the backseat is a lost religion. kurapika sits knee-to-knee with a leviathan: a monster, in the biblical sense. a criminal, in the traditional sense. chrollo’s voice is crowded in his throat, pushed back by claustrophobic chains and a lacking will. he refuses to speak and it boils kurapika’s blood—clots it. 

he wants chrollo to beg, to bargain. wants him to feel the rope of reality fraying against his teeth, like the only out is a careful monologue of why kurapika should let him live. chrollo says nothing, and they park in the open air of an empty airport. 

melody vacates the car, and leorio follows with a shared, meaningful glance in the rear-view. kurapika meets him straight and doesn’t move. there’s no reason to, not when isolation is all he’s ever sought with the spider. 

the spider, a massacre of a man, who’d sculpted kurapika’s being—premature and predestined—with little more than a chalice of eyes and a knife welded with bloody intention. 

“why did you do it?” kurapika waits until the car is empty, empty enough: they’re both still inside, and the chain jailing chrollo’s thoughts falls, clinks to circle his throat. “why did you ruin lives like you were paid by the hour?”

“because i was,” chrollo hums, smiles, and it’s mournful and insincere. “not by the hour, but by the piece. isn’t that far more beautiful?”

“it’s sinister,” kurapika counters. “it’s vile.”

“it is what it is,” chrollo drones. “would a lie to soothe your insecurities? i’m the wrong man to supply.”

kurapika’s forearm slams horizontal into his throat, pushes chrollo back into the leather. “we wouldn’t be here if you could lie your way to a long life. you’ll die, i’ll make sure of it.”

“we all die, chain-user,” chrollo’s eyes are a flat black, a faded sanity. “you would make a poor fortune-teller.” 

“i’m not out to be one,” kurapika hisses, gets on his knees and gets in chrollo’s face. it’s a dangerous moment, where proximity is both threat and promise. chrollo smiles, and those eyes are so focused on kurapika’s mouth, it’s a new fear. kurapika shoves his elbow with more aggression. “who do you think i am?”

I'm asking because I consider this my favorite fanfic of all time + I think your work should be seen by everyone. You don't understand how much this fic means to me and because I started reading it after the 12th chapter was posted (around 10 June) I don't know about the updating progress. Please tell me that the fic will update normally so that I can rest in peace (I bail my eyes out at every chapter)

hey! thanks for being so invested & kind, it's always such an awesome thing to see. i definitely haven't abandoned chlorine. it's a big project, but it's one i'm planning on finishing come hell or high water.

i know my updates are sporadic & few, mostly due to fluctuating interest in hxh (plus my inability to write consistently, lol). i'm so, so lucky that some of you out there are still enjoying the story & enthusiastically checking in for updates. it's honestly humbling.

in the meantime, enjoy an unhinged snippet 🗡️🗡️

kurapika cups river water into his mouth, and it goes down sweet, fresh. breaks a current against his teeth and flows in his sternum cool and crisp. lukso is empty of her people, and there is no one left to bury him. 

the dark continent is no kinder. 

he sits with his legs locked into one another, suede shoes catching salt suds and mud. chrollo is behind him, whispering prayer into a phone call. he thinks he can save them. 

kurapika thinks he’s vain for it. 

chrollo is soft in his violence. there is nothing more violent, kurapika knows, than loving his own victim. nothing more laced with hemlock and humanity. he settles a chin over his shoulder, watching chrollo’s boots sink into the bank. out of place, with his vinyl and his indifference. 

“no one’s coming,” chrollo observes kurapika with flat eyes. it peters out into a hum. “how long will we stay?”

“i wasn’t planning on leaving,” kurapika says, mild. “there’s nowhere to be but six feet under.”

chrollo is monotonous, uninspired. “fatalism it doesn’t suit you.”

“it’s the only thing that’s ever suited me,” kurapika directs his eyes into the sun. it’s white. “i’ve never been anything but cynical.”

“perhaps,” chrollo agrees, and kurapika’s fingers find the earth. squeeze until mud drains through his grip. “but that doesn’t mean you wear it well. it makes you ugly.”

“then be naive for the both of us,” kurapika flicks his hand to the side, cleans it with the motion. “maybe we can pretend to be lovers, while we’re sucking our thumbs on idealism.”

chrollo is quiet for a moment. he closes his eyes and blue veins rise under. “we are lovers.”

“we’re not,” kurapika snipes. “i don’t love you, and you don’t love me. we fuck. we kill. we regret.”

“i don’t regret this.”

“you don’t regret anything,” kurapika scoffs, unlocks his legs, and stretches them closer to the water. the river hushes everything around it, but kurapika’s never been taught to hold his tongue. “your assessment is flawed.”

“my assessment—” chrollo repeats, comes closer until his knees knock against the back of kurapika’s head. kurapika rests back against his legs “—is that i’m in love with you.”