Title : Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken

Author : lynlyn

Yahoo ID and email : cloud121383

Warnings : The main pairing here is Kuroro / Kurapika (slash, shonen-ai, yaoi, whatever it is you call m/m relationships) and if you don't like, then don't read! But I'll try to focus as much as possible on the plot and character development, and the rating probably won't go any higher than light snogging. Ah, by the way, some knowledge of the HxH world is required, and this fic takes up right after Kuroro's caught by Kurapika in the hotel.

Summary : After four days of being unconscious, Kurapika wakes up to find Kuroro sitting vigil beside his bed. Leorio finds respite in his friends, and the mysterious organization Kuroro referred to makes its first move.

Rating : PG-13 for adult themes and some swearing.

Disclaimer : I do not own Hunter X Hunter, its characters, or anything associated with it. I'm not writing this for profit; I'm only doing so for personal satisfaction, plus the fact that I want to try my hand at writing semi-professionally. Any resemblance of the characters or the story itself to actual people and situations is entirely unintentional and accidental. Please don't sue – I'm only a college student.

A/N : My writing style might have changed slightly; the POV-ing skips from Gon/Killua/Leorio/Senritsu, to semi-conscious Kurapika, to unconscious Kurapika, to dreaming Kurapika, to conscious Kurapika, then finally a narrative (anonymous) third person POV. Everything's a bit unstable, though, and may be confusing at first. I'm warning you now that this chapter is not up to par with my usual standards, but please bear with me. I'm in some kind of transitional phase right now.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

WILD HEARTS CAN'T BE BROKEN
Chapter 9 – The Face of Twilight

"Wait! This isn't goodbye, right, Kurapika?"

"… Yes. Take care, Gon."

The line went dead. Kurapika had hung up, and Gon was left feeling empty, and sorry that he hadn't said anything more to express his thanks and care for someone who had willingly offered his life and freedom just so they could escape from danger. It was useless to hang on to the phone any longer, but Gon didn't want to put a definite end to the contact he knew would be the last they would be having with Kurapika for a very long time.

"You're done, then?" Killua asked quietly. The question was rhetorical, something to fill the awful silence that had settled around them when Gon had stopped talking. His ears were keen enough to hear the dial tone now sounding monotonously from the phone.

"Yeah…" Gon finally ended the call, and slowly, hesitantly handed it back to Leorio, who had stopped struggling and yelling, and was staring dumbly at the inactive screen of his mobile phone. Killua had let go, and was standing to one side, seemingly unaffected, but Gon knew that the other boy was just as disheartened as he was at the turn that events had taken.

"I'm sorry, Leorio…" Killua began, "But you shouldn't have lost your temper. Kurapika was in a hurry. He could not have afforded to waste time arguing with us. Besides, you should know better than we do how stubborn he could be when it comes to matters concerning his clan…"

Why indeed had Leorio exploded like that? Gon knew that he and Kurapika were close – well, Leorio knew Kurapika best out of the three of them. And they all knew that moving a mountain would be easier than keeping Kurapika from doing something he had decided on doing, especially if the Geneiryodan or the Kuruta clan was involved. Of course, any sane man would think that the last place Kurapika needed to be was in the hands of his mortal enemies, but…

"Why did you hang up?" Leorio finally managed to ask, a bit angrily, "I wasn't done talking…"

"What? Didn't you hear what I've just said?"

"I did, but that's not the point!"

"Leorio, listen to yourself. Now you're the one being stubborn," Senritsu said sternly.

"But I…" Leorio suddenly realized that he was being stubborn. That last statement was like a slap to his face. What was he doing, arguing with Gon and Killua? They weren't the ones he should be angry with. He clicked his mouth shut, lest he say anything he'd regret later, and contented himself with grounding his teeth in vexation.

The bloodied sleeve was what had set him off. He'd been calm enough when they arrived at the building Gon and Killua had pointed out – at least, calm enough to be thinking of plans that were more than rational compared to just rushing in without order. Senritsu had confirmed that the building was empty, that there were no humans present in the whole cluster of abandoned buildings – in fact, no other living things except stray dogs and cats and insects seeking shelter from the pouring rain. With that assurance they had crept into the main room with just enough caution to avoid slipping on the puddles left behind by leaks from pipes and cracks in the walls. The initial plan had been to scout around for clues – anything that would explain why the Geneiryodan were acting as they had been. Then Gon's keen nose had stumbled upon what looked like a blood-red piece of cloth. It hadn't taken long for them to realize that the redness was blood. Kurapika's blood.

Killua had told him how deep their friend's wound had been, then Senritsu had reassured him several times back in the car that she had "heard" no trace of the injury when she saw Kurapika on Sixth Avenue. Words had done nothing to prepare him for reality, though. He wasn't a licensed doctor yet, but he had studied enough to be able to diagnose if a person was about to go into, or is in shock, by the amount of blood lost. The sleeve of the receptionist uniform Kurapika had donned was at least a couple of feet long, and enough blood had been shed to dye all but a few pink threads red – to say nothing of the puddle that had dripped down Kurapika's arm before the blood had had a chance to coagulate. A normal person would need to be hauled to the ICU by now.

Be rational, think rational, Leorio had told himself in order to stop the rising voice of hysterical worry that had again threatened to break through his calm, but then his phone rang, and all it had taken was one look at his mobile phone's LCD screen, and at the blinking letters that spelled out the caller's identity. Everything he had planned on saying should he get the chance to talk to Kurapika again – perhaps even find the courage to admit his affection for the blond – thrown out of the window for a few yelled demands, oath-laden and uncouth. It was most likely his own fault that Kurapika had been turned off in the first place.

Of all the stupid, idiotic – should have kept my big mouth shut –

And now he'd probably never see the other boy again.

Killua was just as worried as Gon was at the way Leorio was acting, but unlike the naïve Whale Islander, he had a pretty good idea of why their friend seemed more hot-tempered than usual. He'd seen the way Leorio had looked at Kurapika ever since reuniting after their six-month separation, and he knew more than enough to conclude that Leorio was most definitely smitten with the Kuruta. It wasn't strange, and he wasn't disgusted; Killua was mature and open-minded enough to accept the possibility of men being attracted to other men. Of course, it helped that Kurapika was pretty enough to be mistaken for a member of the fairer sex…

"Fine!" Leorio said so suddenly that Gon jumped at the half-yell that echoed around them. "So what do you think we should do now?"

"I haven't planned anything yet, actually," Gon admitted. "But I was thinking that I should continue trying to get that Greed Island game…"

"What? You mean you're just going to leave Kurapika like this?" This time Leorio was yelling, and Gon could see that even Killua seemed dumbfounded by his prompt answer.

"I didn't mean it like that! Of course I'm worried for him, but I trust Kurapika," he explained before Leorio could throw another tantrum, "And I believe that he's doing what he thinks is best for himself."

"Just what part of 'going with the Geneiryodan' d'you think is best for Kurapika?"

"I…"

"You don't know."

Both he and Leorio were silent after that; in the echoing caverns of the huge room, Gon's heartbeat thudded louder than ever, almost deafening to his ears.

"I don't understand you, Gon," Leorio began after thinking of what to say, it seemed, for quite a while. "Why – how? How can you just talk of leaving Kurapika like that? You didn't give up this easily when we went after Killua."

"But that was different!" the boy protested. "Killua didn't want to go back –"

"So you're saying that Kurapika wants to go with the Geneiryodan?" Leorio interrupted. "That he isn't being forced against his will?"

"Come on guys, let's stop this…" Killua muttered, obviously uncomfortable with the topic of his forced return and subsequent release.

"All right, he was!" Gon yelled. Killua blinked in surprise. Gon almost never raised his voice in anger against his friends, except when he was especially passionate about something. Even Leorio was momentarily stunned, and he stared at the youngest of their group as if seeing him for the first time.

"He was at first. I think he would even kill himself than be beaten by the Geneiryodan. But things changed. It was in his voice, Leorio. When I talked to Kurapika over your phone, I could feel that he was really determined to go with them," Gon explained in his normal tone of voice, which started out grim, but changed to sheepish halfway through. "You know me… I wouldn't have left him alone, even if he had told me to. I would have run after him, not caring even if the enemy's too powerful for me to fight alone."

"Then why didn't you?" Leorio demanded, still uncomprehending.

"Because this is something that Kurapika needs to do alone," Gon said, almost triumphantly, as if he had been unsure about what to say, but then realizing that he knew the right words after all. He plowed on, the light in his eyes intensifying in his eagerness to explain what he had felt from Kurapika in their short talk. Senritsu, standing apart from the other three, smiled at the dark-haired boy, as if agreeing completely with what she was hearing.

"I don't know much about the Kuruta, and I don't understand what Kurapika is going through, but I don't think that revenge is the right thing to do. I don't want Kurapika to keep on fighting for the rest of his life. I just can't picture him having so much hatred. What will happen from now on, is up to Kurapika to decide, but he has to let go of the past eventually. He has to move on."

"Whoa, Gon… That sounded really mature!" Killua remarked admiringly.

"Yes, well said, Gon. I could not have explained better," Senritsu praised, still beaming like a teacher fondly regarding her best student. "It's as you said. The winds are changing. I can hear them changing."

Gon grinned bashfully at the praises from his friends. He had tried to explain the best he that he could, knowing, perhaps only unconsciously, that what Leorio might do next hinged on how well he could phrase his words. He was the last to talk to Kurapika, after all. Now he turned to look at Leorio, anxiously checking to see if his speech had any effect.

Leorio was crying. Or, at least, visibly struggling to hold back tears, and not making any effort to hide it.

"Leorio?"

"I know. Damn it, I know. You think I don't? Kurapika is – I –" Leorio choked back whatever it was he had been about to say, then brought a hand up to scrub at his eyes. "I know, but I can't – I don't want to leave him alone against the Geneiryodan! I have to be with him; I need to be beside him! I know I'll just drag him down… but I still want to help him – and I'll find a way, even if it would take me years to do so!"

"Leorio, you're not… No. You're not thinking of doing the same thing he did, are you?" Killua asked.

"Why not? It's better than nothing."

"Leorio, don't. That's the last thing Kurapika would want you to do! He warned us about his nen, don't you remember?"

"It gave him a power strong enough to defeat a Geneiryodan."

"Leorio, your nen is of the releasing aspect. It'd be impossible to copy what Kurapika did. And what about your dream? You're a doctor, not a fighter!"

"I don't care about that now! I'd throw it away, if it means being able to help Kurapika!"

"Leorio, stop being so stubborn!" Now even Senritsu was getting agitated. She was covering her ears with her hands, eyes squeezed shut against a sound none but she could hear.

His heartbeat… is changing! I couldn't stand listening to his despair awhile ago, but this is worse! Somebody stop him… somebody stop him before his heart changes completely!

Gon and Killua were arguing with Leorio, who kept on refusing to listen, growing more and more decided on the plan of action he wanted to take. Senritsu was backing away, vainly trying to block out the sound of Leorio's heartbeat thundering on to become the ocean she had described hours ago, but this time it was calm – too calm, the horrible hackle-raising stillness of a dormant sea just before a hurricane hit. He was starting to act like Kurapika, cold and uncaring of what could happen to himself in the process of achieving his goal.

But just before the situation could turn explosive, before Leorio could fully make up his mind, his mobile phone beeped, the foreign sound halting all conversation, diffusing the tension in an instant. It signaled an incoming message.

All Leorio could do at first was to stare at his pocket. His phone was new; he had not given his number to anyone outside of his friends and Senritsu. Three out of the four were with him, and from whom else could the message be but the fourth?

"It's… it's from Kurapika…"

"What does it say?"

I'll kick your ass if you're not yet a doctor the next time we meet.

"Kurapika… He must have sent this after he hung up," Killua mused.

"See, Leorio?" Gon pointed out. "Kurapika wants you to become a doctor. Do you still want to continue? You know how strong Kurapika can be when he gets mad."

"That idiot… That's just so like him…" Leorio finally muttered, but the curse wasn't seriously meant. He was smiling through his tears, smiling in relief and remembrance, crying because he felt helpless and frustrated.

"You don't have to feel that way, Leorio. You don't have to go through this alone," Senritsu comforted, mother-mode turned full-blast and zeroing in on the distress Leorio was broadcasting like heat from the sun. She could hear and feel what the young man in front of her was going through. She knew that he was very confused, that he didn't know how to stop the pain of worry and love lost from taking over. Kurapika was – is her friend, just like these three. In her colleague's absence, it would be the least she could do to stay by them and support them through this crisis. "And he'll be back. He wouldn't have said so otherwise."

She was right. They would be there to support him, as they had been doing all along. Leorio realized that he owed everyone at least one apology, and a lifetime of thanks for tolerating his selfishness, for still staying by him even after being yelled at. As of the moment, though, he was too choked up to string more than two words together.

"Thank you," he whispered.

There really was no need to say anything more.

--- ooOOOoo ---

"… wrong with him?"

"He's been sleeping for two days!"

"Hey, his eyes are open! Oi! Get up …"

"… doesn't seem like any normal fever or cold I've ever …"

"… see? He's awake again …"

"Awake, but I don't think he can see or hear us …"

"… can't we leave yet?"

"Dancho says we have to wait."

"Why the hell are we waiting for someone like him?"

"I don't know. And I can't understand why Dancho …"

"… some kind of coma?"

"Nobunaga didn't injure him that badly."

"Blood loss, maybe?"

"If a tiny wound like that would cause him to pass out for three days, then he's not as strong as Dancho makes him out to be."

"You received his memories, didn't you?"

"Of course I …"

"… that?"

"Hmm? A video game. It's called Greed Island. Stole it off one of the auction guys an hour ago."

"Special delivery, huh? What kind of a game is that?"

"The catalog says that you can die in it for real."

"Wanna play? There's room for four players."

"Have you asked Dancho's permission …"

"… chain assassin! Haven't you forgotten!"

"No, I haven't. And would you please tone it down? You're shouting fit to wake the dead."

"I'll shout all I want if that's what it would take to wake the bastard!"

"Nobunaga, we've been through this…"

"… know you can hear me. Wake up! Don't let your nightmares drown you …"

-- -- -- -- --

Nightmares…? He supposed he could call them nightmares… hot blood, cold tears, raging fire and churning water, all washing together in a dizzying slideshow of sorts. He had long since stopped screaming, learned how to distance himself from the macabre images, a disinterested spectator struggling to ignore the cries of the fallen as phantom shadows dug claws in and rent flesh apart. The occasional twitch or moan escaped him, though, probably alerting those annoying voices to his tenacious hold on the waking world.

Annoying. Yes, the sodding voices were annoying. They disturbed his sleep, forced him into half-awareness from time to time. They were keeping him from sinking further into sweet oblivion, kept him on the line between consciousness and unconsciousness, where dreams seemed real and he had to fight not to get swallowed up by his nightmares. He wasn't really hearing them, though, not in the normal way. He could understand only half of what was being said, and the rest went in one ear and out the other. He could also feel – feel what the voices directed at him, and they were unflattering at best. Most were resentful, not understanding why he wouldn't wake, why they had to wait… Others were curious, and bored with nothing to do, turned their attentions to him. He could feel snatches of polite disregard, wisps of annoyed acceptance, perverse amusement in one instance, repressed anger in another…

One voice kept coming back, stood out amongst the babble of white noise. He – the voice was male, a low, rich baritone – was the one who kept on telling him to wake up, to not let his nightmares drown him… If he had been awake, he would have snapped at the man. He didn't ask to be inundated with these demonic dreams, had no wish to spend the rest of his life replaying them like a broken recorder, and most certainly wasn't purposely drowning himself in them. But… of all the voices that had spoken to him, he liked his the most. Liked it and hated it at the same time. Hated it, because it was the most annoying, but liked it, because it sounded firm, patient, and calm… and out of all the voices, was the only one with the low lilt of sincere concern.

As much as he wanted to sit up and erase that person's worry for him, or – the other way around – shut him up once and for all and stop the annoying prattle, he couldn't, not until his body decided that he had recovered enough to move around again. Oh, his mind was very much awake, jumping from one train of thought to another, but completely disorganized, almost hysterical in the way it brought out even the deepest of his fears and hopes in the form of dreams. Dreams – not all of his unrest came from nightmares. He dreamt about his friends, of happier times, from life-changing happenings to the littlest details in memories he didn't even know he had. He dreamt about the past, the present, and about vague, foggy, confusing events that his fevered mind pegged as the future.

… Waxing nostalgic, or claiming clairvoyance? But that last one was absurd, he was no fortuneteller, not a soothsayer or a psychic to be able to see the future. He must really be deep in delirium to have assumed as much. Now he didn't know what he wanted to do, wake and put a stop to these ridiculous, but frightening dreams, and face once more the paths he must take in life, or continue to sleep and run away from the problems of the world, hopefully eventually finding eternal peace as his body slowly shut down…

The voices were back, persistent, querulous, worried – but not for him. Never for him. Warm, gentle hands carefully placed something cool and wet on his forehead, soothing the worst of the burning heat away from his face. Those hands also belonged to him. He liked their gentleness as much as he liked the simple honesty in his caretaker's voice… but he didn't know why he insisted on staying by his side when it was obvious that most of the other voices resented the attention and care being given to him.

Two of the new voices were female, the third was a male. They were asking about what to do with a clown… Another mundane discussion, which did not concern him at the very least… well, he assumed that he had nothing to do with whatever was agitating them. What did he have to do with a clown, anyway? Nothing, from what he could remember, but apparently, the third voice thought otherwise. The male was directing tight shafts of hatred at him, hatred so intense that he all but shuddered where he lay when he felt them. He knew the reason for their anger, knew that he was a caged bird surrounded by predators, and understood why they would want to swallow him whole. Awake and on his feet he would have fought back, done everything he could to avoid being caught by their claws, but immobilized and defenseless there was nothing he could do in case someone tried to murder him in his sleep. The owner of the low baritone and the gentle hands was the only one standing between him and certain death, death at the hands of the angry voices, or death in being abandoned to his illness.

The darkness beckoned once again, coaxing out of him a choice that he had been making quite often as of late. Blissful unawareness, or the pain of having to intercept such emotions at his level of empathy?

He fled.

He was dreaming again… He didn't mind dreaming; at this point anything was preferable to the cold black of complete unconsciousness, even the nightmares – though he'd do without them if he had anything to say about it. At least this dream didn't look like it would be turning into a nightmare anytime soon…

He felt… strange, though… his body… it seemed so small, so weak. He saw through eyes not yet fully developed, the colors all around him muted and lacking the variety that separated one hue from the next shade, and the edges of objects he could see from where he lay were blurred and indistinct. His limbs flopped uselessly when he tried to get up to look around, small, kittenish movements with none of the grace and deliberate control he had learned to exert over the years. And his mind, too young to form even a single complex thought, made him do the first thing that he could think of when faced with the unknown and the frightening – which was to cry his lungs out.

A part of him gaped in horror and dismay; he hadn't cried for more than four years, and here he was, bawling like a baby!

"Hey, hey, what's wrong? Damn, Grandma was right when she said that you had good lungs…"

The voice that suddenly spoke startled him, and did nothing to soothe his confusion. If anything, he belted his distress out even louder, as if demanding that the voice come over and comfort him RIGHT NOW!

"All right, all right… Come on, please stop… Don't disturb Mother while she's resting, all right?"

Hands – big hands! – lifted him gently, effortlessly, and carefully cradled him against a warm chest. The situation alone should have frightened him even more – he should be too big and too old to be cuddled like an infant, and nobody's chest was that broad – but he quieted instantly, lulled by the soothing noises the voice was making, and the protective hands that held him and ran slowly up and down his back.

" 'Atta boy… What set you off, anyway?"

"What happened? I heard Kurapika crying."

"I don't know. He calmed down immediately when I picked him up, though."

"He's not hurt?"

A negative shake of the head from the one who held him.

"Diaper?"

"It's still dry."

"Probably a momentary lapse of capriciousness, then… Sometimes I wonder why I even bother getting pregnant… Be careful with him, dear. Don't drop him."

"Don't worry! Kuruta have hard bones, and even harder heads, but we're also very flexible. I think he'll just bounce right back if I do drop him –"

Giggling. He was giggling like a toddler, squealing in delight as the hands changed position, holding him under the arms and lifting him up high. The view was dizzying, but the height gave him a heady feeling of thrill and wild abandon. From his vantage point he looked down to see who held him, but light from windows and his own blurry vision made it difficult to see the face. All he could see was that the person also had blue eyes, and hair like his own, but lighter – almost a pale blond.

"– which I won't, seeing as you and Father would skin me alive if I did."

"Hmph. See that you don't." The command was given half-threateningly, half-teasingly, by a voice he hadn't heard for five years. Mother? Is that really you? He twisted around – well, attempted to, as best as he could with a body too small to be anything but a baby's, and only succeeded in turning his head around. It would have to do. He could see her, even if she was just a blurry shape about a meter away. The task of trying to identify the person holding him forgotten, he now wanted her to pick him up, come nearer, anything that would get him as close to her as possible. He waved his hands around, made his demands in indecipherable gurgles, and kicked his feet feebly, as if by moving alone he could launch himself into her embrace.

"Bit too lively for his afternoon nap, isn't he?"

"Heaven help me if he has the same stubborn streak you and your father do…"

"Hey! Grandma said you were hardheaded as a kid, too."

"What? Now she's telling baby stories?"

"Yeah. All the adults in the village she watched growing up. Most of them were nice blackmail material, too."

"That's not funny. What else did she tell you?"

"Just kidding. You raised me too well for that. Though, this one story about you attempting to elope with Dad sounded really interesting…"

They were ignoring him! He was usually quite well-mannered, but no baby has ever taken disregard in stride. Just as well, then, that his belly had been tingling the past minute. All he needed was to concentrate a bit, and…

"Hey! No, don't…! Aww, man…"

He gave an infantile chuckle of mischief and smug satisfaction. The wetness that spread along his diapers and down his chubby legs was uncomfortable, but for once he didn't mind. It stained his caretaker's hands, too, and the dismay he could feel radiating off his unknown relative was worth it.

"He seems to do that deliberately, doesn't he?" His mother's voice was dryly amused. "It's high time you learned how to change his diapers, anyway."

"What? No!"

"You've avoided that chore for far too long now, with all your excuses of studying. Well, you said you're free this whole weekend, and there's no time like the present to learn a new skill." He couldn't see what his mother was doing, exactly, but she seemed to have taken hold of a white square blob from a larger blob from what he assumed was an open closet, and was now shaking it cajolingly. "Come on…"

His brother – it had to be a brother, the voice was male, and seemed to be a sibling rather than an uncle or a cousin – groaned. He giggled again.

"What am I to do with you, Kurapika?

-- -- -- -- --

"What am I to do with you, Kurapika?"

Kuroro hadn't meant for his quiet question to be answered, and he had directed it at the air, too softly for anyone else to hear, so he was understandably surprised when the object of his scrutiny suddenly awoke, eyes opening wide for a second before the blond closed them again, hissing in agony as light too bright for a previously unconscious person hit still-sensitive eyes. His surprise also made it impossible to hold back the string of curses that had sprung to the tip of his tongue when he realized the source of the Kurapika's pain – and since he didn't think it would matter, for now, if he kept appearances or not, he dropped his oaths liberally even as he dropped the book he had been reading in his scramble to dim the room's lights to a reasonable degree.

Dimmed as they were, though, any amount of brightness still hurt, as Kurapika found out after the dancing spots behind his eyes had faded away and he was able to open them again – slowly, with a lot of grimacing and blinking. And his headache returned with a vengeance, which was smashing, really, because that meant that pain was the first thing he felt when he awoke, and also the last thing he felt before he…

His blinking slowed as he started to remember what had happened before he fainted, who he had been with, and what he had been doing when he did. The memories were not pleasant at all, and how silly he must look like, lying flat on his back with the strangest expression on his face, brows drawn together in dismay, eyes still glazed with confusion, and mouth twisted sourly as if he had swallowed concentrated lemonade –

"I'm sorry. I didn't think that you'd wake so suddenly… I'd expected some kind of warning – fluttering of the lids and the like…"

Kuroro Lucifer. Kurapika couldn't help but stare. The man's eyes were alert and didn't seem to miss much, but he looked like he hadn't moved from his position by the bed in several days. His clothes were rumpled, had that slept-in look to them, and his hair was mussed, not slicked back like the last time Kurapika had seen him. It was obvious that he had been keeping vigil beside him for quite a while. The thought that the Geneiryodan head now looked incredibly young flitted across Kurapika's mind before he could stop it.

… one voice kept coming back, stood out amongst the babble of white noise …

Kurapika shook his head, then instantly wished he hadn't; his headache was turning into a full-blown migraine.

"Are you all right?" The last word was clipped, as if Kuroro had suddenly realized that the question was a stupid one. Of course he wasn't – a person who had been unconscious for several days straight was anything but "all right". "What I meant was, how do you feel?" he tried again.

"Wh –" Kurapika started at the sound of his own voice, which came out as a barely audible croak. He had to swallow several times before he was able to move the wad of cotton that was his tongue, but his throat still felt like it was clogged with thorny burrs.

He was positively mortified when an arm snaked under his shoulders and lifted him to a reclining position – just a bit to get him off the mattress, but the sudden change in his position made him dizzy and lightheaded. He wanted to jerk away from Kuroro's hold on him, but his body felt limp and boneless, stiff and heavy all at once, and all he could manage was a feeble twitch. The rim of a cold glass of water on his lips mollified him somewhat; need won over pride and he took a few sips of the proffered water. The cool liquid dissolved the hot stuffiness of his throat, at the very least.

"Better?" Kuroro asked lightly after lowering Kurapika back against the pillows. He didn't answer, to answer was to acknowledge, and to acknowledge meant he was grateful. He was being stubbornly childish, he knew, but he couldn't help it. Kuroro's voice was brisk, businesslike, but Kurapika had the feeling that the man was amused at him – concerned, maybe, but also amused. That casual disregard of the enmity Kurapika himself had started and caused – had all the reason to receive back threefold – confused him. Why was the Geneiryodan leader insisting on acting as his personal nurse?

… out of all the voices, was the only one with the low lilt of sincere concern …

For that matter, why was he concerned at all?

An insane thought suddenly came to him, a question concerned about tiny details that he did not have time to be concerned over. He was a captured person, a prisoner brought to heel against his will, but what, really, were the Geneiryodan planning to do with him? Kuroro did say that he was to be one of them from now on, but he'd be a fool to trust the word of a Spider. Was he to be a tool, spared because of his abilities? Or a hostage, with a momentary use, to be thrown away after he had fulfilled his purpose? Or a curiosity, a trophy, the last Kuruta alive, an interesting "pet" that had snagged the eyes of the man observing him right now?

That he could not think of anything else to say other than the idiotic question he now wanted to ask, that he still had the gall to lace it with as much sarcasm as he could dredge up in his pitiful state when a single misstep or mistake could get him killed, suggested that he was still feverish, if not the least bit delirious.

"What should I call you now? Kuroro, Dancho, or 'master'?"

He wasn't looking at Kuroro – he refused to look the Geneiryodan head directly in the eye, so he missed the small smile that tugged at the corners of the other man's lips; and nor was he able to suppress the involuntary flinch his body made when a hand suddenly loomed in front of his eyes to settle on his forehead.

"Hmm… I think your fever's broken. At least, your temperature has lowered a bit. I can't be sure, though, as some nen users tend to have higher body temperatures…"

Kuroro removed his hand, but Kurapika could feel the skin on his forehead tingling, an impression left behind by the touch of another after being out of it, he assumed, for several days on end.

"Why are you helping me? Your friends would have found it funny if I had died of a fever," Kurapika recovered enough to demand.

"Fever? We both know that it's not that simple. Does this happen every time you use your Eyes?"

"… No." Figures that he'd get right into the heart of the matter... Yet again Kuroro's answer was the last he'd have expected. Only five minutes after waking up, and already he had been startled into near-speechlessness no less than four times. The man seemed to live to catch him off guard.

"But it's not the first time, right? Using your Eyes extensively tires you out. The longer you stay in that state, the more exhausted you become."

It would be useless, really, to try to deny, to try to undo the damage the memory-reader might have done in revealing his memories, and his weaknesses, to the rest of the group. Kurapika didn't know how far Pakunoda had read, but it would be prudent to assume that they knew everything – and that assumption rankled. His most private thoughts, all his secrets and regrets, some of which not even Leorio and the others knew, all bared for his mortal enemies to see, dissect, and take advantage of.

For the meantime, at least, Kuroro Lucifer didn't seem interested in doing anything of the sort. He had taken out a thermometer while Kurapika was deep in his thoughts, and was shaking it lightly, checking to see if the mercury reading had fallen to an appropriate level. Kurapika now stared at it as he would at a venomous snake; the image of the almighty Geneiryodan leader shaking a thermometer, again like some kind of nurse, was too ludicrous to be believed.

He was still staring at the thermometer, as if afraid it would suddenly grow teeth and bite, when it was offered to him, and he didn't react when Kuroro gestured for him to open his mouth so that the measuring end could be placed under his tongue.

"Come on, it won't bite," Kuroro gently coaxed; and when Kurapika still gave no answer, he sighed dramatically. "Well, you have to choose. Mouth, under an armpit, or up your a–"

Kurapika hurriedly opened his mouth before the third choice could be completed. Of course he'd choose the first – it was the least of the three evils! He realized with horror that his face was getting hot – probably more from embarrassment and anger than the fever; and his dismay deepened when Kuroro smiled at him unabashedly.

He's… he's laughing at me!

Look away, and most likely embarrass himself more with his damnable reactions to the other man's attentions, or dig his heels in and glare back with all his might. Kurapika settled for the second, and was promptly disconcerted even more when Kuroro laughed.

"No, sorry – I didn't mean to laugh at you."

Kurapika scowled – well, gave his best approximation of a scowl with his mouth tightly closed around the thermometer, then looked away. Focusing on his surroundings might give him time to recover and organize his thoughts…

"We're in a small hotel a few kilometers from the city proper," Kuroro said lightly, a hand on his wristwatch as he waited for the customary five minutes to run out. "And don't worry; your friends won't be able to track you down so easily. We paid the manager to keep quiet."

The room they were in was indeed a far cry from the abandoned hideout. The walls, although painted unevenly with a light shade of blue, were at least clean and free of dust and dirt. The ceiling was paneled wood, not at all dinghy or cobwebbed. Furnishing was plain, but there were the basic bed, bedside table, cabinet, desk, duo of small couches around a low coffee table, and extra chair, which was the one Kuroro was occupying. No television, and no miniature refrigerator with the tiny bottles of wine, but Kurapika supposed that he shouldn't expect the last two amenities in a hotel specializing in catering to fugitives from the law. The room would have seemed much, much duller – if not for the slightly noisy air-conditioning unit mounted below one of the shuttered windows.

"You were out for four days. Nobunaga mentioned something about leaving you for dead if you still wouldn't wake after today, but now that you are, there shouldn't be any problem…"

Kuroro, seemingly oblivious to Kurapika's bewildered glances, continued to chatter cheerfully, the topics he touched on random fodder for small talk. Kurapika tried to listen, but his headache worsened when he attempted to focus on the words. He closed his eyes, furrowed his brows against the pain, and stopped his attempts to understand what was being said.

"For your question, just 'Kuroro' would be fine, actually – but I prefer that you call me Dancho when we're with the others."

At least Kuroro made no mention of the "master" bit. He had embarrassed himself enough for today without even trying, and should not be doing the same thing on purpose.

"By the way, you'll want to take a bath soon; the bathroom's over there by the cabinet…"

Bath…? Yes, a bath sounds nice… He'd been sleeping for four days; it was a wonder that he hadn't started to stink yet. The cool air circulating from the air-conditioner must have kept that at bay. Still, he could feel that his hair had become greasy. If not for the fact that he was getting sleepy and tired again, he would have stood up and tottered to the bathroom for a much-desired bath, fever or no.

"Are you getting tired already? Well, hold up for a couple more minutes. I have one last important thing to tell you."

Kurapika suppressed a yawn, thinking that he'd much rather go to sleep again, but he opened his eyes halfway. Kuroro was looking at him with a no-nonsense expression on his face, the first he had seen on the man since waking up.

"This might be a bit difficult to do, but I want you to try to avoid using your Eyes from now on."

This time Kurapika didn't need to struggle to stay awake, incredulity did it for him.

"Alright, it's been six minutes. Let's see if you've gotten better." And with that Kuroro plucked the thermometer from his now slightly open mouth.

" 'try not to use the Eyes'?" Kurapika echoed in disbelief. "I can't even control it that well! It reacts to emotion, and how the hell am I going to stay calm around you people?"

"I'm not ordering you, you won't be compelled by the Judgment Chain. Just… try, okay? I'll not have you collapsing in exhaustion every time you get angry… Don't look at me like that. I'm trying to make things work here."

Kurapika didn't want to admit it, but Kuroro was right. His father had often told him that letting his emotions rule his actions would mean his defeat in a fight, but a certain level of anger was needed in order to trigger the Scarlet Eyes – thus he had to have enormous self-control to be able to harness their power properly. Just the mental effort of keeping his anger from overriding his senses tired him out – what of the physical side effects, the damages to bone and sinew? His heightened senses, enhanced strength and speed, and the switching of his nen from materializing to special were welcome bonuses, but he didn't know what adverse effects constantly using the Eyes would have on his body. The formal training he should have undergone at fifteen would have addressed that, but that avenue was lost to him. No written records of his clan's secrets existed; everything was passed on by word of mouth from teacher to student, from parent to child. Kurapika had never heard of, or encountered a Kuruta injuring himself from overuse of the Eyes, outside of his own tendency to push himself to the brink of exhaustion, but there's always the first time. And he did not believe that simply getting tired was all there was to it; something as useful as his clan's ability would have to be balanced by a sacrifice on their part.

Along that thread of thought, something suddenly occurred to Kurapika, and he determinedly ignored his headache as he tried to recall the events of four days ago. When his memories came back, he was alarmed to discover that there was a hole in them, one patch of images obscured heavily, as if covered by a thick layer of fog. It was right after receiving Pakunoda's nen bullet point-blank between his eyes. He could remember the memories she had given him clearly, unfortunately, but not what he had done after seeing them.

"Hmm… Thirty-seven point five…" Kuroro muttered, peering at the thermometer reading. "Just to be sure, you'll have to stay in bed for a couple more days. It would be better if your temperature drops past thirty-seven, but if it doesn't change after two days I'll assume that that's your normal body temperature."

"I… can't remember."

"Come again?"

"I can't remember what I did… after I was shot… Everything's fuzzy… and it felt – different…" Kuroro was watching him intently, and Kurapika's voice faltered. He didn't know why he was getting comfortable enough to hold a civil conversation with the man, and he couldn't understand why his tongue was loosening, why he was getting careless with his thoughts. It must be the fever talking. There can't be any other explanation… And he was getting tired again, the momentary burst of energy caused by his disbelief rapidly depleting.

"You mean you don't know that…"

" 'Don't know that' what?"

Kuroro was frowning, and he was still looking into Kurapika's eyes, but his gaze was puzzled, a bit unfocused, as if he was trying to recall something with the aid of his face.

"It's probably nothing…" he finally said, a bit too hesitantly for Kurapika's ease of mind.

"Don't lie to me," Kurapika said curtly, and forced himself not to look away when Kuroro elegantly raised an eyebrow at his demand.

"I'm not sure what I saw, all right? I'll tell you when I've figured it out. About Zenji… you were really angry. Let's just say that there won't be any little Zenjis running around anytime in the near future, thanks to what you did to him."

This time it was Kurapika's turn to frown in confusion. What he did remember seemed like a dream, and he wasn't sure if it was real or part of all the surreal dreams he'd had over the last few days. If it was real, though, he'd beaten Zenji to a pulp, and then…

Oh, bloody hell…

"It seems you do remember – the nut-cracking bit, at least," Kuroro remarked when Kurapika's frown turned into a grimace of disgust. He then gave a startled blink when Kurapika started to get up.

"Hey, I understand that you'd want to go wash your hands after recalling that, but you're still too weak –" As if to support his diagnosis, Kurapika's arms gave out, and he flopped back down with a groan as the world tilted crazily about him. "– not to mention that you won't be able to stand up immediately after lying down for so long."

Kurapika blinked groggily. Were the few lights still on faulty, or did the room just get darker? Oh, no, not again…

"Don't be too hard on yourself; you're just tired. Go ahead and sleep, I'll wake you after a few hours."

He must have mumbled his last thought out loud. He vaguely heard Kuroro mentioning food and a bath; the rest were drowned out in the wash of white noise as sleep came, as abruptly as it had left him mere minutes ago.

--- ooOOOoo ---

Heavy blinds threw the room into relative darkness, cloaking the figure seated on the high-backed chair in shadow. The only sources of light were the thin lines of sunlight slipping in between the closed Venetian blinds.

"Did you find anything?"

The figure on the chair shifted uneasily; he turned to address the tiny red light on the console in front of him.

"It's as the initial reports say, sir. Guards on the outside, gone without a trace. Everyone inside dead, except for Zenji. We were able to narrow the causes of death down to six or seven. They matched some of the patterns in last week's auction incidents."

"The Geneiryodan?"

The voice coming from the speakers of the console was quiet, and yet commanding at the same time. He had never decided if the man he regularly made his reports to was a tenor or a bass; it seemed to alternate between the two, depending on the speaker's mood. Right now his superior's tone of voice was light – he didn't know if that was good or bad. Nothing had ever happened to him ever since he had been transferred to this particular division of the organization two years ago, and he intended to keep it that way.

"Yes, I think so, sir."

"And Zenji?"

"Badly injured, sir. Multiple fractures to the ribs, broken nose –"

"I don't need a list of his injuries. Tell me what he told you."

He shivered. He always did when the reports he had to make were unpleasant. Too many of his predecessors had "vanished" when the news they bore was particularly displeasing. It was an unsettling occupation, but the pay was ridiculously high. The rule of thumb to be able to survive his job was to play the dumb, obedient messenger, but his superior had once said that his "ability to combine tact and candidness was appreciated". He fell back on that ability now, and prayed that it wouldn't fail him.

"I-I'm not sure if half of what he said was accurate. He was too angry to be coherent."

"Greedy bastard can go to hell for all I care. But we need information, and he's the only witness we have."

"As you say so, sir." He quickly shuffled through the sheaf of papers he held, looking for one particular transcript. "Ah… he says that the Geneiryodan attacked his house, but he was assailed only by one of them. A boy, late teens, blond hair and red eyes. A Kuruta, according to Zenji, sir; employed by the Nostrads, and the last that he knew – should have black eyes when normal."

"A Kuruta? … Anything else?"

"They cleaned his vault out. If you would forgive me, sir, I took the liberty of checking… Among the items taken was a pair of Scarlet Eyes, serial number SE-016."

The speaker did not reply immediately after that. He was used to his boss's introspective moods, sometimes stretching for as long as five minutes of him squirming uncomfortably while waiting for his next orders. He dared not interrupt, of course, but it was hard, keeping his mouth shut, keeping all the questions he had from bursting out. He had once dreamed of being a Hunter, and he had studied all he could about lost civilizations and obscure cultures. The Kuruta was a particularly interesting tribe, shrouded in mysteries and secrets, but they had all been killed five years ago, leaving behind more mysteries, and thirty-six pairs of eyeballs with red pupils, now considered to be among the most sought-after artifacts of the anthropological world.

The silence seemed longer this time around, though, and he wondered if he had stepped out of his bounds. Or if the console had malfunctioned, leaving him sitting there looking like an idiot while he waited for a reply that might never come.

No, he would wait. He will not leave the connection unless he had been given permission to do so. If he wanted to die, he'd hang up on his boss right now – but he was still attached to this life, firmly fixated on the idea of living, thank you very much.

Still, he was immensely relieved when the console squawked, so much so that he jumped in surprise, then sagged into the chair limply, because it seemed that he'd still get to keep both his life and his monthly stipends.

"You did well. Did anyone ask questions?"

"No, sir. Nobody ever bothers a rich 'relative' from out of town, especially one with a police ID. And Zenji was particularly accommodating, spitting mad he might be."

His boss barked an appreciative laugh. "I'll have to ask you to stay there for a while, if it's all right with you. Zenji tends to, say, 'forget' important details whenever interrogated by representatives of the organization. It would only be prudent on our parts to leave a trusted man behind, in case he remembers something."

"I have no objections, sir – and you really didn't have to ask. I'll gladly stay here, if that's what you wish."

"Good, good. Report back in exactly one week. Oh, the usual amount will be transferred to your account, plus a bit of a bonus I told the accounting guys to include in your package…"

"Y-yes sir! Thank you, sir!"

"By the way... You might have done well up until now, but this is where it gets more critical. Take care not to commit any mistakes. I'm counting on you."

"Y-yes, sir…"

A click, then a beep, followed by the monotonous drone of a dial tone signaled the end of the conversation.

The figure on the chair stayed still for quite a while, as if frozen by the last words his superior had let loose at the end. He did not move as the light from between the blinds changed from the white of noon to the orange of afternoon to the blood-red brilliance of sunset. Only when darkness had started to fall, intermittent beams from passing automobiles stabbing through the windows, did he rise, moving slowly, carefully depressing a switch on the console. The blinking red light died, and a mechanism moved within the desk. The protruding speakers sunk into the wood, and panels slid into place with a soft whirr and a tiny snick, leaving the surface of the table smoother than lacquered oak, without any seams to indicate that such a communication device had ever been built into it.

The man in the heavy black coat left, gently closing the door behind him, throwing the room into utter darkness.

Outside, twilight fell.

--- end of chapter nine ---

notes:

I apologize for bringing this out so late. Please note, though, that this chapter is long enough for two. :3 And despite its faults, I really worked on it... I'm dedicating chapter 9 to Koti, whose friend recently died of leukemia. Koti and her sister Lili are two of my earliest reviewers, and have been there almost from the start. A part of this fic's continuity, I attribute to their support… Hang in there, Koti. I hope you're doing better now.

Explanations are in order… I had Yukitsu read the initial draft (Thanks for the much-needed help, by the way!) and the comments she gave made me realize that some of the scenes might be confusing.

The jumbled sentences are various Geneiryodan talking. That's Kurapika, hearing them as he wavers in and out of unconsciousness. It's just like in the OVA, where he opens his eyes periodically. He can see and hear, but he doesn't know what he's seeing and hearing. As for who the speakers are, use your imagination. ) They should be pretty easy to figure out, but if you can't, email me and I'll explain in more detail.

The dream should be quite obvious, I think. I won't reveal who the unknown relative is until later on, though I think some of you already know… His role will be fairly important, in terms of plot twists… Oh yeah, I'm not sure how a baby thinks like, and I don't know how much a baby can see, but any discrepancies, I will explain away with the excuse that the physiological make-up of Kuruta eyes are different from normal ones.

As usual, domo arigato gozaimasu to everyone who reviewed… I've never really expected it to reach 180. :) Thanks, everyone. All your input and encouragements have helped me greatly.

Last edited on February 11, 2005