Chapter 5

Kurapika's body aches for a good night's rest, to recover his strength for the first time in months, but his thoughts refuse to slow down.

The entire day could have been a dying hallucination, nothing more than a desperate hope brought to life when he was damned to his demise. After years of dreaming of the dead, of those he couldn't save, only this time did he save Kuroro instead of being plagued by his nightmare. But why would he delude himself with dreams of his former enemy instead of his loved ones?

Kurapika is certain that dreams shouldn't last this long. They certainly shouldn't be realistic enough that he can hear Kuroro at the foot of the bed, breathing quietly in his repose. The soft sheets whisper against his skin as he turns to peer over the edge of the bed. He steals a glance at Kuroro through the darkness, where the silhouette of his chest rising and falling in slumber dispels his doubts.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, is the recognition that something must have happened during the precious moments between surrendering his life on the Black Whale and ending up in Meteor City. But what?

The only conclusion he arrives at is the manifestation of some latent Nen ability that guided his return to life. Even then, transcending time makes no sense.

Kurapika rests his head back against his pillows. He can feel his body betraying himself to exhaustion, refusing to allow him to dwell on this any longer. When he closes his eyes, he doesn't expect to wake up tomorrow.

Somehow, he does.

There's softness all around him, making him want to sleep for another lifetime instead of opening his eyes. He's being lulled back to that gentle, dreamless world, when his calm vanishes at the sudden awareness of another presence beside him—a familiar aura that he hasn't felt this close to him since the sinking ship. A shadow falls across his face, blocking out the light striking his eyelids.

In his other life, his second life, Kuroro's face is what he wakes to.

Kurapika lashes out before he can even think. His fist slams into Kuroro's face, sending him stumbling backwards on the floor.

"Ouch—"

Kurapika jolts upright on the bed, tangled around blankets, his mind disoriented but his body aware. His arm is outstretched in a punch, his knuckles throbbing with rosy splotches blooming over them. The stinging pain he feels couldn't possibly be from a dream.

Adrenaline flooding his body, Kurapika risks a glance around him. The room is small and sparse, with dust reflecting in the lamplight. An innumerable number of books line the shelves on the wall. His gaze falls to the floor, where Kuroro is recovering from the force of impact, looking more stunned than pained with one hand pressed against his eye. And he also looks ten years younger than when Kurapika last remembers seeing him.

The realization settles that he's in Kuroro's bedroom. Kurapika wills his heart to calm down, but even as a teenager, Kuroro still manages to trigger his stress response.

"I'm—" Kurapika cuts himself off because all he can think is I'm not sorry. "You startled me. What do you think you're doing?"

"Waking you up for breakfast," Kuroro answers slowly, blinking up at him in mild surprise. Kurapika responds with scrutiny, his eyes narrowing with palpable suspicion. "I wasn't going to kiss you or anything, so there's no need for you to look at me like that."

Kurapika's fingers grip onto the fabric of his blankets, searching for something to strangle. "Ki—?"

He manages not to raise his voice in his disbelief, but he can't bring himself to repeat that. He draws the covers over himself, all the way up to his collar, as if this is going to protect him from unseemly advances. "I'm more inclined to believe that you were trying to kill me."

"It's a joke," Kuroro assures him, and it's not very convincing because his tone is entirely bereft of humor. Making things even worse, he adds, "Haven't you heard of Sleeping Beauty?"

An incredulous expression crosses Kurapika's face, because the Kuroro he remembers would never say something so inappropriate. "It isn't funny."

Kuroro considers him for a long moment, then has the nerve to look apologetic. He seems to try Kurapika's patience in every lifetime, when every conversation and interaction leaves him at a loss for words. "Sorry—I didn't mean to surprise you."

His gaze drops to Kurapika's white-knuckled grip over the covers, before meeting his eyes again. Kurapika expects the familiar burn of indignation to surface, but it never comes. It's alarming how much reign he has over his reactions nowadays and he should welcome it more, if only the absence of his anger didn't leave him feeling so empty. Only a flicker of irritation remains at the way Kuroro looks at him, with the downcast of his doe-eyes and the collapse of his shoulders, reminding him of a puppy accidentally kicked by his owner.

"Are you alright?" Kurapika asks with a calmness he can't quite comprehend, somewhat begrudging.

Kuroro lifts his hand to reveal the swelling over his left eye. An angry bruise is manifesting over his pale skin, although it isn't as severe as the beating Kurapika gave him in Yorknew. "I think so. You have a strong arm, though."

"You could've dodged it," Kurapika says, at the risk of sounding like an unapologetic asshole.

Instead of challenging him, Kuroro admits, "Well, you caught me off-guard."

Kurapika's mouth tightens a little. Kuroro has no right to seem so defenseless, when he's the last person he should be concerned about. He doesn't know how to reconcile this young and boyish and seemingly harmless Kuroro with the man who was capable of merciless monstrosities, who orchestrated massacres for the souls of the dead, who eviscerated Tserriednich's eyes from his skull to exact retribution that he had no right to, who called Kurapika kind when he was anything but.

Silence winds tight between them while Kuroro seems to consider what to say, as if he doesn't want to upset him further. Kurapika eventually breaks the stillness with a sigh, deep enough that his bangs flutter around his face. Casting one last suspicious glance, he throws off the covers and gets out of bed.

"Let me take a look."

Kurapika drops to his knees on the floor, sitting before Kuroro. He raises a hand to the side of his face, a slow and tentative motion. His fingers gently press against Kuroro's cheek, the tender skin around his eye. The swelling feels warm beneath his fingertips. Kuroro doesn't stifle his wince, but he doesn't refuse him, even though the last touch they shared was violent in nature.

Kuroro sits there numbly, watching him with unwavering eyes, as Kurapika carefully examines him. Treating the area would only require a small measure of Nen to speed up his body's natural healing processes, but it's laughable that Kurapika entertains doing so—as if Kuroro, fearsome leader of the Phantom Troupe, is so vulnerable that he can't handle a single punch.

He considers the feel of flesh and blood and bone beneath Kuroro's skin, the steady thrum of aura in his veins. Touching Kuroro makes his presence more tangible, tethers him to where he is, when all Kurapika sees is a ghost beneath his skin. It's as if he's wiping blood off his face that isn't even there.

He still can't quite believe it. A headache flares behind his eyes, not the way overusing Emperor Time leaves him feeling, but from trying to understand his circumstances no matter how much he should deny them.

Kuroro catches his wrist, startling him from his thoughts. "Are you going to heal me again?"

Kurapika immediately wrenches his hand away. With the way that he's acting, Kuroro must think that he has gone insane.

"Don't be such a baby," Kurapika says, and it comes out harsher than he intends.

Kuroro's eyes widen, and the earnestness of his confusion brings him pause. Perhaps Kuroro expected more from him.

"You'll be fine," Kurapika tells him, rising to his feet. "Do you have any ice?"

A beat of silence passes, before Kuroro answers. "In the fridge."

Kurapika crosses over to the small kitchen on the other side of the room, passing by the breakfast laid out on the table. He can feel Kuroro's attention on him, a prickling that starts at his neck and travels down to his spine. He rolls his shoulders to shake off the sensation, and pulls up the collar of his shirt to prevent it from slipping off his shoulder.

Opening up the fridge, Kurapika finds it largely empty except for a water pitcher filter. Maybe Kuroro used up everything to prepare a meal for him. The starkness of Kuroro's living spaces still comes as a surprise, making him ponder where he keeps all of his stolen goods. But when he doesn't own much of anything here, it's not too difficult to stay clean.

There's enough ice in the upper compartment for him to use. He takes a clean cloth from the counter and wraps it around a handful of ice to create a cold compress, trying not to feel self-conscious under the weight of Kuroro's gaze.

"I can do it myself," Kuroro says from right behind him.

Kurapika nearly jumps out of his skin. He's so caught up in his head that he didn't even hear Kuroro approaching.

"Just sit down," Kurapika urges, his heart pounding furiously in his throat.

Kuroro looks at him in question, tilting his head to the side—a habit that Kurapika startlingly recalls as he wills his heartbeat back to normal. But Kuroro listens as he settles into one of the chairs at the table, waiting for Kurapika to join him.

"Here." Kurapika stands in front of him, bringing the compress to press none too gently over Kuroro's eye, making him wince again. He wouldn't be surprised if Kuroro thinks that he's trying to make it worse. "If you hold it there for a while, the swelling should go down."

Kuroro sends him a hesitant smile. His hand brushes against Kurapika's as he takes over from him. "Thank you."

The air between them remains tense. Before Kurapika can say anything else, his stomach chooses that very moment to growl. He snaps his mouth shut, the heat of embarrassment rising to his cheeks, finding it difficult to remain impassive.

Kurapika can barely remember the last time he ate something. His body had grown used to its constant hunger, forestalled as best as he could with his draining energy reserves.

Kuroro laughs unexpectedly, a gentle sound that would be pleasant if he was anyone but himself. "You should eat before everything gets cold."

As his resolve wavers beneath Kuroro's amusement, Kurapika glances away.

"If you insist," Kurapika murmurs, as if he has no other choice.

He escapes to the bathroom to wash his face, grateful for this moment of reprieve. He splashes his face with cold water and pushes his bangs back, exposing his forehead. Droplets of water slip from his damp hair, down his chin.

There's a moment of disconnect when he looks up from the sink and stares into the mirror. He doesn't look much better than yesterday. The eyes reflecting in the glass are shadowed and insomnious, and his frame beneath Kuroro's shirt is too thin, as if he's only one shove away from collapsing.

He runs a hand through his blond strands, gathering his hair at the back of his neck in a mock ponytail. Because he doesn't have anything to tie his hair with, he releases his hold. His fringe falls gently around his cheeks, above his eyes. He brings both of his hands to press against his face again, finding that the sallowness of his skin lends a spectral quality to his presence. But he's truly here, solid and corporeal.

He is alive, not a ghost.

But an entire decade has wound backwards. Time is supposed to flow forward, just as how water streams from the faucet and spills through the gaps between his fingers. It doesn't pool back into his hands. Something must have happened—either a phenomenon gone wrong or divine intervention—and somehow, it brought him back to this time, back to him. Not his mother, father, Pairo, Leorio or any of the others, but Kuroro. He doesn't know how this could be. He doesn't understand what any of this means.

His reflection has no answers, but there's no use denying what is in front of him. He turns away from the mirror, and finds his suit laid out on the rack adjacent to the shower. Pulling his towel off from the hook on the wall, he dries his face. He can change later.

When Kurapika returns, he slides into the seat across from Kuroro, where he's perusing through newspapers over the table. Kuroro looks up at him from the papers patiently, still nursing his black eye. There's a bowl of white rice porridge and toasted baguettes in front of Kurapika, with condensed milk and butter on the side. The cup of coffee accompanying them also seems to be for him. It's a simple meal, but promising enough that his stomach rumbles in anticipation.

At the same time, Kurapika doesn't forget that these gestures of kindness—everything from giving him a bed to sleep in to preparing a meal for him—are quite clever. That Kuroro is doing this because there's something he hopes to gain.

"Did you make everything yourself?" Kurapika asks, cradling his palms around the chipped ceramic of the mug. The warmth gently settles in his hands, somewhat.

Kuroro nods, continuing to apply the compress over his eye. "I went out to get bread this morning. I thought about asking you to come but you were sound asleep." Kurapika silently berates himself again for being so unaware that he didn't even hear Kuroro leaving the room. His internal clock has been off from the scarcity of daylight and his endless responsibilities aboard the ship. "It's not much, but I hope it suits your tastes."

Kurapika tries to summon an appreciative smile, but his face refuses to make that expression for Kuroro's sake, and he ends up pressing his lips together, looking wry and unimpressed. He brings the mug to his lips, pausing for a moment. He can never be too careful, but he's willing to take the risk when he never died from eating the most peculiar things.

The small sip Kurapika takes is overwhelmingly sweet, so he sets the mug back down on the table. "I assume you met your friends, if you went outside."

Kuroro lowers the compress from his face, pressing at the cloth with his thumbs. He takes on a contemplative expression as he stares at his hands, something distant and unreadable.

"They buried her this morning."

Kurapika has no condolences. Kuroro doesn't expect them.

In the silence that descends, Kurapika tries Kuroro's simplistic cooking for the first time, finding the soup lukewarm, but he appreciates that this aligns more with his tastes. It's not completely bland either, when the undertones of ginger and garlic and some form of bone broth linger on his tongue. He reaches over for the baguettes in the basket and tears off a portion to complement the softness of his porridge. Kuroro might not expect manners, but he waits until he finishes swallowing before speaking again.

"What's your plan?" Kurapika asks. "Are you going after Silva Zoldyck?"

Kuroro slowly raises his gaze to meet his eyes again. "I'm more interested in pursuing whoever hired him for this hit. My informant is already working on it."

"Huh," is all Kurapika offers in thought, because Kuroro doesn't know why he was targeted. He continues making progress with his breakfast, letting the porridge settle warmly in his stomach. "You sound like you're someone important."

Kuroro arches an eyebrow, but it's not as if Kurapika means to appeal to his ego. "Have you heard of the Phantom Troupe?"

Kurapika doesn't answer immediately. He looks to the newspapers on the table with outdated headlines, not finding much of anything except that the date specifies the fourth of September—he would laugh if not for the possibility that he would offend Kuroro. He absently pushes his spoon around in his porridge, gathering his thoughts.

"They're thieves, criminals, philanthropists," he finally says, as if he's reciting what he has heard with a pretense of uncertainty in his voice. "Something along those lines."

"Yes," Kuroro says, as unthreatening as he could possibly be. He taps a finger against his arm, where the body of the Spider is branded beneath the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt. "And I'm their boss."

It's not as jarring the second time Kurapika hears this. This revelation alone would have been enough to set him off were he younger, flooding his heart with all-consuming hatred, burning a vigil on behalf of everyone he has ever loved and lost. The quietest urge towards violence gathers in his fists, and he relents. All he knows now is the ghost of a memory, a singular purpose that was once everything he lived for.

He doesn't realize how famished he was until he finds himself staring at his uncovered bowl. Only half a baguette remains, even though Kuroro didn't help him with any of the food.

"You don't seem to be worried," Kuroro observes with quiet curiosity, expecting more of a reaction from him.

Kurapika tucks a few strands of hair behind his ear with indifference. He catches the way Kuroro's gaze falls upon the ruby earring on his left ear, only for a fleeting moment.

"You can't be that terrifying if you're willing to make me breakfast. Besides, I've met worse people than you."

Kuroro lets out a soft breath, sounding suspiciously amused. Rather than being indignant at the slight, his posture is deceptively at ease. He props an arm over the table, resting his cheek in his palm, as he watches Kurapika finish the rest of his meal with implicit fondness.

"So, Kurapika," Kuroro eventually says, his weightless tone matching the loose lines of his posture, "who are you?"

Kurapika sets his utensils aside, his spoon clattering against the empty bowl. "I thought that you said you weren't going to ask."

"I'm curious about you," Kuroro admits, giving him a small, apologetic smile. "All I know is your name and that you're a Hunter. But you appeared out of nowhere on the same day that I lost my companion—so I can't help but want to know more."

Kurapika searches for an explanation that isn't as improbable as transcending timelines. He's under no obligation to explain himself to Kuroro, but the sudden flicker of appraisal in Kuroro's eyes sends a shiver of foreboding down his spine.

He considers the different roles he played in his previous life, but his successes and failures, friendships and camaraderies, and all the reputations he raised for himself no longer exist here. They might never do. He has nothing and no one here. Kuroro's stare grows weighted with his silence, and every moment that passes with his question unanswered leaves Kurapika more suspect, so he settles for an alibi that isn't necessarily true to himself.

"I am an emissary," Kurapika answers carefully, "of the Kakin Empire."

"Kakin," Kuroro repeats, barely curving up in a question. He turns this name over like a polished stone.

"Yes." Kurapika faces the intensity of Kuroro's gaze, not allowing himself to waver. "I've come in search of a woman in Meteor City. I've been imposed upon to bring her back to the Empire, accompanying her as a bodyguard on the return journey."

Kuroro's features ease into something more readable. "A prisoner?"

"A wife," Kurapika says.

Kuroro raises a curious eyebrow.

"The King became besotted with her during his previous travels here." Practice keeps Kurapika's voice even, and he uses the same tone when confronted with difficult questions from the Kakin bodyguards on the Black Whale. There's a reason that people come to believe him. "And he intends to take her as his eighth wife."

"A woman from Meteor City," Kuroro muses. A thoughtful silence follows his words as he considers Kurapika's story. "I suppose that's nothing new, when Silva Zoldyck found his matriarch here as well. But eight wives?"

"Polygamy is embraced in order for the King to have enough heirs to choose from as his successor." Kurapika keeps his manner informative as he continues without pause. "The woman I'm seeking is named Oito, but I've had no success in finding her. All of my belongings were stolen when I arrived, so I've faced some setbacks in doing so."

Kuroro studies him for a further moment, something calculating in his regard, and nods. "Will you return as soon as you find her?"

Kurapika weighs his next words carefully. "I plan to ensure that she never goes."

Kuroro seems to hear the intent in his words, because he smiles at that. "You would deny her of her fairytale?"

"If it means saving her from a fate worse than life in Meteor City," Kurapika answers with gentle conviction, with more certainty to his words than he feels, "then yes."

But Kuroro doesn't ask about what could be more severe than his homeland. "What does she look like?"

When Queen Oito learned of his intentions to stay behind, Kurapika remembers the aftermath. A lifeboat suspended over frigid waters, at the precipice of the sinking ship. Trembling hands as she reached for him, her unbanished tears spilling over her face. Heartache in her gaze as she laid her eyes on him for what was the last time. The eighth queen of Kakin, a beggar.

He can see the perpetual frown in her thin eyebrows. The whites of her eyes pooling under dark irises, when her gaze was always wide and worried. The black coils of her hair, pinned back with an ornate hairclip. Kurapika pieces what he remembers of her together, linking a long chain of features that can make up someone. There are smaller imperfections that make her more humane, that he will undoubtedly forget over time just as he did with his parents, and he does his best to preserve her.

"She's pretty in a humble way," Kurapika decides, when she was always swathed in a white gown without the need for pageantries. He marks a pause, narrowing his eyes at his sudden realization. "She looks—a little like you."

Kuroro blinks in unspoken surprise. Kurapika wishes that he could take back his words, when it sounds as though he's suggesting that Kuroro's attractive. Heat blooms over his face, not making his situation any better, and he fervently hopes they can drop this subject before he ends up saying something he will regret even more.

"Do you plan to elope with her?" Kuroro asks after a moment of quiet.

"What?" Kurapika breathes, having not expected that. He has no idea how Kuroro arrived at that conclusion.

"You're going to intercept the King's engagement," Kuroro explains matter-of-factly, his fingers lightly resting on his chin. "I assume this means you want her for yourself."

"Of course not," Kurapika chokes out.

Kuroro slightly tilts his head to the side, infuriatingly innocent. "Then why?"

Kurapika draws in a quiet, steady breath to pull himself together, allowing the high-strung tension in his body to leave with his next exhalation. Then, he imparts the same explanation Queen Oito gave him the first time they met.

"There will be a war of succession among the royal family, where the King necessitates his children to prove themselves worthy of the throne. Only one prince will remain alive." The cadence of his voice remains detached from the circumstances he speaks about, but he's reminded of Queen Oito's regret from resigning her daughter to this fate, her quiet desperation. He has saved them once. He doesn't know if he can do it again. "Most of the King's children have enough influence and resources to fend for themselves, but if Oito becomes queen and gives him his youngest heir, she and her child would be most vulnerable in these circumstances. She wouldn't survive."

If Kuroro doesn't believe him, then there's not much he can do because this part is the truth. If Senritsu were here, listening to his heartbeat with her hypersensitive ears—Kurapika's chest aches at her memory—she wouldn't hear a single falsity.

"But why would you go this far for her?"

"I wouldn't want her to lose her family," Kurapika says quietly, his words heavy with a history that Kuroro isn't privy to. "But enough of your questions—unless, you're willing to answer some of mine."

Kuroro easily accepts the change in subject. "Go ahead."

"Why did you take me in last night?" Kurapika's tone betrays none of his suspicions. "And don't tell me it was all for recompense."

Kuroro takes a deliberate moment to answer. "Having you around was more advantageous than letting you go," he says mindfully, careful enough not to reveal anything more, but the unspoken insinuations hurt him the most. "Especially after losing one of my Spiders."

Kurapika bites his lip, tasting his blood, but Kuroro doesn't falter at the sight of it. He abandons Kuroro's gaze for a moment, focusing on the surface of his untouched coffee. He doesn't trust himself to pick up the mug again, lest the ceramic fracture in his hand.

"Because you want to recruit me," Kurapika says as he faces him, the calm steadiness in his voice belying his accusation. His resentment is barely restrained behind his teeth, and he refuses to give it a voice. "Because you want me as a member of your team."

"I do." A smile tilts at Kuroro's mouth, as if he's pleasantly surprised that Kurapika is following his line of thought. "I want you, Kurapika."

He knows it was inevitable, knows he should have expected it, but hearing Kuroro's affirmation hits him full force nonetheless. Nothing could have ever prepared him for it. Power surges behind his eyes, bright red and searing. He forces them shut, fighting to keep his torrent of rage and grief and vengeance at bay. Not again—not when the abuse of his bloodline has taken its toll.

When Kurapika opens his eyes, his face is impassive because it has to be. Because if he falters and gives so much as a flicker of red in his eyes, he will risk giving away everything.

Pressure builds in his head, behind his eyes. It hasn't been this bad in a long time—not since Kuroro asked for a partnership and gave him his clan's eyes, staining his hands with Tserriednich's blood so that Kurapika didn't have to.

The sound of Kurapika's hands slamming down on the table echoes throughout the room, and the entire table trembles beneath his strength. "Have you no standards?"

Kuroro's smile falters. "Huh?"

This is not what Kurapika expected to say. Nor does he expect to delve into a lecture on the dangers of trusting strangers, because Kuroro's history of recruiting Spiders has been nothing short of careless.

Kurapika is standing now, although he doesn't remember doing so. What he remembers is his anger, unraveling in his blood and scorching hot in his veins. Remembers the reasons for it and why he should never forget it.

But he has to keep himself together. He needs to protect his past, needs to chain up everything that doesn't belong here. He reigns in everything in him that wants to scream, forcing all of the oppressive Nen rising in threat around him within, burying it until it's quieter and smaller and nothing more than a dying ember. Until it's simmering beneath his skin instead of threatening to sear his bones to ashes.

There are no words adequate for what he feels, when it means endangering his presence here. "You should be more careful about who you choose to accept into your team," he forces out through grit teeth, strict and precise. "I'm not saying this because I'm dangerous, but you don't even know who I am and the full extent of my abilities."

"I'm fascinated by what I've already seen," Kuroro insists, but not really because he was unconscious the entire time. "I can tell that you're a competent Nen user. You were capable enough to protect Kortopi and heal my injuries, despite that you had no reason to help us. Even if it was all for your Hunter license, your actions yesterday made you our ally."

Kurapika's throat feels very dry, dryer than the deserts surrounding Meteor City. When he swallows, it feels as though he's swallowing around grains of sand, sand which becomes glass, and the sharp fragments carve up his throat from the inside out.

"You have too much confidence in me." The tightness of his throat doesn't ease, when he should be regarded as a threat instead of an associate. Rather than being deterred, Kuroro's expression seems to brighten. "What would you even gain from this?"

Kuroro gives him a disarming smile. An unusually soothing aura radiates from him, and it deliberately washes over Kurapika in a wave of calm. "We're lacking a support member after number eight fell, especially since she was our medic who specialized in healing. If I'm to pursue her murderer, I'll need your help. You would be invaluable as one of my Spiders."

There is far too much irony in his proposition, when the man who is at fault for his world is offering him the opportunity to join the group that will destroy it. Even without the knowledge of his Eyes and bloodline, without the right to membership by murdering two of his Spiders, Kuroro still covets him with unfathomable curiosity and fascination. No one has ever looked at him the way Kuroro does, like he's an artifact worth possessing when he's only a forgery among precious jewels.

"I want to make you an offer," Kuroro continues, and he doesn't need to hear this when he already knows with unshakable certainty. "When a member of my team—one of my Spiders—is killed, I am responsible for replacing them. If you're willing to become our new number eight, I'll help you in your ambitions, whether you're searching for the Kakin queen consort or have another matter at hand."

"And if I refuse?" Kurapika asks, his voice sounding strained to his ears.

"You're not my hostage, Kurapika," Kuroro tells him, and Kurapika thinks that he hears the vestiges of disappointment in his voice. "You can go wherever you please."

Kurapika's instincts are screaming to refuse him. Nothing stops him from turning away and finding his way out of Meteor City by himself. He can search the world for some knowledge of Nen that manipulates space and time, trying to understand his predicament and if there's any possibility of returning to his own timeline. He can retrace his footsteps and wander into the forests of his homeland, but he would only be an outsider in Lukso, with no place to belong to and no leads to follow.

He silences his mind, trying to approach Kuroro's proposal with more clarity. "To what extent would you assist me with my goals?"

Kuroro assesses his reaction, or lack thereof. He continues looking at him, the darkness of his eyes deep and sagacious. "What is it that you're asking for?"

Kurapika considers what he can ask of him. If he remains with Kuroro, he can use his resources to his advantage and understand his motivations behind the massacre, beyond coveting their Eyes. With his collection of stolen abilities, Kuroro might even encounter some form of space-time Nen that would allow Kurapika to make sense of his presence here in the past.

"I have forsaken Kakin for my family." Kurapika tightens his fists, mindful of how his hands are absent of the cold steel of his chains. "My birth family, who are unaware that I'm alive. After I ensure Oito remains safe in Meteor City, I am hoping to find them."

"I can help you," Kuroro assures with unwavering confidence. "We can also call on my informant for support if it's necessary."

Kurapika unclenches his fists, taking a deep breath before he speaks. "Your conditions?"

"The twelve-legged Spider inked upon your skin," Kuroro answers, because all of his members bear that incriminating, inevitable mark of fealty, "and a fight."

"A fight?" Kurapika echoes.

"Against me," Kuroro affirms. Kurapika has never engaged him in combat before. "I won't kill you, but I'll need to assess your abilities to see how you will fit in with the team." He clasps his hands together over the table, with the business-serious temperament of a recruiter. "As a Spider, you will have to ascribe to our principles. My orders as the leader are to be followed, and you must come when I request you to do so. Outside of my directive, you can go as you please, and I am willing to accompany you to fulfill your goals." He gives Kurapika a moment to consider his words, watching him expectantly. "Will you accept?"

If Kurapika accepts, he might be able to investigate why the Spiders perpetrated the massacre. What exactly his clan had taken from them that caused all of this suffering.

And if he doesn't?

What then?

There will be another boy who makes the decision to leave his homeland, to bid farewell to his people, only to live with the knowledge he will never be among them again. A boy who loses his entire village to fire and blood and ash, left with the disembodied eyes of the dead. A boy who falls into the abyss and chases after his ghosts when he has no one left to follow.

This is Kurapika's greatest tragedy. The massacre robs him of his adolescence and loved ones, and when he devotes himself to everything that has been taken from him, he loses the rest of himself. He refuses to let this future happen again—a future where Kuroro destroys his world and he destroys himself.

For all his helplessness in being trapped in this time, it could always be much worse. Kurapika could be dead and be capable of nothing, but here, he is alive and can accomplish everything. Having this chance means the world, and he will do his damndest to ensure that his clan stays alive. Even if it means having to stay by Kuroro's side.

He can save them. He knows that he can.

Resolve floods his bloodstream with a glacial calm. The path ahead of him will be difficult when he doesn't know where to start and what to mend, but he can see his home at the end and it is alight, full of his people. All of them precious.

Kurapika's focus has always been narrow. Once he has a goal, he devotes every aspect of himself to it. He remembers his oath to his clan, his prayers offered to those who would never hear him, as his fingertips ghosted over the glass of canisters, lending names of the dead to unseeing eyes.

Membership requires him to give himself up to Kuroro and the Spiders, betraying everything that he stands for. But he will never let them touch his loved ones again, and it doesn't matter what he needs to do and who he needs to use for this to happen. Maybe he will even disassemble them from the inside out.

So he finally settles down in his chair, returning Kuroro's proposition with a challenge of his own. "If you can defeat me, I'll join you."

Something flickers in Kuroro's eyes, bright and manic. He might not be aware of Kurapika's capabilities, but Kurapika is at least somewhat familiar with his. He won't rely on his full strength with the power of Emperor Time, and he doesn't need to when he has enough advantages over him.

"Very well," Kuroro accepts with a calm smile, at odds with the new light in his eyes. "I'd like to introduce you to my companions if that's alright. Properly, this time."

Kurapika acquiesces with a nod. Kuroro stands up, gathering all of the empty bowls and plates on the table. He places them in the sink and turns on the water, cleaning up after Kurapika without asking for assistance.

"I did my best to wash your clothes," Kuroro says, his back still turned to him. "They're hanging in the bathroom, and we can head out after you get changed."

Kurapika rises to his feet again, planning to get dressed. "Thank you."

When he reaches the doorway to the bathroom, the water in the kitchen sink ceases. "And Kurapika?"

Kurapika stills in his steps, looking back at him. "Yes?"

"The blood was a little difficult to clean," Kuroro tells him, and his blood runs cold.

Kurapika has one hand on the doorframe to ground himself, suddenly feeling horribly exposed and figured out.

"Someday," Kuroro continues, casting a subtle, knowing smile over his shoulder, "I hope you'll be able to tell me who you really are."

Notes: Please leave a comment! I'd love to know what you think.

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