Hello and happy Leopika (or in this case not so happy). Sorry for the delay in updates, my other writing gigs and work have been getting in the way, but I should be catching up pretty soon!
Dedication: This one's for The Prophet of Paradox, who's gone through and reviewed every single chapter so far. You're incredible, and thank you so much for your thoughts! It helps so much to know someone's reading what I'm putting out there 3
Disclaimer: I do not own HxH. If this is a shock to you, please refresh your browser and try again.
He hadn't felt so empty since he'd held Pietro in his arms. Dead.
Leorio had been many things in his life. He'd been young and full of a love for life, flying through it with an empty stomach but an imagination full enough to make up for that. He'd been headstrong, taking the Hunter's with his only possessions stuffed into his briefcase. He'd been studious, devoting his every waking second to a dream that was inches from his grasp. He'd been ardently, passionately in love with the most intelligent, sensitive, self-made warrior he'd ever laid eyes on.
If anything, he'd lived his life with a steadfast determination, a faith in himself and in those he cared about that pushed him to his limits, drove him to his best. He lived to be strong, for himself and for others. He lived for his love.
He lived for vengeance.
It had been such a very long time since he'd felt like he'd failed someone the way he did now.
He'd gone back to his hometown after leaving the city. It had been the only thing that felt appropriate, with the way things had gone. He'd walked the streets that he used to play as a child, feeling the heat of the sun penetrate through his heavy suit as the sand ruined his leather shoes. This time, he'd forgone his traditional journey to the local bakery on his way in, not stopping to distribute bread to the children who would flock to his feet. He was much too tired for charity, much too complacent for kindness. Empty.
The feel of chains around his skin was soothing, a reassuring reminder of the power that he held in his hands. They had tangible weight, balancing him when nothing else could. Their edges bit hard when he twisted, reminding him that even his own weapons could harm him. When they pierced flesh, he felt them tug at his heart. He liked the way they hurt. The way they rattled like the song in his blood. Feeling them was the closest thing he knew to coming home.
The apartment above his family's old home, which was no more than the first floor of one of the town's run-down buildings in the main district, was empty when he arrived, as if it had been waiting for him. He entered at dusk, sunlight on his heels as he closed the creaky door, a breath leaving him that he didn't know he had been holding. A fine layer of sand seemed to cover everything, the sheets that had been thrown over the few pieces of furniture tinted a dusty beige at his long absence. Everything was just as he'd left it the last time, two years ago. He'd planned that journey with a different purpose than it had served; he'd planned on taking it with the other. Instead, he'd taken it alone, with the image of the other's back lurking in his mind. With another infinitesimal sigh, he sought out a broom, opening the windows to relieve the staleness of the air while he purged the place of the outside.
He was thankful that the other's presence had goaded him into rest; he couldn't remember the last time his body had moved so well without the aches and pains of a shouldered burden. He knew that in part it was due to the metal fixings woven throughout his insides, but chose not to care too deeply. What was more appropriate, than to be a man of flesh and metal? It was as real as his chains, the binding holding his body together, like a condition for living. Like his chains, they only made him stronger.
He tried not to think too much as he lit the oil lamps, a better supplement to the main room's single fading lightbulb. There was little in the place to keep him sustained without having to wander in search of food and other amenities, but darkness was creeping up on him more rapidly than he'd remembered and the stalls had long closed up for the day. He hadn't eaten, couldn't remember the last time he had, but it didn't seem important. Nothing seemed important here, in a place that reminded him of desolation and heartbreak. It hadn't always been that way- he'd loved his hometown despite its shortcomings, but bitterness was the mistress of the lonely. He couldn't pretend that he wasn't, lonely, couldn't pretend that the stinging in his chest had faded into an aching numbness that threatened to spread to his mind and soul if he didn't get it under control soon, but that was the nature of grief. This had become his place for grieving, his sanctuary of desolation. He would take advantage of that, at least, for the night.
Kalluto wasn't the only change in the lineup; it had been far too long without their proper master for them to choose to sustain themselves without adding new ranks. The last one to join had defected after a few months, thinking himself either too good to be filling the highest numbered slot or realizing that there was no room for advancement amongst the originals which still remained. Whatever the case, he'd managed to leave without being killed, the spider tattoo on his back still fresh but now meaningless, his thirst for blood overcoming all else. It was almost as if Feitan had planned it, the way they'd just happened to be in the same city when the recruit decided to jump ship. He'd known, of course that he was there, their eyes had met from across the rooftops of buildings, but it was no more than taunting. There was nothing the blond could do without luring one away, so with a careless wave of his hand he had practically granted him permission to take this one, a gift perhaps. It only served to enrage the other all the more, but he was outnumbered, under-strategized, and chose to accept what he was given. Perhaps he could track the others through him, as they were long gone by the time he found their hide out.
So he hunted him like an animal.
The night was sleepless and hot, the sound of insects resonating in the stagnant air. The harder he tried to keep his mind from the things that had come to pass, the more difficult it was for him to drift into a peaceful sleep. And why should he, he wondered as the memories crept back up with an added flavor or dead false hope. This was his time to wallow. He was going to do a job of it.
He thought about the argument that had brought him here the last time, how he had expected things to go differently. In truth, the coincidence that he claimed had placed him close by when the blond had called him had been no coincidence at all; rather, he'd used his resources as a well-respected doctor and Hunter to track the other down, working with high profile clients for a time despite his desire for placement elsewhere. It had been circumstance that led Kurapika to call him, and by circumstance he meant his incredible stupidity. There had been another fight, one he could not win. It was an act of mercy that the members he'd been fighting against let him live. The blond hadn't quite seen it as such.
The difference was, he'd thought it was enough to make him stop, to see reason. Leorio had done everything he could to patch the other up, holding him hostage in his hotel room with an endless supply of room service and care. Kurapika had seemed willing enough to stay, for the first time since they'd been forced together for the sake of the Exam, and it had given him an opportunity he had been far too keen to take.
He'd wanted Kurapika to come with him, to see the place he had buried his friend, to share his past with him.
He tried to tell the other how much he cared. He tried to express how he wanted to share in his pain. Instead, Kurapika had seen it as an attack. He'd left.
He'd tracked him to an abandoned building, more like led him there, but what did it matter when the man was going to die?
He was a Transmuter, his Nen steeped in heat and frustration and fury. It was a pastime of his to start fires, focusing his aura into something highly flammable before letting it catch, his enjoyment coming in watching the panic that his flames caused from afar. It wasn't the only trick up his sleeve; he was best as a backup in combat, using his abilities to cause explosions from afar while his comrades took to the face to face fighting. He'd been recruited in great part for his accuracy, using small, controlled explosions at planned intervals to break through the more technological of targets. He'd been too volatile to stay under the control of the gang, pulling his own jobs whenever he felt like it and leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. Kurapika had watched as the last village burned, arriving too late to do anything but put out the fires and look for survivors. There were few, but the presence of one alone meant that he was too sloppy to be taken seriously by the spiders.
But not for Kurapika.
His lips tasted of deadened dreams.
He'd been in love for so long he couldn't remember what it was like not to be. There wasn't a moment that he could pinpoint, when it happened, just flashes of a past in which he knew who he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. That, and memories of the other, walking away from him. He always seemed to be doing that. Walking away.
He'd been ready to profess his feelings when the floor had fallen out from under him, when the blond had snapped and screamed of how his life wasn't worth living unless he'd tasted the blood of those who had killed his family. Everything Leorio had said was in earnest, his wishes for the other to live for himself, his desire for him to be able to find his own way in the world without having to kill, the way he wanted nothing more than to give him the life he'd never been able to have. It had all gone wrong, somehow, when words of adoration turned sour.
He'd thought the other was lost to him forever then, when he'd disappeared into the sandy land of his past. He'd been given one more chance, only to walk away from it.
There was nothing highly flammable in the building; Kurapika had been thorough in his check: no drywall, no insulation, nothing that could exacerbate the situation. It helped that there were chains all around, hanging from the ceiling and lining the floors, that he could use to his advantage, tricking him into misjudging him as a Manipulation. It proved not to matter, not after the initial strikes; he'd been easy to lure and easier to capture.
He made less of a mess to bury.
Being kissed by Kurapika had hurt more than the years of wanting to kiss him. It had been wrong. It had been forced. It had brought tears to his eyes that he'd refused to shed, like the love that would never be returned.
He wasn't sure what the other was thinking, when he'd done it, but he knew that it wasn't what he'd hoped for. In all of the dreams he'd had of kissing the other it had been done through streaming tears, both of theirs, as they let go of all that they had shouldered in the years before, everything that they had wanted to share and carry for each other but couldn't, wouldn't let each other. It had always held a sort of purity, the catharsis that came in such a heartfelt embrace, but it never lasted. He'd always woken up after that, his mouth feeling dry and his eyes wet around the edges, sheets crumpled in a pile next to him from where he'd tried to curl around an imaginary lover.
It never went further than that, not in his dreams or his reality. Just lips touching and cheeks wet with emotion. But this time he hadn't cried. Instead, he'd screamed.
There was nothing he could do but stare up at the ceiling, eyes wide, wondering if he'd done the right thing in leaving.
He couldn't stand the stench of blood, made worse by the fires that heated the room as the other struggled against that which bound him, failing altogether. His physical strength was too weak in the forced state of Zetsu, making him no match for the Chain Jail in which he was placed. The thief's bones crunched as Kurapika landed a hit to his arm, the shattering sound it made altogether sickening. Still, he didn't give a coherent answer when asked what the Troupe's new goals were, nothing more than bloodcurdling wails and attempts at manipulating his non-existent aura.
Another punch, another cry. The chains around him tightened as he flailed, raising his arms so that they were perpendicular to his body, a metal crucifixion. It reminded him of their number one, so he sent a particularly hard blow, directly to his stomach. The man began to heave, blood dripping from his lips mixed with bile. The smell was a reminder of a burial he'd preformed at too young an age. This time, it was him crying out as his fist flew forward, ribs cracking under the force.
Again. And again. And Again.
The smell, the sticky wetness, feel of life crumbling at his touch. He couldn't keep from screaming.
And again.
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(really though: is anyone out there?)