Author's Notes:
RELATIONSHIPS: Neon Nostrade/Kurapika, Kurapika/Leorio Paladiknight
RATING: Mature
NOTE: Azzy and Cherry provided illustrations. To view the images, check out the uncensored version on Archive of Our Own (AO3 username: lemonpika).
Chapter 3: Faultless (K)night
In the third week of the countdown to Neon's death, Kurapika returns to their suite at Hotel Beitacle from a meeting spearheaded by the successors of the Ten Dons. The successors have elected to hold their annual meeting a few weeks ahead of the commencement of this year's underground auction, all in a concerted effort to head off any trouble that they anticipate taking place following the recent revisions and unrest within the hierarchy of the mafia community.
The preceding dons, before their untimely assassination, held Neon's precognitive ability in high esteem. Thus, the successors have so far been receptive to the efforts of Kurapika, as Nostrade's representative, to ingratiate himself with them.
"I spoke to the new dons about potentially realigning Nostrade's priorities," Kurapika tells Neon as he sinks into the far end of the sofa where she's lounging. "Specifically, from this point onward, the family will lean more into lawful avenues of income such as gambling or private security details and will be conscientious about paying its taxes. Mentioning gambling might've been the stroke of genius I needed at this crucial juncture — invaluable intel from Linssen informed me that, for at least a couple of dons, shake-ups may be imminent in the leadership of their casino businesses, given that the men currently in charge have already proven unreliable more than once. If I continue playing my cards right, one of them might consider handing me the reins."
Rather than replying, she reaches for the hotel's landline phone. She presses zero then starts jabbing the digits emblazoned in fat yellow letters on the television screen. She's been watching a jewelry shopping channel on mute.
In the ensuing silence, he seems to sense he's lost her interest somewhere in the course of his monologue. Her mind has never been attuned to the intricacies of running a mafia family, and her attitude is all the more aloof with respect to any anticipated acquisitions of casinos, which will likely transpire after she's already expired.
His professional tone relaxes into something gentler when he ventures to speak again. "This brings me to my point. How do you feel about throwing a late birthday bash while the dons are biding their time in the city until the auction? I'm hoping a soirée organized by Nostrade can continue this positive trajectory and aid in restoring our waning goodwill with the other families."
If she discounts the strategy underscoring every word he utters, what he's saying is rather sweet, isn't it? Essentially, he wants to throw her a death day party disguised as a belated birthday party.
She gives him a thumbs-up before enunciating into the phone receiver, which is expertly tucked beneath her chin, "Yes, express delivery."
Neon's impromptu birthday celebration, set in a rented building in Yorknew City, is designed around death. Only Nostrade's inner circle knows the reasoning behind this morbid selection of theme and decor.
Neon is standing alone on the dimly-lit mezzanine above the ballroom after having told Melody, who helped her into her gown in place of her favorite handmaiden, to go downstairs ahead of her. With freshly-manicured fingers gripping the marble balustrade, Neon surveys the scene below, illuminated brilliantly beneath an hourglass chandelier.
The waitstaff, dressed in billowing black robes and plague doctor masks, expertly snake their way through the throng of guests to offer cocktail glasses topped with ominous green concoctions. On the ballroom's northern side, arched alcoves display skull-shaped candleholders, alternated with arrangements of tropical white morning glories.
Fingertips trailing over the banister, she commences walking in the direction of the staircase. She halts once she encounters Kurapika.
With furrowed brows, he's staring down at his phone, which is vibrating in his hand. He doesn't glance up, doesn't appear alerted by the clacking of her stilettos.
This is the first time she's ever seen him in a formal suit. His blazer, vest, and trousers are dyed a blue so deep they're almost black. His blond hair, which always smells like cinnamon spice shampoo, is tucked behind both ears to expose his teardrop rubellite earrings. Even in the subdued lighting, she can tell this is the best he's ever looked. Her heart feels as though it's doing somersaults in her chest.
She steps forward and hooks his arm with her own. "Darling, shall we go down and make our grand entrance together?"
"Yes, of course," he murmurs, finally meeting her eyes. He presses a button to make the screen on his phone go dark then slips the device into his trousers pocket.
With arms linked, they descend toward the ballroom. When she was getting dressed in her glamorous gown earlier, visions of how everyone's eyes would pop and how their jaws would drop consumed her. However, now that she has Kurapika by her side, she has trouble paying attention to anything except the solicitous manner with which he guides her down the steep flight of stairs.
The floaty feeling in her body stabilizes somewhat as they reach the bottom of the steps. Brought back down to earth, she now notices familiar faces from Light's mafia dealings in the past. Dirty cops. Corrupt politicians.
She then glimpses Basho, who's dressed in burgundy formalwear and leaning against the wall, where he can keep a watchful eye over the dance floor. That must mean Melody is stationed at the entrance of the venue.
As the band begins playing a new song, Neon's gaze snaps back toward Kurapika. "I should've told you this sooner, but wearing suits will help you fit even better into this underworld you've chosen. Having said that, maybe I'm only speaking out of self-interest. You look especially dashing tonight. It's a treat for drug-deprived eyes like mine."
"And you look beautiful." His dark eyes linger on the stitching and the sparkle of the midnight blue tulle of her ball gown. It seems as if he's only now noticing the finer details of the beaded embroidery amidst the bright lights of the ballroom.
Underneath his scrutiny, her face heats up and her fingers fiddle with the rose quartz necklace she ordered from the shopping channel. His sincere-sounding compliment this evening is a far cry from his perfunctory praise in the dressing rooms into which she dragged him during last week's shopping spree.
She flutters her mascaraed eyelashes at him. "Won't it be a waste of such a beautiful dress if I don't get the opportunity to flaunt it to my heart's content?"
He takes the hint and holds out his palm. "Would you like to dance?"
She doesn't hesitate to accept his invitation.
Her left hand settles over his shoulder, while his chained hand presses against the small of her back. Her right hand and his left come together, and they begin to waltz in time to the music.
With every step they take in tandem, her heart swells even more with overwhelming feelings for him. But she does her best to keep her cool. "I should compliment your dancing skills. You must've had a competent teacher."
"I most certainly did."
She flashes a knowing smile. "I'm sure you were a good student — quick to learn and eager to practice."
Of course, she was the one who offered to teach him after he privately admitted to her that, owing to his sheltered upbringing, he didn't know any classic dances typically performed at these sorts of gatherings.
Dancing is one of the few matters he can't learn from books. Fortunately for him, he has somebody who's only too happy to teach him by spending four hours minimum per day in his proximity.
They dance what feels like a dozen dances in a row. Neon is perspiring — from the crown of her head to the tips of her pedicured toes — when Kurapika finally announces it's time for a break.
"We need hydration to maintain our energy and our wits," he says. "I'll get us something to drink that isn't laced liberally with absinthe."
"Good idea." She can't keep a smug smile from spreading over her face. For once in her life, she's managed to keep up with his superhuman stamina. "I prefer something refreshing with ice. I'll be waiting for you at the sidelines."
She watches as he heads in the direction of the drinks station at the far side of the buffet, which is set up at a tasteful distance from the dance floor.
A young man approaches her, within seconds from sitting down, to request a dance. His face falls once she explains she already has a date for tonight. An exclusive one, she emphasizes.
A succession of men swiftly follows, all asking her to dance with them. Some of the faces are familiar to her — mostly sons and nephews of higher-ups within the Sahertan mafia families. Others, like the first guy she rejected, are strangers. She likes to think these men singled her out as the belle of the ball or for her graceful command of the dance floor. As flattered as she is by their attention, she categorically declines each invitation.
She raises an eyebrow as the last guy in line steps forward. "You're kidding me, right? Who let you out of the doghouse and wrestled you into respectable attire?"
The young man with a black goatee and a bleached-blond mohawk throws back his head and laughs. "Oh, come on. Neither of our fathers are present to bite each other's head off. Where's your Pops, anyhow? Pa's been hunting for him all over. For reasons entirely free of malice, or so he tells me." He gives her a wink. "Nah, forget all that bullshit. Water under the bridge. Got nothing to do with us. Just gimme one dance, for old time's sake. Wallflowers make me sad."
Scoffing, she stands up from the seat she's temporarily claimed. "Look, if your old man lost his mind and tried to enter this building, one of my guards would escort him right out." Zenji, the father of this particularly undesirable acquaintance, is a mob boss situated in Yorknew's outskirts. With his terrible temper and his taste for vengeance, he reportedly caused Nostrade tons of trouble during their previous trip to Yorknew. "I heard Zenji attempted to outbid my boyfriend at last year's auction and almost murdered him in cold blood. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, which means I want you far away from me."
"Since when can a barbaric girl like you land herself a boyfriend?" Zenki looks like he fully intends to roast her some more, but then his beady black eyes dart from her face to a spot behind her. "Speak of the devil. You must be the boy —"
She takes a step backward and links her arm with Kurapika's. Luckily, she hasn't accidentally jostled his hand that's holding the drink meant for her. "This is Kurapika K," she interrupts before Zenki can call out her impulse of wishful thinking. "Kurapika will soon be officially appointed as Nostrade's head in Light's stead. Remember this stunning face because its owner will be taking the underworld by storm. Mark my words."
"And you are?" Kurapika's tone is polite and his eyes mild as he studies Zenki's face.
"He's leaving," she says quickly, preventing Zenki from butting in. "And if he has any brilliant ideas to the contrary, we can summon Basho here to deal with the problem he presents."
Zenki huffs out an exaggerated sigh. "Spare me the threats. I get the picture. I was gonna blow this joint anyway after touching base with some old pals. Neon, I'll see you again when hell freezes over."
As soon as Zenki is out of sight, she attempts to relay the identity of her acquaintance and more importantly the source of tension and hostility between them.
Kurapika, however, heads her off. "It took a few seconds to place his face when framed with a haphazard bleach job, but I do recognize him. I've seen photographs. That was Zenki, Zenji's second of three sons and the so-called black sheep of their family. I already instructed Melody to bar Zenji from entering if he did show up, but I neglected to identify his sons as potential threats to the success of the evening. I'll be more meticulous when crafting a blacklist next time."
As Neon nods to confirm his read of the situation, Kurapika hands her the drink in his right hand.
"I apologize for taking so long," he adds. "I had to check in with Melody and Basho to ensure everything's been running smoothly so far."
"It's fine." She sips her drink — iced punch with no discernible alcohol to spike it. She makes a mental note to sneak away later to score herself something a touch more spirited.
When the cold beverage makes her shiver, he shrugs off his blazer and holds it out to her. "Please put this on. You can't afford to get sick, especially now."
She parts her mouth to refuse then changes her mind and accepts it. She passes him her drink so that she can pull on the blazer. She savors the softness of silken lining sliding up her bare arms, the intoxicating fragrance of him unsullied by tacky perfume.
Not for the first time, she pictures herself as his shirt — nestling up close and personal to his nakedness. Her head falling against the firm planes of his chest. Her nose inhaling the scent of his skin without any layers interfering between them.
This imagery is making her mind go haywire. Something inside her feels like it's prying apart at its seams. She takes a giant gulp from her glass to cool herself down, then presses her palm over her painted mouth as the punch goes down the wrong hatch.
"You know," Kurapika says with a thoughtful tone, "I'm a little taken aback."
She manages to stifle a cough. "By what?"
"It's a pleasant surprise — witnessing this whole other side of you. I've seen glimpses of it in the past, but it's all coming together and taking me off guard. It turns out you can be elegant, sophisticated, and subdued when you want to be." He cracks a rueful grin. "If I'd learned about the full breadth of this hidden side of you before everything took a turn for the worst, I might've manufactured circumstances more conducive to coaxing it out. I could've used your strength, could've weaponized it. Just imagine all the amalgamated power we could've wielded together at Nostrade's helm."
As before, she has to wade through all his artifice of strategy to arrive at the spirit of what he's actually saying. She flushes in pleasure as his praise sinks in. "You've just now realized how charming I can be? Are you finally falling for me? If you are, it's okay to admit it."
He holds her gaze for just a few seconds before dropping it. His impenetrably black eyes meander over the length of the dance floor. No answer falls from his criminally kissable lips.
Later in the night, Kurapika entrusts Neon to Basho's custody so that he and Melody, who's shaping up to be his second-in-command, can have a private conversation with the two dons who deigned to attend the birthday celebration of the heiress of Light Nostrade, who's still missing in action.
Neon tricks Basho into leaving her alone in no time at all. Freed from her security detail, she ambles toward the drinks table and asks for a couple of flutes of champagne. She downs them both, one after the other. The prickly, bubbly flavor rushes into her brain.
Teetering a bit, she wanders off toward an area of the venue with little to no foot traffic. There, she discovers a deserted hallway with a row of private rooms. Kurapika and Melody are likely behind one of these doors. Even if Melody detects familiar footsteps pattering down the hallway, she'll probably be too busy with this high-stakes meeting about casinos to burst out of the room and endorse Neon to Basho once more.
Neon swivels around, intending to head back toward the lively activity of the ballroom, when she witnesses something that grinds her steps to a halt.
In an out-of-the-way corner, half a dozen partygoers are clustered around a silver dish. The shortest guy is sprinkling white powder on the dish then cutting them into lines with a credit card. His companions are hovering expectantly around him.
Zenki, who's a part of the group, catches Neon's eye. He gives her his second wink of the night before bending over the dish to snort a line.
When the short guy glances up at her, his forehead creased, Zenki brushes off his fears. "She's okay. She won't rat us out. I've known this chick for a long time, and her bark is far worse than her bite." Zenki's defense of her is barely audible, given that he's rubbing his nose with the back of his hand the entire time. To Neon, he adds, "Want a bump?"
This drug isn't her favorite hallucinogen — soothsayers' tears — but she's willing to bet it can keep her dread of her foretold death at bay in a similar way.
She very nearly says yes. Her mouth has fallen open, and the assent is halfway past her lips. But then she remembers Kurapika. Allowing herself to succumb to her baser instincts would disappoint him, she knows full well. Moreover, while he's always disapproved of her drug habit, he's expressed in the past that he would rather she do it in his presence — if she had to do it at all — so that he can be there to remedy or to reverse any choking incidents or accidental overdoses.
When she wraps her arms around herself, she embraces Kurapika's blazer that she's still wearing in the process. She keeps her eyes steady on Zenki's bloodshot ones and gives her head a firm shake.
"Suit yourself," Zenki mutters before leaning in to snort another line.
Without a word, she strides back in the direction of the dazzling lights and the rousing music of the ballroom. The heaviness in her heart lightens with every step she takes.
This night is fun enough as it is without resorting to cheap thrills. Adding more entertainment would be overkill.
No, that's not exactly right, is it?
She can still improve this night by spending even more time with her favorite person in the world. She resolves to take the initiative to ask Kurapika for a dance — then another, then another — the moment he's in her line of sight again.
Back in their hotel suite after the party, Neon wriggles out of her gown then collapses, in nothing but her undergarments, over the mattress. She's overcome with a combination of excitement and exhaustion due to the evening's events.
"Kurapika, get over here!" she demands, her voice louder than she intends owing to the vodka shots she insisted they drink together before leaving the venue.
He's standing some distance from the bed and swaying slightly. He can't hold his alcohol at all, can he? "Twenty missed calls," he slurs, seemingly to himself. "He never gives up."
"Tell Basho to shove off! It's his own damn fault he's so easily duped!" She swings a leg into the air as if imagining aiming a kick toward Basho's balls. The guard was grumbling all the way back to the hotel. "Just ditch your phone and get over here already!"
Kurapika approaches the bed and drops his phone on the nightstand. He catches hold of her ankle before she can lower her leg back to the mattress.
Even this infinitesimal contact between them — his palm to her ankle — makes goose bumps erupt all over her body.
"What have I said about taking off your shoes before going to bed?" His tone as he chastises her is as level as can be, as if remembering his role as her disciplinarian has instantly sobered him. "Have some consideration for the housekeeping, and refrain from stamping all over these freshly-laundered sheets."
She has no response to his admonishment. To be honest, she's not sure she can speak even if she tries. His chained hand is so incredibly warm. If he dares trail his fingertips over her calf, let alone her thigh, she'll die on the spot, no questions asked. Countdown be damned.
Given the lack of a reply from her, he sits on the edge of the mattress. He props her foot on his lap and gently pries off her stiletto. He does the same to her other foot. He then leans forward, neatly places the stilettos against the wall, and positions his own polished black oxfords beside them.
Once he's resumed his ramrod-straight sitting position, she yanks his body down on the bed. She can't help but giggle at his startled expression as his head flumps suddenly against the pillow beside hers.
He tries to glare at her, but he can't stay stern for long once she starts laughing in earnest. His lips give that telltale twitch, which means he's suppressing a smile.
Her laughter subsides eventually. They lie side by side and stare silently at the ceiling.
How often has she examined the constellations of cracks and the canvases of splotches on ceilings these past few weeks? Somehow, it feels entirely different when Kurapika is lying beside her and doing the same.
Without tearing her eyes away from the ceiling, she reaches for his hand. She interlaces their fingers before he can pull away.
She breaks the silence now. "You know the very last thing I want to do? Go on a road trip alone with you. We can visit the seaside village where Mama was born. It's only a few days' drive away from Yorknew's business center. I've always longed to visit, even though none of my maternal relatives live there anymore, supposedly. The last time we were here in the city, I told Light about my secret wish. He swore he'd find the time to take me on a trip to the village. Just a short one. Half a day at the longest. But then he got distracted by work and forgot, I guess."
"He shouldn't have. He was a bad father to you. You deserved better."
"That's ancient history. He's nobody to me — he's been nobody to me since the day he left. We're talking about here and now. I'm telling you what I want to do before I go. So listen closely." She pauses to take a deep, shuddering breath. "When I disappear, I want to be in your company while we're watching the sunset by the sea. I can't think of a single thing in this world I'd like more than that."
She tries to keep her voice steady as she confesses her dearest wish, but she can't. She chokes up as she says the words. And that's the crack in the dam. There aren't enough fingers in the world to stave off the waterworks once they begin to flow.
Using her free hand, she hides her tearstained face with a pillow.
Kurapika's hand squeezes hers in a gesture of comfort.
"Okay," he says quietly. "Let's do it. I'm with you till the end."