each other and fighting for the lead. Kurapika remembers the moment the stranger pushed him onto the mattress and stripped off his own shirt vividly - that's the first flash of something wrong.
He'd tried to distract himself as the image in front of him overlaid with the one in his mind, not waiting until the article had made it's way over the young man's head before moving to lick a line up his exposed chest. In truth it had shaken him, the thought sinking in even as he'd worked the skin in front of him. No, he'd berated himself, trying to drown out his subconscious with the salt on his tongue, that is not for consideration.
An interruption in the form of hips jutting out against his as his lap was straddled cut him off, the joining of mouths keeping him from losing focus. Though he'd never known another's touch like this, Kurapika's instincts were good - good enough to tell him exactly where to put his hands on the other's rear and neck when he flipped him, reversing their positions as the man landed on his back. He'd handled his belt like an expert, slipping it through the loops of his pants one by one at an agonizing pace, drinking in the sight in front of him. Vendetta aside, as the blond's hand slipped down to tease the base of his own flesh, he hadn't remembered wanting anything more in his life.
That is, until he did.
There it was again, that whisper that crept up on him from behind, wrapping it's arms around him in a sweet, slow seduction. It was easier then, without the lights surrounding the bar and the street lamps denoting the difference, to fall into the illusion as it weighed down on him, persistent in it's temptation. Warning flags sprang up in tandem with the heat in his groin, a voice he should have recognized hiding in the back of his mind pleading with him to vanish before it went any farther. Impossible; the Kurta has never been one to do anything halfway. In a strained effort to break himself from the recurring phantasm, Kurapika had bent over his counterpart, pulled his trousers down to his knees, and took him in his mouth. It didn't last long; the flavor, the feel, they weren't what he was after. Kurapika had needed something newer, something further from his usual self, if he'd any hopes of coming out of this unscathed.
A hand clutching at gold hair moved downwards, reaching unseeingly for the half-discarded clothing restricting his mobility. It was a second before Kurapika realized that he was seeking out a pocket, the contents of it spilling onto the bedspread as he struggled with the material. Eyes hidden behind dark contacts hit what his partner had revealed, the answer to his dilemma spelling itself out with undertones of dogmatic irony.
He'd decided how he wanted the night to end.
In hushed tones he sought consent, the other nodding quickly as the words slipped through his ears. Kurapika had anticipated it - why else would he have produced them? - already working open one of the packets of lube with his teeth and pouring it over his hand. There was no hesitation as he slipped his fingers under the other's legs, sliding within him hurriedly as he worked to get him prepared.
He's aware now that impatience and delusion are a toxic mix.
The body he stared at - panting, waiting, writhing - was not the one he'd taken back with him. Kurapika knows, thinking back to how quickly he'd shed himself of the rest of his clothing, that he should have been deterred by that. He knows, in his half-beating heart, that choosing to continue despite that was signing away another part of his soul - what's left of it, but he won't admit how much he's lost - and yet he'd taken that step forward. He'd kissed the shaking lips in front of him, knowingly, and pushed himself inside.
The second he sheathed himself in heat, he'd become a victim of delusion. This isn't what he'd wanted but it's as close as he'll get, unpracticed thrusts and scraping nails and all. It's just as well; his partner had moaned at the invasion, opening himself up further and arching his back, though he seemed unused to the intrusion. Kurapika licked his lips at the sight, watching as his own anatomy disappeared within the confines of the other's body in morbid fascination. His whole body had clenched tightly at that, his imagination getting the better of him as he recognized his own desire to be filled.
That had been all it took to break the dam, the walls he'd set up around his mind crashing down at the acknowledgment that his pleasure came not from the tight heat around him, but conceiving of that heat as his own.
He'd been rough in the beginning - an effort to contrast what he really desired - but slowed near the end, uncaring or unaware of how he'd relinquished control. His hands dragged over the man's body as he wished larger ones would do to his, if he'd taken the other's role. His mouth followed suit, moving from chest to neck to face as he'd dreamt - denial, denial - someone had done to him. Altered memories of past scenarios of shared beds and stories had given him insight into how he'd want to be held, insight that he'd put to good use. Kurapika had fucked the way he'd dreamed of being fucked, an echo of how the would-be lover said his name bringing him to completion.
Leorio. The name pervaded the recess of his mind a single time, and that's enough for him to hate himself.
The man had parted shortly after, Kurapika still recovering; unable to identify the difference between sweat and something similar against his face. He'd known that the stranger had been wary of leaving him, the unorthodox tender treatment at the end of their pairing had no doubt left him with a troubled impression. They'd not said a word before the door closed behind him - Kurapika thinks it's better that way. He wouldn't have known what to say in any case, seeing as how he'd never... He doesn't finish the thought. Instead, time all caught up, he slides back the outside door of the forty-second floor apartment, and steps into the cool night air.
It doesn't help. The feeling, the word; they're too much to write off as lies. He knows this, like he knows so many other things, but by this he is moved. For the first time in - days? months? years, perhaps? - he can truly say he feels alive; and he wants nothing more than to end it. This form of living; it keeps him in it's choke hold - that's the real reason he doesn't want to feel. It reminds him of what he no longer deserves. It wants nothing more than to feed on the remains of his humanity.
He screams into the abyss that is this dismal city, only to sink down onto the balcony floor and contemplate the worth of this existence.
It's a bad day.
